2024 Patchwork Literary Magazine

Patchwork Cushing Academy Literary Magazine 2024

Patchwork

Cushing Academy

Literary Magazine 2024

Editors Xiangyu “Sophia” Kong ’26

Anqi “Angela” Li ’24

Jiatong “Jasmine” Lou ’26

Aleena Patel ’26

Evan Wingard ’24

Anyang “Angie” Yu ’26

Staff Zach Hindle ’24

Fiona Riley ’24

Lauren Walsh ’24

Faculty Sponsor Mr. Simon Hunt

Patchwork gratefully acknowledges the support of Ms. Sarah Catlin, Ms. Rebecca Cinclair, Mr. Donny Connors, Ms. Deb Gardner, Mr. Christian Housh, Ms. Jen Viana, and Dr. Dalia Juarez and the Cushing English Department.

Cover Art Ray Hecht ’25

I awoke to a glaring fluorescent light that convinced my eyelids to stay shut for a while longer. My hands rubbed sore eye sockets. I was abruptly alerted by the clamoring of surrounding motion. People of every shape and size were busily–almost angrily–pacing through the corridor, their eyes sweeping the floor. There was an ache in my back and a crook in my neck, both of which I tried unsuccessfully to rectify (and both of which were undoubtedly caused by my seat: a straight-backed, narrow, plastic chair). Either due to my keen intuition or the announcement of a flight leaving for Miami, I realized I sat in an airport terminal. This explained the luxury seating.

It was packed–the walkways raged like rapids. I strained my eyes to try to focus on one individual in the sea of winter jackets and pom-pom hats. Above me, mounted on a pillar, hummed an illuminated sign. It read “Terminal C” with a list of departure flights. Surely enough, there was MIAMI, accompanied by the status report of BOARDING NOW.

People to my left and right stood up in a tiresome way, reaching for their plane tickets. My frail hands fumbled in jacket pockets. Both of mine were empty. My heart lurched in a way that often follows losing something important. Next, my hands flew to my pants pockets: a balled-up receipt, a wallet, the MBTA ticket I must have used to get here, and my golden pocket watch. The sight of the glinting gold against the fluorescents calmed my heartbeat as I held it to my chest. I heard the rhythmic ticking of the second hand, although the time between the ticks seemed to grow with every passing moment.

“Excuse me, Ma’am,” a deep voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Oh–dear me, I just woke up,” I let out a nervous chuckle and glanced from side to side as if suddenly unfamiliar with my surroundings. The man’s tall black trenchcoat and gray town hat first caught my eye. Then I saw his face. Creases were forming on his cheeks and forehead like rivers before flood season. His beard was a 5 pm shadow, crudely spotted and unkempt. But his eyes were the real attraction. They were dark and seemed to open to an abyss of emptiness that sucked me in. In his eyes, time itself almost slowed.

He laughed, perhaps a little too heartily at my feeble attempt at a joke. “Anyways, I noticed you dropped this…” His hands, previously tucked behind his back, swung around and produced an aged slip of paper, folded neatly twice.

“Oh,” I offered bashfully. “Silly old me.” A cliché phrase I use all too often these days. My eyes danced around a coffee stain blemishing the slip.

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“Thank you anyw–” I looked up but he was gone. Our conversation felt unfinished but its brief shadow lurked for only a moment until I remembered the slip in my hand. The flakey surface was worn and shone a shade of eggshell white–that is, aside from the blemish. Coffee had seeped into the page. The shape it made was familiar… that of a country. Ireland I think–or Iceland—one of those grassy lands up north that I visited a couple of years ago.

In the consistent hum of airport activity, I unfolded the stained page. Inside, printed formally, was my legal name and various other information I didn’t bother to decipher. There was one problem, though: the coffee that had seeped into the page had smudged the ink that once provided the essential flight information (i.e. destination, flight number, time of departure). The wave of panic that I expected never washed over me, but I sat there unmoving; I was on a rowboat in a sea of commotion. My head was foggy, and my eyelids were heavy. Gradually, I felt drawn into the trance of the crowd’s eternal murmuring. I felt once more like a baby rocking in her cradle.

Part of me strived to stay awake as my world went hazy. The other part succumbed. My aching back slumped deeper into my chair once more. I felt the plane ticket slip from my fingertips.

Memories of us strung together

Like grapes on a grapevine

Sweet on summer’s tongue

– Evie Taylor ’24

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Lyujia “Peter” Pan ’24

Ballet des Ombres Voilées

In the dusky alleys where raindrops weave, A phantom’s silhouette begins to breathe. Beneath the city’s cloak, Shadows dance, A spectral figure in a spectral trance.

Lingering lamplights cast a muted glow As the phantom’s heart conceals its woe. A ballet of shadows graced by rain, An enigma born of joy and pain.

Cobblestone whispers echo through the night, As the phantom tiptoes in silent flight. Within the alley’s clasp, secrets unfold, A tapestry of tales in raindrops told.

The curtain of rain veils the phantom’s face, A masquerade in the city’s grace. A solo performance in the dim-lit mist, Where solitude and shadows coexist.

Whispers of the bricks, a ghostly choir, Singing of love lost in the rain’s desire. In each raindrop, a phantom’s silent plea, A haunting sonnet, a melancholy decree.

Within the alley’s arms, a phantom’s ballet, A symphony of sorrow in shades of gray. The bricks, like pages, tell tales unseen, In the phantom’s refuge, life untold.

Evan Wingard ’24

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Qianlai “Jay” Zhou ’27

Rain Notes

Rain:

Flip flops during rainy days hurt my stomach. I want to walk barefoot.

Walking barefoot would hurt me, though.

Phone battery: 95%.

News speakers on the second floor as if I can’t already tell the weather. There is a playground on the first floor of my apartment complex. The only playground of my apartment complex–as far as I know.

Drizzle:

It stopped raining.

Not yet! It still rains when I’m under a tree.

HOME.

Phone battery: 94%.

I guess we can call it 90%.

Search:

So much for all the traffic.

I leave bland (this time), no colors.

Watery figure

Stares straight at me We blink together

– Miranda Fraser ’24

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Jaehyo “Daniel” Choi ’26

It’s late now.

The inequities of the ground are exchanged for dull vibration and rumble as the car’s wheels churn the night and dark.

And through the opened window the fecund smell of palms in rot, burning in censer, steams full the cabin.

Your eyes cast forward.

In the smoke of the driver’s mirror you scry a familiar face broken by the knives of streetlamps.

The face is here.

Now the face is gone.

Here is the face.

Now it is gone.

The lights cut your face to pieces and in their dire absence nothing remains but your funerary shroud: your Shade.

The dead thing speaks, she calls your name:

Now you are alive; Now you are dead. Now you are alive; Now you are dead. Now you are alive; Now you are dead. Now you are alive; Now you are dead. Now you are alive; Now you are dead.

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Mx. Logan Cody

And then

As your lie is undone and you crumble into unmaking the Shade’s thorny gift flays open your veins to worm its way to your heart.

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Jinhao “Jin” Han ’26

The Vendetta Tapes

Riley Cohan ’24

Tape 01: A walk in the park.

You would never expect someone like me to be the kind of person to kill. I know that. I’ve been mute since I was 9. Maybe you would expect it, I don’t know. What I do know is that this town got what it deserved. They say time passes in the blink of an eye, but six years have felt so grueling and long.

Christmas Eve was always Dad’s favorite holiday. He liked the anticipation and the excitement that my little brother, Matty, shared with him.

I stopped believing in Santa when I found Dad eating the cookies when I was 12, the same year of the accident.

You might be thinking, Oh, her dad died in an accident, how sad. I wish.

I wish this cruel town and world had that much mercy for my innocent father. If it weren’t for those stupid boys next door, I’d have my Dad to watch me walk the stage at graduation next week or walk me down the aisle someday. The joke is on them though, because they won’t be walking.

This whole town will live and die thinking my father was a murderer, and I live knowing he was innocent.

Keiran Kelsey. Kelsey, or K, for short. Student class president for the Northern Highlands graduating class of ’93. The golden boy of the town, committed to Yale for Division I swim.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I loved K. He babysat me when I was little, took Matty and me to all his swim meets on weekends when dad was working overtime and couldn’t watch us. Matty’s too young to remember it, though.

Keiran would always tell me I was a firecracker, just waiting to spark.

He was right. I wish he wasn’t.

The date was February 3rd, 1993. Keiran had just finished his final meet of his senior season, setting a new personal and school record for the 100m freestyle, at just 49.02

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seconds. He was thrilled. The whole town was bursting with excitement; their golden boy was going to be an Olympic competitor.

“It was a walk in the park,” he told me.

Drinking to celebrate wasn’t too out there for the Kelsey family, or the town. I just wished he hadn’t let his friends drive.

Shawn Muller and Chris Norris.The tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum of the senior class of ‘93, Class clowns, even.

So called “friends” of Keiran’s who decided they would be fine enough to drive his brand new Ford Bronco after a few drinks.

They were stupid enough to speed through our neighborhood without thinking about the train tracks at the edge, right next to my childhood home.

Now, my father loved Keiran enough to let him off the hook for underage drinking; he treated him and the Kelseys like our own family.

Which is exactly why he ran out of the house to warn them of the oncoming train.To his demise, the idiot Muller had forced Keiran to move behind the wheel after both he and Chris decided to take a funny picture of Keiran “for the memories.”

My father’s yelling alerted Keiran about 10 seconds too late, causing him to swerve the wheel towards the oncoming train.

At 11:26 pm, my father watched his adoptive son be hit head on by a train traveling 135 mph. The car was pushed 20 feet down the track by the train. I remember waking up to the sound.

Shawn Muller and Chris Norris walked away with minor physical injuries, but a vendetta against my father that would be catastrophic.

Their recounting of the night’s events would lead to his conviction.

Keiran Kelsey died instantly upon impact from the blunt force trauma of the train.

He was 18.

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My father was wrongly sentenced to life without parole for the death of Keiran.

He took his own life just a week later. He couldn’t bear to believe that people thought he killed someone he loved so dearly. The Kelsey family was lied to by Muller and Norris, turning their backs on my family.

I raised my brother and attended school with the help of my grieving aunt, although she resented us.

Muller and Norris went on to college and forgot all about poor Akuma Sato, until they were at the mercy of the 18 year old monster they created.

It’ll just be a walk in the park.

A lit cigarette left smoking in an ashtray by an empty chair

– Jarred Weisfelner ’24

My small dog Already slowing down Why so fast?

– Lenin Galarraga ’24

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The Night

Stone Evans ’24

The night unfolded in the vibrant heartbeat of the city. The lights danced like fireflies, and the hum of traffic created a symphony of urban life. Amidst the cacophony, a group of friends, including myself, reveled in the rhythm of the night. Laughter echoed against concrete walls, and the city seemed alive with possibilities. The setting, a pulsating metropolis, held the promise of a memorable evening.

But then, life shifted in an instant. The simplicity of the night shattered like glass. A screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, and suddenly, my world plunged into chaos. The car, once a vessel of joyous escapades, became a twisted wreck. The screams, a cacophony of terror, echoed in my ears. At that moment, my life hung in the balance. The vibrant cityscape turned into a blur as I found myself trapped in a surreal nightmare.

Now, I lie in a sterile hospital bed, a stark contrast to the lively city outside. The flickering lights are replaced by the sterile glow of overhead bulbs. The vibrant soundscape of the city is replaced by the monotonous beeping of machines. The once animated streets are now confined to the sterile hospital room. It’s here, in this stark reality, that the weight of the situation bears down on me.

I glance down at my body, once whole and alive, now marred by the harshness of fate. My leg, now a phantom limb, severed from me in the blink of an eye. I can’t help but wonder, why me? Why did the night, brimming with promise, end in the cold sterility of a hospital room? My friends and family surround me, their faces a mosaic of concern and sorrow. The reality settles in that I will never walk again. The dreams I had, the plans for the future, all altered by the capricious hand of destiny.

The room is heavy with unspoken questions and shared grief. The once carefree laughter is replaced by a solemn silence. I grapple with the harsh truth that my friends and family will witness a version of me they never expected. The person who once thrived in the kinetic energy of the city is now confined to the stillness of a hospital bed. The theme of resilience emerges as I navigate the uncertain terrain ahead, grappling with the profound loss and searching for meaning in the wreckage of my former life.

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Finch Salvucci ’26

Road Trip

Nate Pimental ’24

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the vast expanse of the desert. The air was thick with the scent of sagebrush, and the only sound was the rhythmic hum of the tires against the asphalt. Sarah and her friends, Mark and Emily, were on a road trip, chasing the promise of adventure and escape.

The highway stretched out before them, a ribbon of concrete that cut through the arid landscape like a lifeline. The trio had embarked on this journey with an air of invincibility, their laughter echoing through the car as they left the city lights behind. It was a road trip fueled by the desire to break free from the monotony of their lives, but little did they know that the same road that promised freedom would also lead to their tragic end.

As they ventured deeper into the desert, an eerie feeling settled over the car. Sarah couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that crept into her thoughts like a whisper. The landscape, though beautiful, seemed to be conspiring against them. The cacti stood like silent sentinels, their thorns reaching out like accusing fingers. The wind whispered secrets of the desert, secrets that only it could comprehend.

The car’s air conditioning struggled against the oppressive heat, and the road seemed to stretch on forever. Mark, always the optimist, cranked up the radio, trying to drown out the growing unease. Emily, however, couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that something was amiss. She kept glancing at the rearview mirror as if expecting to see a specter tailing them.

The car approached a crossroads, a decision point where destiny hung in the balance. The air grew thick with tension, and Sarah’s hands tightened on the wheel. Unbeknownst to them, the desert harbored its secrets, and the ancient spirits that dwelled there were watching.

At the crossroads, Sarah hesitated for a moment, a split second that would seal their fate. The desert, sensing their vulnerability, whispered its final warning. A lone owl hooted in the distance, a harbinger of doom that went unnoticed by the trio lost in their dreams of escape.

As they continued down the chosen path, a strange fog began to envelop the road. The air inside the car grew heavy, and the laughter that once filled the vehicle gave way to an uneasy silence. Emily glanced at Sarah, her eyes reflecting the fear that gripped her soul.

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The road, now shrouded in mist, seemed to stretch endlessly into the void. A figure appeared in the distance, indistinct at first, but gradually taking shape. It was a spectral presence, a harbinger of the inevitable. Sarah’s grip on the wheel tightened, her heart racing as she realized the truth too late.

The car collided with an unseen force, the impact sending it careening off the road. In that moment of chaos, time seemed to slow, and the desert claimed its victims. The car came to a rest, a twisted heap of metal painted red.

As the desert wind carried away the echoes of the tragedy, the owl hooted again, its mournful cry echoing through the night. The spirits of the desert, having taken their toll, retreated into the shadows, leaving behind a scene of devastation. The road trip that began with laughter and dreams had come to a tragic end, and the desert, with its secrets and warnings, had claimed its final victory.

Tree-riddled hillside, Explosions of colorful leaves Light up like lanterns.

The storm is seen Before the storm is heard, Before it is felt.

Mountain peak of stone, The first and last place that The sun touches.

– Zach Hindle ’24

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Six Word Stories

In the autumn of 2023, Patchwork sponsored its second annual six-word story contest. Penguin writers submitted well over 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.

Locked doors, open windows, empty beds – Riley Cohan ’24

Silk ribbons hid the cracking porcelain. – Riley Cohan ’24

I woke up feeling like someone. – Braedon Dubis ’24

Where the hell is the baby!? – Zach Hindle ’24

The ring wouldn’t have fit anyway.

– Bronson Hunt ’24

The way you looked said everything. – Lily Prendergast ’24

One person, dark past, bright future. – Courtney Lilley ’24

“I can relate.” No, you can’t. – Fiona Riley ’24

Last hospital visit, my first funeral. – Evie Tayor ’24

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Born to live, forced to survive.

– Ryan Bertin ’24

Darkest things, hidden behind the brightest.

– Bryer Cagle ’24

The earthquake was my happy ending.

– Wadeline Hall ’24

Haunted house, fake monsters, real blood.

– Evie Taylor ’24

Flatline–our love only in memory.

– Jonathan Bundy ’24

Soldiers returned, but not my son.

– Miranda Fraser ’24

Can a whisper change the world?

– Julie Chan ’27

“Who’s to blame?” asked my reflection.

– Joe Sarkozi ’24

The trashed milk carton read “Missing...”

– Ms. Laura Robusto

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Untitled

Fiona Riley ’24

My heels sink into the sand as I awkwardly try to walk. Tears still running down my face, I look out to the ocean. The waves are big. Moonlight shines on the water. I take a deep breath, hoping that the saltwater air will fix this constant headache I have been having lately. I take off my heels and walk into the ocean up to my knees. The water numbs my feet. How did I even get here? I broke my best friend’s heart: someone I’ve known and loved since I was 5. For what? A guy who didn’t even fight for me. I should have realized that as soon as Milo entered my life my love for Jack would fade. Now everything is gone and turned into ash. I contemplate walking all the way in and letting the waves overtake me. It reminds me of that dream I had where the mysterious figure saved me from the waves.

“Gwen.” It’s Milo. How did he know I was here? “Jack told me.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” I respond. There’s a heavy silence as I turn around. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” I scoff at this, finally meeting his deep brown eyes that still hold affection, even after everything.

“You weren’t the one who couldn’t decide who she loved.”

“I should have fought.”

“No”

“Your best friend just told you that he loved you. I didn’t even give you a second to choose. I just left. I regret that because,” he pauses, “I’m in love with you.” All the air is taken out of my lungs. I can’t understand how this amazing and kind person could love me.

“No, you can’t.”

“Stop that. You know that I love you” Milo’s eyes go wide. “Gw-” Before he can finish, a big wave hits me and knocks me under the water. I struggle to get to the surface as waves keep coming, pushing me toward the sand. I feel the panic set in as I struggle without oxygen. My body roughly slams against the sand. I somehow have been flipped on my back. Water goes up my nose, making it sting. It’s calmer all of a sudden, or maybe I’m calmer–that’s when I see it. Someone is reaching in to save me from the waves. It’s my dream. I’m entranced by the familiar sight. I’m taken out of the water and I take a deep breath, struggling to recover. It’s Milo. The man in my dreams, the one who has saved me in more ways than one. This dream I’ve had since sophomore year. I start laughing as I can finally put a face on the mystery man.

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“Why are you laughing?”

“Because…” I am about to continue, but I start laughing again. It’s a real laugh. A genuine real laugh. It’s all because of Milo.

“What? What is so funny?” He says, laughing. I take a deep breath before finally fully opening myself to him.

“I just love you.”

Made it to the states at last the American dream, sleeping on concrete – Bronson Hunt ’24

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This photograph by Jiatong

Lou

was part of Patchwork’s Ekphrastic Contest and was the inspiration for the poem by

on the following page.

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Jiatong “Jasmine” Lou ’26 “Jasmine” ’26 Evie Taylor ’24

A Serpent’s Side of the Story

I reached to the heavens; off the balcony I wept. From her temple I shouted. Pleaded. Screamed. From the temple I ran. Fast. And lean.

But I could not escape. For I had been cursed. Or was I given a gift?

He took me there, below the altar for which I had given gift after gift. My faith did not falter.

Poseidon is not a gentleman because he is not a gentle man. I must bathe in acid, in fire, in rum, to rid myself of the handprints he left on my innocence.

Athena was jealous or vengeful–a distinction I cannot tell. She turned my hair to serpents and my stare to death. For no one would take me again, not until I drew my last breath. Not until my soul for Hades did send.

Evie Taylor ’24

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This photograph by Alex Gomes ’25 was part of Patchwork’s Ekphrastic Contest and was the inspiration for the poem by Kangmin “Justin” Lee ’27 on the following page.

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Alex Gomes ’25

The Forgotten Stairs

In the past, oh yes!

I also had numerous friends. There were times when their visits were so frequent and the days were so busy. They would come to me, descending the stairs, always sharing delightful stories.

“The path you are on is always interesting and filled with joy!” they would say.

But, you know!

I didn’t pay much attention to myself. Even if the lonely litter piled up on the stairs, even if selfish dust covered them, I let it be

because I believed many of those friends would still find me.

Now, you see!

They have started to forget my existence. Now, I have become a lonely staircase that no one remembers. It seems they have forgotten about me.

Maybe, you know!

If I had reached out to my friends first and shown interest, they might not have left my side. The forgotten stairs might not be as they are now.

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Kangmin “Justin” Lee ’27

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Marcus Bonanni ’27 This photograph by Marcus Bonanni ’27 was part of Patchwork’s Ekphrastic Contest and was the inspiration for the story by Zach Hindle ’24 on the following pages.

A Glamorous Glimpse in all its Greenish Grandeur

Zach Hindle ’24

And there she was. There she is every day, all day. You first saw her during your shift at the ice cream stand and thought nothing of it. The boardwalk is always crowded, and this was not out of the ordinary – for someone to be leaning on the railing, transfixed by the view. It was gorgeous, you had admitted to yourself on the second day she met your gaze, and you probably would spend multiple hours each day on the boardwalk next to her had you not had ice cream to scoop at the moment, or had you not had a wife and kids to return home to and take care of. The water held a particular green-blue in which the green was especially strong and the blue a lighter, clearer shade. On some days, when the sun shone especially bright, the green was almost concerningly vibrant. You pride yourself on your knowledge that the yellow sunlight in combination with the blue water is bound to appear green, and more technically it had to do with species of algae collecting in the largely uncirculated water currents, but to someone who didn’t understand that concept, the beach must look quite the anomaly. For this reason, you thought, the girl must be entranced by the scene. This was not out of the ordinary. You thought nothing of it.

On the third day you noticed her again, picked out her blonde hair like a daisy in a field of clovers. It was beginning to feel… different, but you liked different. You thought of her as an acquaintance, a friend who wondered to herself, Why is that cute guy at the ice cream stand every day, all day? For this connection, you were grateful. Occasionally, when you would turn your eyes towards a customer and away from the girl, you could almost feel her eyes fall upon you. It just so happened that on each occasion you turned back, she predicted your doing so and reverted her gaze to the view from the boardwalk before you could catch her. You wanted so badly to take off your apron and approach her, to see your gaze returned. You wondered what color her eyes were. And you swore to yourself, had this next customer showed up just a second later, you would have already been on the way. Or the next customer. Or even the next. But, here you were, scooping Cookies and Cream for a short kid with a face under his freckles and hardly any teeth. And there she was, just standing and staring into the greenish ocean.

That evening she had made the papers. Headlines stated “Mysterious woman existentially ponders on Boardwalk,” and “Social Anomaly Strikes Newport: Woman Refuses to Move For DAYS.” Even your wife brought her up at the dinner table. She asked you questions like What do you think she’s looking at? and Is she lost? or Does she need help? but you really just thought that she enjoyed the view.

Today, you were told to come into work despite the torrent that was firing raindrops so they stung like bullets, shaking the stand to the point where you thought it might nearly fly away with the projectile rain. Your drive here was filled with complaints over the phone to your wife, who insisted you reminded her of a bleating goat, and also I’m cooking Something Really Special for dinner tonight. And while you wondered to

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yourself what Something Really Special could consist of or taste like, you saw her –a willow tree in a meadow of grass, her hair billowing in the wind. You, with your apron on, felt this isn’t right, this can’t be safe. Besides, you could hardly imagine enjoying your wife’s Something Really Special if you witnessed a woman get swept off her feet into the ocean and refrained from taking any action. That was it, you were out the door and on your way, bracing yourself in argument with the wind. Your mind was a mess – a nervous mess. You had no idea what the right thing to say was, and of all the wrong-things to say, or even the slightly-better-than-worse things to say, you for some reason chose the worst-thing-of-all to say.

“Why are you just… standing here?” You began to repeat yourself, but stopped when you saw her expression change. She furrowed her brows in thought. You glanced down and, to your disappointment, had forgotten to take your apron off, which read “If you were an Ice Cream flavor, you’d be ‘Irresistible!’” You thought it might as well have said “The guy at that stand who has been staring at you all day is kind of into you and this is as good of a time as any to break your mysterious streak of reluctance towards motion and walk away” or “I know it looks like I am married and have children, but I am really a teenager because look at my apron, no adult would wear this.”

Your stomach angrily grumbled and you began to wonder again what Something Really Special would taste like, when she shouted over the wind “Honestly, I just found myself here one day, and since then I haven’t found myself anywhere else. I mean, wouldn’t you stay somewhere if you knew your business wasn’t done there. And I’ve been thinking on the biochemical, cellular, individual, and communal levels, about the ecologically intriguing reasons of Why is this water so green? And also, I just really like the view.”

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