Mirage 2025

2025

MIRAGE

Ann Che

Mirage 2025 Dana Hall School 1

Dedicated to Julia Bucci

Arielle Kim

Julia Bucci is a storyteller, both personally and professionally, from her Moth performance to her award-winning screenplays to her short films. She is also a nurturer of other people’s stories, in the classroom, in the writing workshop, in Mirage, and in conversation. As such, empathy and vulnerability are the tools of her trade. And since we are all a collection of stories—those told and not yet told—this empathy and vulnerability mark all of her interactions with others, especially the relationships lovingly crafted with her students and advisees, as well as the friendships she’s formed over twenty years at Dana Hall. Being in Julia’s circle means that she nurtures your story, your voice. In her Moth live story of 2022, she said, “here’s the thing about voices: your voice stays with you your whole life, no matter what changes you go through.” She has helped to develop and then take care of so many students’ voices at Dana Hall, giving them a true gift that will stay for a lifetime. In her short 2022 film Ghosts, Julia muses, “Maybe part of me will remain in the places I’ve loved. Maybe I’m already there, in all of those places.” Wherever else she may be, part of Julia Bucci will remain at Dana Hall in the hearts of those who have loved her stories and whose stories she has loved.

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Dana Hall

Dedicated to Fred Lindstrom

When I was little, my father would always tuck me in with a bedtime story. Though the books we read weren’t up to the literary standards of the Shakespearean works he analyzed with his students, he nonetheless loved solving cases with Mr. and Ms. Bunny Detectives Extraordinaire, and running away from pesky roosters with Junie B Jones.

It was our special way of connecting one-on-one. My father has carried this spirit of connection throughout his time at Dana Hall, where he has spent twenty years using language and literature as a tool to build deeper relationships with colleagues and students. He took this mission for bond-building to greater heights in 2021 when he read hundreds of books by East Asian authors with the goal of expanding his global perspective, but most importantly connecting with his international students and making them feel seen and welcome in his classroom.

I witnessed the effects of his work firsthand; when my father would reach out to students from East Asia, I saw their faces light up when he mentioned an obscure novel from their home country. I occasionally will find him lying on the couch, practicing the pronunciation of the Chinese word for “step on the gas” so that he could encourage students in their native language when they were climbing the rock wall for the first time. I am immensely proud of his accomplishments, not only as an educator, but as a bridge-builder whose curiosity and love of literature has helped so many students feel at home in the classroom and on the climbing wall.

Ella Lindstrom, graduate of the Class of 2025

Mirage 2025

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4

Dana Hall

Atiyah Gill

TABLE OF CONTENTS Between Boundaries Deities’ Parade My Tree of Wisdom Shooting Gornergrat Daughter of Borrowed Fire Beneath the Tongue Through the Memories Kalokaíria Me Ti Yiayia Mou At the Edge of Loch Ness Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder Present Tense By-the-Sea revised 11.06.2024.

Harmony in Diversity No Reservations Nani and Nanu’s Secret Language You Were Promised Spring Deer Grandpa Let Them Eat Cake People on the Train Listen South of the River Choice Made in the Midst of Apocalypse Ming’s Tree Awakening The Lighthouse The Room With All the Stories From Myteline Grits and Pozole Paparazzi 68 Mill Pond Lane, Birthday Wishes Kosay’s Gaze Her Other Fragile Inheritances Modern Mindset The Mind of a Competitor Oranges The Philosopher of the Lone Star State Bogeyfolx The Epiphany Allure Wilt Factory who i am, who will i be?

Joy in Reflection For a Living Little Red Riding Hood The Leaning Barn Pulling Incommodious Maturing Vision of the Tunnel

Laura Zhao ’26 Ann Che ’27 Arielle Kim ’26 Atiyah Gill ’25 Sophia Huang ’27 Penny Wei ’27 Luina Qiao ’26 Sadie St. Clair ’27 Elise Fenn-Smith ’27 Jaz Wu ’28 Ann Che ’27 Micheline Reid ’26 Izzy Ding ’26 Danielle Hong ’25 Uthara Iyengar ’25 Neve Sahni ’27 Mila Pantelides Sola ’27 Jaz Wu ’28 Ella Kang ’26 Neve Sahni ’27 Arya Lal ’25 Maya Boyne ’27 Kayoon Lee ’26 Priscilla Miranda ’25 Nalina Atamian ’25 Gigi Ramaswamy ’27 Karen Altenhoff ’25 Nia Cao ’27 Mayrin Reyes-Jackson ’27 Ella Barnes ’28 Mila Pantelides Sola ’27 Mia Bloch ’25 Koharu Tanaka ’27 Penny Wei ’27 Karen Altenhoff ’25 Emme Turner ’27 Anya Mehta ’28 Nia Cao ’27 Arya Lal ’25 Laura Zhao ’26 Ella Barnes ’28 Onyinyechi Nwadike ’27 Yudi Wang ’25 Ella Rhee ’27 Ella Kang ’26 Widalis Burgos ’27 Chukwudiogo Okafor ’28 Gigi Ramaswamy ’27 Yudi Wang ’25 Genevieve Wu ’26 Danielle Hong ’25 Priscilla Miranda ’25

Mirage 2025

Cover 1 2 4 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 27 28 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 Back Cover

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6

Dana Hall Sophia Huang

DAUGHTER OF BORROWED FIRE BENEATH THE TONGUE Penny Wei mother lined jars of salt and sugar on the kitchen’s windowsill, each grain a ledger for the wound. sugar: for healing; salt: for remembering. she feeds me stories soft as spider’s silk, enveloped in sandalwood-scented saliva and ginger crumbs. only later did I learn regurgitation: her stomach acid already digested the thorns, and where Chrysanthemum stemmed was where they cut her tongue mid-syllable. they say my father was born with fire in his mouth, an ember resting beneath the tongue – the same flame that lit cigarettes behind rice fields and turned paper money into ancestor smoke. when he died we found nothing but a matchbox filled with brittle, yellowed teeth and a drawer of charred prayers sent to the wrong ancestors. when his crusty lips pressed on my baby-fat cheeks, they say his fire has passed on to me. mother was right: debts don’t settle with the dead – they root in the living. one morning I found her clutching hydrangea stems snapped like ribs (I later found to be her fingers themselves) and her mouth chiming names of herbage I couldn’t pronounce. she grew into a tree. upon her watering, instead of blooms, came brown threads stitching into humid soil: braids that once willowed thin earth. I asked her if she ever hated him. she said that hate, is salt. love, is sugar. the wound decides which it needs. when I am older and in Shanghai, under neon lights and bankrupt temples, I chew on sugar packets, spit out gourd seeds, and wonder how roots grow despite rain. mother whispers that stories don’t end, they echo in gluttony. father mutters that flames don’t die, they dim in latency. I now know: the fire in my mouth was never mine. only borrowed, only carried, only ash.

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Luina Qiao 8

Dana Hall

KALOKAÍRIA ME TI YIAYIA MOU Sadie St. Clair A

D1

Raspy smoker’s voice dances through my ears, With wise words of the world.

I cannot hear her words anymore – Have I ever truly listened before?

B I trace the blue streams running down her legs, How I love her blue eyes, reflected in the sky, Not a single white cloud in sight.

The white strands of life still there, but fading Mirrored in my rusty gold.

C Limonáda drunk so feverishly we could not taste The salt embedded in the air and our hair.

Baklava devoured so passionately we could not feel The cold breeze kissing us goodnight.

D I sleep safe, Wrapped in pretty pink sheets, As the blue mesh screen protects my blue streams.

She sleeps safe, Her blue mesh protects her blue streams, But without my pretty pink sheets.

E She watches me bathe in a bucket, Her laugh rings out, Breaking the silent slosh of my fun.

She watches me bake, Turning golden brown, Like my hair.

She stays blue and white; I am too new for her to enjoy me, She is too old for me to enjoy her.

She does not join me, She cannot join me.

Mirage 2025

She does not sleep, She cannot sleep, Her mesh is gone, But now she matches her sheets.

I do not sleep; My pretty pink sheets cannot wrap me, My mesh is gone, Forever abandoned, It cannot protect me anymore.

C1 We cannot rejoice, We can taste the salt, Although we washed it off long ago.

We cannot kiss goodnight; The breeze will feel forever rejected, But we cannot bear the pain anymore.

B1 Lines of her weathered hands, A map of life, its winding strands.

They don’t map out her life anymore; They only remind me of what was, Not the painful reality of what is.

Her strands tied and cut, My hair flows freely, Only constricted by grief.

A1 I beg for a voice, I will not hear her rasp, or shaky breath, Just the weight, silent and unsalty, An echo of blue, In the stillness, I search for her white.

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AT THE EDGE OF LOCH NESS Elise Fenn-Smith after James Wright The water lies dark, deep, ancient, a mirror for the bruised sky above.

Mountains rise like watchful sentinels, their faces carved by time and storm.

Heather spills across the hills, purple veins against the muted green.

A lone sheep wanders near the shore, its wool a whisper of snow on the rugged land.

A soft rain begins, each drop weaving itself into the loch’s ever-growing tapestry.

A boat glides by, silent, purposeful, its wake vanishing as quickly as it forms.

Somewhere, a seagull cries against the stillness, its voice swept away by the highland wind.

Suddenly I realize this place holds its secrets but offers its beauty to all who linger.

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Dana Hall

Jaz Wu Mirage 2025

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Ann Che 12

Dana Hall

BY-THE-SEA Micheline Reid The reflection of the old CDs tied to the vineyard posts blazed through my eyes from the faraway hills, reflected like the old basement television that first showed me that distant story which I aspire to tell as my own, like the one I traced onto my ceiling, an image I pulled from the very water I was drowning in.

We stood outside Seabreeze Liquors; you are the only type of wind that keeps me warm, and I’m so cold. I’m always so cold.

I’m always so cold and you always knew how to make it feel worth something.

The dark azure sky gave me cover to smudge away the splatter of shameful geometric forms from my face.

I feel like I’m missing something, I said, it’s a feeling that seldom goes away and it seeps through. Since that sleepy morning when the sinking moon looked like a bright yellow billboard spelling out my love; it’s for sale.

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revised 11.06.2024.

Izzy Ding forget about it! she tried to, but the quicksand was too deep.

forget about it! but the baby had already arrived and as she was told by him she had brought this upon herself.

forget about it! he tried to lift his foot out of the cement snow and put it in front of the other, but he kept trying to pray the gay away.

forget about it! their voices were tinnitus in her ears as the girl lay awake at night slut, ho, disgrace too afraid to enter unconsciousness.

forget about it! they lay in bed at night sharing deep breaths and secrets listening for the frogs’ croaking and cicadas’ buzzing but instead the sound of gunshots ricocheted in their ears.

forget about it! the truck drove off and the screams of “i love you”s and “i’ll come back”s faded like an inkblot in a pile of sand as they watched the ones they loved go back to where they came from.

forget about it! she refreshed her notifications over and over again, the river water rushing underneath her bare feet, but the police never called her back. forget about it! the sun came up, and they peered out the classroom window to see if another armed man would arrive today.

14

forget about it! they won’t.

Dana Hall

Danielle Hong Mirage 2025

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16

Dana Hall

Uthara Iyengar

NANI AND NANU’S SECRET LANGUAGE Neve Sahni I come down the stairs of my grandparents’ house and walk into the kitchen. My Nani cooks another dish, even though we just finished lunch.

I can tell that her knee hurts today because she asks me to go upstairs to get her phone.

I tell her to sit down and that I can stir the pot.

But she tells me to be quiet, to just relax and eat the absurd amounts of fruit my Nanu has cut.

Over the music, he says he doesn’t hear my Nani tell him to let her cut the potatoes, though I see him wearing his hearing aids.

As I listen to the old Bollywood music play from their iPad, I can hear the crackling in the recording and it soothes me while the stove fan blares.

I wonder why they are so stubborn.

They are elderly people, one with a bad knee and the other can barely hear.

They should be letting others help them.

But biting into my fruit, I think about how spending their days in a cramped kitchen is how they show their love.

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YOU WERE PROMISED SPRING Mila Pantelides Sola Drops of honey bead on your brow, vines grow around your neck and poppies burst on your lips When you kiss me I taste pollen and pigment, I choke on the earth I breathe in through your mouth You leave purple on my neck and around my wrists, you leave roots in my chest and blisters on my skin I push your hair behind one ear, a petal falls into your lap I twirl the vines around your neck and brush the pollen off your lips, your breath is cold and wet on my back Now all you do is worry, rashes blooming on your chest I watched them rip you from the root, Dewdrops falling cold and wet Soon the poppies will die from the salt in your sweat Now the vines have chained you to a garden bed, mistaken you for one of them I bottle up the dewdrops and lay you, branch by branch, to rest

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Dana Hall

Jaz Wu Mirage 2025

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Ella Kang 20

Dana Hall

PEOPLE ON THE TRAIN Neve Sahni Federal Law 49 CFR 37.167 states: Customers are required to move for seniors and people with disabilities. I find it odd that they had to make that a law, that it wasn’t second nature to stand up and give someone else a seat. I guess some people don’t think that way.

DO NOT LEAN AGAINST THE DOORS is written in big black letters. Who would be foolish enough to lean on opening doors?

I suppose someone must have done it once.

I jump on the crowded train at the last second.

People are pushing and shoving, a man with his guitar on his back shoves me into a corner.

Another man is leaning his arm against the wall, playing sudoku on his phone next to me. He must not realize that his armpit is ¼ of an inch away from my forehead.

I attempt to drown out the man sitting across from me with my headphones.

I fail. He must be going through a hard time – otherwise why else would he be wailing a Sarah McLachlan song out of key?

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LISTEN Arya Lal The Aquamarine Empress was smaller than Seth had been expecting, barely worthy of its grandiose title, though Seth had heard it was opulent enough to make up for its stature. Seth hung back until the last other passengers left their suitcases with crewmembers and entered the ship, hovering at the edge of the pier away from their incessant prattle. She forced her shoulders downward, hefted her duffel bag, and started towards the entrance. She could have put her paid vacation time to better use by actually resting, but her coworkers were all so envious that Seth didn’t want to draw more attention by not going.

A tall, broad-shouldered woman with braids coiled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck was waiting at the bottom of the ramp. She smiled down at Seth.

“Good morning,” the woman greeted Seth, voice clear and crisp. “I’m your captain, Shawna McMills. May I see your ticket?”

“Uh, hi. I’m Seth. Hang on –” Seth pulled her ticket out of an envelope labeled “Congratulations, Associate of the Year!” “Here.”

“Perfect, thank you.” Shawna slipped the ticket into her own pocket much more gracefully. “Welcome aboard. Please, let me take your bag.”

Seth bit her lip and handed the bag over. “Sure.”

– Seth stayed in her room, trying to read but struggling to grow accustomed to the constant rocking of the waves. After an hour, she gave up and decided to go to dinner. The halls were carpeted in a delicate blue, velvety rug. An eclectic collection of artwork lined the walls, from imitation Renaissance portraits to abstract, textured works made from shriveled, light gray patches smaller than Seth’s palm. She stepped closer to one, a colorless woman with her mouth thrown wide open and hands pressed outwards as if miming a box around herself. It didn’t look like she was screaming. The strange patches that made up the woman’s flesh were creased around her gaping mouth, but her eyes remained impassive. One wrinkled piece on the woman’s arm was drooping away from the wall slightly. Seth’s shoulders twitched up involuntarily, and she kept walking.

As soon as Seth swung open the doors of the dining room, a wash of noise overwhelmed her. Waiters darted between the tables, navigating the crush of people with platters held above their heads in a way Seth would never be able to. The polished wooden floor gleamed under the sparkling baroque chandeliers. Seth blinked rapidly as she tried to get accustomed to the chaos. The rest of the passengers seemed to have been making friends while Seth was trying to read, already chattering at round tables set around the room. To Seth’s horror, she soon realized that there were no empty tables. Seth forced herself to exhale slowly. She would have to join a group. Seth grabbed a plate, filled it from the buffet, and occupied the first empty seat she saw.

When Seth sat down, there was a brief silence. After a beat, the conversation resumed.

“– good thing Gladys didn’t hear about this one –” “– so extra –” “– no sense of propriety –” “– heard she showed up to Carlos’s party –” There was no room for Seth to push back her chair, the man at the table behind her sitting with his feet propped in someone else’s lap. There was a wine glass in front of her that Seth didn’t remember filling. She placed her hands on her knees, her eyes glazing over. The boisterous laughter of the person sitting across from her made Seth jump in her seat. She looked around the room for anything else to focus on.

Captain McMills was making the rounds, smiling and nodding at the guests. A crash came from behind Seth. She turned to see that the man behind her had knocked over his beer. Captain McMills produced a rag and pressed it on the tablecloth, sharing the man’s embarrassed laughter.

“My bad, hon.” The man didn’t lift a finger to help.

Captain McMills dipped her head and swiveled. As her head ducked, Seth saw her pleasant smile twist downward, eyebrows contracting into an expression of incandescent rage.

As soon as the look appeared, it was gone.

“How are we doing tonight?” Captain McMills addressed Seth’s table. Several of the passengers raised their glasses; some whooped. “Good, good,” Captain McMills continued. “Just wanted to let you all know that the dining hall is closing in fifteen minutes.”

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Dana Hall

LISTEN | Arya Lal (continued) Seth tried to stand, but the man behind her was still sitting too close. She twisted the edge of the tablecloth between her fingers.

“Excuse me, sir, if you wouldn’t mind moving…?” Captain McMills slid the man’s chair inward with surprising strength, giving him no time to protest. She braced Seth at the elbow as Seth stood. Seth didn’t make eye contact with the rest of the table as she stumbled out of the room.

– Seth’s bed was comfortable enough, but she still struggled to fall asleep, the crack of light emanating from beneath the door searing her eyes. Even long after the dining hall closed, cheers came from the casino above her.

Seth ground her face into her pillowcase and pulled her knees close. Beneath the clinking of glasses came the incessant rumbling of the engines, keeping Seth on edge like the growling of an ancient beast about to awaken.

Here, there was no deserted bathroom where Seth could hide the event away as she could on land. There was nowhere off the ship to retreat to with the pretense of illness. Seth dozed into a fugue state.

– Early the next morning, Seth took her coffee above deck, correctly predicting that none of the passengers would risk exposing their hangovers to the sunlight. The waves lapped against the side of the ship in an irregular rhythm, and the bracing morning air sent a chill through her bones. The ship, the sky, and the sea were all gray.

The only thing that let Seth distinguish them was their texture: the ship smooth and shiny, the clouds gauzy and blurred, and the wrinkled ocean resembling the skin of the woman of the strange piece of artwork in the hall. Seth tilted her head back but had to close her eyes. The sun filtering through the thick clouds seemed to be omnipresent, imprinting itself on the insides of her eyelids from every angle.

Through the sloshing waves came a clop. Seth turned her head to see a man who was sitting at her table the previous night. She looked back down at her coffee, but it was too late.

“Hey!” Seth pretended not to hear.

The man approached. “Hey, have you seen Lin?” Seth forced herself to look up, squinting at the light washing out the man’s features. “Who’s that?”

Maya Boyne Mirage 2025

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LISTEN | Arya Lal (continued) “You know, Lin? She was sitting right next to you?”

Seth could barely remember the woman’s face. “I haven’t.”

The man sighed harshly and walked away.

“She’s probably still passed out somewhere!” Seth called towards his back.

– Later that day, Seth was returning to her room when she saw Captain McMills scrutinizing the gray woman on the walls. The captain fixated on the woman’s left forearm. She prodded one of the patches, frowning.

Seth sneezed.

Captain McMills turned, and that smile was back, though not quite full force. “Hello, Seth! How are you enjoying the cruise so far?”

Seth stayed a few steps away from the captain. “It’s… fine? This is the first cruise I’ve been on, so I don’t know how to compare.”

“Well, I hope it’s making a good impression!” Captain McMills laughed.

“Um…” Seth swallowed. “Where did that come from?” She pointed to the woman on the wall.

“Me!” Captain McMills started towards Seth, looking at the piece from Seth’s angle. “I made it.”

In the ensuing pause, Seth could hear people running below them. The woman on the wall shook to the same rhythm.

“What is it made of ?”

Captain McMills’s eyes narrowed, and her grin grew. She ducked her head close to Seth’s and murmured, “I’ll tell you some other time.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Seth forced herself to look back at the art.

“No, I want to. Just… some other time. Oh, before I forget – here.” She gave Seth a small black case.

“Earplugs.”

Seth ducked her head. “Thanks.” She was just starting to smile back when the man from that morning and a few others approached.

“Shawna! There you are!”

For a moment, Captain McMills didn’t seem to notice them. Slowly, she turned, straightened, and regained her aura of bright professionalism. “How can I help?”

“We can’t find Lin,” the man panted.

The captain’s expression didn’t change. “Oh, dear. Well, I’ll knock on her door.”

“We tried that!”

Captain McMills tapped her chin. “We can only use the master key to enter her cabin in an emergency.

I’ll have the ship searched for her first.”

“We tried that, too!”

Captain McMills shrugged. “Well, let’s try again.”

“But –” “Could I interest you in a new cocktail to ease your nerves? A Limited Edition Aquamarine Empress Special!”

Seth slipped away.

– Lin wasn’t at dinner. The man leading the search wasn’t, either, but the drinks and the conversation still flowed. Seth arrived already wearing her new earplugs, though they didn’t do anything to help her differentiate the reflective surface of the floor from the people around her. Seth began to believe she would make it through the rest of the cruise without having a crisis in public.

– Two days later, six more people were missing. On her way to lunch, Seth found herself staring at Captain McMills’s artwork again. She examined the woman’s forearm, and sure enough, the patch that had been falling off had been replaced.

In the dining room, Captain McMills sat alone at a table, sipping a cup of tea with an empty plate in front of her. A clay jar sat on the floor next to her.

Seth made her way over to the captain. “May I join you?” Captain McMills’s open stance and relaxed 24

Dana Hall

LISTEN | Arya Lal (continued) expression seemed to invite her to sit more strongly than any verbal invitation passengers had offered Seth.

Captain McMills beamed up at Seth with her teeth, eyes crinkling. “Of course.”

Seth sat down. There was a strange chemical smell coming from the captain.

“Quiet, isn’t it?” Captain McMills remarked.

She was right. Though there were plenty of passengers in the room, none of them were speaking much.

“Do you like it?” Captain McMills asked.

“Like what?”

“The silence. It’s so much nicer this way, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t like it before, but… knowing it’s there because people are gone creeps me out.” While Seth did prefer silence, now, it made her feel almost claustrophobic. If she opened her mouth to make a sound, everyone could hear her. The dining room didn’t feel peaceful with everyone gone – just empty, as if Seth and Captain McMills were the only living beings on the ship. On a ship this small, everyone could see her.

“Do you have any idea where the missing people went?” Seth asked the captain.

“Some ideas, yes.”

“Is it… do you think someone’s… taking them?”

Captain McMills set her tea down and propped her chin on her hand. “There’s nowhere to take them, Seth. This is a small ship.”

Seth pressed her palms into the arms of her chair.

“You’re upset,” Captain McMills observed. “You’re… afraid?”

Seth closed her eyes. “I don’t want to be here,” she confessed. “I’m not even supposed to be here. It’s just because of work.”

Captain McMills cracked a grin. “Me, too.”

“But – I just won associate of the year at my firm. This was the prize. I don’t go on cruises. I wanted to stay home and relax during my vacation, not tour the North Atlantic Ocean.”

“Not much of a prize, is it, then?”

“For anyone else it would be.” Seth dragged a hand down her face. “They were all so excited for me… I don’t know what they would’ve said if I didn’t go.”

“Don’t listen, then. They wouldn’t understand anyway.”

“I want to leave.”

“You’re afraid.” Captain McMills spoke with neither judgment nor compassion. She shook her head.

“There’s no need to be afraid.”

Seth latched onto that statement. “How do you know?”

“You wouldn’t go missing on this ship. I promise.”

“How can you promise that? We don’t even know what’s happening here.”

“Mm.” Captain McMills stood and cradled the jar in the crook of her elbow. Something sloshed inside of it. “Come with me.”

If Captain McMills could easily recognize Seth’s need for earplugs, surely she could understand Seth’s anxiety, too. Seth focused her eyes on Captain McMills’s back, trying to ignore her encroaching sense of unease.

Seth followed Captain McMills deeper into the ship than the passengers’ quarters. They reached a plain white door, which Captain McMills unlocked one-handed. Inside was a large wooden desk and several other jars like the one Captain McMills was holding. The captain set her own jar down on the desk and picked up a different one.

She held it out to Seth with both hands.

“You won’t go missing. I promise. You’re like me.”

Seth took the jar. It was heavier than she was expecting.

“That one’s not quite ready yet,” Captain McMills told her, “but go ahead and take a look.”

Seth removed the lid. Inside, all she could see was a cloudy liquid that smelled how Seth would imagine bleached Cheez-Its to smell. “What’s in here?”

“Let me show you.” Captain McMills opened a desk drawer, removed a pair of tongs, and reached towards the jar. She withdrew a wrinkled, pinkish lump smaller than Seth’s palm. It dripped onto the floor. “Don’t you like it?”

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LISTEN | Arya Lal (continued) Seth dug her nails into the jar. “What is that?”

Captain McMills put the lump back in the jar. “Vocal cords. You were wondering where Lin was, yes?” She patted the jar. “Right here.”

Seth dropped the jar. It shattered, splashing onto Seth’s shoes. She backed towards the door, dry heaving, but Captain McMills got there first. The captain leaned back against the closed door, head bowed. She looked up at Seth without raising her head.

“These are your materials?” Seth edged out of the growing puddle, away from the lump of flesh on the floor. She stopped as her movements brought her closer to Captain McMills.

“Beautiful, no?” Captain McMills’s voice almost had a teasing lilt to it. “I like putting them up on the walls. It helps me get through the day. A reminder I can always make it go quiet again.”

“You’re sick.”

Captain McMills’s smile faded. “You like it,” she insisted. “You’re like me.”

“I’m not like you.” Seth pressed her thumb into her temple, rocking on her heels. “I’m not. Let me out of here.”

“I see you. You itch like I do. You want them gone like I do. You stay calm like I do. I always feel like I’m about to snap, but I never do. I wait, I find them, I silence them, and only when I’m pasting their vocal cords to the wall do I really feel the adrenaline release. You want it to stop like I do, and I can stop it. They won’t bother you again.”

“Yes, and no! I want it to stop, but I don’t kill people! What gives you the right to rip someone’s throat out just because you don’t like them? That’s your problem!”

“Don’t worry, Seth. It’ll be completely quiet soon enough. You won’t need earplugs anymore. Stay a little longer.” Captain McMills let her head fall back against the door. “You’ll like it.”

“I won’t like it. I’m not like you. I want to go home.” Seth stepped around the puddle to look Captain McMills in the eye. “I want to get out of here. I want to get back to my life.”

Captain McMills rocked her head side to side against the door, grumbling. “Why are you like this? You’re like me. Why can’t you appreciate the things I do for people like us?”

Seth tried to breathe deeply. “Step away from the door. Let me out of here.”

“That’s what the rest of them said, too.”

“I’m not like them either!” Seth flexed her palms by her side. “I’m just me.”

Captain McMills stilled, pushing off of the door. Seth wanted to step back but forced herself not to move.

“Fine, then. You’re you.” The captain shook her head. “You get it, and you don’t. You’re like me, and you’re like them.” Captain McMills grabbed Seth’s chin.

Seth slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

“That’s what the rest of them said, too.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Seth tried to inch sideways so she could have a clear shot towards the door.

Captain McMills threw her head back and guffawed joylessly. “Seth, I’d never hurt you. Never.”

As the captain’s head tilted back, Seth saw her chance. She lunged for the door. Captain McMills got there first, her veins standing out as she gripped the handle.

“Please, allow me.” Captain McMills opened the door for Seth, inclining her head.

Seth froze.

“Go on.” Captain McMills dug her teeth into her bottom lip. “What are you waiting for?”

Seth refused to take her eyes off of Captain McMills as she moved forward.

Captain McMills’s face flashed into fury. She grabbed Seth by the collar and shoved her past the door.

“Get out of here. Get out. Live your life pandering to those rats. You should never have come here.”

– The itinerary had the Aquamarine Empress stopping at a port in Greenland to taste the best halibut in the world. Seth called a cab to the airport, thanking herself for bringing only a duffel bag. On the plane, Seth closed her window shade, cutting off the ethereal gray light and blocking the endless clouds from her mind.

– One week later, Seth opened her daily newspaper to the headline: Empty Cruise Ship Found Adrift Near Greenland.

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Kayoon Lee Mirage 2025

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Mirage 2025

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Priscilla Miranda

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Dana Hall Nalina Atamian

THE LIGHTHOUSE Gigi Ramaswamy On the last night of summer, we climb to the top of the old lighthouse, its stairs creaking under our weight.

The beam no longer turns – it’s been automated, like everything else, but the view remains the same: the ocean stretched tight over the horizon, the sky folding into itself.

I wonder if the people who built this place knew how long it would last, if they guessed we’d be here, trying to find meaning in their work, their light, the weathered stones.

The air is cold against my face, sharp with salt and something I can’t put a name to.

Below, the rocks are slick with seaweed, the tide pressing forward as if to remind me that nothing stands still, not even this.

Later, I’ll realize it wasn’t about the lighthouse at all, but the climb – the way I kept moving, even when I didn’t know what waited at the top.

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Dana Hall

Karen Altenhoff

FROM MYTILENE Nia Cao after Anne Carson’s translation of Sappho 74A My father has chosen a goatherd but I am stuck in that field, pink roses pressed against the palms of my hands.

74B The gods have cursed me, forever longing for tragedy.

74C His scent is thick of goat and sweat.

The next morning, I wake with roses in my hair.

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GRITS AND POZOLE Mayrin Reyes-Jackson after George Ella Lyon I am from roller skates and scabbed knees, from Froot Loops and Law and Order reruns.

I am from one of many second-floor apartments on Hamilton Street.

(Lively, loving, I listen to the bachata blasting into our ears.)

I am from potted purple pansies, in honor of my great-grandmother Ruby who pressed pansies in between the pages of books and sent them to my mother for as long as she can remember.

I am from “Meet in the Middle” and gaps when we grin, from Susan and Pedro.

I am from those who love to talk and hyphenated last names from “Stop crying, or I’ll give you a reason to cry” and “¡Échale ganas!”

I am from Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe dangling from my neck as I ask her if she will always be there for me.

I am from all over the East Coast and Huajuapan de León, Oaxaca, grits and pozole.

From my Abuelo Loco desegregating his high school in Virginia, the way my father named me after a Mexican telenovela actress.

As I gaze upon the walls in my Abuelita’s house, a gallery of generations watches me.

They whisper of the history we hold and the history we continue to make.

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Ella Barnes Mirage 2025

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68 MILL POND LANE, Mila Pantelides Sola the house of stained doilies and grape leaves. I used to lie on the cold tile in the kitchen while she cooked. When I was older, she let me play in her bedroom. It smelled like mold and rotting fruit; her carpets were damp and sour.

She let me play with her jewelry and snuck dollar bills into my little fists. When I got bored of her bedroom, I would trace my way down the hall, dragging my fingers across the dingy porcelain wall of the shower in the upstairs bathroom where I would scrub myself for hours and never feel clean.

68 Mill Pond Lane, 900 square feet of things I didn’t understand, like the tremor in her voice when she spoke. I pictured her vocal cords trembling like her hands did when she taught me how to open pistachio shells at the kitchen table, dropping them into a little wooden box. Then there was the fridge, covered in magnets and letters from the aunt I never met. I didn’t know her face, but I had memorized her big, loopy cursive from hours of tracing it with my fingers.

68 Mill Pond Lane, and when December came, I would sit at the Nativity set in her front yard. I used to hum and peel the moss off baby Jesus, scratching my fingernails on the rough gray stone. I did this while the adults were talking. I would find anything to escape the boredom of listening to words I couldn’t understand from underneath the kitchen table. I’d cradle myself against the oak and count pistachio shells until it was time to go.

It’s been a long car ride home from the church. My fingers rub the folds of a stained white doily. I clutch the ridged surface of a small wooden box, pistachio shells rattling each time we go over a bump. I open the door and dry heave before going to my room to slip off the black dress and tights.

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Mia Bloch Mirage 2025

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Koharu Tanaka

HER OTHER FRAGILE INHERITANCES Penny Wei mother fed pigeons rawness of throat: crackled mantou crumbs waterless & sauceless worth not of flavour & spice, tongue mild as porridge bleeding through lashes – vision met with whiteness. in beer-bellied economists & diplomats she shoots herself deaf, gasoline trickling out of the skull’s aperture. in fake diamond-disguised piercings, clasped hands pray not for gas prices to rise. down the unpermed scalp do you hear tooth worms grinding rice? seaweed-breathed fish kissed her many: 1. fins to breathe underwater 2. a seven-second memory; when father presses her head into toilet water, she tears and lets him do it again. at midnight she dances to en pointe variations & rinses black-blooded toenails. in inhalations of her daughter’s glass lung, she chews on grey brittle hair, cycles & re-life. and I love her despite: sunlight pelts & stings, but they’ll soften in her rosewood spits as she weaves them into green mirage, petaled on me. maybe I was birthed in miasma & disposed viper wreaths – but tongue by tongue the orphan-hearted child was fed gossamer flowers under knitted-ochre skies. artificial is all I need, mother. somewhere, I am embraced by your ugly sweater, banal hues tie into sprouts. between the incense I lit I see you standing by iridescent mists, waxed as statue, falling as rain. isn’t it funny? in my ethereal dreams, you melt into phantoms as I sauce your dinner plate: eat salt and zhacai, ma. you have tongue papillae too old for blandess. if not translucent, then be numbed by liquor & pain. if not love, then no sun can will her into rebirth.

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Karen Altenhoff

THE MIND OF A COMPETITOR Emme Turner The shrill shriek of my twelve-year-old sister, Stella, rings out across the silent table.

“I hate you!! You’re so annoying.”

Stella’s face contorts with effort of holding her tears in, but eventually they break through and fall in a silent trail down her face. Everyone at the table shares a look and a sigh. With Catan, you never know if someone is going to end up in tears.

My family’s sacred board game: Catan. On most occasions, my family is built around support and trust.

However, when we gather together on the holidays, we pull out the game of Catan. It is a simple but brutal board game with bartering, building, and dice. Three words to describe my family while playing games: competitive, cunning, and cutthroat. Crying because of Catan or making someone cry during the game is a regular occurrence.

My family and I are not malicious people; we just take winning seriously. Normally, my siblings and I get along quite well. Our dynamic changes when we play games together. My oldest brother, Mac, is most similar to me in the sense that he will never turn down an opportunity to compete. My second brother, Hutch, doesn’t play often because he winds up throwing things at my head. Stella, the youngest sibling, still has to learn how to be unsusceptible when it comes to the merciless ins and outs of the game. Stella still takes offense at everything that occurs in the game. This is why when someone blocks her in the game, she loses it.

“It’s not fair, I have no good cards and Emme just cut me off,” Stella exclaims in a shaky voice.

My mom attempts to comfort Stella from where she cooks dinner in the kitchen: “Stella, it is just a game.

I’m sure Emme didn’t do anything on purpose; she is only trying to win, same as you.”

I can see that Stella doesn’t hear the message; she only understands that I am now her sworn enemy.

“Fine. But I’m targeting you now, Emme.” Stella shoots daggers at me from across the table.

“Fine with me, but while you’re targeting me, you’re just going to let Mac win.” Deflection is the best way to go when someone throws a fit.

“I don’t care! I hate you!”

I shrug, not really affected by these words. We were always taught that the word hate was the same as any curse word. However, my mom doesn’t reprimand Stella for her use of language. My mom understands that while we are playing Catan, we enter a competitive mindset. My mom knows this because she is the same exact way with her own siblings.

The game continues, leaving Stella in a sulking corner, Mac aggravated because he isn’t winning, and Hutch uninterested because there are no stakes in this game for him. I feel uncomfortable playing the game with my siblings like this, but I inwardly smile as I inch closer towards a victory. The best revenge is to win quietly.

This is the turn where I win. No one can stop me. I fight hard not to smile, because that would be the same as throwing a brick in all of my siblings’ faces, and I can’t stir the pot any more.

I place my winning cards down on the table, and my siblings react immediately.

Stella throws her cards down and screams.

Hutch gets up immediately and claims he is going to play video games.

Mac looks at me and says, “Are you kidding me? You just got lucky, none of my numbers got rolled.” Mac can’t handle it when he loses.

I just smile and announce “Good game!” in a singsong voice. Stella storms upstairs with more tears in her eyes, and Mac helps me clean up the game before he too storms upstairs with a quiet huff.

My mom turns to me and scolds, “You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?”

“It’s not like I win every day. Besides, they were all punchy today,” I say with a shrug.

My mom just laughs, “Who knew I would raise such competitive kids. You’re competitive because of the household you grew up in. You kids saw the way I am with my sisters and copied it.”

I thought for a moment, realizing that she was right. I have seen my mom fight and shout with her siblings while playing Catan on countless occasions. I remember one instance when my mom won by sabotaging her sister. I have never seen my aunt so enraged. After the game, at dinner, my mom and my aunt were laughing together like hyenas. I remember thinking, “I swear Auntie Shirley wanted to rip my mother’s head off just a couple of hours ago.”

My mom sees my train of thought and picks up on it. “As long as you guys remember to love and support each other while not playing games, I am okay with the extreme competition. It teaches you to grow a thick skin Mirage 2025

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THE MIND OF A COMPETITOR | Emme Turner (continued)

Anya Mehta

and not take everything personally. Besides, who doesn’t love winning?”

My mom continues, “I think you and Mac have it the worst, Emme. Do you remember when you were 5 years old, and he was 10? He would convince you to play cards with him, just so he could beat you. Now look at you two, competing head to head. Isn’t it interesting how you’ve grown?”

I think about how I absolutely despise losing to Mac. I could never let Mac know that I care that much, so I pretend that it doesn’t bother me. I wonder if 5-year-old me felt the same way, or if the competitiveness within me grew as I did.

After a little while, I venture upstairs to my room. I muster the courage to knock on Stella’s side of our Jack and Jill bathroom door. No answer. Afraid that I will get yelled at, I tentatively slide the door open. Stella is lounging on her bed, watching a show.

“What do you want?”

I smile and chuck something at Stella on the bed.

“Hey! You suck.” I can still hear the venom in her voice.

Stella turns the item around, and I see the moment she realizes what I got her. Just a small token that I knew would make her day. One small box of…

Stella gasps dramatically, “FRUIT LOOPS!!”

“Just a consolation prize, since not everyone can be a winner.”

Stella gives me a look, and I knew I picked the right timing. We burst out in laughter and head downstairs for dinner, both of us smiling.

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THE PHILOSOPHER OF THE LONE STAR STATE Nia Cao for Uncle Keith You were the most American American I ever knew.

We lived in a red brick house on Arbor Gate Drive where I blew bubbles in the backyard and danced to singing summer cicadas under the supervision of the setting sun.

An electric guitar-playing, gold chain-wearing Odysseus with long blonde hair dyed pink, you were an 80’s rockstar turned trucker who sailed state to state searching for stories.

Before that tired metaphor unraveled within you, you sat on the porch whistling folk tunes for the crowd of ladybugs on leaves, a purple freeze pop in hand because you gave the last red one to me.

My mind an eroding memorial, I am trying to recall the exact color of your southern drawl, but time has infiltrated my memories and worn you down to a distant echo.

If the Constitution protects life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, why did it not step in to put out the level five wildfire blazing in your lungs?

You were Keith the Great who spoke in peculiar English idioms and greeted strangers like old friends, who breathed in struggle and exhaled out strength.

You were Keith the Great who made sure I lived amongst the evergreens, and you had no place in that hungry hospital room.

The day the doctors told Aunt Vanessa there was nothing left they could do, I wore armor to school and sat in Ms. Womble’s ELA class bracing for the impact,

but it never came – not for a while, you see, grief arrived more like the slow roll of an ocean tide and knocked on my heart like the pendulum of incense the priest with his rosary swung back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

I crossed the wooden bridge that separated the parish from the columbarium and stood before your niche, but I knew the man who lived life with his windows rolled down rested elsewhere.

Six years ago, the red brick house grew quiet: its faucets thirsty, its doors motionless, its curtains drawn.

Forgetting once felt easier than remembering, but I now want nothing more than to hear the rumble of your laughter break the silence of a late spring night.

You kept my picture day photo in your wallet, and I keep our last image together on the desk where I got into private school, where I realized I wanted to write, where the dreams you once pushed me to achieve became reality.

Your love for 90’s detective shows, the small things, and slow moving Sunday mornings survives in me.

On a tree-lined road in the northeast of a tranquil Texas town, there lived a great philosopher who rose before I could say goodbye.

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BOGEYFOLX Arya Lal after Anne Sexton I have shown myself among the children, teetering on the binary line in the sun.

Though it stings my skin to be seen, I turn them pallid, cold, androgynous like me.

A creature like that is a transgression.

I have been his kind.

I have stayed within my mind’s keep, scaled my own walls, locked my own doors.

The body I see in the mirror is not my own, red eyes and sharp teeth imposed on my form.

A creature like that is translucent.

I have been his kind.

I have transcended my flesh, transformed into a leathery bat by tape, a second skin sticking my chest in place.

With arms free, I glide into the open night.

A creature like that is only human.

I have been his kind.

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Laura Zhao Mirage 2025

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Ella Barnes 46

Dana Hall

WILT Onyinyechi Nwadike The strong male ogene dancers’ feet pounded against the gold sandy ground. Their sweaty dark faces scrunched up as one of them blew into the oja. Another man rattled the icheke fearlessly and with great strength.

The rest of his counterparts struck the ogene gong to form a melodious tune. Without warning, eight female dancers emerged from the crowd in uniform. They wore brown and yellow ankara cloths that covered their chests but exposed their bellies; the same pattern was used for their skirts. Their waists swayed side to side tactfully and swiftly as they followed the tune. The dancers jumped and dug their toes into the sand as their knees stayed bent and jolted off the floor and their shoulders moved back and forth. The groom swung his acoupe to the rhythm and stomped in accordance with music, alternating between his left and right foot. The groom tugged at the gold embroidered neck of his navy blue agbada in frustration with the blazing sun, yet he displayed a large, toothy grin.

Soon after the groom was finally seated, a woman with a gorgeous yellow ankara and matching gelle entered the venue with her bridesmaids. The bride wore a gold gelle atop her head, and her dress hugged her curves in the right places; she was adorned with coral beads. She danced around gracefully and stopped every once in a while to kneel in front of the elders to greet them. In her hand, she carried a tan container, similar to a vase, filled with palm wine. She gently swayed the container side to side as she danced with her bridesmaids. She grinned and approached her groom with the drink. The bride knelt down in front of the groom, offering him the drink, a tradition in the Igbo culture. The groom happily accepted the drink; he opened his mouth and swallowed the entire container of palm wine. He finished, letting out a huge “Ah” in satisfaction, and took his bride to the dance floor.

I am from the tribe of strong Odogwus, from thunderous chants and the feet of ogene dancers striking the sandy ground. I am part of the tribe that names their kin with intention and holds the union of a man and woman very dear to their hearts.

The bride, the groom, the bride price, the introduction to the family, the big extravagant Nigerian wedding. One day, I’ve been told from a young age, that would be my story.

All the guests arose and rushed to the dance floor. Blues and greens were thrown into the air. Aunties stood in the corners conversing, most likely gossiping. The young ladies swayed their hips sensually in an attempt to court the guys, but the boys just stood in the corner of the dance floor, eyeing them as they drank their soft drinks, occasionally smiling. The men, also known as THE uncles, conversed about politics and work.

It was not until I started eighth grade that comments about marriage started to become more… prominent. When I washed the dishes after hesitating, my grandmother would lecture me, saying, “Will your husband be washing the dishes in your house? You’re a woman.” I was a woman. Destined to get an education, marry, have kids, and live to see my kids’ kids. That was the life planned out for me. When I turned fifteen, aunties would joke on the phone with my mom, saying things like, “Ahn, Ahn, Onyinyechi is a big girl now ohhh, she’s 15?! Very soon we will be sewing aso ebi for her wedding oh.”

When I gained a little bit of weight in the winter of seventh grade, my grandmother and mother would always warn me to “be careful” about how and what I would eat. After all, African men didn’t like chubby girls.

They liked tall, skinny, and fair girls with flat tummies and big buttocks. They liked soft-spoken girls who dressed modestly. They liked… they liked what they liked.

I was to be a traditional Nigerian woman with a traditional Nigerian wedding, with a traditional Nigerian woman’s life. The problem was, I was American, whether my parents liked it or not. Born in the land of the free at Hackensack Meridian Hospital in New Jersey. Born to Nwakanma and Chinedu, immigrants from Nigeria in search of better chapters in life. I was American. Not the most American, but I was in fact American.

Being born in America made my views on my culture slightly Western. Traditionally, women are meant to cook, clean, watch the kids, and satisfy their husbands. I believe in divorce. Being born in America, I see how men often cook or wash the dishes, splitting the chores with their partners. In Nigerian culture, it is almost forbidden for a man to walk into the kitchen and cook or clean. His kin, specifically his female children or wife, are responsible for that. But I am not in Africa; I am in America, as an American. I know I will one day get married, but I hate that the idea is being shoved down my throat. Aside from your career and stature, marriage is your identity in the Igbo culture.

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WILT | Onyinyechi Nwadike (continued)

Yudi Wang

Right after the first of many other dancing sessions, food was served. Ushers dressed in black and white net caps rolled their trollies towards each table, making sure to serve the special guests first. On the plate was smoky party jollof rice with assorted meats and fishes, fried rice with gizzard, and creamy coleslaw. Everyone at my table scarfed the food down. I dug my fork into my plate and lifted it to my lips, savoring the sweet and spicy taste of the jollof rice. I grabbed my chilled Fanta and drank it, appreciating the coolness of the drink in the blazing African sun. I drank so quickly that the fizz started to burn my nostrils.

I want that big extravagant Nigerian wedding in due time, but I do not want to hear about it now, persistently. Marriage is supposed to be exciting and not feel like an obligation. With all the people in my ear talking about marriage front, left, and center, I become exhausted.

So although I want to get married, I want to put a pause on that discussion. I am a young girl going through the transition from childhood to adulthood. I am a rose being forced to grow that might wilt, but when left alone, for now, I will bloom and thrive beautifully.

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WHO I AM, WHO WILL I BE? Ella Rhee It’s the one that sleeps in my soul, and appears in my dreams at night

It gazes at me through the mirror and speaks: “Where are you from?”

a whisper, brief, yet endless.

Confusion smirks, watching me tremble in my skin – seeing me trace over my face, pull my skin, my hair, lips, eyes – mapping out an uncharted land.

It mutters words of doubt, “I am, am not,” and I am just a bridge, crossing place to place.

Confusion doesn’t know where to send me, which side I must live on, what to call home, so I stand in the middle, bringing me to the world of neither here nor there It taunts me, echoing voices that sound like mine, but not quite – it dances with my shadows, and pulls them out of line.

I am stranded in the middle of nowhere, constantly reminded I’m nothing but a bridge between places.

Confusion slips into my voice, as I hear the exact words I cannot speak – it waits for me to try, to try and reclaim a language long forgotten, a lullaby my parents knew, but I never grew into.

Confusion hands me a stack of masks, and I wonder, Which one will I wear today?

It watches as I try them on, filling voids that somehow still feel too empty.

Confusion is the one who stares back when I look into the mirror – it recognizes me, but I can’t say the same.

Why do I feel this way?

Am I a title? A name? A place?

Or am I simply a response to questions I never thought to ask?

And yet, no matter how hard one may try, confusion comes back to me again and again – asking me the question of not who I am now,

I am unable to answer for myself.

but who I’ll be when I allow.

Confusion loves to make me wonder.

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Ella Kang 50

Dana Hall

FOR A LIVING Widalis Burgos The naturality of living feels distorted to me. Time is an endless construct, yet it’s never enough. No matter how much I try to view it, the world seems monochrome. It enforces a sensation of emptiness inside, a sensation that I’ve despised since I’ve walked on earth.

I am a vanishing voice in the cold, misty forest, echoing a grievous melody underneath my breath. My fingers are numb and filled with blisters. Trembling, I urge myself to take the step, forcing myself forward. But each step forward is a step back.

I am a flower on its last breath. I shrivel alongside the snow, the freezing weather seeping through my veins. My once vibrant, colorful petals that defined me will turn dull and muddy to the point where even I cannot recognize myself anymore.

I am a crown of thorns, violent and bitter. I’m filled with animosity and resentment. My thorns, sharp and spiky, exist to prick at flesh and cause pain. I’m terrified of being reached out to, of being confronted, of not being alone. I get nervous at the thought of having someone by my side. So I avoid interaction and do the only thing I know I can do: bite back.

Growing up, this was all I ever thought about. If I had to describe a figment of my imagination, I would have said this. If I had to illustrate what it was like to live, all I could have said was this. If I had to describe who I was, all I could have said was this.

I had to learn the hard way that it was best to never speak up. It was best to isolate yourself and not try. It was best to grow up all on your own. I once thought I was someone. Back then, I had such a captivating, crooked smile that beamed as luminous as sunlight. I grew up with memories I treasured, photographs I cherished, and people I loved. But as I got older, those moments that meant the most to me were nevermore.

Soon, I was faced with a green-eyed, monstrous, eerie creature named “mockery.” It fed into the flesh of others around me, and eventually, my flesh as well. I’d grown to expect and stray away from mockery by pushing others, even the ones I loved, aside. I’d grown to lash out and harm when I was afraid. I’d grown to ultimately despise myself. Soon, I would burn these memories in a scorching fire and watch them turn into ash. And, acrimoniously, I wanted to burn in that exact blazing fire, till I disintegrated into nothing.

So, I adopted the belief that I was nothing. So I’d understand that I was forsaken no matter where I went, or what I did, for a living.

But one thing didn’t burn.

Literature to me was like magic being real. Because literature can be anything, whether narratives of various moments of history, tales of enchanted beings, or memoirs of people’s lives. Every literature piece has one thing in common to me: they all tell a story. They all tell a story that we’ll never forget.

As I grew, Literature twisted and turned into different plots, illustrating different characters that I’d grown to love and adore..

The only way I knew how to cope was to read books. I read books mostly everywhere I went. Whether it was the train, the bus, the library, at school, or home. I had at least one book or two on me to keep me occupied for the day. I saw it as an escape. An escape from inner and outer mockery.

On a cold evening in January, I sat alone in my room again, book in hand. My teeth chattered as I crouched in my favorite corner. I looked down at the words of my book, holding a lamp. Suddenly, my world stopped, except it was my hand that was on the globe.

Like a story, every resolution has a purpose. Whether it’s classified as a good ending or a bad ending, it still has a reason. There’s always a certain motivation to keep going. And right there, I realized that there’s no such thing as no purpose in life.

For the first time in a while, my eyes sparked, and a smile crept up.

Reading books in the middle of the night in winter is a memory I can’t burn. The only next step there is left is to heal. This memory gently touched my skin and kissed my face. A light glistened on me, and in fascination, I followed this light.

I am a voice in the cold. But I can speak out and arise like a symphony of voices surrounding the earth.

I realize that I can push through and take a step forward, as long as I dare to never look back. I realize that my voice can vanish sometimes, but I have the power to speak up.

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FOR A LIVING | Widalis Burgos (continued)

Chukwudiogo Okafor

I am a flower on its struggling breath. But that doesn’t mean that it’s my final breath. Hardships weigh out and cause me to wilt like winter, but I’ll learn to grow from them and blossom, new as spring.

I am a crown of thorns. I’ve learned to hurt, but I can heal. I can learn to be valiant and open up. I can learn to listen and speak instead of cowering and hurting. I bite out of anxiety, but with time and patience, I can flourish.

Literature healed me by making me realize that I have a purpose. It made me realize that I am something.

It made me acknowledge that I don’t have to be alone and that I was never alone. It made me accept that all my memories, all the moments of happiness I’ve ever had, matter. I matter. Literature is the start of my voyage to find my ambitions for a living.

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Dana Hall

THE LEANING BARN Gigi Ramaswamy On the way to preschool, a barn always caught my eye.

Its roof pitched like a shrug, its red paint flaking off in sneezes the wind carried away.

Even then, I could tell it was tired, the way it leaned, as if the earth were pulling it closer.

The cows still milled around outside, their breath rising like smoke against the still morning.

Some days, the farmer waved – a quick motion, his gloved hand thick with frost and purpose.

The boards moaned in the wind, but they held the way knees do when climbing a hill that never quite levels out.

Now, years later, I pass it sometimes on the way here or there, the slant is more pronounced, at a stubborn angle of refusal.

Still, the cows wander in and out, still, the farmer moves between the sagging walls, still, it stands.

There’s something about that – a structure that should have fallen, but doesn’t.

How the frame sways but holds, how it hears the weight of time and stays anyway.

Something I don’t have words for yet, but I feel it, every time I see the barn.

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Yudi Wang 54

Dana Hall

STAFF PAGE CO-EDITORS IN CHIEF: Genevieve Wu ’26 Arya Lal ’25 ART EDITOR: Ella Kang ’26 LIT EDITORS: Yvonne Hao ’25 Micheline Reid ’26

STAFF: Emily Bahar ’26 Widalis Burgos ’27 Nia Cao ’27 Ann Che ’27 Mila Pantelides Sola ’27 Neve Sahni ’27 Sadie St. Clair ’27 Penny Wei ’27 Jaz Wu ’28 FACULTY ADVISORS: Julia Bucci Mary Ann McQuillan

Genevieve Wu Mirage 2025

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Dana Hall

Danielle Hong

MIRAGE 2025