Sequel Vol. 35: "Fragments of Stars"

2023-2024 Staff

Teryn Butler Art Editor-in-Chief

Lexy Russell Literary Editor-in-Chief

Jane Cox Literary Staff

Sarah Ikonomi Literary Staff

Becca Madsen Literary Staff

Keira Nelson Literary Staff

Kaitlyn Petroski Art Staff

Gabriela Roberts Literary Staff

Sunny Shen Art Staff

Emerald Xu Literary Staff

Emma Wise Literary Staff

Not pictured: Meekah Hopkins, Adviser

Photography by Michelle Wang ‘23

Preface

Grief. Heartbreak. Trial. Suffering. Hurt.

These are things that we have all faced during our lives. Things which we have come to expect, even as we dread them. How many times have we been told, “life is hard?” “Life is unfair?” That we have to keep pushing through, even though everything is not going the way we planned.

Love. Healing. Light. Laughter. Hope.

We experience these, too. Eventually, as the pain starts to numb, the rain fades from a torrent to a trickle. Then we remember how to smile again, even though we thought we never could.

Or maybe we just learn to pay attention to the way the stars sparkle in the midst of darkness. Because that’s the secret to life, right? We’re going to have challenges. We’re going to get knocked down, time and time again.

Then somehow we find a way to build ourselves back up. We learn cracks and our scars, because they make us who we are.

"Fragments of Stars" celebrates the heartbreak, healing, and hop during our journey through life.

So let yourself feel the pain, let yourself grieve, let yoursel tears, look toward the broken, beautiful stars, and listen as they whisper to you:

Someday, everything is going to be alright.

For our friend and fellow Sequelite, Rebecca Liao

Your memory lives on in these pages

“So as I struggle on, along the way I findfragments of stars that whisper to me”

- Rebecca Liao, “Grief”

Table of Contents

Literature:

“Grief”, Rebecca Liao, Poetry

“Bargaining”, Jane Cox ‘23, Poetry

"Plastered on Smile”, Michelle Wang ‘23, Poetry

“Cycles”, Emma Wise ‘23, Poetry

“I hate your stubbornness”, Keira Nelson ‘24, Poetry

“Manifestation of Guilt”, Vienna McCarthy ‘25, Prose

“Best Friends”, Maddox Christenson ‘23, Creative Nonfiction

“The Dictionary of Us”, Lexy Russell ‘23, Poetry

“Gray”, Emma Wise ‘23, Poetry

“Red Christmas”, Becca Madsen ‘23, Prose

“The Death of a Sailor”, Jane Cox’ 23, Poetry

“What Victory”, Nina Robbins ‘24, Poetry

“For the Skeptical”, Gabriela Roberts ‘23, Poetry

“I Need to Get Away From This View”, Sarah Ikonomi ‘23, Poetry

“Garden of Secrets”, Gray Jabaji ‘23, Poetry

“Perspective”, Natalie Albergo ‘24, Creative Nonfiction

“Breathe In, Breathe Out, and Repeat, Repeat, Repeat”, Sunny Shen ‘24, Prose

“Whenever You Pick A Flower”, Ally Reed ‘23, Poetry

“Grow Fonder”, Becca Madsen ‘23, Poetry

“Missed Days”, Lexy Russell ‘23, Poetry

“Healing”, Sunny Shen ‘24, Poetry

“Overcooked”, Rebecca Liao, Prose

“Mens Rea”, Maizie Anderson ‘26, Poetry

“Ode to Dishes”, Keira Nelson ’24, Poetry

“I want to see”, Helia Hung ‘25, Poetry

“The Boulder and the Fungus”, Kaitlyn Petroski ‘25, Poetry

“Flight of the Cranes”, Emerald Xu ‘24, Prose

“Stumbling Through Dawn”, Gabriela Roberts ‘23, Poetry

“Molten Gold”, Rebecca Liao, Poetry

Table of Contents

“Skyfall”, Emma Sheridan ‘24, Mixed Media

"Light Captured”, Solana Revelle ‘23, Photography

“Graphite Tears”, Sarah Ikonomi ‘23, Pencil

“Do You Understand?”, Takara Wilson '23, Photography

“Tower of Mistakes”, “Eva Hawkins ‘23, Digital Art

“Sea Bees Can Do!", Aaron Natividad ‘24, Photography

“Never Again”, Sienna Hollingshead ‘24, Photograph

“Sour Sweet Memories”, Jenna Collidge ‘24, Pencil

“The Beautiful Unknown”, Takara Wilson ‘23 Photography

“Seeing Stars”, Kimberly Orellana, ‘24, Photography

“If Only I Could Warn Her” Kaitlyn Petroski ‘25, Digital Art

“I think I’m really going to miss this place” Aiden Sajadi ‘23, Pen

"Flicker” Kaitlyn Huynh, ‘25, White Colored Pencil

“Remember Who You Are” Michelle Wang, ‘23, Photography

"Blindspot”, Vicky Yan ‘24, Digital Art

“Amber Silhouette”, Graham O’Connell ‘24, Photography

“Visited by Love”, Eva Hawkins ‘23, Watercolor

“Through the Barrier”, Meredith Hoffmaster ‘25, Photography

“Backseat Stories, 2013”, Kaitlyn Petroski ‘24, Pencil/Traditional

“Healing”, Sunny Shen ‘24, Digital Art

"Mission Complete”, Teryn Butler ‘23, Digital Art

“The One Who Watches”, Teryn Butler ‘23, Digital Art

“Cheers to Roses”, Michelle Wang ‘23, Photography

“Wiping the Tears”, Eva Hawkins ‘23, Digital Art

“Portland Head Light”, Sammy Carroll ‘26, Gouache

“Leap of Faith”, Laura Pohl ‘23, Photography

“Daylight on Dawn ;)”, Stacy Bai ‘25, Digital Art

“Starry Night”, Emerald Xu ‘24, Digital Art

"A Final Note from Rebecca"

Grief

Rebecca Liao

You have colon cancer. Me?

A tiny little fragile bird of a thing?

Angelic child, straight A student?

Never smoked, never did drugs?

Now I must do drugs-

Surgery failed, so chemo drugs it is.

Feeling guilt as I see those close to me cry for me, in pain for me; If it has to be me, not them.

This loss is new-

The loss of a healthy body

The loss of illusory normalcy

The loss of cancer being something that happens to "someone else".

Six months passes- school year over.

Now facing summer, more mundane now spent frequently at home.

Seven months, now eight, Try surgery again.

We thought we could do it, but it's too dangerous to proceed. Recovering from surgeryshaky, sleepy, in pain.

Still a druggie- prescribed oxycodone and returning to chemotherapy. Different drugs, but now indefinite. Interminable.

Returning to school, wincing as I roll over people's feet with my clunky rolling backpack, I think how naive it was of kindergarten me to wish to have such a thing.

I'm glad to be among friends again, regaining a normal sense of self, even if it's interrupted by chemo once a week. Yet as I roll on by, I realizeWhy do so many pressure themselves, with grades, with AP's, with physical appearance?

Some struggle with feeling overweightI ache as I continually lose pounds.

Why must any of us be bound by these chains?

Because if there's anything I've learned from crying from needles, NG tubes, sorrow, it is that what matters most is love, is life, is YOU.

Because you are a product of love AND life, a symphony and orchestrated Beautifully. Broken things are uniqueNo scar or crack is uniform. So as I struggle on, along the way I find- fragments of stars that whisper to me, "So sing now, songbird, fly."

Skyfall | Emma Sheridan

Light Captured | Solana Revelle

Bargaining

Jane Cox

Answer me

I know you’re not there

Answer me anyways,

Prove that you care

Answer me

I take back what I said

About faith and your God

What it means to be dead

Answer me

I can’t do this alone

I miss you I need you

I need to come home

Answer me

Show me a sign

Prove to me, prove

I’m not out of my mind

Answer me

Why don’t you care?

What matters more

Then your kid is waiting here?

Answer me

Tell me what do I do

When the dust settles down

And there’s no sign of you?

Answer me

What if I find

That all that is you

Is my heart and my eyes?

Answer me

Will that still be there

If someday I find that I

No longer need you to

Answer me?

When I smile, it feels as if it’s not my own. An extra effort, to pull my muscles Like a facade, my smile is a shield From my true feelings. Hidden under a layer of enamel I’d rather people see other me Than true me, who pinches the skin of Her hand, to keep from crying An old habit, a defense, from The perils of the world.

And when she smiles, How could she not be okay?

After all, the muscles of her cheek Constant soreness, from an everlasting smile Don’t reveal the full truth.

And if you ask her how she’s doing She’ll tell you, well. But in her eyes, well has another Meaning. Help, I wish you would see me.

Cycles

Emma Wise

Carter and her friend sat in a stationary car in a dark, deserted parking lot- like two heroines at the beginning of a horror movie. There was a feeling of dread building, like something stalking in the shadows. Carter rested her forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane, exhausted to the bone.

“I’m really worried about you,” her friend whispered quietly. “I know things have been really hard since school started. I know you’re stressed out. I want to be able to help you, but you need to let me.” A chilled tear rolled down Carter’s cheek. All of this was routine, but it still struck her all the same. Carter was worrying the people she cared about, again. Her heart twisted up at the thought, but she knew there was no getting out of it. A new cycle had started, everything was the same. It was always the same.

Happiness was a distant, far-off thing. Carter had been chasing it for years but has since grown accustomed to its absence. Her 18th birthday had come and gone, childhood was nothing but a blur in the rearview mirror. It was all just too much. College applications, and her impossible workload were like anchors strapped to her feet. She had started sleeping more, eating less and ignoring her responsibilities. Things were getting bad again. Life started to feel like walking against the tide, the ocean more than willing to sweep her away.

“I know you’re stressed out right now, but you need to do better. Your grades are starting to slip- you sleep all day. If you want to get into college you need to change your habits,” her mom looked at her with piercing eyes. Carter cringed, she had shoved thoughts of college into a tiny box in the back of her mind. Just hearing the word sent her into a panic.

“I’m trying, Mom. I’m trying to change. I-It’s just re-really hard.” Carter’s voice quivers, tears brimming in her eyes. She could tell by the look in her mom’s eye that Carter was disappointing her. It stung like a slap in the face.

Carter went to school, but she didn’t understand the material like the other kids; she felt unbearably stupid. Checking her grades brought red-hot feelings of shame that curled in her belly. Her memory was fried, nothing was safe- not even test dates. She promptly fell further and further behind, losing the will to try and catch up.

Carter went to work; she didn’t hate her job but sometimes she felt like an outsider. When things were slow and everyone else would talk, Carter would stand in one spot and space out. She wanted to talk with her coworkers, she liked them. But Carter was just too tired. All the time, all the time she was tired. It made her want to scream; she didn’t have the energy to do anything. How could she get better if she barely had the strength to get out of bed?

There was a certain isolation that plagued her, one she felt clung to her alone–even though deep down she knew that wasn’t true. It seemed that everyone else was doing alright. They might be struggling, but at least they had alright grades. At least they know what colleges they want to apply for. At least they had motivation to do their assignments. Carter just wanted to be like everyone else. It seemed her and her alone walked with weights tied to every limb, threatening to drag her to the deepest depths.

When things finally got a bit better, she made the familiar rounds to disappointed teachers and her few friends. She would swallow that burning shame and beg for extensions on overdue assignments. She knew it all sounded like a big excuse. That she didn’t have the strength to get out of bed, much less do schoolwork. She would swallow that squirming guilt and apologize for being so distant with her friends. She was trying, god she was trying.

Things were okay for a couple weeks, but Carter knew it wouldn’t last. There would be a trigger and things would turn sour. Or her brain would simply tell her life wasn’t worth living, no trigger needed.

“Are you alright? You seem distant.” A coworker or friend or family member would say.

“I’m fine, just a little tired,” Carter would respond, and the cycle would start anew.

"'I'm fine, just a little tired,' Carter would respond, and the cycle would start anew."

Tower of Mistakes | Eva Hawkins

I Hate Your Stubborness

Keira Nelson

Why did you have to be so stubborn that night? Maybe if you had let those paramedics take you. You wouldn’t be gone.

You knew how bad your kidney stones could get. Did you not learn your lesson when you had your stroke because you let it get that bad?

I was so young seeing you forget the world around you. And when I watched the ambulance pull out of my driveway on an early June morning, I wondered if I would have to see it again.

But I never did see it again. I never saw you again. Do I dare look at the picture dad sent mom of you tangled in the wires and tubes that were keeping you alive?

I know you hated hospitals, but I hate it more that you’re gone. I wish you had been smart and not’ve let your room, become my brother’s.

Manifestation of Guilt Vienna McCarthy (Garden of Secrets Contest: Honorable Mention)

Blood. It was seeping into her clothes, staining her shirt and sinking all the way down into her soul. The smell of metal filled the air. Her ears were ringing, eyes clouded, and breathing erratic. She heard him choking, the blood was filling his lungs. She couldn't- why was she..? Blood spilled from her mouth. It was too much… It was too much!

With a gasp, Dani shot up from the wrinkled sheets of the motel bed. Sweat covered her body, making her stick to the warm blankets. Her mouth was dry and for once didn’t taste of smoke. It wasn’t real- it never was. But she always fell for it. She rolled off the edge of the bed and reached for the pack of cigarettes on her nightstand. She felt dread wash over her when she grasped nothing but air and remembered how she threw them out last night. She sighed and decided she would start her day like a normal person for once and take a shower.

The bathroom was a mess. Beer bottles littered the floor and counters, grime and dirt covering every surface. Ugh. Dani picked up the one decently clean towel and started the shower, hoping the water wouldn’t freeze her for once.

She glanced at the mirror, trying to discern how awful she looked. Her tight brown curls fell around her dark face. Tired blue eyes stared back at her. She licked her chapped lips and blinked slowly at her reflection. She was about to turn away when she saw the shadow of a figure behind her. Her heart rate spiked and she whirled her head around to see who was in her room. She saw nothing. It was happening again. Dani squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shut out the world around her.

“Get out.” She opened her eyes, looking into the mirror again. The figure staring back at her was not her own. The shadowed silhouette of her father grinned at her. The blood dripped down from the gash in his head; the one that never closed. “Did you hear me? Get out!” She yelled at the mirror again. The figure did nothing.

“Hello Danielle.” The voice echoed through the bathroom. “Pleasure seeing you again.”

“I don’t want you here. Go away.” She turned away from the mirror, focusing her eyes on the chipped plastic of the toilet.

“Are you sure?” The figure spoke again, amusement hidden in his voice. “You used to love having me around.”

Images of sleepless nights slumped alone in the bathroom flashed into her head. She wouldn’t go back to that.

I’ve changed,” she said simply, trying to avoid talking to the figure as much as possible. She knew whatever it was, it wasn’t her father. “I don’t need you anymore.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” The evident smile in his voice made her blood boil. “I saw that little stunt you pulled with the cigarettes last night.” She grit her teeth. This whole self constraint thing was a lot harder than people made it seem. “I never thought you would have the guts.”

She turned to face the mirror again. She looked the figure straight in the shadowed holes where his eyes would be. “Leave. Me. Alone.” The figure laughed at her and disappeared from the mirror. Reflections of him shone across the empty beer bottles, a smug smile still on his face.

“You know I can’t do that,” he said “I’m just as much a part of you as this is.” His hands stretched out to encompass the beer bottles. Her already bad mood was worsening by the second.

She picked up the neck of the bottle and pointed the other end towards him. “This isn’t part of me!” She smashed the bottle on the ground, well aware that it would be a pain to clean up later. The figure laughed at her, reflection flickering around from one bottle to another.

"Yes, this isn’t part of you,” it said, disappearing from the bottles entirely. “Just like what happened to dear old dad isn’t part of you.” It’s voice was all encompassing. Dani could feel the darkness closing in around her. Her mind flashed back to the moment she’s been trying to forget for years. She could smell the blood again, and the sound of the gunshot and his body falling to the floor echoed in her head. She would never be able to escape this.

Sea Bees Can Do! | Aaron Natividad

"'I am more than my mistakes,' Dani told the voice, opening her eyes.

"

I’m always going to be here,” it said, breaking through the darkness around her. “I am you. I am your mistakes. I am what you wish you could escape, what you hide from everyone.”

Tears rolled down Dani’s face, she was no longer in the bathroom. She was in the void and emptiness clawed at her chest. She would never be able to escape this. Faintly she could hear it laughing.

She closed her eyes, trying to center herself. She didn’t have to listen to this haunting voice. Her past was her past.

"I am more than my mistakes," she told the voice, opening her eyes. The sight of the bathroom relieved her.

“Is that what Dad would say?” The voice taunted her.

She could feel the fire of rage bubble up inside, blinding her of everything but the voice. She turned her head to look at the mirror again. The figure was inside, blood dripping from a wound that never closed, and a smile on its face. Her fist balled up in rage and all at once, everything that was lying under the surface exploded. She swung her body, fist colliding with the mirror, shattering it into pieces.

She didn’t remember closing her eyes, but when they opened again she saw blood seeping out of the angry cuts in her hand. She didn’t care. The mirror was broken, and the figure was gone.

It was silent in the bathroom. Faintly she could hear the sound of the shower raining water down on the bathtub. She smiled to herself, looking at her fractured reflection in the mirror. It was gone, for now at least. It was enough.

She regarded her hand again, the adrenaline pulsing through her veins having left her. She turned on the sink, letting the cold water wash over her hand and relieve some of the fire in her veins. She watched it silently for a bit before digging through her bag for her first aid kit.

She wrapped her hand up, after cleaning her wounds. It stung but the pain was worth it. Dani was more than her past, and she proved it.

Best Friends

Maddox Christenson

CW: Sexual Assault

Saturday, November 19th, 2022. That was our last day together.

I’d wanted to spend that entire day with her. Just sitting around in my room, talking and laughing together all day long. We’d been planning it for weeks, and every time we talked we thought of a new thing to do. Listen to Djo’s new album together, sculpt little figurines of all the characters we made together, scour the internet in search of the cheesiest 80’s love song lyrics together, watch her favorite episode of The IT Crowd together, finish watching Over The Garden Wall together–we would do everything we could together.

We didn’t do any of that.

What really ended up happening was even better. She got to my house, and we joked and chattered on incessantly about anything and everything that came to mind as always, the moment we started talking we completely forgot about any of the activities we planned. The tide of our words overtook our plans; forced them to surrender to the current of our chemistry. It was amazing.

In the corner of my room sat an unopened box of temporary tattoo markers I’d gotten a while back. I’d mentioned them in passing while looking for other art supplies, and she suggested we tattoo each other. So, we did.

And then it started.

She’d been this way with me plenty of times before. All close, cuddly, and touchy. Any time we were together she’d shoot over to me like a magnet and do as she pleased. She’d cling to me, whisper barrages of compliments into my ears. She was assertive about it, too, always touching me anytime I’d walk by. Commenting on my body to no end. Pinning me down to land a peck on the cheek or neck (or anywhere, really). She was very insistent, very grabby–aggressive, even. But it was almost normal to me at this point. Maybe even kind of nice, sometimes.

This is just how she is, I’d tell myself. She’s just naturally a very touchy person. That’s just who she is. And you like who she is! You like this. You want this. So it’s okay.

But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t. No matter how you look at it. Because I told her before not to act this way with me.

“Please don’t do that,” I’d told her. “Don’t touch me like that.”

She’d continue to act this way anyway, and a conflict began to knot in my chest. On one hand, it felt nice. I liked it. I let it happen—invited it, even. After all, nobody else gave me this kind of attention, and a year ago I had even wanted to be more than friends, and communicated as much. She didn’t feel that way, so I moved on, and we continued being best friends. She acted like this then, too; hence my assertion that this is just how she is. This year, however, it felt far more intense than before. Her advances became bolder and bolder, and began to feel less and less in jest. That’s when the anxiety set in.

I knew she wasn’t interested in me. Not romantically. She told me that last year. She was actively interested in someone else. She laughed in the face of anyone who suggested it. So why was she acting like this with me? I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t agree to this. In fact, I told her no. I said no to kisses. I said no to all the flirting. Was I not clear enough? Did it come off as a joke? Does she not care? Do I care? Am I too sensitive? Is this good? Should I stop complaining? What’s happening? What does she want? Why is she doing this?

Unease pounded my skull and tensed my shoulders as I spiraled. I enjoyed spending time with her more than anything in the world. I craved it sometimes, even. I felt lost without her. And yet I dreaded her so terribly. Just being around her put me on edge. Just hearing her voice, just saying her name it drowned me in anxiety. My heart sunk lower and lower into ominous uncertainty as reality caved in.

The reality is that I didn’t want this. The reality is that she was using me. The reality is that she was harassing me. And the reality is that best friends don’t do that.

So now? We aren’t.

Never Again

Sienna Hollingshead

The Dictionary of Us

Lexy Russell

dear easton,

it’s your birthday, and here i am again, falling apart as the amber light cascades down from the treetops. i know you said you wanted me to move on, to keep going as if nothing had changed, to pretend you never existed. i promised i’d listen, i’d try. and i have… or, at least, i’ve given my best effort. but i can’t forget you.

i can’t forget your dark brown eyes, the way they crinkled shut when you smiled. or your little canine teeth which were ever so slightly more pointy than anyone else’s- like tiny vampire fangs. and especially the way you looked at me right before you said, “ashley, i love you.”

like i was something special- something you’d never seen before. like i was the only thing you ever wanted to look at again. and it scares me, thinking of letting all that go. i can’t imagine living in a world where you and i are strangers. there’s a part of me which knows moving on isn’t supposed to mean forgetting, but how else am i supposed to get to a place where thinking about just three tiny little words doesn’t make my heart feel like a black hole? how else do i get rid of this thousand-page dictionary that you and i have been authoring for a year and a half now? a book full of all the words you ever said to me, and all the things i learned by just watching you, and all the memories that i promised myself i would treasure forever. i’m not ready to let it sit there, collecting dust. i’m not ready for this to be goodbye.

we just ran out of time so quickly. and then you left me here- alone- with all the time in the world.

i miss you ash

Sour-Sweet Memories | Jenna Collidge

The

Beautiful Unknown | Takara Wilson

But I press on

Red Christmas

Becca Madsen

Her maroon Chateau Margaux swirled around in Anne’s glass as she laid back on her pristine snow white couch. There was a soccer match playing on Channel 4, a news segment on Channel 7, a droll holiday themed romantic comedy on Channel 10. The colors from each lit up her brown eyes, dull and flat from a long day, as she clicked through them all. She eventually settled for a Yule Log recording. Soft crackles and pops filled the room and yet Anne felt no warmth, no comfort from the artificial flames.

She took a long sip of her drink and rolled her head towards the massive sheet of glass windows to her right. Across the street, between fat flurries floating down, she glimpsed tree lights illuminating the windows. Her office had a Christmas tree. Brought in by her sycophant assistant, it had been bleeding needles all over her carpet for weeks now.

One of the apartments across the way had people mingling in and out of the window. A Christmas party perhaps. She snorted and took another sip, almost draining the glass to its dregs.

Sick of watching their laughter and gorging, Anne removed herself from the couch and trudged toward the kitchen. The click of the stove and the whoosh of the gas filled the dead air. Anne leaned against the marble island, occasionally stirring. She stepped back to grab a bowl and hissed suddenly. Her fingers grabbed her left heel to see blood turning the tan stocking red. Because there was a piece of glass stuck in her foot.

She tried to forget why, why there was glass on her floor, but the memories fought tooth and nail to the forefront of her memory.

"Christopher, you won’t believe what the defendant tried to pull today!” called Anne, a laugh breaking from her red lips.

She took off her heels and placed them in a rack beside the door, dropping off her briefcase and jacket on hooks above.

“Christopher?” she yelled into the vast expanse of their new apartment, perfectly situated in Manhattan.

Maybe he missed the train, she thought, giggling at the memory of him chasing the L train after they went out for lunch one day in the spring. She made her way into their bedroom and stopped when reached the threshold. Their room was empty. Or half empty. All of his things were completely gone. On her nightstand sat an envelope with ‘Anne’ scrawled on the front. Quickly, praying it was all some sick joke, she ripped open the pristine, white envelope.

Her eyes scanned those words and just went numb. Her eyes glazed with tears that never fell and the spark inside her died, utterly extinguished by him.

She didn’t remember leaving the room, ‘the’ not ‘their’ because nothing would ever be ‘theirs’ again. She didn’t remember stumbling into the kitchen or the cold bite of the tiles on her feet. She only remembered seeing his face in that photo.

“You’re just too much…I’m sorry…Goodbye.”

A stupid photo of them laughing together years ago. His eyes taunted her, his stupid grin provoked her. He was laughing at her. Anne’s hands shot forward, she grabbed the frame and slammed into the ground. The glass shattered and scattered instantly. The fragments had barely stopped skitting across the floor before Anne collapsed on the ground in sobs.

Anne caught a glimpse of her reflection in the door of her fridge, haggard face, limp hair, dull eyes. It didn’t look like her, so she looked away.

Even with the pain from the memory, cutting as deep as any knife, and the pain from the cut, still welling blood, she felt nothing. Silently, she pulled out the shard, discarded the ruined stockings, refilled her glass to the brim and sat back down on her couch.

And just stared and stared at the snow outside her window, as the flurries gave way to a tempest of ice and wind.

Seeing Stars | Kimberly Orellana

The Death of a Sailor

Jane Cox

I don’t know why, I wish I did I feel so cruelly numb I felt nothing, I made you cry I said I can’t, I’m done

Maybe all this bruising blank

Within my awful heart Was brought on by the freezing winds Your painful lover’s mark

But I still tried to bail the boat Far past its point of no return Bailed until my fingers bled Pointless, I soon learned

I tried, I hope you know I tried To be all that you need But a girl drowning in your pain Can’t be your raft at sea

So maybe I’m heartless, Maybe I’m cruel But I can’t keep being Your hurt’s waiting room

Not when I scarcely keep My own heartache afloat If I give you my hand

We’ll both sink ‘neath the load

I’m sorry, I’m sorry For our ending like this But I gave and I gave Now there’s nothing to miss

But the waterlogged bones

Of a girl lost at sea

Who was drowned in the storms

Of once great you-and-me

If Only I Could Warn Her | Kaitlyn Petroski

What Victory?

Nina Robbins

I am a victim of this senseless war For me, nothing will ever be the same as before. You say you’re our savior and are setting us free, But then why have we fled from you across the sea?

“It’s a liberation,” you nobly proclaim, But then why is my home going up in flames? Why is there death raining down from the sky? The grief of our nation can be heard in one cry:

“Ні війні!1 No to war!” But our cry for help is cruelly ignored. You have liberated me - from my home, My life, my marriage, and all I called my own.

So many lives have been destroyed, But to our oppressors, our cries are just noise. Soldiers fall and children weep How many more souls are you willing to reap?

And what about those trapped under your rule? Those who see you for who you are: cruel.

And what about those whom you sent to the slaughter Without food, comfort, warmth or water? Armed with missiles and tanks and guns, But what good are those if they have nowhere to run?

Men from both sides are forced to fight For a horrible cause they both know is not right. And because of one man’s cardinal sin, They both die for a victory neither will win.

And now I ask you: what was it for? What was the reason for this senseless war? How can you watch this horrible plight that you caused, and then fall asleep at night?

So for now I can only pray That victory will throng in the streets someday. But I’ll say, “What victory?” for I know the truth: It was no victory if it killed our youth.

I think I'm really going to miss this place | Aiden Sajadi

Flicker | Katelyn Huynh

For the Skeptical

(In response to Mai Der Vong)

Gabriela Roberts

From a recessed hollow Whisper, you emerge as a creature

Conceived to be restless. Depend on yourself to be crude

‘Til you find yourself alone, Isolated by the cruelty

Of your harshness and sin. You will let me know the wicked

Nature of your soul strengthened By scalding silence. But I will watch

You in the quiet, observing a Messy mindset, a self-scorched soul

You continue to criticize, judge Until you’re left broken as a scar.

Even what will wreck you Are a friend’s cherishing words.

Even to caress your rough edges In quiet rooms. I know about

Your recipe of pain, your gouging Ways. Yet trust me to love you.

I Need to Get Away From This View….

Sarah Ikonomi

Because a smile sinks on my mouth every time I see you and it seems to deliberately suffocate me too My smile starts to look less satisfied and more misunderstood appearing how I imagine a melancholy child would The smile sinks on my lips intruding further down and drowning out any reminisce of pleasant sounds

I look into your debilitating eyes and see them shine remembering how my eyes should respond at the thought of you being mine But, your eyes only reflect my lonely image directly back and the girl I see staring makes my soul want to crack All I can see is the the image of love and despair and it is a sight so cruel it can not be compared

I love you I whisper in your ear passionately but the words burn and come out like a mournful plea You whisper back with your voice so beautifully devastating and it is a sound I am eager to hear when I feel my heart hesitating

You look at me with a glance that is far too calamitous while you voice makes advances that are burning and amourouse The closer you get the more I need you to stay even if your sight is only comforting in a catastrophically damaging way The deeper you look the farther you see my truth, that I am only a desolate being yearning for the joyful assurance of my youth

I want to stay in your arms forever but your observant eyes are too clever I feel my unordinary smile admitting my insecurity of only being loved because other took pity

I want to love myself as much as I love your ethereal presence even if that means leaving my heart with only a trace of your essence

I look into your eyes and see my reflection But the difference is now I do not see my imperfections All I see is a girl who is about to have a resurrection.

I look into your debilitating eyes and see them shine remembering how my eyes should respond at the thought of you being mine

Remember Who You Are | Michelle Wang

Blind Spot | Vicky Yan

Garden of Secrets Contest: Art Winner

garden of secrets

(Garden of Secrets Contest: Writing Winner)

Gray Jabaji

a home is like a garden of secrets behind a locked door. on the outside, it looks like a pleasant paradise, the garden of eden, if you will.

but once you open the door, pull away the vines, and venture deep inside under the surface, it’s more than what it seems.

in the kitchen, you’ll find a poisonous belladonna lily saying things like “i don’t like your new look,” after you changed how you looked because you developed further. “you used to be so perfect.”

“there’s no way you can change the way you present yourself like it doesn’t affect others.”

you peek into the dining room, and there’s a prickly bush. keeping you from growing with your favorite flower, but the path was open when you conformed to the rest of the garden. the bush says that it’s unfaithful to like multiple flowers whilst saying you have a favorite. the bush treats you awfully the second it knows your favorite flower isn’t the stereotypical rose.

walk down the hall to the living room, and you’ll find a lily of the valley. a martyr, a safe space, a life-saver, or so you think

the lily of the valley used to be your favorite, picking the brambles out of your skin after you reached for a thorny bush with an open hand not knowing the damage it would do.

but it turns out that the lily of the valley has been poisonous and deadly the whole time the lily of the valley is just like the belladonna lily and the bush, but worse.

the lily of the valley blows in the wind, acts like it’s the most beautiful in world, above everyone else. and that’s even worseit hurts more to have your trust broken and get your hopes up than to have them crushed in the first place.

you go up the stairs and find the author, the luscious lavender, learning about themself as time goes on, turning into a more beautiful version of themself, making wishes for a difference.

but the lavender doesn’t thrive in the darkness or the pain of others like the belladonna lily. the lavender has only known darkness, yet still doesn’t know how to live within it. the lavender doesn’t belong in the garden of secrets.

the lavender does everything for others, calming people down, helping people rest well, making people feel better, giving their whole life, and getting nothing in return.

all that the lavender wants is for a yarrow to come pluck them up and take them out of the garden of secrets and out into the true garden of eden. sure, their roots may get damaged, but it’s worth it. the pain is worth it.

and let me be the one to tell you, the lavender has finally found the yarrow, hidden deep within the garden.

Perspective

Natalie Albergo

CW: Body Image

As I stared into the mirror, my cold, cracked fingers traced my ribs One, two, three ribs visible Always If not, then the shame spiral would intensify Suddenly, my sister and mother came out of the bathroom stalls; I dropped my brown sweater over my stomach I must have forgotten I was in a public restroom in New York, not my bedroom, alone

Our first activity of our day trip was exploring midtown Manhattan - sightseeing and passing endless shops and stores. I did not go in them or use them as a way to get a few brief seconds of warmth and refuge from the frozen air. Instead, I used the glass windows as mirrors, verifying that my appearance was socially acceptable. I didn’t think it was.

We laboriously walked up 5th Avenue, our feet icy and sore, until we reached 82nd Street, and came upon the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Frankly, I didn’t care about the rest of that trip. I was sick of all the commercial stuff. What I really wanted to see was The Met, filled to the brim with history, art, and culture so worldly and mesmerizing it would take my breath away.

I desperately wanted to see all the ancient art and artifacts. Egyptian, Greek, Roman, all of it. I’ve always been fascinated by ancient civilizations and history since I was a little girl - young, innocent, carefree attitude towards my body. This museum was a dream come true for the young girl in me who dreamed of learning of these places, and for the current me, fascinated in history and hungry to consume any sliver of information I could.

"Instead, I used the glass windows as mirrors, verifying that my appearance was socially acceptable. I didn’t think it was. "

After entering the museum, we decided to see the Greco-Roman exhibit. While strolling through the vast grand lobby, I pulled up my sweatpants, so they fell down my slim stomach and would rest on the bony flesh of my hips. Such a comforting, satisfying sensation - a useless habit, but a compulsive reassurance. Eventually, we made our way across the main lobby and entered the Greco-Roman exhibit, filled with intricate and magnificent artifacts - pots, vases, medallions, shoes. Walking around and observing these things, I wondered what I looked like to others. Did my sweater make me look bigger than usual? What about my thighs? Was my face too round and ugly?

But then came the real magnificence - sculpture. Specifically, ancient men and women, made of marble and limestone, exposing their whole body to me and the millions before who had seen them. Staring up at one particular woman, her beauty unnerving, I observed her body. Soft and somewhat curvy, she didn’t have three ribs that I could count. But she was still gorgeous, and possessed an elusive quality that made me stare in awe.

Several other strangers were admiring the statues. Staring into that ancient woman’s eyes, I had a realization. Nobody cared and or was critical of her body. No sane person would stare up at this grandiose sculpture, a capsule of culture, and think “Oh she doesn’t have a flat stomach,” “She’s not that pretty,”. Instead, they all admired her natural, realistic beauty, her body curving in towering mountains and deep valleys. Looking up to her, my eyes glazed over. I was frozen with the admiration and wonder she had invoked in me. Then suddenly, I epiphanized that I was actively appreciating the areas of her body that I had previously denounced on myself as imperfect.

Despite my marveling at the statues, a seed of doubt remained in me, gnawing on my thoughts. “You’re still not good enough,” taunted that nagging gremlin in my brain, “You’re still not skinny enough.” But this time, my response changed. The power and strength of those statues had given me a rock-solid defense to my self-deprecation. “You are good enough,” I countered, “There is no such thing as ‘skinny enough’, don’t feel that you have to change your body to be satisfied. Your body is just here to exist. Appreciate all of its intricacies unashamedly.”

Unchanged and admired. That will be my body. Like those statues, it will simply just be. Looking timeless, unable to care what people think because she is just stone. My body may not be stone, but my mindset will be. My acceptance of myself will be hard to crack and harder to collapse. No outside influences will plague my mind and distort my idea of what my body should look like.

There was no social media to pressure people into believing their bodies were imperfect and wrong in 400 B.C. There were no unattainable and impractical beauty standards drilled in their heads by media and advertising. There was no nonsense and junk infiltrating their minds through cell phones, which had rotted my self-confidence and body image.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon strolling around the museum. The exhibits were filled with renowned artwork made by highly distinguished artists - Degas’ Little Dancer, Monet’s water lilies, a Van Gogh self portrait. But none of those amassed the impact that the ancient bodies did. All day, I couldn’t get them out of my head.

Walking out of the museum that evening, wind whipping against my round red cheeks, I felt myself relax. I had gained perspective.

Breathe In, Breathe Out, and Repeat, Repeat, Repeat. Sunny

Shen

Five things you can see:

Tips of knees Yellow tile wall Shower curtains patterned with an orange so hideous, Mom let out a gasp when Dad brought them home Water, dyed an artificial blue an homage to that wonderful trip to the Bahamas, eons ago and remnants of the bath bomb that made it so, bobbing and swirling as it dissolves into nothing.

Four things you can feel:

Hard ceramic that cages in limbs, soft suds that bubble on skin

Overwhelming warmth, but not quite the disgusting sticky way that makes limbs fuse together and sweat pool on necks. Soapy seas slowly swallow whatever comes close, taking arms, shoulders, hair. Only stopping short of a face.

Three things you can hear:

Thud, as awkward elbows bump into walls. Plink, as the leaky faucet drip-drip-drips, each droplet consumed by the pool of blue. The light that is teetering on the cusp of life and death offers its buzz to the din, quietly pleading for someone to go and fix it.

Two things you can smell:

Lavender. Lavender from the shampoo, lavender from the body wash. Tainted lavender from the wilted lavender plant beside the sink, where it hasn’t seen water in two weeks, all working in harmony to overwhelm sensitive nostrils.

One thing you can taste:

Nothing, really eating dinner overtop of expensive textbooks and open projects just seemed sacrilegious. How long ago was lunch, anyways?

The water’s gone cold It’s time to get up

Visited By Love | Eva Hawkins

Whenever you pick a flower Ally Reed

Think what short time this seedling had to grow as it blew back and forth in the wind clutching at any available hold where it could settle and let water and air coax it to burst its soft shell sending tender shoots to reach towards the sun

Think how quickly it had to push roots into the ground before it was whisked away and lost in the wind or rain

Think how rapidly it must’ve unfolded its lush petals to draw in enough sun to survive Next time you pick that flower think how hard it grew

Grow Fonder

Becca Madsen

I think, I will be happier When there is an hour or two, Between me, And you.

Missed Days

O the days I miss! O the days I miss!

The cotton-candy clouds, colored bands around my wrists; The cookies and the cut-outs, wishes trusted in the stars, When the problems that I faced weren’t all-out internal wars; The childhood adventures, raucous ruckus but no risk; It seemed everything was perfect in those days I missed.

In the days I miss, when I laid among the grass, With the drifting dandelions who would smile as I passed, When rain was an adventure, buckets turned mud into pie; When sprinkler spray made rainbows as it streamed toward the sky I was too young to know better, they said “ignorance is bliss,” And I had plenty of it, in those days I miss.

O the days I’ve missed! All the days I’ve missedThe melancholy hollow that came as I reminisced; The wistful worn-out outlook that I used to see the worldThe second- and third-chances, accidentally ignored; The promise of the present, and my future life dismissedFor I found I was too focused on the days I’ve missed.

Lexy Russell

Healing Sunny Shen

They say blue is the color of sadness

The color children use for tears

(Streaky crayons

On a shaded cheek)

They say blue is the color of sorrow

The color painters use for water

(Oceans so big

They swallow you whole)

The curtains are blue

When the artist wants melancholy

The curtains are blue

When the writer wants grief

But blue is sky

Aquamarine on a walk home

Quiet after a hard day

But blue is night

Indigo that stretches and fills

Our looming silence

But blue is healing

A turquoise box of candy

A navy ribbon around roses

A sorry

And an I forgive you

Overcooked Rebecca Liao

Your fingers fumble ove and buttons of your con vision blurs from eyes s hard in laughter. You ca screen or where your ch character is among all t family members’ motion brother’s reindeer chef comical smacking sound the speakers of the TV a rescue a soup from burn

It is made apparent that you aren’t the only one who was knocked aside in his rush because your mom emits an enraged squawk. “Who just hit me?!” she yells, her little man chef disoriented from being hit.

“Argh! So annoying!”

Your brother just lets out a mischievous chuckle as he takes the only slightly burnt soup to the serving area. A satisfying ding rings out at having successfully served it, accompanied by a tip. This doesn’t aid in curing you from your current fit of laughter, and you struggle to help chop ingredients for the next order. Your dad merely sighs with exasperation as his wheelchair-bound raccoon retrieves more onions, surely thinking about how your mom is not helping you all to three-star the level. The music speeds up as there are only 30 seconds remaining on the timer. You quickly scan the screen, eyes now wide open to see the progress on any current soups and how many more orders you can complete.

“Okay, we can do two more!” you shout. You press the bottom button to boost your character’s movements, rushing to help complete the soups.

The music continues to accelerate, and as the seconds tick down, you stand ready with a plate to get the last soup once it’s done cooking. You feel yourself sweat a bit, poising your finger to speed over to the serving location. The timer starts beeping as there are three seconds left…two seconds…one… Ding! You serve the dish just as the round ends. Cheers erupt all around as a grin explodes over your face. “We did it!!” you shriek as the victory sound comes up, along with three shiny golden stars. You laugh as the pain and chaos from the last four minutes washes over you. No matter the struggle to win though, the fun of having done it with your family was worth it.

Mission Complete | Teryn Butler

The One Who Watches | Teryn Butler

Mens Rea.

Maizie Anderson

Among the vast Labyrinth that is held in my Cranium, there is a ball and chain with wings, ready to fly away at a moment's notice, with my legs bound to the metal cuff, forever gripping my cigarette legs.

Though I am existing in fact and not merely in alternate reality, I am incarcerated mentally, thoughts reverberating in the ‘so-called’ precious chamber that is my Cranium

of pernicious thought ring leaving me in a state of cognitive disarray.

Beginning to meader the Labyrinth with the weight of the ball and chain, the connection with reality fades and distorts leaving the gyre of perdition that I bestowed upon myself tightening as does the collar around my ankle and it flies, I fly, with the weight of the ball and chain behind me.

My thoughts like an obligated t h i n g Governing my encephalon with the grip of a dictator, and yet the and is mine.

Ode to Dishes

Keira Nelson

One day it will not feel right

To eat on this plate that is not mine. For all my life I have taken a bite

Off the tan plates with a garden design.

Out of the white cabinet, where its family stays. It will be used many times for my dinner plate. It may cover the plants and ruin their display But it will forever have its beautiful traits.

The design is embedded in my brain. Potted plants circle the plate. Speckled in dots that are ingrained. Little cracks growing to be great.

Oh, my plates, please do not break. I wish for us to dine before you resign. I want to take a bite when I'm old and I shake. Off the tan plates with a garden design.

Cheers to Roses | Michelle Wang

I want to see

Helia Hung

I want to see

As much as the sun.

Where vitalizing beacons

Douse the Earth

Before the day has begun.

I want to see where Its veils

Envelop

From East to West.

How its impending shadows

Conform to those impermeable, And how

The sun prevails

To conform wistfully, Malleable silhouettes.

I want to see

As much as the sun

Shining above the trees.

For what’s a world of wonders

When you’re not meant to see?

Wiping the Tears | Eva Hawkins

The Boulder and Fungus at the Old Oceanside

Kaitlyn Petroski

He was softer than the pesky moss that clings to a rock. She was tougher than the stone that struck me with all her talk. I hate him her with all that engulfs me.

How lonely could a rock have been to love mere bacteria? How desperate could a plant have been to escape his lost hysteria? Bound together by the forces of nature, we’ve held onto each other, we thought always, forever. Until the tide crashed in taller, and salty resentment washed over us with displeasure.

They’ve stained his green colors, once vibrant and lime, while pushing me into the bouldersthere’s just no way.

But I’ve heard they can turn to diamonds over time, and if that was the case… we could be okay……. After years of our struggle, he she has become soaked in layers of unbearable exhaustion. restlessness. I suppose when a big rock beats at wet moss, all it can do is be squashed into mush.

Beneath the layers of bitterness eroded by time, somehow, a speckle of love still lies. But the tides have been rising, increasingly high.

Will we make it? Perhaps, in a lie. we’ll be fine.

Flight of the Cranes

Emerald Xu

There once was a painter who lived atop a wooden cottage on the side of a mountain. He fared in silent solitude, hiding his craft behind bamboo doors of tapestry. With the rarity of appearances outside of his home, villagers down the mountain speculated about his origin. Some claimed he was a heavenly beast banished from the heavens, others swore he was an exile from a forgotten land. But all that the people collectively agreed on were that his paintings were priceless in their beauty.

Every few months, he would traverse down the mountainside to sell his paintings. When the squeaking of his old wooden cart could be heard echoing down the valley, villagers eagerly hurried out of their homes to crowd the cart, gawking at the grace of his artistry.

The painter only drew cranes. Cranes which were white as virgin snow across a golden background that melted into the fringes of the bamboo paper. Red dots were placed atop their heads with gentle care. Wings arched into the sky and heads curved tenderly across their snowy body. They were as much alive on paper as they were in being.

Local artisans begged to learn his craft for years, but he would simply hold up his hand and turn away at the request. He never took an apprentice under his wing.

One night a young artist, angered by the rejection of mentorship despite months of persistent offerings, gathered the local artisans into his home.

“Selfish! Tha painter.

“His painting of his skill fo

The artisans “And gone A flam ”...no

Under the shadow of night, a trail of fire began to trek up the cobblestone path leading up the mountain. Faces illuminated by the light of the orange howled out across the valley, their ghastly inferno brimming the sky.

The man watched silently as the figures headed toward his house. He continued to paint quietly in the light of the moon as the thundering footsteps grew louder and louder.

And as the painters kicked down the door, scattering loose bamboo paper across the floor, the man put his final touches on the wingtips of the crane, black ink stroking across their feathers. He let out a smile, then laid the paintbrush on the floor.

The cranes sprung to life, wings beating against the small room of the cabin, their cries echoing in the wooden hollow as they broke through the bamboo paper which trapped them within. The painters cried out in shock, falling to the floor to shield their faces.

They could only watch in horror through the fluttering feathers as the man climbed atop one of the white figures and flew away, out of the window and into the sky, never to be seen by human eyes again.

Stumbling Through Dawn: An Aubade

Gabriela Roberts

The chill of dawn bites at my skin, as I rise before the sun and struggle to resist the beckoning call of my bed covers. Imposing darkness has become a welcome companion as I stumble my way, half asleep, downstairs.

The only noise that greets me is of my own making. Snap! of the watch closure, click-click-click as the stove roars to life and gas meets metal in a grating w h i s p e r. Flick of one light switch, the rest are too bright, and SLAM - the microwave door. I try to be gentle but it’s never soft enough to truly be kind.

Nothing calls me into the day. A ceramic bowl too hot when touched and the flash of heat on my fingertips pairs with the slight searing of my taste buds from steaming coffee. My stomach grumbles complaints that I am not moving fast enough preparing my food and the faucet stutters at being used so early.

And yet, today finds me blissfully alone. No mindless chatter or incessant conversation to pull me from my mind too soon. No pointless questions or unreasonable happiness for this hour.

But why does my mind wander?

Why does it travel across the ocean to you and long for your company when I’m so sure I enjoy the peace of myself?

(Early last night we parted and the absence of you was a melancholy song on my tongue. I missed you. I always know I’ll talk to you tomorrow but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.

And you left me for much-needed sleep and the warmth of your bed which I can’t be upset at but you fall asleep, drop off, and I smile softly, sigh deep into my bones, and yearn.)

If I let my mind retreat into itself, I can almost picture you here next to me moving seamlessly, silently, in harmony with me as I prepare breakfast. You wouldn’t push me to speak, would be content in my existence as I am in yours.

I can see you chiding my accidental loudness with a small smile and a pointed glance upstairs,

can see you checking my fingertips for burns, even though we both know they don’t exist, and gently squeezing them before letting my hand go,

can see you moving your chair closer to mine, care seeping from your frame as you try to softly scrape it over tiles,

can see you watching me eat, turning away with a smile, see your hand outstretch to grab the sugar and your arm brush against mine.

I can imagine you in my company, your soul bent towards mine and mine towards yours, no words needed to know how much I cherish you.

Your presence could replace the beloved comfort of my dawn given solitude and I would embrace it, would relish in the way you paint my drab mornings in soft hues of color.

Editorial

Sequel is an annual literary arts publication featuring the collected work from the student body of Dulaney High School (population 1,824 students/ 161 faculty). The magazine is managed by students enrolled in the Advanced Creative Writing course.

The class, operating as a staff, meets bi-weekly to recruit, collect, and critique submissions to the magazine, in addition to crafting their own work. Separate literary and art staff review submissions anonymously, determining acceptance to the magazine based upon artistic and literary merit.

Dedicated to celebrating and cultivating the creativity of all Dulaney students, Sequel not only makes inclusion a mission but a priority.

Inquiries about submitting to the 2023-2024 edition of the magazine may be made to mhopkins@bcps.org. Submissions open in September and close in February. In addition, the magazine offers a writing and art contest that runs from October-January of every school year.

Follow us on Instagram and Twitter for more content and candid classroom adventures: @dulaneysequel

Colophon

The theme of the thirty-fifth edition of Sequel, “Fragment of Stars”, was developed by literary staff members Jane Cox and Kaitlyn Petroski, inspired by and in memory of 2023 literary staff member, Rebecca Liao. The magazine is printed in Lora and Old Standard fonts. Titles are in Old Standard 30 point font, bylines and page numbers are Lora Italicized 15 point font, poetry copy is in 14 point font, while prose copy is in 12 point font. The cover stock and paper stock are both 60 lb., coated, measuring 8.5 x 11 inches in dimension.

The magazine was produced by Art Editor-in-Chief, Teryn Butler, as well as art staffers Kaitlyn Petroski and Sunny Shen. “Fragments of Stars” was designed on Chrome laptops, using Canva. The cover art was designed by Sunny Shen. Sequel is printed by School Publications Company, in Neptune, New Jersey. 25 hard copies were sold to the public for $10, as well as offered digitally via Issuu for a small donation to fund next year’s publication.