The Pearl
Cover art by: Oliver Shrader
Editor's Letter:
Throughout my 18 years of life, nothing excites me more than rain. Whether it is driving backroads in a downpour, with my favorite songs playing through the car speakers, windshield wipers frantically oscillating to ensure I don’t crash; whether it is setting an alarm for 2 AM so that I can be awake for the most violent part of a passing thunderstorm; whether it is opening my childhood bedroom windows to feel the cool mist of the drizzle splash across my face; I have always loved rain. With the sky dulled out by clouds, the greenery around seems to pop. Still, I check the forecast in hopes of rain. Though living in Colorado, my hopes are hardly ever realized
Bearing witness to something besides myself makes me feel small, grand, vulnerable, and excited. Nothing makes for better reading time than a rainstorm. Rain is inevitable; bound to happen; unstoppable Our issue embodies the sentiment of rain The consistency of rain, demonstrated through tales of rocks and geologic times scales, to stories of change and reinvention manifested through stories about ravens and boys. Our issue is a conglomerate of all the things we love and find interesting I love rainy days, so, I suggest that next time it looks dreary outside, read through The Pearl and find what interests your peers.
- Charlie Dockendorf
As seniors of 2025 setting off to begin our adulthood, we are grappling with the challenge of becoming independent We are handed the task of deciding who we are and how we will present ourselves to the world. The moment we cross the line between high schooler and young adult, we are bombarded with questions. And, at least for me, the answer is often the same "I have no idea." But that response does a disservice to who I am. I know what I love and what I don’t; I simply don’t know how that translates to my future self or where she might be.
Over the past year, I’ve learned not to punish myself for not knowing. I used to see my future as a problem to solve, a locked door for which I needed a key I spent countless nights wondering why I didn’t have the answers and whether I ever would. But I’ve realized that no matter how much time I spend thinking and planning for the years ahead, I won’t truly know what’s supposed to happen until it does. The best way I can prepare for my future is by nurturing the present.
I’ve started letting go of expectations for who I think I should be and instead allow myself to live out who I am. I’ve noticed that when you step back and experience each moment fully the good and the bad no moment feels prolonged; instead, it feels purposeful. As if each class, conversation, dinner, and dorm check is happening to push me to the next.
So, as you read this year ’ s issue of The Pearl, I invite you to sit with it in the present moment. How does it make you feel? What does it make you remember? Enjoy the company of your experience let it move you now, and I promise it will shape what comes next.
- Kira Harvey
Anonymous Confessions
By: Members of our community
“I secretly trained all faculty dogs on campus, and have created an army ”
“COVER UP: Rat King found, disposed of, in Lodge dorm ”
“One time I found a fire ant hill and relocated it right in front of the Solar Dorm.”
“I released the massive Pack Rat into Calvin’s home.”
“Anyone else think the North Dorm Santa is hot?”
“I clogged the toilet in Lodge and caused it to overflow.”
“I walk around basecamp at night with rocks and core-shot everyone ’ s skis.”
“I have a huge crush on someone whose name rhymes with Smookus Shmerry.”
Rocks
Will Karow
Civilization that was. They’ll find remains of cities on the tops of mountains, at the bottom of oceans, compressed and cooked in the crust. If they feel like we do, they might have the same amount of emotional connection we have to an ammonite.
Consider all the rocks for a moment. Born from goopy magma, cooked in crust, laid down by streams, dunes, and seas that were. Rocks under your feet, under your house, under your entire life, have existed for what seems like forever compared to your life. We build castles, walls, and roads, hoping our structures will leave some legacy—more than any books, names, or ideas we have.
Igneous intrusion rises slowly from beneath the ground, transforming stable flat land into a rough bumpy rocky landscape unsuitable for farming. Intrusion introduces minerals of olivine, quartzite, feldspar, and gabbro that rise to the surface, their sparky appearance brought to light just to be washed by rain or wind back into the sea, where it gets covered, compressed, folded, and cooked back into the earth. This process is so patient that no one sees it coming.
Pick up a rock; maybe it's in the sedimentation phase, the lines and etchings on the surface telling a story of thousands of particles ending up so close together they form one. The calcareous ooze may be showing the warm ocean where these particles met. There could be a little imprint of an ammonite, the shelled shrimp-snail that was the first to dominate the world five hundred million years ago. Whose kind and others during that time created so much oxygen; it changed some oxygen levels in sulfur and turned the sky blue. Oh, those poor amenities, they thought the ocean would last forever, but now they’re dry rocks in the mountains.
Humans think of themselves as eternal, don’t they? “I’ll be fine, I’ve been fine forever.”
But in what to an eternal cosmic giant, less than a fraction of a millisecond, a mountain will fall a few feet and leave a civilization buried. Maybe that period of life gets absorbed into fossils, or their methods of life will be recorded in ice or other rocks. Hey, perhaps the sky will turn black for a blip there. Fancy marble floors will be cooked and crushed into a conglomerate with all the other concrete, whose only purpose is to make it economical to create rock on demand.
Imagine a jagged cliffside, looking over the sea. Waves beat on it constantly, the tide getting stronger and weaker due to the changing position of the sun and moon. A child might view the cliff as an impassable monolith. But others see its fate, by comparing it to past times. The constant beating will lead to a piece-by-piece collapse and crumbling, although it may take a millennium. The child who first notices grows old, dies, is forgotten. The cliff doesn’t care.
There’s a special kind of arrogance in how humans measure time: Seconds, Minutes, Hours.
We call it precision, as dividing it into smaller increments lasts longer, or maybe shorter? The passage of time is supposedly constant, but we bend it to our desires. We make our time with loved ones feel long, and the time dedicated to routine washes away. Rocks don’t feel time; they just exist. We try to measure epochs by looking at the delicate chemistry of the rocks and lots of math with big numbers to calculate how many times the stones have spun around the earth like it means something to the rocks.
We have tried to interpret the period of time used to measure rocks. We all are supposed to know what a year feels like, yet we desire eternity. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” But ashes and dust go back further, to the nuclear fusion core of ancient stars, that under immense pressure turn simple particles into complex atoms that get blown across the galaxy to form the timeless ash and dust that supposedly connect us to our gods. You are part of the earth, of course. Some cultures believe “people are men of mud” and are connected to the land. Yet only the briefest part.
In the Utah desert, rocks balance themselves. The wind wills them into arches, and the tower-like hoodoos just hang on while rain shapes their form. They look so delicate, as if at any moment a kid standing on top of an arch would make a pile of rocks and kid in between two pillars. They’re sturdy enough for our earthly enjoyment, and when we're gone, they’ll become that sea bed. Where they get compressed, cooked, melted, sloshed around in the mantle, and spouted right back out.
At the end of your life, there might be a gravestone if people want to remember you. Your name will be etched into the metamorphic rock of granite or marble. Metamorphic rocks erode less compared to your sandstone and your shale. While we have time, we manipulate the rocks to our will. We want to be remembered and remember those who brought us love. Perhaps there’ll be a point when rocks drag us back to show us what's important. Maybe we’ll realize when we’ve lost it all and all we have are sticks and stones.
Rocks will surely remember us, but not in the way we want to be remembered. No feelings, just chemical and physical change, just objective storytelling. Aliens that visit earth can look to rocks to maybe remember a civilization that was. They’ll find remains of cities on the tops of mountains, at the bottom of oceans, compressed and cooked in the crust. If they feel like we do, they might have the same amount of emotional connection we have to an ammonite.
Photo by Ty Nolan
Deep Time Compliment
Amanda Leahy
A construction worker inadvertently unearthed a female Ice Age Columbian mammoth above Snowmass Village, thought to have lived (and died) sometime during the Pleistocene epoch. By the time the excavation was complete, the remains of three Columbian mammoths, thirty American mastodons, four Jefferson’s ground sloths, ten Giant bison, three species of deer, a single tooth from a Camelops, and an ankle bone from a prehistoric horse were found. These fossils might be as much as 150,000 years old. The first mammoth has now been named “Snowy” because you cannot have a discovery without a story.
A few of the fossils were put on display in the CRMS barn; I brought my seven-year-old son to see them. The fossils were frequently misted with water to preserve the oxygen-deprived matter from further damage. They were a deep brown and looked less skeletal and more like slabs of clay cleaved from the earth with a kettle knife. My son stood chin-level with the prehistoric plated tables while adults in the room asked about fossil classifications, permineralization, and carbon dating. My son, usually quick to raise his hand in such question-and-answer scenarios, said nothing. As we left the barn, he took my hand and asked if the mammoth knew she was going to die and why her bones needed to be watered like a plant. I attempted to answer his first question, imagining the details of an existence that lived during what paleontologists refer to as deep time, which, in my mind, is not a reference to the passage of geologic time as much as it is a nod to the conceptual idea that true time is often a matter of depth.
Each summer, my family and I leave the Roaring Fork Valley to spend the month of July visiting my parents on a lake in New Hampshire. I run along the wooded trails and mountain ridges and down an old wagon road, the width of which is still defined by the last and long-ago re-assembling of stones by some farmer’s hands after a winter thaw. Sunlight patterns the ground like shards of glass. I run towards a remnant
clearing where a bundle of gravestones emerge from mossified earthen mounds. A wrought iron and lopsided gate marks the threshold, although stepping over the sunken stonewall provides easy access. I look at the worn granite slabs long forgotten in the recesses of a family’s history and try to make out the names, the dates, the relations between husbands and wives, parents and children, and imagine the day when the woods will envelop even this remnant existence and fold it unto itself, the true manifest of deep time spinning its eternal spiral.
Photo by Isaac Sterling
Excerpt from: Of Sea and Stone:
Considering Deep Time through the Town of Marble
Eliot Taft
What a dizzy sight, this shallow sea.
Upwards and downwards, Carboniferous biomass floats in a weird, ancient dynamism – a protozoan snowglobe churning between pockmarks of cliff and shoal. In many arms of the ocean overlaying these continental shelves, blankets of lime-encrusted green algae and tentacled crinoids sweep in flux with the murmurs, then the roar, of the tides. Amongst it all sits a brachiopod. An ancient almost clam. Paleontologists believe these species to be separate from most modern shellfish, but to the brachiopod, it doesn’t matter. It lodges itself firmly in subaqueous sand and stone, resolute against the waves.
This brachiopod filter feeds. It gorges on the warm fecundity of a seasonless sea. With a buffet of plankton readily accessible, the almost clam grows. The striatum on its shell fans out with triumphant calcium carbonate – both a celebration of and armor against the briny environment in which it thrives.
Over a period of thousands of years scientists aren’t sure how many it develops two funnel-shaped excretory organs, one on each side. It would seem as if the brachiopod would want to keep all its innards shielded from an apathetic sea. And yet, eggs and sperm discharge in a hazy flume. They fertilize in the seawater and then join the trillions of protozoa intermixing in the warm ocean. These baby brachiopods hope to fight time long enough to secrete a shell and then descend to where they too can attach to the ocean floor. More likely, they will be eaten by one of the millions of other species inhabiting the sea.
Eventually, however, this brachiopod, its various almost-clam babies, and every other organism in this one arm of this one sea will die. The brachiopod will dislodge from its marine roost, float for some time, and then alight onto the ocean floor. Over millions of years, these shells amass through an unending fall. Carbon, carbon, carbon! Carapace, carcass, the armor of ancient crabs - a relentless, salty blizzard of chitin. They pile on top of each other, compact, and then compact some more.
There may be more ancient bodies in a bed of limestone than stars in the sky. Who knows. But after some 35 million years and an immeasurable amount of organic detritus, the sea recedes. Left behind is a chalky floor, an ossuary of what was once ocean life, now barren and naked to the open sky.
If there is a lesson here, it may be that no one, no thing can fight gravity – gravity and time. But that doesn’t stop the earth’s mantle, with its heat and pressure, from sending billions of tons of mass upward.
After some time, this limestone floor – itself now covered in other compacted and cemented sediments- bursts open. Enter granitic magma, piling into massive domes of quartzite and silica that climb towards the firmament. Throughout it all, there is one spot where the limestone bed breaks outward and tilts at an exact 35-degree angle. Somehow, this tilt, along with a specific distance from the newer magma forming what would later become known as Treasure Mountain, created a perfect recipe. The magma heats the crooked limestone bed at a temperature between 400 and 1300 degrees. And with this angle and with this heat, it is as if the brachiopods and fish skeletons and all the ancient bodies come back to life. Their bodies awake, move, and reform - their chemical composition shifts with the precise workings of the earth’s crust.
After some time, at an elevation of 9,500 feet, in what would later be named the Yule Creek Valley, the magma recedes back into the earth. 14,000-foot mountains crowd the skyline in the distance. Waterfalls carve deeper into the chasms that divide these towers. And within this one valley sits this bed of ancient sea, although it has changed
with the whims of time. It is now finer, shinier – sitting veined in the bowels of Treasure Mountain. It is spectral.
It is marble.
Presley Vaitonis
I love the color red, not like in fall when the leaves change colors or like a freshly picked apple from the orchard. Not the red that reminds you of anger, or the red that guides itself through the sky in the form of a Northern Cardinal. It’s not the red that walks the gardens or the red that dresses Christmas trees. It’s not like a red lobster in a sea of red coral. Rather, it is the red that reminds me of home.
The first home I lived in was my grandparents. The house was red with stairs leading up to the front door, but that door had never been of any use. I always entered through the sliding doors that were right across from the red garage; and right in front of the red garage were the two red cars that were my form of transportation for the first two years of my life. These walls fueled my love of red tomato soup and my love of red tulips growing from the frozen spring ground. The love for my red and yellow Fisher Price car, where I had to kick my legs in order to drive, and once I outgrew it, continued to use it anyway. Eating red popsicles on the deck at the wooden picnic table in the backyard and watching Little Einsteins participating in adventures I yearned to be a part of while they were off traveling in their red spaceship. This home was my first.
My second home was in Geneva, Illinois; it was an hour and a half from the first. This house was white with red shutters, and though I had hoped for those two red cars and a red garage to remain a part of my everyday view, they were nowhere to be found. The garage was white, and the cars sitting in front were both gray. The inside of the house, despite the exterior's lack of red, included a red kitchen. This place would be my home for the next stage of my life. Looking out the windows with the red shutters, past my backyard, was Fisher's farm. There was a red silo that would be the foreground for the next six years of iMovie videos with my cousins and a red sign that read “Beware of Dog” which would scare me from going any closer towards their main house. This new and unknown place held the love for my new dog Bo and his red Blackhawks collar as well as the love for my toddler brother and his red Blackhawks room. The love for my red elf on the shelf, Walter, who I named and who happened to be the cause of several
sinks full of marshmallows. The love for a swampy pond where a red bridge hung over and watched as I crossed during my Girl Scout transformation from a Daisy to a Brownie, and the love of the red cranberry juice my dad would bring home every week to mix with lemonade. This was my second home.
My third home was in Basalt, Colorado, roughly 19 hours away from the second. This house was a townhouse right next to the middle school, and from there, I would live for two years. There was no red anywhere to be found, with the house being gray and the parking lot being filled by our two gray cars and our neighbors. Despite the lack of red in this new state, I was able to find and create red wherever I went. Passing the red rocks on my way to Ruidi and learning how to paddle board on my red, blue, and white colored craft was how I was able to find my red. I fell in love with the passing of the red fire station on my walk to school and the red brick buildings that spread across the downtown. I fell in love with the red leaves that draped over the patio fence and the red threads that hung on the stairs wall. I love the red stickers on my hydro flask and the red ladybugs commonly found peeking through the blades of grass at the middle school park. This was my third home.
My fourth and most current home is in Glenwood Springs. Both the interior and exterior had no red anywhere, just like the last, so instead, the red showed up slowly over the passing of time. The red cabinet became filled with games that hold memories of me and my family laughing and the red oven mitts that pull out and hug every home-cooked meal. The red on my sister's Elena of Avalor dress that she loves to twirl in, and the red in my brother's favorite t-shirt that makes an appearance at least once a week. The red C pulls you to Coloradough to eat a warm cronut on a cold morning and the red that is striped on our Victrola record player.
While sitting in bed, I stare at the red pins that hang pictures and tiny mementos of things I wish to remember as long as I can on my bulletin board. I remember that the red I find doesn’t have to just correlate with the house I am living in because I have found it in CRMS. I have found it in the red Barfork picnic tables and the red chairs that line the library. I found it while climbing red holds and freshman year on my red boat
while learning how to kayak. I have found it in the red blood that drips down my legs from bushwalking on Wilderness, and the red kilim when the heat is up all the way in ceramics. I have found red in the blush and lip oil I put on before formal and the red that stains my new ski jacket. I have found red in the assortments of bikes and skis that tend to fill Basecamp and the red that was my sophomore year history notebook. As I reminisce on all the red that has passed over my life, I feel grateful for my universal sign of home. My home is red and I hope to find it wherever I go.
The Ravens' Silence
Zeeland Bowers
An old, rusty Land Cruiser rolls around the bend, two pairs of skis strapped to the roof. The driver applies the brakes, trading momentum for an ugly squeal. The driver is a young woman, maybe 25. She has dark brown hair and deep blue eyes that could swallow your soul. Her passenger is a young man, maybe 23. His eyes shine with a cornucopia of curiosity and youth. His face is weather-hardened, each spot or wrinkle representing a past adventure. She turns off the highway onto a dirt forest service road. She momentarily slows to shift into 4-wheel drive before continuing up the road. A light blanket of snow coats the ground. Had the two not been enthralled in conversation, they may have noticed the ravens following them. Her father had always said, “Ravens are the world telling you where you shouldn't be”. Blissfully unaware of the harbinger following them, they continue up the road.
Tires crunch through the snow as she pulls off the road, coming to a stop. Startled by the noise, an ermine scampers across the road, its fur shielding it from predators. It looks up, its glassy eyes illuminated by the reflection of the sun on the snow. Its nose, glistening with moisture, twitches at the scent of the ravens, and it bolts into its burrow.
An audible, metallic click resonates through the forest as she steps into her skis. Her pole grips, cold from the drive, bite at her hands. She begins walking, her pack heavy on her shoulders. She glances back, seeing that he is slightly behind her. They walk in silence. He focuses on the rhythm of her breath, distracting him from the nip of the wind on his cheeks.
The farther they travel, the quieter it gets. To fight the crushing silence, they converse, frequently interrupted to take in the brisk mountain air. As the sun climbs higher in the sky, the trail steepens. Soon, the trail disappears altogether. The harsh caw of a raven interrupts their conversation, and they continue in silence.
She reminisces about her father, first about his dislike for ravens, then about the time they spent together on the lake. She had been eleven when he died. They were on vacation at the lake house. She was playing with a doll when there was a knock at the door. He answered and quickly shut the door behind him. Curious, she peered through a gap in the blinds. He was talking to a man she had never seen before. She couldn't hear them, but their hands signed with anger. Glancing up, she saw two ravens looking down on them. The stranger moved quickly, pulling something from his side. The sound shook the earth. Her father dropped to the ground, blood droplets strafing the ant colony behind him. Her face got hot, and her vision went white. Everything went silent. Her mother grabbed her and hugged her as they waited for the police to arrive.
She relives the moment one more time. As he fell to the ground, she felt the earth shake. Jolted from her memories, she sees the snow fracture from her ski tip. She hears him yell “Oh s**t!!!” and the world begins moving sideways. He watches as the snow collapses underneath her. The rift launches back from her skis, just above him. He yells as the ground collapses under him. The last thing he sees is two ravens in the trees above them. He imagines this is what it would be like to be in a washing machine. He feels weightless under the pressure of the snow. A warm feeling of peace drifts through his body as the snow slows, encasing him in a white abyss. He feels the sweet metallic taste of blood fill his mouth. He smiles as the world goes dark. At first, She tumbles on the surface but soon gets sucked below. Her face gets hot, and her vision goes white. She feels the warm embrace of the snow around her, and everything goes silent.
An old, rusty Land Cruiser sits on the side of the road, stationary, its roof devoid of objects. It waits, silently, under a blanket of snow.
Oceanic Altruism
Charlie Dockendorf
Out of the Darkness into the Night. The cool wind splashed his face as the pressure changed. His quickened footsteps adjusted to the cobble-lined esplanade which serpentined through the dark ocean cliffs, leaving a gray scar on the Earth. The familiar swift clonk of footsteps pierced the air behind him. The sound multiplied off the calcareous walls of taverns, homes, and shops, making it seem as though he was being followed by many. He reared his pace to a sprint, ducking through alleys and staying out of the warm street lamp luminescence. Eager to escape.
If safety had once been applied to man, that time would have passed. People brag about the gunslinging times of the West or the bloody conflicts of the 1900s, but, the present is jeopardized and we have never been more at risk.
He continued like this for what felt like hours, stopping only to peer behind him. He was still being followed. By who? He did not know. There were many people out to get him; casino owners, bartenders from unpaid tabs, and even some shopkeepers for petty theft. This was never the plan, he didn’t want to be an outlaw, but times were hard and one couldn’t survive off of kindness.
Out of the corner of his eye, a set of stairs caught his attention. Leading down to the wharf, he could hide out in a sea cave, and escape when daylight came. They would never find him down there. Using the scintillating stars above as his only source of light, he traveled down the uneven steps toward the breaking waves.
The stars were not enough, and in his hurried pace, his foot caught a suddenly appearing rock, propelling his body towards the cold, hard ground.
“Arghhhh,” he yawped as his shoulder connected with the splintering rocks below.
On he tumbled, head over heels, until he reached the bottom of the staircase. Blackness swarmed into him and his vision faded.
His unconsciousness was not taken lightly. Vibrant colors and lights fluttered around him. Voices spoke to him from all directions. Blues and purples seemed to be pulled from the sky, twirling around him. If it weren’t for his headache, he would have thought it beautiful.
“Why must you do this?” a voice said.
“Think of all who have suffered,” another voice bellowed.
“What do you mean?” He asked.
“You have hurt so many,” a third screamed.
“Fix it! Fix it! Fix it!” shouted the cacophony of voices around him.
The colors swam away at the speed of light and all went black again. He woke up heaving with a piercing pain coursing through his entire body. His elbows pushed against the cobblestone floor and sweat dripped down his brow.
“What the hell just happened?” He said between breaths.
Using all of his might to sit himself up, he looked around. Nothing was familiar. The staircase leading upwards had tripled in size and he couldn’t see the top.
“How far did I fall?” He murmured to himself.
It appeared he was still by the sea, as the humid salty air matted his hair. He was on a square dock at the ocean’s shore and small boats lined the perimeter. The boats looked ancient. Intricate patterns of animals lined the edges and full masts rose above him.
“Where the hell am I?”
As he stood himself up, he noticed a figure walking down the stairs towards him.
“Who is that?” He yelled assertively.
The figure, wearing a dark robe, continued walking down. His walk was with a slight hunch and was cautious, like an old man. He continued walking down despite the numerous shouts and warning calls. As the hooded figure approached the landing, his pace slowed. He stopped along the stairs, watching.
In a fit of panic, he looked around, scanning to find something useful for defense. Stacked along the edge of the platform were crates spilling with pots, scrolls, and bottles. Luckily, just under one, gleamed a bit of metal. With a quick sprint, he ran for it, hoping it could be of use. As his hands reached under the crate, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a seemingly primordial short sword.
With newfound vigor, he readied himself against the precautioned assailant. The figure began moving again. Slowly, it walked towards him.
“Stop! Stop right there! I will hurt you! Don’t come any closer!” He screamed.
The figure showed no sign of registering the message and continued his push.
“I’m serious. I will strike you down!” He tried again.
The figure dreaded closer and closer until he was within fighting distance. With a scream and an aggressive charge, he ran towards the figure and aimed to kill. With a fell swoop, the sword was knocked out of his hand and he found himself on his back against the stone.
Righting himself back up, he backed away, astounded at the unassuming strength of his aggressor.
“Who are you? Please don’t hurt me,” he pleaded.
The figure walked until arm's distance before removing his hood. White hair streamed from the shadows and an old face was revealed. Geometric tattoos covered his face. Large earrings hung from his face. The man’s eyes were bright green like emerald light was emitting from them.
“Who are you?” He asked again.
With no answer, the old man lifted his hand and with his pointer and middle finger, pressed upon the templed of the cowardly man.
All went black. And then there was light.
Anonymous
I want a cowboy, but I am surrounded by goons.
I want a man who will open the door for me, who will take me riding at sunset, who will make a picnic and bring flowers from the side of the road. This isn’t going to happen. No matter how much I want it to.
The boys that surround me eat worms and have cooties. They push you and pull your pigtails. My mom says that means they like you, but I don’t think so. If they liked me, they would be nice. Right?
The boys that surround me run rampant in the streets. They bring their Beyblades everywhere, always ready to compete. They throw snowballs at you but will always ask if you want to help build the biggest snowman in the school. I always accept their offer, excited to help.
The boys that surround me are rude. They talk over our teachers. They throw paper airplanes around the room. They disrupt my learning.
The boys that surround me eat with their mouths open! They behave like trolls. At the end of every night, they crawl from the swamps to stuff their faces. They wait to catch your eye and tap their feet impatiently.
The boys that surround me haven’t changed in the last few years. The same mix of blue and brown eyes push each other in the halls.
The boys that surround me ask me for advice. What seems obvious to me is lost in their convoluted minds. “Do you think she likes me?” they ask. No. She doesn’t. She avoids your gaze. She moves across the room to get space. She replies with yes or no. But I can’t tell them that. I soften those words down to “I think she doesn’t want anything with anyone right now.”
The boys that surround me are awkward. They run away from the girls. Classrooms are split by gender because they don’t know how to talk to us. They pull at their sleeves and tap their fingers to cope. They turn their heads down and refuse to make eye contact.
The boys that surround me torture me. They tell that one guy that I really like him. I do not. I am nice to him, but that’s it. I felt bad, but I told him that I was not interested.
The boys that surround me are mean. When I don’t get the place I wanted, they say, “I knew you weren’t going to”. They laugh at me when I make a mistake.
The boys that surround me are ignorant and unafraid. They think it is fine for a convicted rapist to run the country. They walk dark streets with not a care in the world. What for me would be paralyzing is nothing more than your average day for them. The boys that surround me are stubborn and power hungry. They get upset when you are better than them. You get a question they don't understand, and they turn away red.
The boys that surround me are oblivious. They don’t listen to learn. They listen to talk. They don’t know anything about their friends. You ask a boy what his friend's favorite color is, and he is stunned.
I don’t know what boys talk about. I asked once, and all I got was that they simply “crack jokes”. What does that even mean?
The boys that surround me do not care for me. They say they do, but what about my rights? What about being treated humanely? They picture me in a kitchen with a baby on my hip. They ignore any aspirations I might have.
The boys that surround me are crazed. They want to be seen. They want to be held. But what about the girls? They don’t want to love her. They want to be loved.
The boys that surround me are gross. They see a body and not a mind. They see long legs, a pretty face, and a nice ass.
Boys can’t be just friends with girls. Not when they think like that.
The boys that surround me don’t want to be a husband and a father; they want a wife and kids. They want to follow in their fathers’ footsteps. My dreams of a cowboy are frivolous. I don’t live in a world where boys hold doors and slow dance in the rain. I don’t live in a world where men offer a supportive smile from the other side of the room.
The boys that surround me don’t show emotion. They think they are so clever in hiding their bad mood. I can spot their furrowed brow and clenched fists from across the room. When I ask what’s wrong, they glare at me with wide eyes so surprised that someone could tell they weren’t okay.
The boys that surround me are afraid of love. Girls will tell you when they love you. A boy will stare at you across the room. A boy will watch intently but will never say those three words.
Maybe one day, these boys will be cowboys. But maybe I have to accept the fact that cowboys only exist in movies.
Photo by Oliver Shrader
Mired Solace
Sadie Neumann
My tears aren’t because of a broken heart.
It’s all the trivial things, Building up that breaks me down; dismantles me.
Everything hurts; each prick stings.
Little paper cuts all over my body
Etched deep into my raw skin, I feel stuck, frustrated
I try to make myself numb.
But no amount of tears seems to work.
I trudge through life, like sticky mud. It clings to my bare, torn skin.
So high it reaches my neck, threatening to strangle me.
The mud fills my wounds, seeping into my core.
I yearn to bask in the glowing light of the sun, Peel the dry, shriveled mud bit by bit off.
Cast the pieces off the tallest cliff into the blackest abyss.
Command the mud to incinerate with me
Hurl them as far away as I can
As they fall, let them whisper their story to me one last time.
I try to look ahead, squinting, blinded. Imagining my reclaimed skin, luminous in the glory of the sun
Yet, infinite fields of viscous, engulfing mud lie ahead.
The expanse of the mire casts its looming shadow over me, It’s desolate here, no one near me to hear my pleas.
I inhale the warm, foul air, It tickles my throat with its icy, mirthless laughter, The mud giggles at my torment, my anguish
Reverberating echoes continue for eternity in my mind. It mocks my futile struggle to breathe
I close my eyes, beseeching the burden to turn to water The water won’t hurt me, it will cleanse me.
But the mud remains,
I squeeze my eyes shut, stop numbing myself, and dare it to go away. If I resist it, perhaps it will vanish. It's not accustomed to conflict. I must confront it.
The mud tries to chain itself to me
It’s bubbling wrist on mine
But I cut through the iron. My will a sword. I struggle to wash the mud away into the water.
Water splashes over my head, purifies my body. It burns hot, almost boiling, Yet strangely soothing. Soon it will be cool. I surrender to its warmth, floating weightlessly, I drift through the balmy water, asking it for help.
Photo by Ali
The Pearl Staff Blurbs:
EditorinChief:
KiraHarvey:Ihave4sistersandonebrotherintotal.Ifeellikethatsumsmeupasaperson.
LiteraryEditors:
CharlieDockendorf:Throughoutmychildhood,Ihavehadsixcats:Tiger,ClarenceThomas,Big Kitty,LittleKitty,Chester,andFrankie.Theyinspiremeeveryday.
UrsulaReed:Iusedtobelievethatfairiesandgnomeslivedintheparknexttomyschool;nowI knowthatmyteacherswerejustcreatingaplaceforourtoddlermindstoimagineanelaborate world.
MaryamAhmadi:Asakid,IwouldblamealienswheneverImissedmyhomework,claiming theyhadtakenit.Itwasmygo-toexcuse!ButasIgotolder,Irealizedthatthealiendefensedoes notworkanymore,andIhadtostarttakingresponsibilityformyownmistakes.
SadieNeumann:Atage4,myfavoritepursewasstolenbythesquirrelstostoreacorns.Istill haven’tfullyrecovered,butIdidgetanewpurse.
ArtEditors:
TyNolan:TysometimesmissedPearlmeetingsbecauseheisagoodgrandson.
AliAli:I’vealwaysbeenfascinatedbyhowsmallthings,liketheperfectcupofteaorakind wordattherightmoment,canmakeanentiredayfeeljustalittlebitbetter.
FacultyAdvisor
EliotTaft:I’vealwaysbelievedthatthemorehorrifictheaccidentaldeathofachildhoodpet,the moreinterestingyouareasaperson.Butpleasedon’taskmeaboutmypetgecko,hamster,or rabbit.