2023-2024 Iris

Cover Art by Catherine Nichols ‘24

IRIS

Art and Literary Magazine 2023-2024

Co-Editors

Catherine Nichols ‘24

Ellery Blurton ‘24

Sponsor

Dr. Mary Edmonds

The Iris Board

Hongyi “Krystal” Lin ‘24

Meaghan Merritt ‘24

Wenlin “Olive” Ye ‘24

Eleanor Butterfield ‘25

Isabella Croker Poole ‘25

Sophia Hurst ‘25

CR ‘25

Luyi “Lucia” Yang ‘25

Special thanks to Mr. Ayres and to Ms. Dixon!

by Ms. Lydia Emory

Tranquil Morning

Embers

Most people talk about the stars.

They say stars are great and mighty and beautiful, Shining against the sky in their constellations and shapes. I’ve always responded with a laugh or a nod.

Yet the embers are our stars.

They rise higher and higher into the sky from a flame, Traveling up and around the chimneys of houses, down the bank and into icy water. They are born lower, underneath a sheath of dark wood, damp with oil and they burn and live, orange wings carrying them across the grassy plains, Above still waters, And across roads, Endless and winding.

The embers rise from our field each night From the fires of young teenagers in love; From the fires of those, older and wiser, in love; From fires across the nation, burning from passion and friendship and humanity, collecting at the very heart of a valley, The top of a mountain To burst forth a new day.

In the early morning while the lightning bugs rose and fell with the willow trees and their song, I awoke to the orange light.

A deep orange swimming in a mysterious red. The embers had flown to the very ends of the earth and the daybreak had finally arrived, billions of the fire children coming together in a chorus of light, Singing the gracious melody of the morning.

The orange touches each part of me and you, expanding, oscillating Until the sky fills with the embers. Orange butterflies of love gliding and glinting against the deep blue.

Ellery

Blurton ‘24

Fireflies

When your eyes shine, like a million fireflies, I know I love you.

When your arms are wrapped around me, like the sun’s long golden rays, I know I love you.

When your smile is gleaming, like sand and shells on the shore, I know I love you.

When your legs are running and dancing, like trees in the wind, I know I love you.

Day by day,

Mile by mile, I hold on to your hand, and you hold onto mine. Nothing in between.

And even when you cry a thousand tears, like each drop of dew on morning grass, I know I love you.

And even when you huddle from the outside, like a bear in the winter, I know I love you.

And even when you frown, like a leaf heavy with water, I know I love you.

And even when you stay still, Like a bare tree, I know I love you.

Day by day, Mile by mile, You hold on to my hand, And I hold onto yours. Nothing in between. Isabella Croker Poole ‘25

Monoprint by Kate Wu ‘26

I am Existence

I am the cries of the wailing wind, I am the whispers of the roaring waves. I am the light from the brightest star of the night, I am the rays of the sun setting over the ocean.

I am the wings of eagles soaring through the sky, I am the tails of fish racing through the stream.

I am flames in the fireplace, I am fallen leaves in a forest, I am white snow on an icy day, I am soil in an abandoned garden.

I am the lonely howls of wolves in the moonlight, I am the lively chatter of squirrels in ancient trees.

I am the streetwise cat racing across rooftops, I am the dog at the end of an iron chain.

I am the mournful tears of a mother’s sorrow, I am the joyful giggles of a children’s game.

I am the air and earth and water, I am birds and bears and blue whales, I am the solemn song of life and death.

I am happiness and I am grief, I am loneliness and I am belonging. I am the beginning and I am the end.

Mia Swanson ‘24

by Dr. Erin McHugh

Habari Gani, Tembo

Looking Around

by Luyi “Lucia” Yang ‘25

Flooranges

Clementines in a mesh corded bag: Oranges on oranges; stickers and leaves. And the bag—orange, porous, A hole at the bottom fraying under the weight. Unraveling silently, unnoticed until—!

They tumble out over each other all of a sudden; A landslide comes crashing in every which way, Flooding the corners and covering the floor.

Unnavigable, unavoidable, an ungracious mess.

Helpless and tangled and Pounding against the bare floor like a heartbeat.

Little things, palm-sized, each of them, But so many all at once that it becomes An ocean—a citrus sea, a tropical panic. Tsunamis crashing, tangerine waves.

Desperation in the Vitamin C, the salt water, In all these clementines falling, Spilling out of my ribcage, my heart, my hands.

Take my hands. Have an orange. Sit here, peel one, I’ll tell you its name.

I’ll say it’s fear,

And when you give it back to me, Peeled and halved and bared to the world, Clothed anew in your fingerprints; honesty; You’ll say “look— I call this one love.”

Catherine Nichols

‘24

by Meaghan Merritt ‘24

Lovely Lady

My Lovely Lady, oh her starlight splendor, her name lost to love and lust.

Why Aphrodite to compare you is so unjust!

How I long to be loved by her.

Why do I feel so inclined to surrender, to my mind and heart’s very own mistrust?

Tell me great goddess how did you trust that heart of yours to be so tender?

She is who beckons me at high noon of night, whispering sweet, sweet promises, gilded with gold.

Calling out as a forgotten lover might, “Why do you mourn tonight?”

Behold my confidante, untold and uncontrolled, there’s a sweetness to this strived1 delight.

Sophia Hurst ‘25

1 See Old English definiton.

by Anaiah Charway

Swan Waltz

‘26

Swan Waltz

Illuminating from the water and trickling as a leaf in the fall

Her plumage tulle frills at the sight of everything

All around her, snow lightly falls as she moves through the pond of ice with no fear at all

And she dances

It’s second nature

It’s muscle memory

It’s a sixth sense to her

For her other frilly friends she calls

With one soft “oh” and another following tall

More and more, skipping snowballs pour in like a waterfall and make their way into the frozen hall

And she dances

With a waltz and chasse and open with her wings

She moves along to a song not one person sings

And as her spectacle comes to an end

The audience roars an applause with blend

And as she takes in her glory

She continues moving and telling her story

And she waltzes

And chasses

And she dances

Anaiah Charway ‘26

Pink and Blue Botanicals

by Priscella Bennsion ‘25

Oh my mirror you are yet to be melted And your shape unmolded But I gift these whispers to the wind Should they ever blow you cool

-V Edwards ‘23-

Luna Moth

by Kate Wu ‘26

Once upon a time in a very different clime

People spoke in rhyme nearly all the time

To show their smarts were off the charts

To say a clever pun was the height of verbal fun

To display their vainglorious wit

Then challenge others to be as fit

To raise a toast, to give the cheer

Then, banter insults over a beer.

Bill was younger and full of hunger

Chris was older and far far bolder.

Bill wanted to conquer the stage

And hoped Chris would be his mage.

Chris was amused by the bucolic boy

And thought of him like a pretty toy.

Chris even mocked Bill’s naiveté

But still let him have his say.

At bar, Bill was often not as quick

And was mocked for being a bit too thick.

One day Chris said, just to be cruel,

That Bill would never win a real word duel

Because his thoughts were just soooo dull

That he was merely a conversational lull.

To which Bill said, “True, I don’t speak fast

But my words will longer last

Because I believe the measured word

Is far more likely to be heard.”

The others roared out their delight

At Bill’s display of young verbal might

The insult had missed its aim

Come back upon the speaker to maim

Chris bowed his head to acknowledge the dart

Had rebounded and hit him in the heart.

He smiled slowly, raised his beer to Bill

And said he was glad to see some strength of Will.

Chris said, “You have stepped onto the world’s stage,

And no longer need another as mage.

From this day forth I, thee christen

As Bill the Bard to all who’ll listen.”

Shortly thereafter, Chris was dead

And Bill got it into his young head

That, that night, Chris had been tired and sad

It seemed he knew Dark, Ominous and Bad

Were watching, lurking in the background

And yet Chris had made not a sound

Merely sent the young protege away

To keep him out of the approaching fray.

So dead in Deptford at twenty-nine

There ended a wit that was truly fine

But his love of drink and verse and play

Lived on in young Shakespeare even today.

Ms. Val Doucette

6th Arr.

by Sophia Hurst ‘25

My Net of Bees

When I was younger I loved butterflies

But the bees, I simply despised

I skipped to the garden, holding my butterfly net And filled it with grass, weeds, flowers, and sweat

I sat in the middle of the mossy yard And held my net with the intensity of a guard

But soon my netting had uninvited guests They were yellow and black, buzzing pests

What started as a dreamy idea with simplicity and breeze Turned into a nightmarish bag of bees

Holding my net, I had no idea what to do I started screaming for someone with more of a clue

My father ran outside and grabbed the pink mesh He started to laugh and thought my idea was quite fresh

Sometimes you try to catch butterflies And end up with bees

But let the buzzing creatures keep flying And just move on with giggles and ease

Caroline Greganti ‘24

Earth Day: Prototype Study With Three Birds

by Alice Wang ‘26

Friendship Remembered by Mrs. Sheppard Morrison

Home by CR ‘25

The Algorithm

Beauty is a word that she didn’t always understand

She is child raised on social media

She has grown up seeing the products that make you beautiful

The workouts that make you skinny

The food to eat to make you healthy

The books to read to make you smart

And somehow, never got prettier.

Just stayed the same.

She wasn’t any prettier

Or skinnier, or healthier, or smarter

She was simply her

But who’s to say that she’s not those things?

Other than the mirror, the camera, and the reflection she saw when she glanced through the window.

Or was it her mind that seemed to close in on itself when it sees those people doing those things that worked for them––

Why can’t they work for her?

There was no outcome, or solution, or anything.

Just wasted money, a shattered mirror, a broken camera, a fragmented window, and a beautiful child staring at her hands in the middle of a pool of mutilated glass, wondering what she should do to make sure her hands don’t scar wondering if maybe there’s a product for that?

Allie Midkiff ‘27

by Mr. Cameron Ayres

Full Steam Ahead

Deseos del Corazón

– Yo soy renacimiento, una símbolo de la vida.

Te daré las flores y las canciones de los pájaros.

¿Me quieres?

– No, no te quiero.

– Yo soy intensidad, un recuerdo de juventud.

Te daré el sol y las aventuras.

¿A mí te gusta?

– No, no a ti me gusta.

Desires of the Heart

– I am rebirth, a symbol of life.

I will give you flowers and the songs of birds.

Do you want me?

– No, I don’t want you.

– I am passion, a memory of youth.

I will give you the sun and adventures.

Do you like me?

– No, I don’t like you.

– Yo soy una símbolo de muerte y tristeza.

Cogeré tú alegría y sustituirlo con las lágrimas.

– ¡Te amo, sí!

– I am a symbol of death and sadness.

I will take your joy and replace it with tears

– Yes, I love you!

Aliah

Rodriquez ‘25

Eye Monoprint by Alice

Wang ‘26

Eating A Mango With a Screwdriver

Eating a mango with a screwdriver–

First, you don’t have the knife

Can’t get a grip on life

That changes nothing

There is still a mango, slowly ripening, developing soft spots and polka dots

You search frantically around your room, looking for the knife

Your life

The mango sitting there, watching you intently–

Waiting for you

Eventually you find it, not the knife

Not your life

But something close enough–

A screwdriver

It’s been sitting in your room for close to a year now, and you’ve thought of it some,

But the moment hasn’t been just right

Until now

Now you retrieve the screwdriver from the drawer and place the mango on a plate

Carefully, slowly, you use the screwdriver to pierce the tough mango flesh,

Revealing its vulnerabilities beneath

And now you peel, slowly becoming more acquainted with the tenderness inside

And once the peeling process has ceded, you stop a moment to take it in

The glistening nectar that you know will taste so sweet, even the rough spots look appetizing to you

The rush of mango hitting your lips, your tongue, is something you could re-live over and over

The stickiness that coats your hands and face doesn’t matter–

You’re too busy reveling in the bliss that this pairing–

This mango and screwdriver have brought to you

Then, it’s over

You’re washing the mango residue off your hands and face, desperately trying (and failing) to pick the remaining mango fibers from the crevices between your teeth

The screwdriver gets put back in its home, not wanting to open mangos for you anymore–

That’s not its purpose

And you?

You wait. You wait knowing that one day the knife

Your life

Will turn up, joyously and tenderly

Opening your mango for you.

Acadia Courville ‘26

Corner of the World by CR ‘25

Chair 1

by Mallory Stephenson ‘27

Wendigo by Meaghan Merritt ‘24

Poppy Field

Atlas was going to die.

For eight days he had wandered the sandy desert, racing wildly over rolling hills and crawling weakly across the barren plains. The raging sun scorched the ground to burning temperatures, and every time he stepped forward his dry paws cracked under sharp crystals of sand.

His heart thumped groggily against his chest, and his stomach caved into his stomach, revealing his bony ribs to the harsh winds around him. Dust and dirt scattered throughout his caramel brown fur, turning it a sickly shade of gray, and block spots swirled in his vision as his head spun in exhaustion.

Then he smelled the poppies. They smelled like contented soil after a gentle rain, lazily swaying in the breeze as shining sun rays smiled down at them from a soft blue sky. He closed his eyes and slowly breathed in the scent, letting it surround his starving body in a blanket of hope, as if whispering, It’s going to be okay.

Atlas opened his eyes and ran, his frail legs flying through the air and his panting pink tongue lolling out his freckled mouth. He could no longer feel the scorching sand beneath his paws, nor the aching hunger in his stomach. With each step, the poppies’ fresh and welcoming scent grew stronger, overwhelming his senses.

Roadkill 1 by Yuxi “Annie” Chen ‘24

Poppy Field (continued)

One moment his paws were running over the coarse grains of burning sand, the next they were sinking into the spongy soil that lay beneath the delicate stems of newly blossomed poppies. It felt like a healing ointment, mending together the cracks in his dry gray paws until they were soft and pink.

He opened his eyes to the sight of vibrant red flowers, their heart-shaped petals humming with the calming breeze, their faces tanning in the gentle sun. The scent of fresh, clear water skipped past his wet nose, quenching weeks of bone-aching thirst as he imagined lapping up the crystal blue water into his waiting mouth.

He lazily collapsed onto a pile of poppies, feeling the petals and stems tickle his whiskers, and looked up to the hazy periwinkle sky. A rainbow glinted on the horizon, the red, green, and blue mirroring the colors of the poppy-field valley, as playful drops of rain danced over his fur.

Atlas had never felt so alive.

by Mia Swanson ‘24

Roadkill 3 by Yuxi “Annie” Chen ‘24

by Mallory Stephenson ‘27

Chair 2

by Wenlin “Olive” Ye ‘25

Premise of Pomegranate Penitentiary by Naomi Nwokobia ‘26

Premise of Pomegranate Penitentiary

Welcome to Pomegranate Penitentiary. Its people live just as you do— we love and have interests, look different and share the similarities of acknowledging our differences. You may hear all of this and love the idea as it may not sound too unfamiliar. However, be warned. The pomegranates I speak of are essentially all too figurative. Yes, this sacred island savors its literal fruit, but the painted fields of a gorgeous, almost violently violet stained red are the remains of our once loved. Those who don’t listen get the same treatment, the treatment that we call the act of regarding. When the people of Pomegranate Penitentiary disregard someone, it entirely shows their regard for them. Paying attention can be deadly, so we invite our people to share stories and fruits with only their closest friends. Even so, we cannot harvest the earth of the island or wield any fruit without this deadly love. If you are willing to be put into the position of an idol, to sacrifice yourself for the giver that is this prison, then continue reading.

We kill those who we loved but couldn’t disregard. Those who were all too difficult to ignore, those who we felt could leave this unstructured prison, that is, in actuality, a world in itself, became loved, and therefore destroyed. Destroying them with the fruit they similarly loved as we loved them, is entirely befitting. What they did with these pomegranates was more than some of us could muster, and we refused to handle it. To conclude, this is our island; our prison, our perfectly permanent and primitive home. To me, this is a prison of unpredictability and of old, but for you it will be a young adventure and eventually you’ll take my eyes. Even after all of this, if you’re willing to leave behind a life of living idols, comfort in your love and the dangers of the punk that is the outside world, come join us. Don’t hesitate; so many people feel like leaving the life they have behind. Many inhabitants of this penitentiary have considered ending the lives of others, with some having the same position held with that of their own life. Everyone wants an escape, and that is the premise of this kindly foreboding letter. If you truly wish to become a citizen, an inhabitant, a real person, then promptly prepare a response to this prose of an offer. If you decide to stay in the not so apparent prison of the outside world, then ignore this letter. If you are a like minded individual, prepare to no longer be by yourself. There will only be the premise of the Pomegranate people, perusing through the island as one. If this all sounds sound, bring the object of our love, the object of your love, the premise of your life and only one person who you’d be perfectly proud to be profound with. Remember your promised promptness, and we cannot wait to ignore you.

by Naomi Nwokobia ‘26

The Breaking Point

She hears their footsteps pound against the concrete floor. The rhythm is uneven, like an untrained marching band, or an army of war-ravaged soldiers during their last fight. She squeezes her eyes shut.

In her mind, she pictures their white coats, ironed and bleached. They wear plastered smiles on their faces. She watched them creep towards her, their gloved hands outstretched. They are hawks on a hunt, and she is the mouse. Except, unlike a mouse, she cannot run. So instead, she closes her eyes until she is drowning in black shadows and they are threatening to swallow her trembling figure whole.

Soft voices murmur from behind the door. She opens her eyes to the jarring electric lights. Sometimes she struggles, using her limbs as her swords and clubs and her voice as her battle cry. Sometimes her body shakes violently as waterfalls stream down her pale cheeks and settle on the white marble floor. And sometimes she does nothing at all. Either way, they always catch her.

Not today.

Those words echoing within her hollow mind are old friends. Not today, not today, not today. They are the echoes that morph from whispers to shouts every time they come for her. Today is different... today she is a branch running with a river, and they are the sinking stones. She sets her hands against her knees and stretches forward. Her muscles strain, rubber bands begging to be released.

Click.

Her head snaps up, eyes pointing daggers at the door. She crawls from the floor to her feet, her fingernails scraping against the white paint. Hands as white as the walls behind them clutch at a pale blue dress and pull at raven black hair. Her breath quickens as her eyes twitch side to side.

She can hear echoes screaming inside her head. It is a chorus of angels, and they are dying.

She will be prey no longer. Another click, the roll of wheels, and then the dreaded white jacket.

She pounces.

Mia Swanson ‘24

Haunted Metamorphosis

by Meaghan Merritt ‘24

by

I’m My Own Gravestone

Luyi “Lucia” Yang ‘25

Wendigo Meaghan Kress ‘24

Yellow Botanicals

by Cami Ascencios ‘27

The Church at the End of Time

Even after the end of times, the church continued to tower over the courtyard, the point of the cross touching the cloudy sky.

What had once been a neatly trimmed, and watered lawn outside the house of worship was now a forest of weeds, obscuring the arched doorway and brick stairs.

Marble outer walls, once polished with shining resin and iridescent against the sun, were now painted with dried mud and cracked leaves. Rotted roses and knarled thorns hung listlessly over the peak, swaying gently in the harsh wind. Small, sprightly birds danced around the shriveled petals, singing songs of times long gone.

The asphalt flat rooftop had chipped and stumbled from the onslaught of harsh raindrops and hail. Yellow and grey stains left marks against the scarred cracks of the stone.

Feral cats nursed their crying kittens, using the ledges that bordered the side as a shelter against the howling wind. The ledges themselves were worn, no longer sharply carved but rounded and bent inwards.

Above the doorway sat a pentagonal window. The glass was shattered in the middle. Dirt covered the remaining parts, obscuring the inside of the building from wandering eyes.

Iron bars peeked out from the hole left by the broken glass. Their square edges were rusted and flaking red and orange vertices contrasted with the silver metal. Even so, the bars showed less wear than the rest of the structure. They continued to stand solidly in the window frame as if they had been built there long after marble had been polished.

On the opposite side of the church was another window, the size of the door and shaped into a tall oval. The left side had fallen victim to the harsh winds, leaving holes in the otherwise artistic design. Human figures were carved onto the windows from the inside of the building, their lines precise and drawn with a steady hand. The colors were a faded grey and purple, barely reflecting against the sunlight and leaving shadows in the light’s place.

While the outside of the church fought and suffered against the harrowing winds and rain and storm, the inside had been fighting the struggles of old age and forworn memories.

Long torches lined the walls, carved in the shapes of wolves, their heads wearing crowns of thistles and spiderwebs.

What had once been gold paint flacked off, leaving only soft, pliant wood. The altar shook on its base with every rumble from the sky and the velvet steps were rough and hard to the touch.

Once, long ago, laughter and song echoed throughout the church’s hall, and the wooden aisle creaked under the steps of the living.

But after the end of times, only the roaring wind pounding against shattered windows broke through the somber silence, and the floor could only creak under the weight of the dead.

Alas, the church endures, forgotten by all and cherished by none.

Sacré-Cœur Basilica

by Sophia Hurst ‘25

Elena: La Mamá Que Sufrió la Muerte de Su Hijo

(Part 1, in Spanish and English)

Content Warning: descriptions of suicide and death.

*

En toda la familia, la mamá, Elena, era la persona que la muerte de su hijo afecta más. La muerte de este niño en particular, la dejó quebrada y traumatiza. Cada día, ella piensa sus memorias con su hijo y cada día siente más y más angustia y corazón roto. Elena tiene el pelo completamente blanco. Aunque más personas piensan que el pelo de ella es blanca porque edad, esta suposición está equivocada. El pelo de elena es completamente blanco porque la muerte de su hijo. Ella era afectaba tanto que su sufrimiento y estrés comenzó físicamente manifestar; efecto en ella apariencia.

Esta muerte en la familia fue un evento trágico para toda la familia pero evidentemente, tiene un impacto más significativo en Elena que los otros. El papá, Diego, a veces intentaba averiguar de ella por qué esta pérdida era tanto mucho peor para ella. Sin embargo, para su decepción, él fracasado en cada tentativa. Nadie sabía que Elena fue testigo de la muerte de su hijo. Todo sucedió justo delante de sus ojos. Ella congeló y miró mientras su pobre hijo levantó la pistola a su cabeza...y apretó el gatillo.

Sus gritos espeluznantes podrían ser escuchados por millas mientras ella abrazó el cuerpo apagado de su hijo. Después de se echaba en la piscina de sangre por horas, ella juntó la fuerza para llamar a la policía. La policía llegaron y un director de los funerales sacó el cuerpo.

Completamente solo en la habitación que ahora contenía los últimos remanentes de su hijo, sintiera triste, confundida y aún culpable, Elena cayó en un frenesí y frenéticamente comenzó a limpiar. Restregó la sangre del piso, tiró la alfombra con cualquier otras cosas que se habían manchado con el legado rojo de su hijo y lavó la ropa que llevaba puesta, eliminando los elementos visuales de su trauma.

Out of everybody in the family, the mother, Elena, was the person that was affected most by her son’s death. The death of this son in particular, left her broken and traumatized. Every day, she recalls her memories with her son and everyday, she feels more and more anguish and heart broken. Elena’s hair is completely white. Although most people think that her hair is white due to age, this assumption is wrong. Elena’s hair is completely white because of the death of her son. She was affected so much that her suffering and stress began to manifest physically; having an effect on her appearance.

This death in the family was a tragic event for the whole family but obviously, it has a more significant impact on Elena than the others. The dad, Diego, sometimes tried to find out why this loss was so much worse for her. However, to his disappointment, he failed in every attempt. No one knew Elena witnessed her son’s death. It all happened right before her eyes. She froze and watched as her poor son raised the gun to his head... and pulled the trigger.

Her blood curdling screams could be heard for miles as she embraced her son’s lifeless body. After lying in the pool of blood for hours, she gathered the strength to call the police. The police arrived and a funeral director removed the body.

Completely alone in the room that now contained the last remnants of her son, feeling sad, confused and still guilty, Elena fell into a frenzy and frantically began to clean. She wiped the blood off the floor, threw away the carpet, along with anything else that had been stained with her son’s red legacy, and washed the clothes she was wearing, removing the visual elements of her trauma.

Eco Swim 1 by Hongyi “Krystal” Lin ‘24

Cuando Joaquin y Lola volvieron a casa de sus correrías variadas por la ciudad y Diego se detuvo en la entrada para el auto después de un día largo de trabajo, ellos averiguaron que su madre se retiró a cama temprano y se sentaron para cenar. Nada parece fuera de lo común. Nada sobre su hermano no se había mencionado ni sospechaba. Al día siguiente, el resto de la familia fue informada sobre la muerte de su hermano por la policía, sin embargo, ellos no les dijeron por qué él murió. Superado con pena, supusieron que falleció de la mano de causas naturales. Hasta la fecha, nadie en la casa saben la actualmente causa de su muerte ni saben que Elena fue testigo de todo. La mayoría de las veces, Elena es golpeada con las memorias de ese día y no puede evitar injustamente asignar la culpa a ella misma, desea que era su cabeza oprimía contra el cañón de la pistola... en vez de su chico.

Mientras sus otros niños Lola y Joaquin empezaban a consolarla, Elena es inevitablemente tomada en un viaje a través de su consciencia. Ella pensó atrasado a un tiempo que se sentío completa y despreocupada. Sus recuerdos recurrentes llevó a un día ella pasó con el hijo; un tiempo antes del parto de sus otros dos hijos.

Con su esposo pasando todo su tiempo en el trabajo, ella llevó al niño para visitar a su padre. Ellos salieron de la casa y condujeron veinte minutos por la ciudad, donde ellos se acercaron un umbral y tocó la puerta. Un hombre alto y de piel oscura contestó la puerta. Su músculos sobresaliendo por su camisa negra abotonar. El niñito abrazó a su padre, lleno de entusiasmo y corrió a la casa. Elena abrazó al hombre también, derritiéndose en sus brazos mientras corrió la mano a través de su fresco corte fade.

As Joaquin and Lola returned home from their separate escapades through the city and Diego pulled into the driveway after a long day at work, they learnt that their mother had retired to bed early and sat down to have supper. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Nothing about their brother had been mentioned nor suspected. The following day, the rest of the family was informed of their brother’s death by the police, however, they were not told why he had died. Overcome with grief, they had assumed that he had died at the hand of natural causes. To this day, nobody in the household knows the real cause of his death nor did they know that Elena had witnessed it all. More often than not, Elena is struck with the memories from that day and cannot help but wrongfully assign herself the blame, wishing it was her head pushed against the barrel of the gun... instead of her baby’s.

As her other children, Lola and Joaquin, begin to console her, Elena is inevitably taken on a journey through her consciousness. She thinks back to a time where she felt complete, and carefree. Her flashbacks took her to a day she spent with the son; a time before her other 2 children were born.

With her husband spending all his time at work, she took the little boy to go visit his father. They left the house and drove 20 minutes through the city...where they came upon a doorstep and knocked on the door. A tall, dark skin man answered the door. His muscles were protruding through his black button-up shirt. The little boy hugged his father full of excitement and ran into the house. Elena hugged the man as well, melting into his arms as she ran her hand through his fresh taper fade.

Eco Swim 2 by Hongyi “Krystal” Lin ‘24

En la casa, algunas horas habían pasado. El niño estaba jugando felizmente con su pista de carreras de juguetes mientras sus padres lo veían y hablaban entre ellos mismos. Repentinamente, hubo un fuerte ruido y un grupo de personas extrañas frente a ellos. El niñito asustado corrió a Elena y el hombre se colocó frente a su familia. Antes de que ella pudiera comprender lo que pasaba, hubo un estruendo penetrante. El grupo de hombres desocuparon la casa y dejan el apagado y sangriento cuerpo del hombre en los brazos temblorosos de Elena.

Se armó su última pizca de coraje y rápidamente sacó al niño de la casa. Mientras ella condujo a hogar, anónimamente llamó a la policía y reportó sonidos fuertes. En cuanto llegó a casa, ella puso al niñito en la cama y cuando se despertó, le dijo que solo estaba teniendo un mal sueño. Ella no quería su hijo crecer con el perjuicio de visto que su padre asesinado. También, no quería su esposo averiguar que el niñito no era su hijo.

Quince años después, las noticias de una invasión reciente de una casa había estado transmitiendo a través de todos los canales de noticias populares. Escucha a los sonidos de la televisión, algo activó un ajetreo de memorias en el hijo. Él recordó siendo feliz, jugando con su pista de carreras. Él recordó el parloteo de sus padres en el fondo. Él recordó el grupo de hombres extraños. Él recordó el cuerpo sangriento en los brazos de lutos de su madre.

Envolvió en una plétora de emociones – desilusión, pena, confusión – él preguntó por qué nada de eso sucedió. Por qué su padre fue asesinado. Por qué su madre le mintió. Él no sabía cómo sentirse. Él no sabía qué decir. Él no sabía qué hacer. Él encontrado la pistola que Diego había guardado en su mesita de noche. Elena descubrió a su hijo en la habitación, lágrimas ondeando por su cara, empujando una pistola en contra de su sien. Ella chilló pero ya era demasiado tarde.

In the house, a couple hours had passed. The boy was happily playing with his toy race tracks while his parents watched him and talked among themselves. Suddenly there was a loud noise and a group of strange people facing them. The little boy ran to Elena and the man positioned himself in front of his family. Before she was able to process what was happening, there was a piercing blast. The group of men vacated the house and left the bloody, lifeless body of the man in the shaking arms of Elena.

She mustered up her last bit of courage and quickly got the little boy out of the house. As she drove home, she anonymously called the police and reported loud noises. As soon as they got home, she put the little boy to bed and when he woke up, she told him that he was just having a bad dream. She did not want her son to grow up with the damage from seeing his father murdered. She also did not want her husband to find out that the little boy was not his child.

15 years later, the news of a recent home invasion had been broadcasting across all the popular news channels. Listening to the sounds of the television, something triggered the rush of memories in the son. He remembered being happy, playing with his race track. He remembered his parents’ chatter in the background. He remembered the strange group of men. He remembered his fathers bloody body in the grief-stricken arms of his mother.

Engulfed by a plethora of emotions – disappointment, grief, confusion – he wondered why any of it happened. Why his father was killed. Why his mother had lied to him. He didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He found the gun that Juan had kept in his bedside table. Elena discovered her son in the room, tears streaming down his face, pushing a gun against his temples. She shrieked, but it was too late.

Eco Swim 3 by Hongyi “Krystal” Lin ‘24

Until

A shiver inside—

Outside planetary shift—

“The Dark” encroaches.

Years passed since the last—

Twenty years until the next—

You? Me? Patiently.

Earth, sky, sun and moon

In tune: green, blue, gold, and white— Apocalypse—night?

Dr. Mary Edmonds

Race Against Time

by Mr. Cameron Ayres

An Open Letter to Antiquity

When you look up, what do you find?

What do the soaring eyes of your flightless kind

See that we cannot?

Has our advancement landed us on the other side of living?

Our wings can wander over clouds, but still the stars evade us—

Slipping into hazy black

Just past our orbit’s path.

Perseus, to me: a spotted composition— an arc and arm, an arch just out of reach.

But to you, the ancient, what brightness forms his face? What populates his elbow? What patterns make his hair?

What are colors to you with fewer words to speak them?

You with your wine-dark, tempestuous seas. Do you know how the oceans rise from your grave?

Perhaps the sea, desirous and deep, looks just to reach the sky.

Poseidon, king presiding, looks still for retribution; Looks ever toward the star-struck queen.

Cassiopeia—she taunts in double-vs, Askew and starkly lilting, robed in black, yet bare. What swirling crown lies in the contours Of what I see as just the Void?

Artificiality now clouds our vision, Blocks the dancing lights you knew like friends.

The lion and goat, the bull and bears

Ours are known through repetition, but to you they’re familial—the back of your hand.

Could you, night-shrouded, hear them sing?

Pinpoints coalesced to your dream-state vision. Now, piece by piece the remnants (broken by us in the first place) Take on newer names.

Would you even know the sky, If you could see it through my eyes? Catherine Nichols ‘24

Unspoken Secret

Luyi

by

“Lucia” Yang ‘25

Getting to my windows I can see the trees

The little birds on the twilight breeze

Way in the distance the mountains lie still

Before that white gables behind a hill

The first few stars some covered by clouds I turn on my lights as the darkness enshrouds

The world outside my two little windows

The sills lined with bottles and primrose

Soon silence falls, the crickets chirp

Laying down to start my work

But still I am searching for something

A silent call in my mind is humming

Yet the sky remains dark

Stretching on, vast and stark

Where have you gone

Who’s light shall I fawn

Finally your cool face revealed

Hidden in mists your flowing shield

So far away yet you feel so close

A presence nearby almost like a ghost

Perhaps just a day I’ve missed your light

Yet it feels eternal, deprived of your sight

Why do you hide from me

Why would you care

To shadow your form

Seems hardly fair

This need that burns

On starlit nights

Jealous of the heavens

Who hold you so tight

But now you are here, no worries ahead

And I am just talking, about how my heart bled Kaegin Fisk ‘24

Stairway to the Floating City by Mr. Cameron Ayres

Olmarr Looked Up

Olmarr looked up, his one eye shining like a star on top of his head. This world was nothing at all like he had expected—not at all. In the legends shared around the camp fire, this world was vibrant—throbbing with life forms, sound, and color. All Olmarr could see, however, was black, gray, and shades somehow in between. And the silence, my God, the silence, he thought. He had never imagined a place so bereft of sound: the flat stillness of the air overwhelmed him. His lungs felt tight. He knew he was completely alone. A solitary tear formed in his eye and watered his vision. Olmarr looked down, feeling very sorry for himself. And as the tear fell from his eye, Olmarr looked up and uttered a prayer to any god who might be listening to please— please— bring him back home.

Dr. Mary Edmonds

by Eleanor Butterfield

Olmarr Looked Up

‘25

Monoprint With Deer

by Erzhen “Jane” Wu ‘26

Restaurant by Wenlin “Olive” Ye ‘24

Putting Down Roots

I sit here growing senile; my bark goes from a hard casing to one more soft and almost malleable. But this is not my story, this is the story of those who have enjoyed my shade. Though I have had many visitors throughout my life. One person in particular stands out, someone who is so set on being himself it is admired by all. This boy has been visiting me ever since he was young–I have never seen someone so intent on growing and becoming the person he was meant to be.

He started seeing me with his mother. Because he was too young to walk then she would put him on a blanket and watch him squirm around. Occasionally she would dip his small wiggling toes into the stream that ran under my long, drooping branches, all while cooing to him “Who’s my sweet baby girl?” Something felt off about that statement, I could feel the boy’s confused and disgruntled energy pulsing through the ground, into my roots, then slowly spreading throughout every fiber of my being. Though his teeth weren’t even fully formed in his jaw, this whole being called a girl thing was uncomfortable for him. Thus, my curiosity about this child was formed.

Soon, he was able to toddle around, wandering off the quilt the mother brought to plop himself down in the stream on steamy summer days, all while his mother scolded him for ruining his clothes. She would then drag him home saying “That’s not how a young lady should act” though he was still not able to achieve more than a floppy run. During these reprimands, he would look wistfully back at me and my pebbly gurgling stream.

My leaves shivered, shrank, slowly sloped down to the ground, then sprung forth again eight times over.

I grew accustomed to seeing this boy almost as often as I saw the sun– running home from the bus stop in brightly colored dresses, then, bursting out of the house moments later in his dad’s ld t-shirts and shorts he’d run to me, a snack in his hand and backpack pounding against his back.

He’d curl up where my shade met the mossy earth, right next to my trunk, and do his homework, apple and peanut butter in hand. Math was quickly, though carefully through, scribbling in earnest, longing to get lost in a book he’d brought with him or splash in the stream or hang from my branches. When he would read, he would read aloud, letting me enjoy the story right along with him. He’d tell me about distant lands, where there was magic, talking animals, and fairies. When he’d play in the stream, he’d intently look for tiny minnows, or the perfect rock; his hair constantly having to be brushed aside while he wondered what it would feel like to have this weight off his head, how it would feel when the wind rushed at his neck, creeping up his scalp. “Would I feel lighter?” Somehow, I sensed that his grief, so delicate it was invisible to those who didn’t bother to look, wasn’t about hair. Sometimes, there were days when he would tell me about his day, I could tell that both this and the times he read were most cathartic to him.

Earth Day Prototype With One Bird

by Erqi “Kate” Wu ‘26

Putting Down Roots (continued)

He would say that his teacher needed “big strong boys” to help him stack chairs, but when he stood up he was laughed and jeered at. “You’re not a boy,” they’d say. With a face as red as my leaves in the fall, he’d sit down. It was this and other small things, like when they’d play “boys chase girls” during recess, when he would try and chase a girl she’d get confused and say “Why are you chasing me? You’re a girl.” That makes me want to swallow the boy, engulf him with my bark and shelter him from the world that doesn’t understand him.

As the boy grew, his spark, his uniqueness, faded. He wasn’t understood by anyone, not his mother, not his classmates, not his teacher; no one. Everyday when he came to visit me, I saw his love of life and hunger for knowledge slowly dissipate. He’d slowly work through his math, mind elsewhere, and looked forward to the second he could get lost in the fantasy worlds though they had lost their vibrancy. He still read aloud though, I think he could sense how much I enjoyed listening to these stories that were woven just for our pleasure. Somedays, when he just couldn’t take it anymore, he’d collapse into a ball, the weight of his world too much to bear. He didn’t understand why he felt the way he felt, why others didn’t feel the way he did, why they’d make fun of or scoff at him. I have never wanted to comfort someone as much as I did then, wrap my branches around him, hold him and tell him that there was nothing wrong with him–it was the world–and that one day he would understand himself inside and out.

As more years passed, scars like cornrows appeared on his chest, only visible on the occasions when he would lean over and splash in the stream, reviving some of his childhood joy. Still, through thick and thin, he visited me, dutifully completing all of his homework to get lost in less fantastical worlds, though they almost felt further away. One clear and crisp day, he cracked open a library book, not knowing that this would be a catalyst for change. In this book, there was a boy who was born in a body not meant for him, he experienced the same things my boy did. He began to weep, not tears of sorrow, but of relief, he wasn’t broken! There were other people like him! Maybe, just maybe, he would be okay.

Acadia Courville ‘26

by Sophia Sydnor ‘27

Blue and Yellow Botanicals

What I Learned From You

Cakey, cracked polish

Now turned smooth and new Still smells the same but less dried out–I know how to close the lid now

Following you to your closet Now turned going to mine

The same brush–Bristles slowing coming out

Watching your sure hands apply the polish Now turned to my sure and tender touch methodically coat the boots

The same circles–No longer cyclical

Buffing under the beating sun on the deck Now turned to buffing late at night on my dorm floor

The same person, making the same strokes–Now more sure

I don’t need you anymore.

Acadia Courville ‘26

Staircase 1 by Sophia Hurst ‘25

My Sister and I

Parched seagulls sit on the marsh, as I sit and watch from grandma’s kitchen with you. You color and talk in your own language, Letting the colors spill across the page in a big cloud of red and yellow, Characters and sentences I couldn’t understand but I listened.

I listened to the teapot brewing as Grandma peeled apples. They were bright, beautiful like the sun making prints across the walls when we arrive each summer. The sun reflects from the mirror into your green eyes when you run out the door with your small crocs As I follow right behind keeping you safe. Our little toddler hands dig and sift through a mountain of shells, Looking for shiny things, for blue, for red, for orange For special treasures for grandma. Yet, you got bored so I followed you down to the water’s edge. I followed until the sky grew dark. I followed until the air grew cold, Until we grew old and forgot. When time ran away just as fast as we ran across the sand, feeling the salty air. You were three and I was six. Now a distant, warm memory, A thought, suspended in time, that’s lost to what we could have known if we were three and six for eternity, still learning to fly.

Ellery Blurton ‘24

by Clara Falls ‘27

Queen Anne’s Lace

A Warm Breeze

Somedays I hate the wind. It makes me cold and tense, But my opinions are on the mend, As spring is on the fence.

The early spring breeze. It reminds me of school traditions, Beach days with simple ease, And strong pre-summer ambitions.

So on this windy day, As I stand on paths between classes, And watch the treetops perform their ballet, I feel it when the shiver passes.

And as the daffodils sprout and bloom, And the cherry blossoms turn pink, I shall do away with my gloom. And school will end in a blink

And although this spring is bittersweet, The birds continue to migrate and grow, And for me, it is quite a feat. I will be my next school’s Jane Doe.

And as I walk across the stage, And hold my Iris of treasure, Closing this emotional page, I hope there is a warm zephyr.

Caroline Greganti ‘24

by Ms. Lydia Emory

Himalayas From Afar

With Love

Sometimes the sweetest things are made to be torn apart. Bright paper hugging holiday secrets, adorned with names and bows and candy canes; a fresh-baked loaf of overnight french toast, just out of the oven for the 17th Christmas in a row; an assortment of winter fruits, hidden behind thick, bright peels; a soul in want of understanding, hidden and hiding.

In my experience, a soft touch is a necessity for the unraveling of each. I’ve been peeling oranges since my nails were long enough to carry the stains, and it has since become an art form—though not one for showy viewings or public exhibitions. To dig your nails into the skin of an orange and peel, breaking only the sun-colored skin, is not for the impatient or the rough. Those without gentle fingertips may pierce through to the sticky-sweet meat of the fruit, and those a bit too hasty may be sprayed in the eye by something a bit too acidic to be comfortable. If you know the fruit, however, you know how it can be the simplest thing in the world to unravel its armor into a spiral and thus find the treasure underneath.

The soft citrus of an orange peeled and sliced is, of course, perfectly paired with its sister, the pomegranate. Unfolding a pomegranate is another matter entirely, though, so the initial struggle that comes with each one begs the question of how on earth (or perhaps, how in Hades) Persephone was able to do it with just her hands. A knife is the first step with these thicker, deeper fruits. In tandem with the harshness of the blade, however, its bearer must still be gentle, steady. The sweetest reward can too often be marred by a too-eager hand. Whether, like my mother, you place the cut fruit in water and let the seeds float to freedom or, like me, pick it apart with your hands, you have to know the fruit to find its essence.

Once you’re faced with a bowl of sliced oranges, their skins peeled back and bared, met with a bowl just as large full of pomegranate seeds, meticulously pulled out of their tough shells, you come face to face with my own childhood. Peeling and pulling apart fruits is something I learned young, making the brightest fruit salad with my mom, and it is something I carry with me. Like riding a bike or braiding hair—it all becomes muscle memory, it ingrains itself into your own soul, into your own hands. Peeling an orange for a friend, carefree and easy, is a different task than patiently picking apart a pomegranate, but the understanding of each fruit comes from the same place. Much like a tag on a Christmas present: For Catherine, From Mom, with love.

Catherine Nichols ‘24

Sharing an Orange

by Catherine Nichols ‘24

by Ms. Lydia Emory

By the Boats

All Odds

Defy

by Luyi “Lucia” Yang ‘25

Litany for Living (or, Joan)

To live should not be to die trying—

But tell that to the martyr, staying her course.

Do you know how they’ll immortalize you?

Glass shards and false curves, falling on swords.

Sixteen and burning, but never subdued— Do not let your ambition turn you to ash.

Does it really matter, in the end

When remembrance necessitates your flame?

Turn your back, your armored heart, You’ll find your footing when walking away.

Put down your sword, take up the hand of God—

The one to whom you are wanted alive.

The stars will bite through when you are not their fodder And their blazing will whisper, whisper.

Embrace the living, cling hard to the truth

That you cannot find in the fighting, the flame.

The dark of the night does not ache for your penance. The speckled sky does not lay any blame.

Put down your matchbook, wash the gasoline off your feet.

Take your higher truth and eat it whole.

The highest truth I’ve yet to find is that you are holier living.

Tell me, aren’t you tired of breathing in smoke?

They would sing for you, their seraphim, Their falsification of a phoenix,

But none sing sweeter than the birds calling you home, And you are brighter beneath the stars than among them.

Catherine Nichols ‘24

Daytime by Isabella Croker-Poole ‘25

Ceremony

Walking on air, not here to stay, They form a circle: Finding their own way.

Wending slowly amidst the gray They hold their lanterns high Walking on air, not here to stay.

Hands clasped, candles like shining rays, They seal rings with wax Finding their own way.

Still later, on this May day, They surrender the stairs— Walking on air, not here to stay.

Tomorrow comes; standing together as in a play— A final prayer, a joyful cheer—they exit, Finding their own way.

Dr. Mary Edmonds

The Library by CR ‘25