2025 Patchwork Literary Magazine

Patchwork Cushing Academy Literary Magazine 2025

Patchwork Cushing Academy Literary Magazine 2025

Editors

Dowon Lee ’27 Jasmine Lou ’26 Zoom Nguyen ’26 Sophie Poza ’25 Adiya Xia ’27

Staff Olivette Chen ’26 Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26

Maya Tran ’27

Lily Winston ’25 Faculty Sponsor

Mr. Simon Hunt

Patchwork gratefully acknowledges the support of Ms. Sarah Catlin, Ms. Rebecca Cinclair, Ms. Logan Cody, Mr. Donny Connors, Ms. Melissa Dorval, Mr. Christian Housh, Mr. Brian Krauss, Mr. Fabian Lara, Ms. Amy Logan, Mrs. Christine Monahan, and Ms. Courtney Lavin and the English Department.

Molly Bardol ’28

Table of Contents

2 8 9 10 11 13 15 16 19 21 22 24 25 27 28 29 27

The Hot Seat: Interview Inferno | Sheamus Connors ’28 and Dorothy Kuwana ’25 Childhood Summer Evening | Pippa Zed ’25 Grapes | Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26 Waiting to Heal | Lukas Botnick ’26 The White Stag | Michael Pierce ’25 Love, Entangled | Lily Winston ’25 A Changing Tide | Kristopher Richards ’25 Six Word Stories | Various Mullet Egg Soup: A Taste of Home | Fengdi Deng ’28 White Blanket | Elle Morgan ’25 Saturday | Lily Winston ’25 The Death of a Poet | Kristen Ma ’26 Tachysensia | Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26 Winter Loss | Michael Pierce ’25 Exisential Reflections | Kevin Shi ’27 Two of Everything | Pippa Zed ’25 The Babysitter | David Melson ’25

Images Cover 7 14 18 20 23 26 30

Molly Bardol ’28 Mr. Philip Wexler P’19 Williams Feng ’27 Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26 Martin Morera Franco ’27 Aurelie Mueller ’26 James Williams ’26 Enok Tsang ’26

Haiku 8 Lukas Botnick ’26 10 Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26 Cole Ladas ’25 12 Lukas Botnick ’26 Adiya Xia ’27 15 Lily Winston ’25 21 Dominick Clark ’25 Pippa Zed ’25 25 Lily Winston ’25 Mrs. Chelle Salvucci 27 Chase DiMeco ’25 29 David Melson ’25 32 Mrs. Chelle Salvucci Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26

1

The Hot Seat: Interview Inferno

Sheamus Connors ’28 and Dorothy Kuwana ’25

This piece was first performed at Cushing Academy in May 2025, as part of the show Cool Stories Bro, directed by Ray Hecht ’25. The cast was Sheamus Connors ’28 (Dave), Yolanda Huang ’28 (Secretary), and Enok Tsang ’26 (Ziggy).

CAST: - Dave: D.H.C Magical Manager - Ziggy Zaggy: Interviewee - Dave’s Secretary: Grumpy, monotone, dressed as Dave’s Hot Chicken mascot SETTING: Dave’s Hot Chicken manager’s office. Empty, dingy, yet decked out like a Dave’s Hot Chicken office, with nothing but 5 different chicken tenders organised by heat-level on the table (L-shaped desk to avoid profile view to the audience): 1. Salt and Pepper 2. Spicy Garlic 3. Mango Habanero 4. Da Bomb 5. Lava in my Lungs SUMMARY: Ziggy comes in for a job interview at their local Dave’s Hot Chicken and is shocked to find out they must successfully eat seven of the hottest tenders known to mankind to secure the entry-level position. If they ask for milk, they don’t get the job.

COSTUME IDEAS: - Dave: Hawaiian shirt, suit jacket, dress pants, gold chain - Ziggy: dressed for an interview - Dave’s Secretary: dressed as Dave’s Hot Chicken mascot ZIGGY: (offstage) I’m here for the job interview DAVE’S SECRETARY: (sighs grumpily) Come this way ZIGGY: Are you sure this is the right place?

DAVE’S SECRETARY: Unfortunately. (exits stage) 2

DAVE: (pops out from under the table and takes off the tablecloth very enthusiastically) WELCOME TO DAVE’S HOT CHICKEN! I’m Dave!

ZIGGY: (hesitantly) I…I’m uhhh… Ziggy.

DAVE: Well, give me knucks uhhh… Ziggy. (holds out fist) ZIGGY: OK? DAVE: Turkey, snail, shark attack nom..nom..nom,stick shift (makes race car noises), jellyfish, BIGGER JELLYFISH, Little jellyfish (all with accompanying hand gestures). Why are you here exactly?

ZIGGY: For the uhhh… job interview.

DAVE: Before we begin, I must explain a few rules.

ZIGGY: Rules? I thought this was an interview.

DAVE: It is; it’s just not your average interview. As I go over the rules, I legally require you to sign this waiver. (hands Ziggy waiver) ZIGGY: (under their breath) A waiver?

DAVE: So, you must complete the interview while consuming some of the most HOT, PUNGENT, FIERY tenders known to mankind.

ZIGGY: WHAT?!

DAVE: No, trust me, it’ll be great! These tenders will have your taste buds SCREAMING Hallelujah! Have you signed the waiver yet?

ZIGGY: Just to be clear, am I signing the waiver for the interview? Or the tenders?

DAVE: Signing now, questions later.

3

ZIGGY: (shrugs shoulders and signs waiver) DAVE: Finally, now I can tell you the rules. RULE 1: You must eat at least one bite of every tender. RULE 2: If your answer is not good enough for my question, you must take another bite OF THAT TENDER. ZIGGY: Not good enough?

DAVE: RULE 3: NO interruptions. Lastly, RULE 4: If you ask for milk because the tender is too spicy, you will be banned from this Dave’s Hot Chicken location for a month, and worst of all…

ZIGGY: There’s worse?!

DAVE: You don’t get to work with me. Dun dun dun.

ZIGGY: (no emotion/monotone) Oh no.

DAVE: I like you already, uhhh…Ziggy.

ZIGGY: Does that mean I don’t have to eat the tenders?

DAVE: No, you still have to eat them, but you’ll be fine if you’ve signed the waiver.

(Ziggy hands Dave the waiver.)

DAVE: GREAT, let me introduce you to the first tender.

SALT AND PEPPER is a take on a classic way to make a chicken tender with nothing but breading, salt, and pepper. Once you take a bite, you will be given your first question.

(Ziggy takes bite of tender) DAVE: Would you rather fight one horse-sized chicken or one hundred chicken-sized horses?

ZIGGY: What does this have to do with the interview?

DAVE: Everything uhhhh… Ziggy, these are the types of questions they ask the presidential candidates!

ZIGGY: Okay… well… then I’d rather fight the horse-sized chicken.

4

DAVE: CORRECT ANSWER Uhhh… Ziggy, you got through the hardest question.

ZIGGY: That’s the hardest question?

DAVE: Yeah, so this should be a breeze, right? (Winks to the audience) ZIGGY: Who are you winking at?

DAVE: Oh, no one. Let’s move on to tender #2, SPICY GARLIC: as Dracula’s least favourite sauce, it includes a ton, like a literal ton, of garlic and has other ingredients including smoked paprika, chili powder, jalapeños, and RED 40. (gestures to the tender) Go on, eat.

(Ziggy takes a bite) DAVE: Does pineapple belong on pizza? Yes or NO? Listen uhhh… Ziggy, this could change how the rest of this interview goes, so choose wisely.

ZIGGY: Bruh. That’s a stupid queDAVE: (angrily) DON’T QUESTION ME UHHH… ZIGGY I AM YOUR BOSS… bruh. Now answer my question.

ZIGGY: Yes. DAVE: I’M GONNA GIVE YOU ONE MORE CHANCE TO ANSWER THAT GODDAMN RIGHT. DOES PINEAPPLE BELONG ON PIZZA? ZIGGY: No. DAVE: Good answer. Your next Tender is MANGO HABANERO: this sauce brings sweet heat with a slow-burning habanero flavour. If you can’t take the heat, uhhh… Ziggy, get out of my kitchen. You know the drill.

(Ziggy takes a bite) DAVE: What do you think about the current economic state of this country?

ZIGGY: Uhhh… corrupt?

5

DAVE: DON’T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT MY COUNTRY LIKE THAT, EVER AGAIN! But you’re right.

ZIGGY: You are a confusing man, Dave.

DAVE: Good job, that was right. Now let’s hurry this up. I have a street race in an hour. Your next tender is DA BOMB: Made with habanero peppers, chipotle puree, and natural pepper extract, DA BOMB skips the fancy frills and goes straight for the knockout. No sugar, no sweeteners—just explosive, lingering heat that builds and burns.

Warning: This is not for the faint of tongue. Use sparingly. One drop is enough to light up your taste buds, leave a lasting impression, and contain traces of uranium.

ZIGGY: What?!

DAVE: That’s what the waiver was for.

(Ziggy does the sign of the cross and takes a bite) DAVE: Where do you see yourself in five years?

ZIGGY: (choking) cough cough uhhhhh I see myself in your position doing this to other people that are looking for a job.

DAVE: HOW DARE YOU THINK I WOULD EVER RETIRE? I WILL DIE IN THIS OFFICE, I SWEAR TO YOU! ONE MORE SCREW UP AND YOU HAVE TO DRINK A WHOLE BOTTLE OF THE REAPER’S FURY! TAKE ANOTHER BITE. ZIGGY: (takes another bite as he tears up) I SEE MYSELF AS YOUR PERSONAL ASSISTANT! DAVE: If you say so.

ZIGGY: The hell do you mean “If you say so?”

DAVE: You wanna take another bite of the tender?

(Ziggy shakes his head.)

DAVE: I didn’t think so. Time for your next tender LAVA IN MY LUNGS: If you’ve ever thought “I wish my food 6

tasted like molten rock while simultaneously setting my respiratory system on fire,” then congratulations–you’ve found your soulmate in LAVA IN MY LUNGS. One drop feels like you’ve licked the sun. This isn’t just a hot sauce; it is a culinary weapon of mass destruction. And slightly radioactive.

(Ziggy takes a bite) DAVE: Let’s say you have 1,000 unread emails; who do you respond to first?

ZIGGY: (mouth on fire) Ummmmmmmm… (breathes heavily) You, Dave, I would answer you first.

DAVE: PERFECT ANSWER uhhh…Ziggy!

(Ziggy coughs and falls onto floor overdramatically) DAVE: And I will see you (snaps finger guns) on Monday.

(BLACKOUT)

Mr. Philip Wexler P’19 7

Childhood Summer Evening

Pippa Zed ’25

Jumping on the trampoline in the yard My sister’s and my laughter filled the air The golden-hour sun shining through the trees Sliced watermelon and ice-cold lemonade Burgers sizzling on the barbeque Birds singing in the warm evening air Freshly cut grass under my feet Childhood dogs barking Dragonflies dancing Dress wet from running through the sprinkler Neil Young playing to cover the sound of my parents arguing

Sparks rise to the sky The wood crackles, warmth spreads wide Stories come alive.

– Lukas Botnick ’26

8

Grapes

Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26

9

Waiting to Heal

Lukas Botnick ’26

The pain sits heavy, deep within my knee, A continuous throb that never quite releases its grip.

The days crawl by, each no different.

The thick smell of the hospital sticks to me, And the bitter taste of pills lingers on my tongue.

Machines hum softly, filling the silence, As painkillers blur the hours away.

They cloud my mind but keep the pain at bay.

The field I love lies empty in my mind, But then, through all the fogginess, through the struggle, I see a path to where I’ll rise again.

My body will heal; so too will my mind.

The field I love will await me, I know it.

Still, mirror-like pond Plink. A drop of water Waves ripple across – Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26

Clouds rolling in Rain falling down Frogs come back around – Cole Ladas ’25

10

The White Stag

Michael Pierce ’25

The moon hung high in the cold winter sky, its silver light spilling across the barren forest. Leaves, long fallen, blanketed the ground in a damp, muffling quilt. Ethan adjusted the strap of his rifle and tugged his scarf tighter around his neck. The chill cut through his coat, but he welcomed the discomfort; it kept him sharp.

For weeks, the townsfolk had whispered about the white stag. Some claimed it was a ghost, others a sign of fortune—or doom. Ethan wasn’t interested in superstitions.

To him, it was simply an elusive prize. He’d seen its tracks a few times, deep and deliberate, and once caught sight of it through a tangle of branches. It had been majestic, its antlers gleaming like frost-tipped branches. But tonight, he would finish the chase.

He crouched near a cluster of cedar trees and scanned the clearing ahead. The forest seemed alive, though not with movement. Shadows danced as the wind swayed the branches, and the faint rustle of nocturnal creatures whispered all around. Ethan’s breath steamed in soft puffs as he listened, waiting.

Then, he saw it.

The stag stepped into the clearing, its coat almost glowing under the moonlight. It moved with the grace of something untouched by time, its hooves barely disturbing the earth. Ethan’s pulse quickened as he raised his rifle. His gloved fingers tightened on the trigger, his breath slowing to steady his aim.

The stag lifted its head, ears swiveling. Its eyes, wide and dark, met Ethan’s. For a moment, it felt as if the world had stopped. The wind paused, the forest hushed, and Ethan hesitated. A deep instinct stirred in him—a primal awe he hadn’t felt in years.

The stag took a single step forward, as if daring him. Ethan’s heart thundered. He shifted his weight slightly, his boot crunching against a stray twig. The sound snapped through the silence like a gunshot, and the stag bolted.

“Damn it!” Ethan hissed, springing into action. He darted through the undergrowth, weaving around trees, his rifle bouncing against his back. The stag’s white form flickered ahead, a ghost slipping between shadows. Ethan pushed himself harder, his legs burning, his lungs searing with each gulp of icy air.

The chase led him deeper into the woods, where the trees grew closer and the moonlight barely penetrated. Ethan skidded to a halt, chest heaving. He’d lost sight of it. He listened, straining to hear beyond his own ragged breathing.

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Then he heard it—a soft, rhythmic sound, like a drumbeat. Hooves on frozen ground. He crept forward, following the noise until it stopped. He emerged into a glade, the stag standing in its center. It faced him, unafraid, its antlers crowned with frost.

Ethan lifted his rifle again but faltered. The stag seemed to shimmer, not with light, but with something he couldn’t name. Awe held him still, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he lowered his weapon.

The stag turned, its form melting into the forest, leaving Ethan alone under the moonlit sky.

Raindrops race downward On the glass they meet and merge A quiet contest.

– Lukas Botnick ’26

Winds caress the grass Rolling waves of vibrant green Plump clouds hide the hills.

– Adiya Xia ’27

12

Love, Entangled

Lily Winston ’25

The last time I saw you When Mom gave you flowers And made small talk With your caregiver I kissed your cool cheek And held your frail hand You search for words Faded and tangled And you utter just one “beautiful” A handmade gift How long has it been Since you remembered Our names?

I feel it past your clouded eyes Resting in your smile Still unchanged Echoing as you laugh The garden it wilted Weeds choking out Your flowers The places you’ve been Your favorite song Family dinner Time itself Taking Ina Memory by memory Entangling what’s left Muting your soul For all its destruction It has failed to make you forget Our presence Mom tells you how we’re doing You kiss me goodbye And we close your apartment door

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14

Williams Feng ’27

A Changing Tide

Kristopher Richards ’25

The changing tide pulls all we’ve come to know, We try to hold the sand within our hands.

But time keeps moving, makes us all let go.

The sun sinks low, and breezes start to blow, What we once built won’t ever seem to stand.

The changing tide pulls all we’ve come to know.

We act like time’s not there, but even so, Our footprints fade like marks left in the sand.

But time keeps moving, makes us all let go.

We cling to what we know and try to slow The moments that keep slipping through our hands.

The changing tide pulls all we’ve come to know.

No matter what we love or try to show, It slips away, despite what we had planned.

The changing tide pulls all we’ve come to know, But time keeps moving, makes us all let go.

Wood picnic table Where an inchworm made its home Living on its own – Lily Winston ’25

15

Six Word Stories

In the autumn of 2024, Patchwork sponsored its third annual six-word story contest. Penguin writers submitted almost 100 stories composed in this deceptively challenging form. How can you tell a complete story – with a beginning, middle, and end – when you have only six words to work with? We present here some of the most compelling responses.

The crowd cheers, then goes silent.

– Ryland Randle ’25 Her song played; he didn’t dance.

– Elle Morgan ’25 Lost time found in old photographs.

– Pippa Zed ’25 “I put our savings in crypto.”

– Lily Winston ’25 He says you have a problem.

– Mr. Ryan Conroy Abandoned ship, forgotten crew, eerie silence.

– David Melson ’25 “Mr. President, get on the ground!”

– Aeolus Kun ’28 All of this, just for that.

– Kristopher Richards ’25 Tires screeched. Silence screamed at night.

– Cole Ladas ’25

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Lost dreams buried between daily routines.

– Lukas Botnick ’26 Time heals wounds; scars last forever.

– Brett Cunningham ’25 Winds carry secrets, so I listened.

– Mrs. Chelle Salvucci The reflection does not match the person.

– Angelina Zehnder ’25 Built a life, but not together.

– Lukas Botnick ’26 She was on her 6th hamster.

– Lily Winston ’25 Dammit! I just said my rosary…

– Ms. Doreen Johnson In swaying pink, the gap reveals azure.

– Adiya Xia ’27 Lost dog returns, wearing new collar.

– Pippa Zed ’25 He wanted kids. She did not.

– Ms. Melissa Dorval He knows I don’t like silver.

– Sammy Striebel ’25

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Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26

18

Mullet Egg Soup: A Taste of Home

Fengdi Deng ’28

During my last visit home to China, the first dish I sought was mullet egg soup, a taste that immediately transported me back to my hometown. It’s more than just a meal; it’s a cherished memory, a comforting link to my roots.

I first encountered this unique dish at Quanjude Roast Duck Restaurant in Beijing, a renowned establishment celebrated for its authentic flavors. The restaurant has an air of old-world charm, with its warm, elegant atmosphere and the scent of roast duck filling the space. When the mullet egg soup arrived, the pale white flakes of mullet eggs floated delicately in the clear broth. Upon tasting, I was pleasantly surprised.

Rather than the overpowering fishy flavor I expected, the eggs were mild and subtly sweet, offering a refreshing contrast to their appearance.

The soup was a burst of flavor, a balance of spicy heat and the sharp tang of vinegar.

Each spoonful blended these sensations so seamlessly that it was hard to distinguish where one ended and the other began. The richness of the broth, accented by hints of ginger and garlic, was a delight for my taste buds.

From that moment on, mullet egg soup became a fixture in my memory, a dish I would crave whenever I thought of home. The warmth of the restaurant, the shared laughter, and the comforting familiarity of a meal made me feel connected to something far greater than just food.

When I’m abroad, far from the bustling streets of Beijing, the longing for Chinese food hits me hardest. The first dish I think of is always mullet egg soup. It’s more than just nourishment; it’s a bridge to the place that shaped me, a piece of my cultural heritage that brings comfort and a sense of home, no matter where I am.

Each spoonful transports me back to the lively streets, the warmth of the restaurant, and the comforting feeling of being surrounded by family and tradition.

Mullet egg soup is a perfect example of the complexity and richness of Chinese cuisine—seemingly simple, yet with layers of flavor, texture, and history. It’s a reminder that food is more than just sustenance; it’s a way to preserve memories and keep traditions alive. This dish does more than fill my stomach—it nourishes my soul.

Being at Cushing, far from home, makes me appreciate dishes like mullet egg soup even more. While I’ve tried to recreate some of my favorite meals, nothing compares to the experience of enjoying this soup in Beijing. The absence of such tastes while abroad only deepens my connection to home and the memories that each dish carries with it.

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Martin Morera Franco ’27

20

White Blanket

Elle Morgan ’25

The world draped in a white blanket, Sleds rush downhill, dreams take flight.

Children gather with their friends, Until the cold night ends.

Breaths of hot cocoa and pine, Mother’s smell of red wine.

In the warmth of a fire going ’til midnight, Bare branches reflect the bright light.

The world draped in a white blanket, Snowflakes fall in secret.

A fox waits for dinner It lunges at its prey It misses by inches – Dominick Clark ’25

Thunder booms above Rain taps softly on the roof Nature’s lullaby – Pippa Zed ’25

21

Saturday

Hours are shorter on weekends A CD buzzes, spinning to life Singing smooth, working magic In a room so new You could almost smell the fresh paint Things are quiet on weekends Clothes on my rug Like fallen leaves Blinds shut If I pulled the cord And let in the sunset In this small Massachusetts town Could I see the stars?

Maybe I should open The ribbon laced letter My parents wrote me Or give them a call Hours are shorter on weekends Hands on the clock drawn in watercolor 20, 30, an hour or four?

Like a long afternoon.

My blueberry iced tea Has diluted in flavor From the time untouched I spent cross stitching in my bed The thread soft as satin Stroking the butterflies stitched by hand Trying not to prick my fingers Should I get myself lunch?

Should I get myself dinner?

Maybe I’ll stitch ’til I’m done with this string And I’ll pick it up again on Sunday.

22

Lily Winston ’25

Aurelie Mueller ’26

23

The Death of a Poet

Kristen Ma ’26

i lie in bed, contemplating a quiet way out. i’d publish the pain of this haunting dread, but i think it’s not allowed. what if this is where it leads me, what if this is how my sentences end? this isn’t at all what i was promised, i was promised another life to spend. are hearts like mine destined to suffer? alone in his somber mind even when among countless others? the auburn sunsets comfort me no longer, i still feel a deathly kind of cold in the summer. but what courage do i need to say a last goodbye? i shuffle across, so slowly towards the white line. why do i stop, if i have nothing to lose at all? the man has no numbers left to call. desperate, my soul rushes towards the sky. i thought i heard someone call my name from the other side. and for the slightest moment i see myself: a shadow on the black ceiling, a hand reaching out for help. once again, my mind casts its fatal tricks. it mocks my soul with draining bouts of self-pity. endlessly slumbering in his own decaying words, he’ll regret it this time, won’t he? but it’s too late for the poor man; i’m afraid he’s out of time. he was unable to conjure up even one last rhyme. his stories die with him, and what other thoughts he’d kept safely hidden deep inside. when the thinker stops thinking, we all somehow feel it. it always seems to get a little too quiet. a man cries in his bed, careful not to show it. he writes in tears what a tragedy it is to mourn the death of a poet.

24

Tachysensia

Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26

Time moves on without me The soles of shoes I bought half a decade ago suddenly crumble when I remember their existence.

My hand twitches as I cross out the last digit of a year that passed months ago.

I blink and I’m there, watching those who were sophomores last I remembered graduate.

Has time passed quietly while I stood still, or was I too distracted to even hear it roar?

Mushroom on a log Snail crawls onto its cap Basking in the sun – Lily Winston ’25

Blazing fall leaves drift Dancing flames float and careen Brilliance before death – Mrs. Chelle Salvucci

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James Williams ’26

26

Winter Loss

Michael Pierce ’25

Sauntering through the thick snow Trying to find a path Looking down below The air biting down, so cold Too much room for me Not enough knowledge to hold Time flying too fast to keep track Trying to be bold But the cold is fighting back The smell of the pine Taunting me with the taste of freedom The wind ringing in my ears like a chime Thinking of the glory of what I have no more No more energy, no more time.

Yellow petals sprouted A brief bloom in the wind Springtime is upon us.

– Chase DiMeco ’25

27

Existential Reflections

Through the endearing nights, My eyes astray and pondering thoughts.

Stars glitter upon my sights, My glimpse wanders these shining dots.

My mind cozened and swindled, The euphoric dreams were akin to a parallel.

My hopes and fantasies dwindled, And with blighted relationships comes farewell.

For one to reach their aspirations, They must work through adversity.

Eventually reaching their destinations, One’s confidence may surpass infirmity.

Nature and mind may step in line, But expand your horizons and you will be fine.

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Kevin Shi ’27

Two of Everything

Pippa Zed ’25

This year, there were two Christmas trees: one at Mom’s new apartment, with all white lights, her half of the ornaments, and a new star at the top of the tree; and one at Dad’s house, covered in coloured lights, his half of the ornaments, and the old star. I liked Mom’s tree better, but I didn’t say that out loud. At Mom’s, we drank hot chocolate with marshmallows and watched movies. At Dad’s, we decorated gingerbread houses with music playing. They both asked me the same question, separately but in the same way: “Are you having fun?” Their voices had the same nervous wobble, like if I said no the whole thing would collapse. So I said yes, every time. On Christmas morning, Mom gave me the bike I’d asked for. When I went to Dad’s later, he gave me the same one, except his was purple instead of pink.

“That’s…cool,” Dad said when I told him. “Very practical,” Mom said when I mentioned it to her. That night, I rode the bike in Mom’s apartment parking lot, then took the purple one around Dad’s driveway. Both felt the same when I pedalled fast enough, the wind making my hair flow in the wind like everything was normal. When they asked how my day was, I told them, “It was perfect.” And I almost believed it.

Laughter in warm air Bare feet race against hot pavement They jump back in pool – David Melson ’25

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Enok Tsang ’26

30

The Babysitter

David Melson ’25

Beep! Beep!

The loud noise jolted me awake. I grabbed my phone and saw it was 3:00 a.m. My heart raced as I ran to my one-year-old son Jack’s room. His toy car was going off, making a loud beeping sound. But what caught my attention was the window; it was open. My chest tightened. I always closed Jack’s window before bed. Something wasn’t right. I called the police immediately. When they arrived, they searched the house and said everything was fine. But as a blood spatter analyst, I couldn’t stop myself from checking for any evidence. I looked for signs of a struggle or any blood but found nothing. Ryan, a trusted sergeant, pulled me aside. “You’re lucky,” he said, his face serious. “There have been reports of babies being taken, and none of them were ever found.” My stomach dropped at his words, but I felt a wave of relief as I held Jack close. That night, I decided he would sleep in my room.

In the morning, I called Kate, my babysitter. She’d been wonderful since I hired her a month ago, always on time and great with Jack. When I told her what happened, she rushed over, concerned. Feeling a little more at ease, I went to work and started digging into recent baby kidnapping cases. As I reviewed the files, I found a strange pattern. The first case was twelve years ago in New Hampshire, and the crimes had slowly moved south, hitting every state on the East Coast. Each report was the same: first, a break-in attempt, often with a loud noise that woke the parents. Then, days later, a baby would disappear, and a bloody cloth, always the baby’s blood, would be left behind. Now, it was happening in my state, Connecticut. My house. I showed my findings to Ryan, and we worked together to interview neighbors and gather clues, but we didn’t get anywhere. Frustrated, I went home.

At home, Jack was happily playing with Kate. I thanked her and paid her before putting Jack to bed. As I checked his window, I noticed something odd: the lock wouldn’t click into place. Looking closer, I saw a screw was missing, making it impossible to secure the window. My stomach sank. The only person who could’ve done this was Kate, the only one who’d spent enough time in my house. That night, I hid in Jack’s closet, planning to catch her if she returned. But I fell asleep. Hours later, I woke up in a panic and burst out of the closet. There she was, holding Jack and softly singing to him. She didn’t even look surprised. “How did you get in here?” I yelled. “The door was unlocked,” she said calmly. “I just wanted to check on Jack.” Something felt off, but I couldn’t think straight. I left Jack and told her I had to leave for work. Once there, I started digging into Kate’s past. What I found made my blood run cold. She had no address, no bank account, no real history,

only babysitting jobs. Worse, every family she’d worked for had lost a child within weeks. Twelve jobs, twelve states, twelve missing babies. My hands shook as I sent the information to the FBI. Then, I raced home.

When I got there, Kate was gone. A cloth of blood.

Feathery fingers Delicate window crawlers Frost quiets the world – Mrs. Chelle Salvucci

Leaves below my feet Cool breeze blowing through my hair Sun setting, red sky – Xiangyu Sophia Kong ’26

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Cushing Academy 39 School Street Ashburnham MA 01430 cushing.org