Dimensions 22-23

Dimensions 2022-2023

First Semester:

Editors-In-Chief: Sophia Mueller & Sydney Ranson

Second Semester:

Editor-In-Chief: Ash Schreiber & Rhys Dunn

“Emotional Flowering”

Brianna Esswein ‘24

“I wanted to demonstrate the connection between our internal thoughts and emotions and how we release them. I made it by first drawing the girl and coloring her with colored pencils. I then tore up some written poems about human emotion and turned these pieces into both the cloud above the girl’s head and the bouquet over her heart.”

“Growth”

Brianna Esswein ‘24

“In this picture, I conveyed the stages of growth using differently sized pictures and having them increase in size from left to right. I also put the vines in the picture to show the “overpowering” aspect of growth and the potential a person has when they let themself truly grow and flourish. To create it, I made a stamp for the pictures and using different colors of paint, stamped the image onto vibrant pieces of construction paper. Then, I used acrylic paint and magazine photos of plants to create the vines and leaves. “

“Delicacy”

“It is meant to show the care a person must show to things in life that are vulnerable. This could be a tiny plant, a baby, or anything else that requires a lot of care and attention for its well-being. I created this piece by using colored pencils to create the hands, along with paint for the vibrant background. Then, using the same stamp as before, I applied green ink to it and stamped it in the center of the hands.”

Brianna Esswein ‘24

The Dandelion

I start as a seed, so small and underground Unsure of my surrounds, but exploring even so

I grow my roots into the earth to keep me standing tall My roots grow larger with the dirt to support me It allows me to spurt, making a difference in the landscape

I am now noticeable and real I am remarkable and true I have made a mark even if it is small and insignificant

My stem grows taller and taller, til I open revealing my beauty

Yellow petals all around, making the world a little brighter I bring joy to the people who walk by, young and old, Putting a smile on even the saddest face.

My petals brighten the green grass with my spots of yellow

My glory is short lived, my once beautiful petals fall

I become a fuzzy gray flower, no longer bringing joy

(Acrylic Paint)

Corinne Jacoby ‘25

By: Maria Metzler

Old and sad, I feel I have no purpose, one day, when the wind blows just the right way I feel the fuzzy seeds leave my once secure base

‘23

“Creeky”

Best Friend

It's been 4 years

Time goes on, memories fade

We grow apart, on our separate ways

I wish we would still talk

Catch up with one another

You seem busy in your new life

Surrounded by different people in an unfamiliar place

You're Happy

I miss you

I miss us

I miss our young childish play

Playing house

Making videos

Dancing

Baking

We were inseparable

Attached by the hip

We created out of this world plans for our future

Maid of honors, roommates, professional soccer players

Now they are vividly pushed to the back of my mind

They all blend together like a dream

I wish you the best,

I will love you always

I’ll never forget my first best friend

By: Sydney Ranson ‘24

Ruined

The white sparkling snow

Crunching with each step

But yet I come upon

Little dirty pools-

Sunken through to the ground

A distraction from my ever peaceful walk

Oh how angry I was -

The beautiful pure snow

Stained

Filling the path ahead -

The damage was done.

By: Caroline Appelbaum ‘23

“Untitled” (Photograph)

Maggie Pozzo ‘24

To Grandpa

I wish you were still here so I could meet you My dad still talks of the times you were here Showing me pictures and telling me stories

There's so much I would want to tell you if I ever got to meet you.

I would tell you about how I got close with Corinne, my built-in best friend. Or how I cracked my head open when I was 2, and again when I was 6. But don't worry, Doohoo and Gina were there to comfort me. Or tell you about all the concerts I've been to Or how certain things have changed my life forever.

There are so many people I would want you to meet. I wish you could meet my mom, you would love her, she's the kindest soul. I wish you could meet Duke and Libby, the best dogs anyone could ask for. I wish you could meet Sydney, my best friend, always there for anyone. I wish you could meet all of my friends, they’re the best people anyone could have in their life.

Thank you.

Thank you for raising my dad who is quite simply the greatest father I could ever ask for.

Thank you for creating such a beautiful family for me to grow up in. I wish you were here for me to share my life with.

I love you.

By: Sophia Mueller ‘24

“Untitled”

(Photograph)

Isabella Parmeter ‘26

The Garden

Grass green and shiny

All flowers (so brightly colored)

The aroma thick and sweet

My hands touched the petal

So soft, and simple

The (warm) wind then blew, the grass rustled

Whistling (just for me) as if to say hello

The (low) branches of the willow tree

Bent to and fro, waving (back)

The sun peeking out of the (white) clouds

Warmth kissing my skin

The beauty is overwhelming

My soul feels (only) joy

So peaceful, so serene

By: Cecilia Hellmuth ‘23

A Marriage

He was a good husband.

He cared about her, more than anything in the world. He awoke before her, kissed her on the cheek, and then got dressed for work. It was a simple life, filled with 9-5s and occasional drinks with coworkers to follow. He came home to warm prepared meals and boisterous affection from her.

Every night he brushed his teeth, applied lotion to his hands, and straightened the picture of her propped on his bedside. That all quickly fell into a routine, his routine.

She soon realized he might need a ride home around 9:30 every night. It did not bother her too much. It was added to the routine.

Still, he arrived home, brushed his teeth, applied lotion to his hands, and straightened the picture of her propped on his bedside. He was not afraid of this affixed routine. He had imagined himself in his father’s shoes before, but now he did not have to imagine. Time seemed to be the same as it was 20 years ago, but it lacked a little boy watching it go down.

She took care of him. It was hereditary, right? That is all it was. An inconvenience passed on from someone who failed in their role. She began to grow weary.

Tuesday, January 6, 2002, was a day he found himself there past 9:30. She was not waiting outside to pick him up. That was out of routine.

He stumbled his way home through the blur of headlights and roar of honks. It was a cold night, one he wished she was present for. He arrived home, and she was sound asleep wrapped in the white comforter they shared. He figured she must have fallen asleep and forgot he was still out. But he did what he knew and brushed his teeth, applied lotion to his hands, and straightened the picture of her propped on his bedside. He awoke, went to kiss her on the chee k, but she was not there. She was nowhere to be found.

All he found was the picture of her, shattered on the floor beside his bed.

That was it. He lost her. Neil had lost her.

By: Mame Slinkard ‘24

A Glimpse of You

Every now and then I sense your Presence

Your jokes that brought a silent room to Tears

Your passion and excitement for one simple Game

Your steady advice and constructive Feedback

Your outward love shown towards your Grandchildren

Flashbacks of you come to my mind. I see you sitting in your special spot. I hear your stern but fierce voice echoing in me throughout soccer games. I smell the scented cologne on my bear grandma made out of your old clothes.

I still picture you today, in your recliner, head down, Fascinated by the flashing screen in front of You

I just want to go back in time.

“Untitled”

(Photograph)

Anna Stirton ‘23

By: Ana DiMaria ‘23

“Untitled”

(Photograph)

Lila Dothage ‘24

My M&M peanuts and their shells -a flavor with options covered in sugar, chocolate, right

alongside the factory m’s

By: Emma Gallardo ‘24

Letting Go (Maybe)

Your deep brown hair sits right to my driver's seat. I am happy.

The arm of your blush sweater moves toward the dial. I am myself, and it is effortless.

I was rushing up your stairs, fingers coiled to the wooden railing Socks slipping with each prance.

From grassy fireflies and concrete cracks to giggles of the stars' approach.

I see you at a glance. I wonder if you remember the wonder. Of being young, of being in love with being loved. Our secret language echoes into a now distant memory.

I'm sitting on a plastic chair.

The hair of my arms sing to heaven as my computer whispers from ivory tickles.

Click. Click. Click.

Your name is foreign to my screen, no longer my outlet of imagination.

I hold on to a possibility, Pinkies clinging to Maybe. Maybe.

By: Eva Burgener ‘23

What is true?

The bright blue of the sky

The weight that pulls the world down

The sun that warms our reddened cheeks

What is true?

Your image in the mirror

The dreams that keep you awake

Death even

What is true?

The comforting things you say to yourself

The act you perform for others

Laughter at a bad joke

What is true?

The mask you wear for others

The mask you wear alone

The mask over your mind

What is true?

Are you?

By: Emma Lauber ‘21

(Prisma Colors)

(Prisma Colors)

Corinne Jacoby ‘25

Corinne Jacoby ‘25

Elevator

The elevator in my office building is peculiar because sometimes it doesn't open up to the correct floor. If you press the button for the fifth floor, you end up on the tenth floor. Or the next time you press the button for the same floor, you end up on a floor different from the one you reached the last time. I wonder why nobody has brought this up with maintenance.

One day I was on my way to my department floor for a meeting. I pressed for the eighth floor but obviously did not reach that requested floor. When the doors opened, what I saw didn’t even look like an actual floor. Rather, it looked like an empty hallway—one that went straight from the elevator doors. At the very end of the hallway, there seemed to be another elevator door.

So I decided to walk through the hallway to the other elevator, with the last elevator closing its doors and presumably going back up. I pressed the button for level eight, and the door opened. It was at that moment that I was met with a man in a pinstripe suit carrying a suitcase. His brown hair was slicked back, and he smelled of Old Sp ice. My initial thought was that he was on his way to a meeting as well.

"Going up?" I asked him, fairly certain he was a fellow employee who just wanted to get to his correct department.

"No," he stated firmly, a small smile skulking onto his face. "I’m staying right here." His teeth audibly clicked together as he spoke, sending a shudder right through me.

I politely tried to brush past him before the doors closed again, but I was too late. I was now stuck with the pinstriped man, who had walked to the center of the hallway in awkward silenc e. But the elevator seemed to have traveled to another floor and was descending back to where we were. Once again, the doors opened, and there stood a woman in a velvet dress, carrying a suitcase.

Giving her the benefit of the doubt that she was not with Pinstripe Man, I

asked her, "Going up?"

"No, thank you," she said, her voice at a rather high pitch for a grown woman and a grin plastered on her pale face. "I’m staying right here."

Velvet Woman walked past me to join Pinstripe Man in the middle of the hallway.

When my back was turned towards the couple, I heard shuffling footsteps and chatter, which strangely grew in volume given there were only the three of us in the hallway. I assumed it was them, talking amongst themselves about whatever business they were th ere for. Mechanical whirring and a dinging noise led me to believe the strange elevator was once again ascending from a floor.

It took a little longer than I had expected, but I was correct. Only this time, the elevator was empty. At last, I thought to myself, as I straightened my outfit and gripped my own suitcase in my hand, preparing to step inside. I didn't care if the elevator took me to five different floors before taking me to mine; I wanted to get out of there.

Just then, I felt a grip on my shoulder. I glanced down at the hand, its fingers drumming on my shoulder. Turning around to see who it belonged to, I was met with the sight of what had to have been 100 more people than I had seen come from the elevator. The realization flooded my mind: the increased chatter and shuffling of footsteps. The sounds of an approaching elevator were not those of the one I hoped to enter, but of the one I had my back to the entire time. I did not see any of the new arrivals come from that elevator, and now I saw them all, dressed in pinstripe and velvet.

In unison, the congregation set down their respective suitcases with a loud thump. The first Pinstripe Man, whose hand was on my shoulder, whispered calmly into my ear,

"No. You’re staying right here."

By: Audrey Hanny ‘24

Consciousness

Why are you seeing life through this certain perspective? In this body with this mind and these experiences. Watching your life go by, through the television screen of your eyes.

Your conscience is unique.

There are no others like it.

You are the only one aware of your existence.

Aware of that itch you have on your arm. Aware of the way a certain song makes you feel. Aware of the surface you're sitting on or the ground your feet are touching or the paper being held in your hands, how the touch of these items feel against your skin. Aware of the sounds you hear around you, how these sounds evoke memories.

Only your memories that no one will ever be aware of but you.

Have you ever observed a friend or family member or stranger on the street and wondered how they perceive the world? Consciouses questioning one another, thinking the unthinkable.

How can one live a life as deeply complex as your own? Never knowing what it feels like to live with another consciousness, accepting the fate that all consciouses but your own will forever remain unknown.

By: Lila Dothage ‘24

“Untitled”

(Photograph)

Maggie Marnatti ‘24

Loving and Letting Go

Nine years ago, I stepped onto the court And fell in love. Then and there, I realized that volleyball, You would be my love –But I never thought that So much love could end.

I remember all the good times we had –Winning games, Fun practices, Endless laughs, Lifelong friends. When I was young, that’s what I loved –But I did not expect That love to end.

As I grew older, it got harder –More intense practices, More competition More mentality –More, More, More.

It was never ending.

I loved the intensity and competition

But did not have the mental strength –

Never being good enough for everyone

Putting in so much

And getting so little out of it –It was all too draining. As I played more, I faded away. Losing the love I once had so much of. I will always love the memories and people But never forget how exhausted I was –I had to let go.

By: Katie Wood ‘23

(Ink Pen) Ava Lee ‘25

I Wish

I wish I would've known that the last time I saw you that Sunday night would be the last time we’d be us

I wish I would've known the last movie we watched would be the last one

Maybe I would've picked a longer one

Or skipped the movie all together just to spend the night loving you the best I could

I wish I would've known that would be the last time I drove home from your place

Maybe I would've stayed a while longer

Took the long way home

I wish I would've known that that would be the last time

Maybe I would've tried harder

Maybe I could have convinced

By: Paige Gross ‘24

Here’s What to Expect

To you, 10 years later,

A lot has changed since you. Two homes, two holidays, two families, two values.

Your lifelong supporters have grown apart. But that's okay, no need to fret, as it opens up a brand-new world.

New outlook, new friends, new wonders, new fancy.

They exhibit love, bliss, and excitement. But what comes with the gain, comes with the grim. They manifest sadness and pain and hurt, though life goes on, no worry necessary.

Enjoy your today, you live in my past. You'll find yourself reminiscing the way you dwell currently. Embrace the most your self-awareness and dream on!

I know that's what you always hear.

By: Vannah Fust ‘23

If I Climb the Mountain

My mother

My father

Obelus from time

And I was the cloud overhead

Grabbed by the wrist

To an orphanage

That contained no color

Pushed and yanked

Yelled at and drenched

They scratched as I shriveled

And by my stone they had galvanized me

Path of rock shall I climb

But fall and caught by their black eyes

I trek on up the mountain that kisses the sky

And maybe on up I will find the lion that was hiding from the outside

By: Annaliese Dieker ‘26

“Untitled”

(Photograph)

Erica Boyer ‘26

1, 2, 3.

My feet are firmly planted on the wooden planks. I am not going anywhere. 1, 2, 3.

I stare off into the distance. I can’t see the next landing through the trees.

1, 2, 3.

My hands strangle my shoulder straps. Oh God, please don’t let me die. Not like him.

1, 2, 3.

“You ready?” The instructor asks. I can’t speak, but he must take my silence as a yes. He hooks me onto the line. “Now look,” he says after an eternity. “You can hold on to the handles if you need them. They won’t help you steer or anything, but sometimes it gives people an extra confidence boost.” He gives my shoulder a pat. “Ok, go when you’re ready.”

1, 2, 3.

No, oh, no. I can’t. I inch my way over to the edge. I look over. Big mistake. I stare down 200 ft. below. I can’t see the ground. All I see is the tops of the trees far below.

1, 2, 3.

I jerk back from the edge. I must erase that memory; I can’t think of that. It will be alright. Everything will be alright.

1, 2 ,3.

No. I am falling. The hook will break from the line, and I will fall. I will know that I am dying; screaming as I grab for nothingness. I do not want to die that way; I refuse.

1, 2, 3.

I am paralyzed. I cannot move. My brain tells me to go, but my muscles

are locked. Self-preservation.

1, 2, 3.

My hands are so sweaty, and I am hot and cold. Heartbeat in my ears, blood rushing through my veins. I cannot breathe.

1, 2, 3.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax, and close your eyes. I see red behind my eyelids as the sun pours through. Ground yourself. I hear birds and the deep patient breathing of the instructor. I feel rough scratchy Velcro. I smell my own tears and wind.

1, 2, 3.

Count to

1, 2, 3.

And let go. But I can’t. But I must . I take one step forward and another. My feet rest on the edge of the ledge. I take a shaky breath. Oh, God, oh, God, please please please. Help me, I don’t want to die.

1, 2, 3.

I close my eyes. I see him falling, hear the sharp crack of metal breaking. See him disappearing. Hear my own heart screaming. Feeling helpless; suspended in the air.

1, 2, 3.

He would want you to live your life. It was an accident. What were the chances? So unfortunate. No, I cannot go ziplining again. What were we thinking? It took my father away. He didn’t know. No one knew. Can’t blame yourself. You’re so stupid. What is the point of doing this? What are you proving? Do you want to die?

“Stop!” I scream.

The instructor places his hand on my back. “You don’t have to-”

“No,” I cry. I turn around and grip the handles. Plant my feet and stare at the insurmountable distance. It’s ok. Live. Be free. Let go.

1, 2, 3.

I am falling. I drop, but then he catches me. No, not him, I realize, the harness. I hear the grating of the metal as I speed up. I feel the wind on my face and when I open my eyes, the world is going by in a rush. I look down and shudder, but the trees are moving below, and I can’t look away.

1, 2, 3.

Everything stops. I slam into the brake and am hauled back onto land. I almost fall on my knees as I am unhooked. My legs are jelly, and my body is trembling. But I force myself to look over the edge. Don’t fear, don’t be afraid. Count from 1 to 10 and everything will be ok.

1, 2, 3. Live free.

4, 5, 6. Be brave.

7, 8, 9. He will live if you choose to live. 10. Let go.

By: Sienna Mose ‘23

“Café Cups”

(Pastels)

Corinne Jacoby ‘25

“Bell Peppa”

(Prisma Color)

Corinne Jacoby ‘25

Ode to Eight

Do you see her?

Right there?

Do you see how she twirls and plays with her hair?

The way she runs and dances free

The way she's carried by the breeze

Have you noticed? That look?

It says she could tell you the plot of any book

Of any movie she's seen and adored

The way she eats free, always ready for more

Can you feel her presence?

A warm summer morning

A cold puff of icy air

A gentle hug, an embrace according

To how she just felt; how much she cared

I've seen

I've noticed

I've felt

Her essence strangles me

Like a broken bottle of sweet perfume

Her expectations shatter me

Like the change of weather

On a once-warm June afternoon

The heat of prying eyes have put her dancing shoes away

The dagger whispers in the wind have kept her heart at bay

She's used up all her kindness

All her hugs

All her care

She wasted it on causes lost and has none left to share Within a day Or maybe a week

A month or a few years?

(It's hard to remember through all the blood, sweat, and fears)

She's passed onHer little ghost lingers

Reminding me of what I could have become

(What I should have become)

I've reached out for her gentle hands

In a day two souls left me alone

First was yours

And then my own

Hoping for a piece of her naivety

Just to return with cynical reprimands

You're not worthy of their kindness

They're not doing this for you They're doing it for the little girl that they once knew

Maybe it's true

But every now and then In the mirror when I pass by I catch a glimpse of her sparkle in my eye

And when the opportunity arises I put her into view And ask my burning question

"Are you disappointed, too?"

By: Rory Barnwell ‘24

Playground

More than eight years I knew it

White slide, red bars, green ladder

One day it was no more

A new playground era had begun

A fancy saucer swing

Spinner that could dizzy you up

"It's so much better" one might say

The future has arrived!

But I loved it less

Than the old playground

Sometimes I love that time more

More than now

“Memory Project”

(Graphite)

Corinne Jacoby ‘25

That playground was simpler

Life was simpler

By: Audrey Walsh ‘23

Routine (A Horror Story)

Knock, knock, knock.

He was out in the garden when it first started. Chester was planting rose bushes for the earl y summer when the knocking first occurred. First, so loud it could be heard from outside. Then soft, soft, soft. It was out of place. It didn’t fit the house. It didn’t fit Chester, it didn’t fit anywhere but it didn’t seem to care. He tried to ignore it, but it grew, grew, grew. No rhythm, no pattern, no reason.

Knock, knock, knock.

It won't stop. It won’t stop. It wo n't stop. Chester’s mind going loose with the noise. It's untangling and is no longer neat. Neat, neat, neat. Everything has its order, everything has its place, everything has its role. For years all Chester wanted some quie t and some peace. Mother never gave him any and father most certainly did not. Escape is all he longed for but he couldn’t be free until there was no noise. So, Chester fixed the noise and the noise stopped.

Knock, knock, knock.

Weeks later it was back. Is it the new house? Chester asked himself over and over. Was it those neighbor boys? Was he the butt of some joke? Why couldn’t everyone just leave him alone? His father? His father. His father must be haunting him from the grave and Chester knew exactly what he had to do. So, Chester smashed the noise and the noise stopped.

Knock, knock, knock.

Instantly Chester was brought back to when he was a boy locked in a cabinet all alone and scared. The terrors he faced and pain he endured flooded his memory and escape seemed to slip from his hands. He clasped them together to try to ca tch the escape but it was gone. The knocking continued, but he had dealt with it before. So, Chester cut the noise and the noise stopped.

Knock, knock, knock.

It was the door. A neighbor. Perhaps the one who was messing with Chester. He opened the door. An old lady stood there with a face Chester could only match as a concerned expression. She put her hands behind her back. Her nails were pink. “Hi hun. I don't mean to bother, but I have to complain about that god awful smell.” A smell? Chester thought. A dang smell! The knocking was nonstop but she only focused on some smell?

Knock, knock, knock. They both paused. “Old house” snapped Chester. “I’ll light some candles if you never knock again” Slam. Before Chester could walk away from the door, he locked it, unlocking an d locking three times. He slicked back his freshly oiled hair taking an uneasy breath. He smiled to himself as he heard the knock and cracked his knuckle. He would bet the knocking. So, Chester silenced the noise and the noise stopped.

Knock, knock, knock.

“I’m so tired.”

“Give me peace.”

Knock, knock, knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Knock knock knock.”

Knock, knock, knock.

This became the new routine. The knocking was now familiar and comfortable. Chester found himself curled up in a corner counting the seconds between the noise. Some were milliseconds apart. Others were hours. Throughout the day throughout the night. It would knock and Chester would knock back, often laughing.

Knock, knock, knock.

Days had gone by. Chester stayed in the corner. His nicely combed hair was dirty and stood upright from pulling. His eye twitched as his shook in the breeze. It was early winter. The house was dark, dirty, and cold. It smelled so strong that Chester noticed it now. A good smell. Distinct. Like childhood. It happened again. Compulsion took over.

Silence.

“NO! NO! NO!” Chester screamed throughout the house. “Knock!” There was no response. Silence. Up and down the stairs banging the walls Chester went around the entire house knocking, knocking, knocking waiting for a knock back. Nothing. No thing. Not a thing. Chester stopped. He stood up straight fixing his hair while taking a breath. After cuffing his sleeves, he cracked his neck and slowly walked to a closet in his bedroom. Chester opened the door grinning.

Silence.

The wooden trunk was on the floor under a folded stack of clean clothes. He bent down and pulled the box into the middle of the room. It was heavy but Chester’s desire was strong. A breeze bl ew by and crows spoke off into the distance. Chester waited. Staring down at the box he paused for quiet. On the hollow wood, he knocked three times and smiled so widely he began to laugh. Spit flew from his mouth as he demanded without remorse “Knock!”

Silence.

There was no response. Chester’s smile faded and his blood boiled. The twitching returned and Chester kicked the box sc reaming once more “KNOCK!” Nothing in return. He stood upright once again and smirked. He grabbed the lock and pulled hard. It didn't work. He wanted the lock off, Chester needed the lock off, he could almost taste the escape. Panting heavily, Chester tried and tried again until he pulled off the iron lock with his bare hands.

Silence.

Silence.

He lifted him out of the box and threw him in the back in the closet with a loud thud. Chester climbed in laughing almost manically as he closed the lid behind him. He waited for th e quiet. Chester paused for the world to go silent. He listened. Then:

Knock, knock, knock.

Sunflower

A small, yellow sunflower

Isolated in the field

Watching animals cross and rain fall

Yellow and small

No meaning except to feed the insects …

--White glaze layered the ground

Yellow turned to black

As the cold made it decay

Poor yellow sunflower hidden away

By: Delaynie Morgan ‘24

By: Caroline Wedbush ‘23

Push-Ups

Mr. Smith* had walked out of the classroom. He needed to get the papers he had printed. It was 6th grade chemistry class, and quite frankly, my classmates weren't the kindest. I was at a small, classical school and the girls hated me. Why? I don't know. I was different, I guess. I was Catholic, not Protestant, and I wasn't a follower. The girls there couldn't control me. And boy, the girls in charge of the clique, Charlotte*, Jane*, and Molly*, were used to being in control. I also suspect me transferring there in fourth grade had something to do with it. It was such a tightly knit school, and I was still an outsider. Even though this was my third year there. And when you only have 13 kids in your class, seven of them girls, trouble was bound to happen. Anyway, I had forgotten my binder in the back of the classroom. We weren't switching classes yet, but forgetting your binder had the most stupid consequence. You had to do ten push-ups. It was "to prepare us for upper school", where we would get detentions. I didn't agree with it, but being the rule follower that I am, I want along with it. Normally, at least. I got my binder and brought it back to my desk. However, I had genuinely forgotten about the push-up rule. And there wasn't a teacher in there to remind me. Unfortunately for me, Charlotte was.

"Amelia, you didn't do your push-ups," she said, annoyed.

"I'm sorry. I forgot," I said. I went to the back of the classroom, tears filling my eyes. I was embarrassed. Everyone stared at you when you did your push-ups. Everyone. I go t down on my hands and knees. I looked towards my class. "You guys know Mrs. Johnson * doesn't have me do normal push-ups, right?"

They all nodded or said yes. Now, this part requires some backstory. I'm… not the most athletic person. And my PE teacher, Mrs. Johnson, knew this. For some reason, she decided to give me all sorts of accommodations. I don't know why. Don't get me wrong, I was and still am grateful for them, but in this scenario, they were the downfall of me. I started doing my modified push-ups. The few boys who had forgotten their binders had already finished, so I was alone, everyone staring.

"You're not doing them right," Jane said.

"But this is how Mrs. Johnson told me to do them," I said, confused.

Molly and Charlotte joined in too. "You're not doing them right." "Do your push-ups the right way." "You 're wrong." While I don't remember all of their words, I still feel the weight of them. They left me feeling broken. Alone. Shameful. My arms were starting to hurt because I had stayed in position for a long time now. My stomach ached with anxiety. "Leave me alone!" I wanted to scream. "What have I done to you?" But I couldn't. I was pa ralyzed with anxiety and fear.

I stared at the classroom floor. It had a pale, musty scent. Its pale brown tone seemed to be making fun of me. "Amelia, you're so weak!" it said. "Toughen up and do your pushup s the right way." The girls kept on making fun of me while I was too shocked to speak. I looked up at my other classmates, hoping, praying that one of them had an ounce of kindness. I just wanted these girls to stop, but I couldn't make them. I couldn't stop them on my own. I needed help.

Nobody helped. I was alone. Tears were filling my eyes and my tongue tasted dry, heavy. I wanted to melt into the floor. When I had been there for what felt like forever, somebody piped up.

"Guys, stop it," a voice said in an exasperated tone. I looked up. It was Theodore*. Relief flooded through me. Somebody finally had the courage to help me!

Liam* piped up too. "Yeah guys, stop it. You've already done enough." He sounded tired.

At the time, I didn't feel as grateful to these boys as I should have. But I was hurting. Now, I feel as if I'm forever indebted to them. I just wish I could tell them thank you.

Charlotte, Jane, and Molly sputtered some retorts. I was wrong and they were right. "We're just trying to help!" "She was doing them wrong!"

At this point, I was so desperate I just did normal push-ups. I stood up. As I rushed back to my desk, my face was turned towards the ground. But I still caught a glimpse of Charlotte, Jane, and Molly's faces. They were filled with pure hatred.

Eventually, Mr. Smith came back to class. I walked up to him, my face burning and my eyes brimming with tears. "I just wanted to say that even though some kids say I did my push-ups wrong, I didn't. I did them right."

I walked back to my seat, everyone's eyes on me. Why couldn't I just go home? Why couldn't I just be normal?

By: Amelia Schwartz ‘25

"…Okay…" he said, confused.

Corinne Jacoby ‘25

Wings

being and feeling solitary

As ungainly and agonizing as a bird calling aloneA vastly open plane of land with none present, None to hear nor respond

Loneliness; though a self-created feeling, Seems as real a matter as a chirp with only an echo, Its own echo a reminder of no response… aside for its own

The bird will forget, Will move and call again, For she is too enveloped in her mission to be diverted by the lack of rejoinder but the lone woman will be handcuffed, For her single echo is of her own mind, And she has no wings to escape the burden of her thoughts

By: Elliot Keifer ‘23

By: Ava Sartori ‘23

I could smell it.

Something so distinct in every bit

Rain was upon the ground

The darkness was starting to make a sound

The moments before were calm The moments following the dawn

I could feel the humidity rise

Being alone with this feeling was a prize

Watching the sidewalk slowly become covered

Seeing the clouds rolling I would discover

Rain doesn’t need to be distasteful

Our First and Last Summer

Summer days stretching long

Longing for the nights that go slow

Slow sways between the grass blades

Blaze of crackling bonfires that stain our clothes

Clothes dividing our skin's protection and exposure

Exposed of our secrets and scandals across our lips

Lips touching and tip toeing across our boundaries

Bounds of laughter forced and throwing our heads back

Back to when we were strangers and did not know either others

names

Nothing spontaneous lasts forever

For every smile is worth a thousand tears

Tear me apart and find what is within

Withering souls have no place here

Here the fruits are sweeter and more plump

Pumping my blood with adrenaline, I feel alive

A life basking in the summer's glow and shaded by the restless clouds

Clouding my thoughts of last night's activities and filling my heart

Heart is burning and ignites on fire by the love we share

Bear me with your touch so you remain in my memory

Remember our first summer

By: Hannah Nguyen ‘23

A Mother Without One

with one little fist clutching mine we cross the park to the enter the playground all the memories rush back a time when I was not cold when all that mattered was the blue raspberry slushy in my hand the playground where You pushed me on the swings and You went down the curvy, red slide with me but now I push her on the swings and I go down the slide with her and You are not here to see

By: Avery Bradshaw ‘24

By: Lucy Schulte ‘24

“Peppermint Platter”

The Cacti and I

Sitting confidently atop the mountain Lay the gem of the sky.

I gazed into the sun

Hoping to transport it to my side. I felt a gravitational pulse between us. We understood each other Even being miles apart. I decided to climb to the top That afternoon. When I came face to face My smile grew. I named it after me.

My very own cactus. An extension of myself.

Sharp spikes shown outward, Yet so soft within.

The arms dance in the air

As I try to emulate its movements.

One in the same, Are we?

By: Izzy Hibey ‘23

Translucent dancers Fall slowly

with soft Rhythmic landing -

Dresses splay on Impact

percussion Commences - Ominous and powerful

Myriad dancers answer the Call

Thousands of feet Thundering their own

- Music -

light flashes Above

signaling

- Allegro -

Flowing right to left

Springing, Leaping, Gliding

Overlapping

begetting eerie Mist

Leaping over roofs

Darting, Sliding

now Tapping performers

Swallowed by dancers

- Crescendo -

Opposing, Threatening Surge the Might of Nature

- Adagio -

tapping Vanishes to

Straggling dancers on Splitting light backdrop

the ballet ends with a Flash

Lightning fast

Storm Ballet

By: Kaitlyn Torack ’24

Unattainable Goals

I watched you from afar talking with friends I wish I could be. Going to meetings just to see you the first one you weren't there. I tried to get you to notice me but you never looked my way. You blessed me with the briefest glance in the hallway I stood there shaking for what felt like hours. But here we are two years later Nothing but a distant memory of what could have been to keep me company.

But now that memory is not so distant seeing you happy only makes me more sad. Your updates and progress and picturesque transition. I know you've faced hardships some I couldn't even begin to imagine but you still ended with a fairytale and here I am trapped trapped in a body that I want to tear apart piece by piece trapped watching all the people before me find their happy endings while I'm still waiting for mine.

I lay awake at night wishing for my time to come but in my heart I know it never will. I will never be tall enough or proud enough never confident enough to truly know myself. I don't know how you manage. I will never count down the days until surgery or give weekly voice updates as the changes start So instead I lay awake, tears streaming down my face chest heaving as I try to calm my breath wishing on a star that is bound to explode.

By: Rhys Dunn ‘23

Grumble

Rumble

Bumble

A busy bee buzz

Water danced at my feet

Ants marched down my street

Sticky hands and sweaty heads

Ice-cream, rainbows, and sweets till the end

I swayed and swayed in the wind

Underneath the willows wind

Small buds danced and I became entranced

A busy bee buzz underneath his yellow fuzz

Fluffy yellow dogs and big round logs

A busy bee buzzed and it was all fuzz

By Gianna Genovese ‘24

A Busy Bee

Still Life Painting

By: Mia Haefer ‘24

Doomsday Clock

I sit here

In this cold, dark room

All the windows closed

As if I’m stuck in a jail cell

Waiting and

Waiting.

Hearing the ticks and tocks of the clock

Trying to fill the void with laughter and solemn smiles

Everyone is on the edge of their seat

Dreading the moment we know is coming

I feel trapped.

Helpless.

Wanting to fix the one thing I can't

Wanting to heal the broken hearts of the people I have no control over

Tock.. ……

It's done

It's all over

Like God decided it was time

And snapped his fingers

What I’ve dreaded for 6 months

And I don’t know where to go now

Or what to do with my body

Or what my next thought should be Lost.

By: Faith Diers ‘24

“Non-Objective Sculpture” (Clay) Lucy Schulte ‘24

as if it were just yesterday, we were roaming around the aquarium. my hand was holding yours. your hands were always warm. my hands are always cold. in that moment, we were all alone.

alone

with you.

as if it were just yesterday, we were exploring every inch of the art museum, my hand was holding yours. your hands were always warm. my hands are always cold. in that moment, we were all alone.

I miss those days we had. I am not one to seek adventure, but with you I'm able to see the world.

I miss those days we had. filled with anxiety and thrill, at the sound of footsteps and opening doors.

I miss those days we had. sitting together with our friends, when our secret was right in front of them.

I miss those days we had. when there was nothing else in the world, but you and me.

By: Anonymous

Lavender Buds

when the weather is nice and the sun is kind i park around the block and take the long way to feel the caress of spring's polished fingertips airy and green against my bare skin butterflies litter my path creating confetti in the breeze -delicate lavender blossoms wink up at me breathing gentle i love you’s i take the long way and let my mind wander and each time it finds you.

By: Payten Nester ‘24

A lone light in the pitch black night

Translucent orange figures dancing in my eyes -

The movement mesmerizing me

Bathing me in orange light

Warmth enveloping me -

Fire

Pushing away the cold of the night and prickling my skin

The crackling of flames licking the wood -

Eating away my thoughts before they can eat away me

The smell of smoke and pine lingering in the air -

Wafting all my worries away into the unknown

By: Bridget Rowles ‘23

“Planet Planters” (Clay)

Lucy Schulte ‘24

As I stroll along the shore,

The waves crash with a roar.

The sand beneath my feet so warm, And I feel a calming peace. The sun beats upon my skin, And I can feel its warmth within. The salty breeze, it fills my lungs, And I am lost in the moment.

My Thinking Space

The seagulls cry, their wings outstretched, Soar above my head. The water sparkles in the sun, And I know that I am one. One with nature, one with sea, At peace with all around me. For on this beach,

I am free, To just be me, To just be.

By: Kristen O’Shea ‘23

The tiny town of Amare

Beaming with life.

Huge buildings line the skyline

Amare

Trees loom overhead, with paths leading into hills.

Dogs run across the streets, birds fly high.

Sunsets overwhelm the sky

Stars illuminate the night

In this teeny tiny town Of Amare.

A local coffee shop.

An aquarium downtown.

An addicting fast-food restaurant.

All familiar places In this teeny tiny town Of Amare.

Bustling, changing life.

Chaos of stoplights, Footsteps across the city

Creating a low drum that is constant.

Familiar traffic and familiar faces.

My mother hugs a young girl softly, running her hands through her hair to calm her down.

My dad waves goodbye as a car pulls out of the driveway every morning.

My friends jump off of a dock, laughter echoing across the lake.

My boyfriend drives his Jeep with the windows down, blaring music we both love.

Do unrealistic dreams reside?

Is there room for more?

Is there a road I can go to

To get to this teeny tiny town

Of Amare.

My heart lives in Amare.

My heart lives in love. I live the life I want to In wonderful Amare.

By: Sydney Spieckerman ‘23

Iowa.

Long country roads

Up And Down

The road rolls over the vast hills

Never-ending corn fields surround me

Small Towns

Familiar faces with every outing

Populations consisting of 4,000 people

Catholic Churches on each corner

Muddy baseball fields

Sounds of cheering fans

Chanting of their local high school team

Home away from home

Family resides there

Cabin on the river

Murky brown water of the Mississippi River

Late night boat rides

Country music with Dolly Parton’s voice blasting in the air

Water Splish-Splashing

Tubing on the surface of the water

Children madly driving vehicles

Golf Carts

Bikes

Four Wheelers

With dust flying in the air from the gravel roads

Singing and laughter

AMPLIFY in my ears

Scents of sweet honey barbeque explode in my nose

Crackling orange and red flames envelope around burning logs

Bonfire with smores in the dead of night

Iowa.

By: Chloe Steger ‘24