Demogorgon Lit Magazine // 54th Edition

Letter from the editor

Participating in the creation of East's 20212022 Demogorgon Literary Magazine has been a huge source of fulfillment for me this year. I have immense gratitude for our advisor, Mr. Connolly, my fellow editors, and all contributors as a whole. I am consistently inspired by the amazing art created by East students; it is this inspiration that has not only motivated me to join this club, but to also challenge myself in making layout the best it can be. I hope our readers are as blown away as I am by the creativity, skill, and artistry of my peers. Thank you for supporting our work.

Emily Boyle ('23)

head of design

Empty Train Station

By Cecilia Tavares ('23)

"Is this seat taken?" A voice asked.

It took me a second to respond, the rest of the train station seats were empty. Fragments of light emitted through the windows, reading my plans for that day, too tired to argue if I said no.

"Sure, you can sit there." I paused my scrolling, barely glancing up to see who spoke to me.

"Thanks."

I went back to scrolling on my phone, not really thinking about what had happened. I glanced up and saw the boy looking at me, smiling, with his head tilting to the side. I had no words. No one talks to each other at a train station unless you know the other or if they're looking for directions. But he seemed different. His warm demeanor juxtaposed his silver chains, rings, and gothic style But, was he aware of what he was doing? It piqued my interest though, so I decided to put my phone down.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

“Like what?” he replied with a smirk.

“I think we both know exactly what”

"You seem interesting"

"Why?"

"Well, this is the earliest anyone has been here for a while. I'm usually the only one here in the morning. Plus, you must be engrossed in something else to not notice me sitting next to you when all the other seats are vacant."

"Hmmm, I guess so. Well, I'm going on a trip for school today to a museum, so I had to come in early today."

"Ah, I see. Sounds…fun."

The boy chuckled, remembering something from the past; satisfied with my answer, and glanced away. I still didn't understand him. Why was he being sarcastic? I decided to continue.

"So, where are you going?"

"I have to go to school on the other side of the city, it's pretty far " He responded gazing forward.

"Oh, do you like it there?" I inquired.

"Yeah, it's pretty nice," he muttered, slowly looking down with hollow glassy eyes.

It didn't sound like he actually liked the school, but I didn't want to bombard him with questions asking him about it. A silence so deafening… He could tell the atmosphere had changed and didn't even need to glance to know I viewed him with worry. However, he slowly looked up, peering into my eyes, and smiled like nothing was wrong. The color came back to his eyes. A feeling in my chest made me stiffen, but I smiled back and looked forward to the railway as the train pulled up.

"Well, it was nice meeting you" I gave a cheerful smile and spoke softly. I wanted to know more about him, and understand him. There was something he was hiding.

“Maybe we'll meet again sometime."

"Yeah, that would be nice," he responded.

I stood up and entered the train's squeaky doors to be welcomed by some of my friends. I waved to the boy and mouthed bye. He grinned and waved. The train began moving, started moving through the railway

My friends gave me weird glances asking "Koko, are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?" I asked.

They looked at each other and replied, "You were waving at no one, there was no there. That station was pretty much empty."

I looked at them and laughed. How could they not see that boy was there? But they seemed worried.

"Did you hit your head or something?"

"No, I don't think so."

I looked out the window, in awe, but maybe I wasn't too sure. Whoever that boy was, whether he really exists or was a ghost, it was one of the nicest interactions I had in a long time. I sat in one of the unoccupied seats. I absentmindedly opened my backpack and was surprised to find a rose and a note reading "one day". I sat there looking at this reddish-yellow rose with satisfaction. Whether this interaction was real or not, this rose was proof something did happen. Maybe one day we'll meet again. I never even got his name.

By kyra reilly ('22)

tired roots

By Vivian rong ('23)

I’ve learned one is lucky to know the value of tired roots holding up pure, but getting weaker, dying for ages

A tender, dry leaf is old and craving moisture it’s brittle, crushed into dust. Gone with the wind of a sunset don’t die. There’s more for you, darling.

Apologizing for life as you’ll know it. She’s deceiving, unforgiving happily ripping up your roots, snapping twigs with soil remnants.

Her eyes alone could paint destruction Until only shreds of bark remain Sorry no tears all over this pretty little face don’t you worry. Talk to the clouds as they slow dance with the trees. Be happy, so comfortable in this sinful world

And this is how we end up until the day we die: Humorous, I wish.

The ones left behind

By Emily Boyle ('23)

It was a wonder she didn’t hurt herself, delicate as she was; the clouds tantrumed pathetically, and the concrete beneath her feet slickened. Bustling bodies from all directions surrounded the pitiful women, worn with age and aptly discarded. Her greasy hair, once tightly tucked behind shining ears, now sat rebelliously, untidied by the rain racing for pavement. It’s true the woman held an umbrella, clutched desperately within her wrinkled hand; yet its metal skeleton proved fractured, and its cheap flesh profusely tattered More rain fell onto her circular glasses, newly clouded with fog The cold nipped the poor woman without mercy, yet her deliberate steps did not abate.

Squeaking in the puddled sidewalk, her husband's old running shoes whined, almost in requiem for their gradual decay. Water invaded each sole and clung stubbornly to each sock, heavying her steps with an unforgiving moisture. But it was no matter; she had arrived. The woman mustered up all the strength she could find trapped within those brittle bones, and pushed open the door wide. Rusty bells jingled, revealing an expanse of flowers from ceiling to floor. It smelled of dirt and old books, the secrets of life slowly dying under groggy lamp lights. She smiled to herself, digging up an old peppermint from the depths of her pocket. Popping the sweet into her mouth, she eyed the familiar selection of life splayed before her. In one corner sat the irises, the roses, the daffodils, the lilies. Turn one's head and feast upon the sight of sunflowers, chrysanthemums, tulips, and marigolds.

Ah, marigolds! A name more perfect surely exists not! Those tiny sunsets, who squeal in delight as they spring forth from their potted home. Who burn heartaches into grins and transform lonely hands into maternal tokens. A searing passion, matched with gentle warmth, consumed the beautiful thing before her They were Tom’s favorite, so they were her favorite They always would be Picking up those little suns, the old woman walked to the cashier’s desk. She smiled with her new plant and extended a shriveled arm, cash clumped inside small hands. A tiny ring shined, and a tear ran down the marigold's face.

by Ilanna Bernstein ('25)

roses are violets and red is blue

By Cecilia Tavares ('24)

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I lost all my money from fighting a shoe That doesn’t make sense

My brain is a mess One day I’ll ride a canoe

ice

By Cecilia Tavares ('24)

I slipped and fell on ice

What I thought was water had really been ice

As I glance at the sky, still on my back, I think that the sky looks nice But then I remember the pain and my disbelief that I slipped on ice

By

kyra Reilly ('22)

Imprint Affected

By Grant Yoon ('23)

Be smitten? Never, nevermore I’ll thy Blank countenance smite to a counterpiece; Unbent, the page the instant’s vault, a crease in legacy’s chart shall thee typify.

Coax ink from pen instead of tear from eye, And thus ignite my spirit for thy lease I shall augment thy shadow, breaking cease of fervent shining to thy size belie.

But did ever cartographer persist upon a crease so hard a hand until the paper gasped? Did ever candle tryst with hope so gladly ‘til it scorched its quill?

As crumpled maps and char shall I exist when to thy flitting flame submits my will.

Split Halfway Across

By maureen castle ('23)

One foot on either side Such a sense of loss Where shall I reside Split with no escape Chest is closing in I can only gape Indulging in my sin Split with my two me’s Wonder which is which Myself, I can’t appease No string for which to stitch

condone

By maureen castle ('23)

My inhibition seals my lips Restraint is only natural

Lingering stains stretched tautly Damage non apparent

No cry out, only thick silence

Shame and guilt ever stretching

His chance for redemption, wasted How I wish I could forget

god forbidden

By Kyra Reilly ('22)

knotted

By Ciara Mulligan ('23)

Float

By Alysa Lopez ('25)

A faint beam emitted from my drawer.

I go over to it, getting up from the floor.

I open it up, could it be?

A shiny little gem, just for me.

I hold it in my hand and I begin to float. Up out my house, past the family boat.

Along the fields and away from home. Through the city, through every biome. As I pass a forest full of glee, I reach out my hand And hold onto a tree.

I sit on a branch, sturdy and strong. Like a bird in a nest, I think I belong.

I let go of the tree and float once again. Along through the forest, by the flowers that flourish.

Though, I’ve had more fun than ever.

I cannot get down, not here, not never. I’m stuck in the sky with a frown. Some may even compare me to a Jester in a gown.

By Calvin Bouch ('24)

By Emily Boyle ('23)

By Cecilia Tavares ('24)

I want to write until I can’t write anymore.

Run out of ideas, dreams, memories, experiences till I feel sore. No longer finding wonder in nature and romanticizing it.

Spiraling out of control in crumpled, lost pages, forcing them to fit.

Only to then find a flickering of luminescence of inspiration on this vacant floor.

Finding my ripped pieces of poems, and putting them back together that washed up on shore.

grotesque

By maureen castle ('23)

Avoid the shadow if you can Filled to the brim with fear and misery Its presence overwhelming Beady eyes staring from afar Waiting for a slip up Voice softly spoken Subtle edge Sense of dread

By Emily Boyle ('23)

Disheartened

By Aakriti Mishra ('23)

At one point he stopped walking. He looked around, and saw something entirely alien. In the moment, he knew three obvious truths: nature is cruel, nature is brutal, and nature is the reason he has become lost. He thought he knew where he was going, he had marked each tree he passed, one by one. Trees are not very helpful beings, and as to no avail, he had found himself around trees with no markings, and surrounded with a strangeness he could not describe. Surprisingly, he was not frightened, but oddly comforted. He went into the forest to escape, so he supposed he had gotten what he wanted. He wanted to escape, but could not say from what, as he himself did not know. He walked on, not finding any value in just standing.

He walked on, the wet leaves both sticking to and leaving from his shoes. He found even more alien territory, some of which was fascinating, some that was disturbing

The sun had long been gone, and the moon was approaching the night sky, peeking out from the leaves of the trees. He walked on, trying to find someplace where he could rest, or at least sit for sometime before he walked on. He found a fence, which was surrounding something that resembled a cemetery.

He found what looked like an open entrance, and went in. As he strode on, he found gravestones, and read the engravings. A young man who died from the war, an old woman who died from tuberculosis, and a little girl who was found dead in a village massacre. The place reeked of tribulation from the victims of the tragic events, and he could feel the melancholy settling into his bones.

He stood there, wallowing and grieving for people who were strangers to him, when he heard a sound. A sound of anguish which he felt compelled to follow. He wandered, trying to find that sound.

He found a girl sitting atop a gravestone, crying that same sound of anguish he heard.

He walks up to her. “Is something wrong?”, he asks, with a concerned look on his face.

She says, while crying, “Nobody came.”

“Came to what?”, he replied

She finally looks up at him and his concerned face, and her face turns white, as if she was shocked at his presence, and she curls into herself, as if breaking down, and she cries harder.

“Nobody came to my funeral”

By Emily Chau ('22)

By Ciara Mulligan ('23)

PHOTO

By Ciara Mulligan ('23)

poetry analysis: robert frost

By Grant Yoon ('23)

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

By ciara mulligan ('23)

Robert Frost’s casual painting of simple domestic scenes captures the quaintness and particularity of his subjects; the above poem is no exception. In line with his signature mild affection, the poet moves through the poem in stanzas with a structural continuity that describes a restrained desire to remain where one is.

The first stanza contains lines that initially coincide with the end of a phrase. It begins with three grammatically complete phrases, but each has a weaker form of punctuation, mirroring Frost’s resistance to the allure of the woods. The first begins with a full stop: “Whose woods these are I think I know.” Frost then transitions to a semicolon that ends on a syntactic pause while indicating there is more to come: “His house is in the village though;” The content of this line also permits him to stop He weakens the will to continue on, connecting the idea of his indulged temptation never being seen by the woods’ owner with the weakening of these end stops. Finally, Frost abandons punctuation and introduces a sentence spanning two lines: “He will not see me stopping here / To watch his woods fill up with snow.” Though the first of these lines

can stand on its own, the second cannot, and thus signifies a shift in the willingness to indulge the urge to stop. Taking note of the rhyme scheme, Frost uses as the lines’ final words “know”, “though”, and then an outlier “here” before returning to the first sound with “snow”. Frost will consistently employ this rhyming structure until the final stanza.

The second stanza further establishes this pause in Frost’s journey, aligning itself with the relaxation of end stopping again. He leans into the temporary break with one independent clause in the opening line, followed by three sentence fragments in the next three lines. Line five, the only one able to stand on its own, suggests Frost should again take haste: “My little horse must think it queer / To stop without a farmhouse near”. However, Frost begins to steer the focus of the poem back into his current position with the sixth line and the following two lines. In addition to its distance from a farmhouse (established in line six), lines seven and eight add that Frost is “Between the woods and frozen lake / The darkest evening of the year”. In addition to establishing his position with more detail, Frost also introduces time, another aspect of setting in this line Interestingly, Frost implies that he is on his journey during the Winter Solstice, the day of shortest length and least sunlight. Rather than see this as a lowest point, however, Frost will later suggest affection for the dark. This peak in darkness would align with a peak in the syntactic dependency as the third stanza reins in the verbose line structure that Frost presses into, then fully exercises in the second stanza. Additionally, the rhyme scheme follows the same pattern, as the anomalous “here” from the third line Frost rhymes with every line in the second stanza excluding its third, the seventh, which ends in “lake”.

Shifting the focus suddenly back to the journey in the third line, Frost observes his horse “giv[e] his harness bells a shake / To ask if there is some mistake.” The first line is complete, and the second, though a fragment, ends with a full stop. Again, Frost uses the horse’s hesitance to remind himself of his journey and reinforces the pressure of continuing with the full stop. Frost sees the suggestion of a mistake in the horse’s nervousness, and contrasts it with the quiet of snowfall in the next two lines. He immerses himself in the tranquility of the scene in these lines without mention of the journey: “The only other sound’s the sweep / Of easy wind and downy flake.”

Frost returns back to more forceful end stopping in the last stanza with an opening line that is grammatically complete, a prepositional second line, then two lines identical except for their punctuation. Frost opens the stanza with a last description of his current point on the journey, and sighs “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,”; this line ends on a comma, and the second line asserts itself with a full stop: “But I have promises to keep.” Frost emphasizes the determination to press on by breaking the rhyme scheme that had introduced a new ending sound with the third line of each stanza. Instead of diverting away from “keep”, the last lines reinforces that because of obligations to get home, Frost has to continue moving; he says to himself that he has “miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep.”

Crowded path of loneliness

By Gia gupta ('24)

a young girl walking along Loneliness A crowded path recognized by those burdened by a heart turned stone. Forgotten. A shadow was the only; known and feared. A silent tear, rolling down one cheek. A single tear holding silence. A tranquil life. As the tear dried, the sky darkened into an ebony. Good night was whispered and a heartbeat was lost in the crowded path of Loneliness.

homeostasis imbalance

By Lyann Mejia ('23)

i feel i am made of silent screams, of nightmares, of broken words, of shattered dreams. my being synonymous with a fire that burns too bright or dies as if an everlasting night is all i ever was.

dimly lit alleyway.

The crow is one with its shadows. Marked on the picnic tables where laughter still echoes. Imprinted on the treetops that camouflage into the moonlit sky. The crow longs for a home to say “It’s mine.”

But looks in the twelve ‘o’ clock sky, and is more proud to say “It’s ours.”

y sarah weber ('24)

The workshop

By sarah weber ('24)

Dawn rises, creating bursts of color in the sky. The first glimpses of sunlight glinter over the rolling hills, reflecting off the morning dew.

A butterfly flaps along the horizon, floating on the gentle morning breeze. As it glides, a small workshop comes into view. This charming abode has its window open, letting in the same breeze this butterfly glides on. The butterfly calmly lands on the window ledge of the workshop.

“Ah, one of my beautiful creations!” says the old man in the workshop. The butterfly, upon closer inspection, was made from an ornately folded piece of paper. The butterfly flies back out of the workshop, and the old man smiles, satisfied with his work

The old man reaches for another piece of paper on a wooden shelf Bending over his workbench, the man takes the paper and starts to fold. Minute by minute, the paper starts to take shape. After a long while, the man sets his creation down. The little crane glistened in the morning sun.

“And now,” says the man, “fly, my beautiful little creation.” Like magic, the crane starts to flap its wings, and flies out of the window.

“A strange thing, magic,” the old man smiles, taking in the sunrise.

By sarah weber ('24)

lighthouse

By Ilanna Bernstein ('25)

By ciara mulligan ('23)

AD CASTITATEM

By grant yoon ('23)

Petals curved in grace half smiles struck me with an awe to violently, sublimely hold me; I dared but skirt the hyacinth patched meadow The still plain doused me with floral purity.

But Spring and the deceit soon swelled and let out an undercurrent of eager transience Summer stretched to frame the fragrant, drying wave forced to surge nectar into Fall’s crust-cracked maw.

The hyacinths thirst too for days that their flushed necks could be firmer with water I fetched; Autumn stains my dying Eden with rank breath, and waxing, blights the remnants of Summer's stretch

Even this late bloomer browns in this first snow, so ere the blanket weighs must I go; And weightless flakes rest on it in such a way that leaving now in snowfall seems okay.

tears

By kyra reilly ('22)

By ciara mulligan ('23)

Growing up

By Cecilia Tavares ('23)

I am scared of growing older Worrying about jobs, having to make money, figuring stuff out To be frank, I’d rather be a kid forever Playing tag, staying up late, barely any consequences

I am scared of the responsibilities I’ll be left with alone

I am scared of not knowing what I should do Cooking dinners, driving to places, and you can't forget taxes

I am scared of the decisions I’ll make and whether they’ll end up being right Also, what if I despise my job so much it just becomes a chore?

Different

By Cecilia Tavares ('23)

This place seems different, I’ve Looking at this gloomy sky wait A gentle breeze passes by, I can The fallen leaves around me be I know I’ve been here before ye

By ciara mulligan ('23)

Someone's sense of humor

By grant yoon ('23)

“If thou beest he; but O how fall’n! how chang’d From him, who relishing in golden strum Of Sun, the harp of Cherub’s locks it check’d, Him who disdained extorted gratitude; What more to yield to th’Almighty find’st thou?” So spake in droning anguish the Fiend who Chain’d to Hell’s flaming dark divine Force rued.

Once only didst discuss doomed revenge Those vile strick’n-down insurgents called Hope. I hoped to mold us into what is; The An outshining and arrogant false love Found command of Will and from truth wrought Doubt, the agent to unguard Hell’s locked gates. But for this boy’s curls would defeat Doubt sate

I cast three sighs as God cast Thundered rage, Whilst legions Him opposing might alight Upon th’Empyreal seat, at vain Hope. Now glory, lessened, precious, and alone Wicks from resolve as moonlit fog from throne. The righteous are not righteous, vain not vain When want of agency their way ordains.

tiredBy Lilu Kaufman ('23)

Knick knacks and Doodads

By ciara mulligan ('23)

music of Ghibli

Fairytales

By Cecilia Tavares ('23)

I know fairytales don’t exist

A picturesque life to live that won’t ever shift Happy endings, a tidy bow and finally receiving what you want Finding true love to be able to flaunt Fairytales don’t exist, it is the undeniable truth But maybe one day they will For now, I’ll sit daydreaming, waiting for the day

By

Sarah Weber ('24) Referenced from studio ghibli

organic homes

By Sarah Weber ('24)

A Long Shadow

By grant yoon ('23)

The well’s groaning again. Its water peeled warmth off The unmoved stones It peels Another layer but now Finds no soul to feel.

Want pulses in the bounds Of the stagnant water Trying to entrap Something that bleeds warm blood; It finds its corpses sapped.

What tied two together died; Drowned and flayed by Waves that surged too high, too long; That, for lack of restraint, Leave the well with this song

Thrashing calmed, ripples dying, The surface lets emerge One last breath and stir And waves pull into stillness From unhappy blur.

springtime holidays

By katrina veltman ('23)

From snow, flowers bloomed, Colors of mild spring to come New season for holidays;

Purim, St. Patrick’s, Passover, Easter anew, People unite for.

See! Hamentaschen: Crunchy cookies filled with jam Masquerade, costumes.

A field of clovers, Parade floats in the cities, Paint everything green.

Matzo, stacked layers We make four toasts, no chametz! Seder is complete

Children painting eggs Laughing, they go on their hunt Bells chime: time for church.

Gather in a field Smell the flowers, nature’s scent The serenity.

By katrina veltman ('23)

a new life

By kyra reilly ('22)

By ciara mulligan ('23)

the Subtleties

By Cecilia Tavares ('23)

The overwhelming warmth glows The sun takes over The deluge of tides ripple The smell of sea fades The close eye contact seems nice Only to be lost The subtle changes around Seem to only age

By Antonia Currie ('23)

funeral of the living

By Lyann Mejia ('23)

the short memories we have beating my heart black and blue and i know how much you like the second color too it scatters all on the rug. i apologize for leaving your floor flooded, i didn't mean for the tears to escape.

you kill me, how you kill me, fingers delicate but spears gripping, piercing the beating muscle by its arteries, the flesh falling into the pressure like how i fell into you and here i am with the short memories we have beating my heart black and blue

OculusBy grant soon ('23)

Can I unnerve their eye With blankness hitherto unknown? Can I like a mute sky Evade the hooks of sight they've thrown?

Though silent, I’ll not be mute In keeping to myself; I’ll taste of the skin of fruit, Or read as names on shelf.

More I’ll sprawl forth, more to invent

To make greater the prize Like foreign, unread words disclose The truth of what am I.

rains of spring

By katrina Veltman ('23)

Raindrops, a prelude

To lush grass, flowers to bloom The ground soaks it up.

Says, pitter, patter, Against your bedroom window Cheek against cold glass.

Listen to the wind, Howl a lonesome animal, Abandoned tonight.

Come day, sing the birds Too wet for outside, but too Pleasant for inside.

Go, touch the grass, child Inhale the sweet dew, exhale Forget your studies.

Monad

By grant yoon ('23)

This tea and these flourished flower buds I can’t believe in like I could you; The littler things are not enough. I want something that must be bled to.

It fills not the void, to wine drink and taste; Nothing of mine is laid to waste. What wants demands of what else driving me A cell it cannot feel nor see.

The ache at the center of my veins I compel Outward without hope’s blade; My blood for coaxed and confessed profound breath I trade, And dust the altar dispels

join me

By kyra reilly ('22)

you've got this

By Alysa Lopez ('25)

All the people in this world just getting by. Without a thought as to why. Feeling okay sometimes is just a delay. I promise you that things will be okay. Today is today, but tomorrow you won't have sorrow. Fight off the feelings of dread. Perhaps, it’s a new day after bed. Feel the breeze upon your head and Enjoy the feelings of having a friend. Stand strong against the tide. Don’t be scared, no need to hide. It’ll all get better, no matter the issue. Please don’t cry, for I have no tissue You’ve got this and you’ll do good You’ll keep up the great work like I knew you would.

on my father

By katrina Veltman ('23)

for he has fallen for her prank: toothpaste in fruit ha, minty surprise

By katrina Veltman ('23)

fool! - a prank my mother once played

falling

By ciara mulligan ('23)

By sarah weber ('24)

no vacancy signs here

By Lyann Mejia ('23)

you had fallen f a l l e n into me but you’re a fallen angel and refuse to see how the wings no longer in your back scars my own if heaven nor hell can’t be home why do you think i could?

out of it

By Cecilia Tavares ('23)

What time is it? What day is it? Who even knows anymore I fall out of bed in the morning trying to disable my alarm I stumble through the halls with what little sleep I have The bell has rung, the day is over Yet it will soon repeat

By Ciara Mulligan ('23)

the encounter

By kyra Reilly ('22)

PHOTO

By Ciara Mulligan ('23)

Walking home from school

By Valerie Wang ('24)

flowers at your door

By Alysa Lopez ('25)

Hey, I left flowers at your door at quarter past four, Though you weren’t home.

I hope you’re okay and you can always message me, don’t delay. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you since our first date. I’m sorry if I said something that would make you want to be late. I don’t know if I did something wrong, but just so you know, I’ve been trying to be strong.

The gesture of flowers seemed okay to me, So I left more flowers the next day at half past three They haven’t moved, so I’m assuming you’re done I must admit, while it lasted, it was fun.

the infj

By sarah weber ('24)

The INFJ is emotional, But logical. Helpful, But perfectionistic. Intuitive, But stubborn. Opens up to those they trust, But reserved. Understands others, As much as they wish to be understood in return. I am a paradox.

a fun fact

By katrina Veltman ('23)

yes, grape hyacinths who knew, them and lemonade make a pretty pink

By katrina Veltman ('23)

four/twentyfour/twenty-two

By Katrina veltman ('23)

sun blazed over green trees paved sidewalks, students walking ice cream, last classes a college campus brimming with life, hopeful, young glimpse into future

Demiurge

By grant yoon ('23)

No more slack jawed verse Of tenor emptier than size; Befit, restrain, intend the curse Cut what the heart belies.

Be it dust or clay, Arise or harden it; resolve In what service and at what angle It shall you revolve.

Will orbit hymn praise? What instinct will it brew therein? And as from design the intent strays Waning bliss stokes sin

Both to effect and raise in awe; Both to mold and brim Sinner's love for law Lost in its predestined whim.

By Lilu Kaufman ('23)

By kyra Reilly ('22)