The Vision 2022

The Vision

2022

THE TEAM CO-EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Megan Chin ’22 Clare Didden ’22 Destiny Stephen ’22

STAFF Sophie Miller ’22 Charlotte Molinoff ’22 Luke Yerkes ’22 Alexandra Elwell ’23 Brendan Lynch ’23 Hudson Warm ’23 Kylie Oh ’24 Mikayla Sabwami ’24

THE READERS

Submissions to The Vision are chosen by volunteer peer readers who judge each piece without knowledge of the author’s identity. All students are encouraged to submit work, and all are invited to participate as readers.

Thank you to the members of the Hackley Upper School student body who supported our efforts.

Gabrielle Diaz-Alcantara ’25 Aran Basu ’25 Rebecca Ingles ’25 Francesca Jones ’25 N’Darri Posey ’25 Nina Zeltzer ’25 Caroline Didden ’24

Edward Estrada ’24 Maura McGlarry ’24 Sarah Metcalfe ’24 Annika Terezakis ’24 Nailah Archer ’23 Flor Guzman ’23 Gabi Kalapoutis ’23

Mateen Nassirpour ’23 Willow Quattrone ’23 Thomas Di Girolami ’22 Serina Fasciano ’22 Iheukwumere Marcus ’22 Catherine Lapey ’22 Noah Tirschwell ’22

Megan Chin ’22, photography

Hackley School • 293 Benedict Avenue • Tarrytown, NY • 10591 Volume XXXIII • Published Annually • © Hackley School 2022 1

A Letter from the Editors Dear Reader, Thank you for your support of The Vision. By reading this magazine you have played the crucial role of carrying out The Vision’s mission.

When flipping The Vision’s pages, you have given a voice to student artists, poets, and writers. The Vision has always strived to be an outlet for creative expression and to shed light on the many artistic talents of the student body. Our motto “For Students by Students” is embedded in every aspect of the magazine from the collaboration of the staff to the readers themselves. The Vision opens up a space where students are free to express themselves outside of the classroom setting and we hope that this magazine will carry out this purpose for many years to come.

With the continuation of the Covid-19 virus throughout 2022, The Vision had some bumps along the way in order to achieve its final product. However, with each challenge the pandemic brought upon us, The Vision faced them all head-on. From multiple members of the staff being on Zoom to creating a safe and conscious launch party, the staff persevered. Through our unreserved passion and effort we were able to create an amazing magazine together. The theme of this year’s Vision “From Black and White to Color” is symbolic of the journey of both the magazine and the staff. Even in challenging times, The Vision was able to find joy in everything we did. From bonding over breakfasts in the mornings to giving advice to underclassmen, The Vision staff truly bonded this year and became a team of people that always had each others’ backs. We hope that this magazine puts a spark of “color” in your day and we thank you again for supporting our staff and The Vision.

Clare Didden, Megan Chin, Destiny Stephen 2

The Vision 2022 Poetry. “replayed memories” by Anonymous........................................................................................................page 7 “fear” by Afsana Dhali ’23........................................................................................................................ page 8 “sugar cookies” by Afsana Dhali ’23..........................................................................................................page 9 “Do you?” by Lilo Haidara ’25.................................................................................................................page 13 “favorites” by Afsana Dhali ’23................................................................................................................page 14 “Al Inshirah” by Afsana Dhali ’23........................................................................................................... page 15 “Glass Museum” by Allison Chin ’24.......................................................................................................page 16 “ars poetica” by Hudson Warm ’23.........................................................................................................page 19 “My Placement” by Lilo Haidara ’25.......................................................................................................page 22 “Bandage” by Anonymous.......................................................................................................................page 25 “Where I lay” by Kirsten Trivell ’23....................................................................................................... page 26 “Ramble” by Hailey Won ’25...................................................................................................................page 27 “Impossible” by Hailey Won ’25............................................................................................................. page 29 “Tonight's Question / Apple Defamation” by Catherine Lapey ’22....................................................... page 30 “Randomity 4: The Prequel” by Sid Shah ’22.........................................................................................page 32 “Bullet Holes in Cheeks” by Hudson Warm ’23......................................................................................page 37 “consciousness” by Afsana Dhali ’23...................................................................................................... page 38 “Drowning in a glass half full” by Anonymous...................................................................................... page 38 “Searching for crystals in the dried-up creek” by Scarlett Kaplan ’24...................................................page 39 “flower with pale petals” by Hudson Warm ’23......................................................................................page 42 “Visor” by Tommy Troso ’24.................................................................................................................. page 44 “Reckless yet cautious” by Isabella Fauber ’23.......................................................................................page 45 “Song of the Darkness” by Sophie Miller ’22......................................................................................... page 46 “In Orbit” by Hudson Warm ’23............................................................................................................ page 50 “The End” by Luke Yerkes ’22.................................................................................................................page 52 “Insult Therapy” by Anonymous.............................................................................................................page 54 “Benevolence” by Hailey Won ’25...........................................................................................................page 56 “Lost” by Sophie Miller ’22..................................................................................................................... page 58 “Smile” by Hailey Won ’25..................................................................................................................... page 60 “The Monster” by Sophie Miller ’22....................................................................................................... page 64 “Goodness” by Mikayla Sabwami ’24......................................................................................................page 67 “Hockley” by Dechhen Sherpa ’22.......................................................................................................... page 68 3

Personal Narrative and Short Fiction.

“The Raggedy Man” by Alexandra Elwell ’23.......................................................................................... page 11 “The Banana Story” by Alexandra Elwell ’23......................................................................................... page 20 “A Bird Looks Out Below” by Alexandra Elwell ’23................................................................................page 24 “Joviality” by Alexandra Elwell ’23.........................................................................................................page 34 “Movie Night” by Tommy Troso ’24....................................................................................................... page 48 “Coven of Darkness” by Alexandra Elwell ’23.........................................................................................page 55 “Cotton Candy” by Talia Tirschwell ’24................................................................................................. page 62

Drawing.

Cover Art by Kaitlyn Qu ‘22........................................................................................................................Cover “Breaking Glass” by Annabelle Gray ’22...................................................................................................page 6 “Still Life in Pencil” by Sophie Miller ’22..................................................................................................page 9 “Crumpled Paper” by Hailey Won ’25.....................................................................................................page 10 “Skeletal Snake” by Sarah Malach ’23.....................................................................................................page 14 “Skeleton with Butterflies” by Emily Rifkin ’23...................................................................................... page 15 “Rainy State of Mind” by Lucia Butterfield ’25.......................................................................................page 27 “Emotion Map” by Lucia Butterfield ’25.................................................................................................page 31 “Florence” by Mira Zaslow ’22............................................................................................................... page 40 “Annabelle’s Brain” by Mira Zaslow ’22..................................................................................................page 41 “Inside MegaMind” by Mira Zaslow ’22..................................................................................................page 41 “By Nature” by Lucia Butterfield ’25.......................................................................................................page 43 “Balance” by Lucia Butterfield ’25.......................................................................................................... page 46 “Shoe Cracking Glass” by Hailey Won ’25............................................................................................. page 49 “Solemn” by Max Calman ’22..................................................................................................................page 55 “Two Eyes” by Max Calman ’22...............................................................................................................page 56 “Reaching” by Annabelle Gray ’22..........................................................................................................page 57 “Looking at Pieces” by Annabelle Gray ’22.............................................................................................page 59 “Mega” by Sophie Miller ’22................................................................................................................... page 60 “Duality” by Max Calman ’22..................................................................................................................page 65

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Photography. “pane and liquid blues” by Iheukwumere Marcus ’22............................................................................. page 8 “Violinist at Elijah McClain Vigil” Massimo Soto ’23.............................................................................page 12 “Basketball Dreams” by Joseph Reyes ’23..............................................................................................page 13 “Illuminated” by Kylie Oh ’24.................................................................................................................page 18 “Faded” by Alexandra Elwell ’23............................................................................................................ page 26 “Blue Door” by Hudson Warm ’23......................................................................................................... page 30 “Red and Blue” by Gabrielle Hogrefe ’24................................................................................................page 33 “Tropical Scene” by Alexandra Elwell ’23...............................................................................................page 34 “Iris” by Kylie Oh ’24...............................................................................................................................page 34 “Reaching” by Kylie Oh ’24.....................................................................................................................page 35 “Ocean Whispers” by Alexandra Elwell ’23........................................................................................... page 38 “Landscape” by Brendan Lynch ’23........................................................................................................page 42 “Hypnotized” by Luke Yerkes ’22........................................................................................................... page 44 “Sunrise in Yucatan” by Massimo Soto ’23.............................................................................................page 47 “Stillness” by Megan Chin ’22................................................................................................................. page 51 “Seated” by Luke Yerkes ’22....................................................................................................................page 52 “Intensity” by Megan Chin ’22................................................................................................................page 63 “Beach” by Luke Yerkes ’22.................................................................................................................... page 68

Painting.

“Despair” by Allison Chin ’24..................................................................................................................page 16 “Locked Away Heart” by Hailey Won ’25................................................................................................ page 17 “The Bull” by Alexandra Elwell ’23.........................................................................................................page 25

Digital Art. “Atlas’ Farm” by Mateen Nassipour ’23................................................................................................. page 20 “Paranoia” by Allison Chin ’24................................................................................................................page 22 “Self Discord” by Cassandra Lopez ’24.................................................................................................. page 28 “The World and All Her Pearls” by Allison Chin ’24..............................................................................page 36

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6

Anabelle Gray ’22, drawing

you have no problem without me,

replayed memories

By Anonymous

i can’t forget you as easily. i see you so much that it haunts me

how come the walls

but you don’t even recognize me.

can crumble down

not anymore.

in my mind,

you torment my mind

leaving me utterly alone

with the way you look at me

with nothing but a million pieces

in the middle of class

of shattered glass

when i’m trying to understand shakespeare

for company,

but your stupid gaze

yet you are perfectly fine?

tries to break me like glass. as if you haven’t already.

7

Fear

by Talia Tirschwell

Fear

“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning how to dance in the By Talia Tirschwell rain.”

- Vivian “Life isn’tGreene about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning how to dance in the rain.” arrived - There Vivianonce Greene - a great and wrathful storm Its booming thunder shook the Earth’s bare bones There once arrived a great and wrathful storm flash ofthunder light andshook roar of tides ItsThe booming theocean Earth’s bare bones The flash of light and roar of ocean tides Sentsnails snailstotoshells shellsand andbears bearstotocaves cavesalone alone Sent stormlike likethis thishad hadnever neverblown blownbefore before AAstorm Its shrieking winds snapped branches from their toes Itspeople shrieking snapped from their toes As shutwinds their doors andbranches sealed windows The rain spewed as if from a garden hose As people shut their doors and sealed windows Thewhen rain spewed as if the fromstars a garden hose And night came were left alone They cried to the people to please come back For with bright light but no one there to guide And hearts when night camewith the stars werecrack left alone Their split open a soulful They cried to the people to please come back But over the howling of the great storm Forpeople with bright light butasno there to guide The did not hear theone stars cried And so they stayed inside where it was warm Theirhid hearts splitfrom openthe with a soulful crack They and hid wrathful night sky But over the howling of the great storm The people did not hear as the stars cried And so they stayed inside where it was warm They hid and hid from the wrathful night sky

Iheukwumere Marcus ’22, photography 8

Sugar Cookies

By Afsana Dhali Their smiles plastered on their faces Delicately iced on Stretched tight, sweet, beautiful Held back with spun sugar Each the same size, same eyes, same lies Stacked, on display Some warm, some scalding But the icing is bitter Each one breaks, crumbles Choking you while it falls They stare from afar smiling on like angels, holding your heart Little cookie cutter people.

Sophie Miller ’22, drawing 9

Hailey Won ’25, drawing

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The Raggedy Man

By Alexandra Elwell ’23

An air of coldness and curtness swarms the man. He seemed to teem with ‘-ness,’ as he was a very ‘noun’ man. He was not ‘adjectival’ at all, no he was ‘nounal.’ Nothing could describe him, per se, as he was everything already.

He was an instigator, arousing burning pangs of putrid hatred in those he wronged. He instigated hate and hate instigated him to be as he was. Just as he was an instigator, he is an interloper. He is an interloper with his instigation, too. He adds to the conversation when he is told not to and they cry, “Leave us alone!” But, he does not because he is an interloper and onward he prances with the dexterity of a gazelle, roaming to and from the privacy of others. He is involved in what he should not be but that is what instigates the anger of others toward him and, thus, his anger. “Why can’t I join?” he asks feebly with a twinge of resentment. Just as he is an interloper, he was a prima donna. He was a prima donna because he thought he deserved to be there, to be heard, and to be visibly invested in the lives of others. He deserved this.

After all, he was the reason why they all were happy. His family, his lovely family. He fathered them, husbanded them, uncled them, and cousined them.

He made their lives what they were by being who he was, therefore no one could get mad at him merely because he existed. He was a necessity. He was an inspiration! He challenged others, though they needed this not. His voice rang with knowledge and beckoned others forth, to come in close and scrunch around his feet for a quick listen as his thoughts abounded with glimmering ingenuity and intelligence that no other could possibly acquire, not by any means, as he was uniquely incredible!

He looks around to see that the gilded room of yore with gold crusted panels, ornate crown molding, and walls lined with the most illustrious work of art possible have vanished. The large manor he coveted dearly, the countryside home abounding with memories that he once spread his life through. It’s all gone with the whispering wind that hollows one’s thoughts, taking them as quickly as it gave them. His ragged clothing is all sizes too big and his shuffling steps replace the swift strides upon the ballroom floor that he filled mere seconds ago. He looks around in a stupor of shock. “Where did it all go?” he asks with a tremble in his voice. The flash of life left him and dropped him where he stands, shuffling under a bridge in clothing all sizes too big whilst lugging his suitcases. As his life dribbles by slower than a broken faucet, he becomes and defines the final noun; to his family, friends, and all who see him by, he is a deadbeat, a live one no more.

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Massimo Soto ’23,

photography 12

Do you?

By Lilo Haidara ’25 Society will always let the white man go They’ll always say a whisper of no Scream and shout that our lives matter But let the white man feast on our children as if we are homemade on a silver platter They’ll preach our ideas and artistic lense But think getting box braids can make amends I don’t want to be another hashtag Another acronym in your bio I don’t want the bare minimum of a war I’ve been battling since I straightened my hair and lightened my skin through filters for you Are you doing enough?

Do you check your friends in the dark circles of these tall walls?

Do you study the words you don’t know?

Things you’ll never experience?

You don’t And if you do, do more Enough is enough When even in those dark circles I hear you I hear you when you ask why there are grids in our hair When you ask what my ‘lingo’ means When you look at me weird the second I say ‘ain’t’ Do you know?

Do you realize your doings?

Your faults?

Will you let this poem go And not think of it again?

Or will you join the war and continue on our side Because I’ve hidden within those tall walls for too long.

- dusk

Joseph Reyes ’23,

photography 13

Favorites

By Afsana Dhali ’23 I know they don’t play favorites, But why else would she be dismissed?

Told she could speak up about it, It’s a safe space, she has support.

But when she tells of how she feels ostracized, Alone, all a little too late, She gets a shrug and a taffy smile, Stretched, sweet.

They preach to the world, About how they accept all tones And perspectives.

But when the devil’s advocate of the world Says what they believe And are attacked, baseless rebuttals pop like bubbles Blistering their skin, heart.

The preachers? Puddles, Spineless stones, No longer a beacon of support.

But at least they don’t play favorites.

Sarah Malach ’23, drawing 14

Emily Rifkin ’23, drawing

Al-Inshirah

By Afsana Dhali ’23

A person’s heart is Expanded and illuminated.

The heart Can see the truth.

The hearts Wish to be suitable.

And worthy. to receive. guidance.

It is an enormous job.

For a person to Carry the truth.

Success always appears.

To be a heavy burden.

Mention With dignity and honor Al-Amin Or the truthful.

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Glass Museum

By Allison Chin

Only she was privy to your soliloquy.

To her, it seemed impromptu, but it was rehearsed.

The pavement was your teleprompter, your lines a mockery Of all of her emotions, all the times her heart hurt.

How did I never know, how did I have zero clue, Blindsided by your rambling defensive confession, “It’s me, not you.”

Allison Chin ’22 16

With each word, a blade chisels your stiffly saccharine expression Into the museum of her memory’s glass walls, in an alcove saved for someone who loved her, But instead, it is filled by you, the shrieking of metal on glass, and the agate blue Of your eyes, hands holding her lifeless, bloodied body, you, assuming the role of murderer.

But, don’t worry. It’s me, not you.

Not a drop of crimson smears your crystalline arms, it is my hands gloved in viscous blood.

The girl in your arms, who I was before you, I killed, as if it could make me loved.

Hailey Won ’25 17

Kylie Oh ’24, Photography

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Ars Poetica

by Hudson Warm ’23 A muted, silent cry Explosions of red dye In crevices of stone These rocks we call our own A balance beam of glass Crash through, fall on your ass A shadow beam of sun The dry skin on your thumb Faded black soliloquies Of marionettes’ ventriloquies Chapped lips and mittened hands Ponytails with rogue strands A mercy-cry for the few If only your mother knew Of the knife selection in your belt The way, before you, that I knelt Faulty poker hand you have been dealt Teh wrods wchih I hvae awlyas mispelt — Please is the worst word to repeat To feel powerless on your own two feet On the bridge where your two lovers meet You’ve dangled off the brush of defeat —

These shattered letters I recall The broken words that made me fall The letters I still sometimes scrawl To send to illusory addresses I call 40 Spring and nine-one-four Fights over who loved who more Isn’t that all poetry is?

A study in love and promises?

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The Banana Story

By Alexandra Elwell ’23

Well, here I am And here I sit Here I cry and wish to vie For the fortune tellers token I’m so very sorry, but I do feel quite broken Well, who am I? Oh, I am who?

I do know that, Way over yonder, if you crane your neck to see, in the swinging brush and fertile canopies of green,

the bananas are in bloom So take one down with a snap and a tug And it sits in my hand, a crescent moon from above And in the yellow, marred by green and brown, is a sadness Does it know it will be eaten?

Will its skin being torn feel like a scalping?

Mateen Nassipour ’23, Digital Art

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Oh, here I sit And ponder still Perched beside my windowsill And, peering through the glass I look at the rigid fire-escape that is decaying with rust And know that I cannot run, walk, scream, nor stop So, here I am, morose and sullen

Like an abducted banana on the floor,

sitting like a crescent moon

while the yellowed vivacity flits into a green rage of age And I stretch my arms to the warmth above, the embrace of comfort that slips away too soon The loveliness of ‘happy’s’ enveloping hug arrives with a twinkling smile but leaves in haste

It cannot stay but so wishes you well in your endeavors and gives thanks for your hospitality but really must go, no really, it must

and thanks so much, Oh, it thanks profusely, but leaves, and goes, and is gone I am prompted to ask, “What does it do, this ‘happy?’”

I plead with earnest eyes that search for what, they cannot see,

I have been gifted a mired heart, mottled by green and brown

As I sit upon the ground and contort myself into a crescent moon

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My Placement

By Leila Haidara ’25

My essence is a mere minor casualty within the faults of a million stars So simple yet complex I urge to be the main character To be the one they seek The one they look for The one they long for A prince who finds his princess A warrior who saves her kingdom But my braveness does not extend that far My kindness is limited to those who entertain I refrain from malicious intent yet somehow im the one they fear Love at first sight yet hate at last I guess I was never made for the sparkling sunlight Instead I’ll be the villain A tale where nobody wins And everyone suffers at my will, a story I control A story where they say I have no soul No soul but an essence indeed An essence that is full of greed.

Allison Chin ’24, digital art

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A Bird Looks Out Below

By Alex Elwell ’23

The little bird sat on the branch as small and fragile as its twitching body. It was cold and was singing a slow, open and earnest lark to the other trees and the other small, twitching birds that sat upon them. It was quite cold which made it quite sad. It surveyed the land below and saw a fox scurry across the light snow, imprinting it with impatience. The bird looked and saw it yearned for the fox’s fur and desired even but a semblance of it, a sweater or even a shirt. Something more than it currently had.

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Alex Elwell ’23, painting

Bandage

By Anonymous

I have many different bandages An oval, oh-so-sticky White gauze, soaked through with blood To cover wounds so icky Circular with gooey medicine One that’s red and blue But through it all my favorite Bandage will always be you 25

WHERE I LAY

By Kirsten Trivell ’23 In the field of tall grass At the far end of mom’s favorite trail By the stream that I run down That’s where I lay Just off of Main Street on the way out of town A left and then up way past the parking lot Follow the tree roots, the puddles, and rocks And eventually you may find where I lay Down to the water but mind the privacy signs Continue as the rock size guides you A corridor of greens and a balance beam ahead I run with the stream but the stream doesn’t end One day when I’ve completed the journey I’ll lay in the water, wholly immersed in the cool bath I’ll hear nothing but the sound of the water kissing my skin And this is where I will lay Until this day, I’ll walk and dance the trail I’ll follow the path but take the detour that opens to the field Where no one sits and nothing changes And silently, I shall lay

Alexandra Elwell ’23, photography 26

MB L E A R

By Hailey Won ’25

I find relaxation in the fact that I don’t know everything.

My presence being inconsequential doesn’t incur the anger in me like it once used to.

My execution of choices is no longer filled with passive anger that makes your chest thump with pressure.

I would say that the recurrent feeling wasn’t normal, or that was just what I was telling myself to feel special.

I feel like I’m the love you have before you find the one.

The love that is consecutive in second place.

The love that regresses over time, feeling unfathomable at first touch, but too sour at taste, making it seem too real.

To put it short, I am the preamble that gives you a preview of what comes next.

This may seem depressing or discouraging at first read, but I’m okay knowing that I might not ever find “the one” or true love because right now in this moment, I feel complete.

Lucia Butterfield ’25, drawing 27

Cassandra Lopez ’24, digital art

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Impossible

By Hailey Won ’25 She was a beauty.

Everything that I have ever wanted to be.

Just her presence could make one rapt If only her beauty was susceptible.

If only I was perceptible.

If only I looked like her If only there was a cure For people like me People who are rapacious to be the perfect girl, People who check their waist size after their meals, and hurl.

The sound of grumbling clouds my mind.

The constant need to silence my voracious appetite occurs, as the reflection of my stomach triumphs once again.

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Tonight’s Question / Apple Defamation My Lovely Email List, May I inquire About the most Fancy tickling Element Of your weekend?

Respond

By Catherine Lapey ’22

Hudson Warm ’23, Photography

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And may I also present Some respectful slander Regarding That loathed disgusting heap of shit apple?

Apple music is exclusive and terrible if I want to make an apple music playlist and I do not have apple music I cannot do so.

Spotify however offers a free option.

So an apple musicer could in theory make a free account to craft a playlist and then send it to their spotify friends.

AM further alienates non apple companies Cruel, manipulative, exploitative apple I hate you But I do love my email list recipients.

From the bottom of my warm and furious heart, The Communicator

Lucia Butterfield ’25, Drawing 31

Randomity 4: The Prequel

By Sid Shah ’22 Abstraction is often one floor above you.

There have been days when I wished to be separated from my body, but today wasn’t one of those days.

They throw cabbage that turns your brain into emotional baggage.

Improve your goldfish's physical fitness by getting him a bicycle.

They called out her name time and again, but were met with nothing but silence.

Shakespeare was a famous 17th-century diesel mechanic.

I come from a tribe of head-hunters, so I will never need a shrink.

He had unknowingly taken up sleepwalking as a nighttime hobby.

If my calculator had a history, it would be more embarrassing than my browser history.

Truth in advertising and dinosaurs with skateboards have much in common.

Even though he thought the world was flat he didn’t see the irony of wanting to travel around the world.

The near-death experience brought new ideas to light.

I want a giraffe, but I’m a turtle eating waffles.

Nothing seemed out of place except the washing machine in the bar.

Why did the rich man kick the hobo? Did the rich man kick the hobo?

The door swung open to reveal pink giraffes and red elephants.

She was too busy always talking about what she wanted to do to actually do any of it.

I am my aunt’s sister’s daughter.

He said he was not there yesterday; however, many people saw him there.

The river stole the gods.

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Gabrielle Hogrefe ’24, photography 33

Joviality

Photos by Alex Elwell ’23 & Kylie Oh ’24

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by Alex Elwell

’23

Opportune opportunities are when opportunities happen to come at a good time. It is when there are places to be placed in your anthology of experiences. They happen to be quite favorable.

Opportune opportunities are in ripe-berry-bandwagons that you can jump onto and munch on as you are jostled along the cumbersome road. They are excitingly fresh and full of wondrous potentiality; their rinds reflect the sweetness of their juices.

Lempropes and Mangots and Touerwarbs and Barlymons and Sugerslimps and Veskinsords and Rollytrims and Warlislies. These fruits are rather peculiar; they are quite dexterous as they use their magnetic energy, which lines their stems and their bushes, or trees, shrubs, and forbs they are born from, to detect the opportune opportunities and plop themselves right alongside. There they are softly picked up and admired, then placed with kind eyes into the orangey-red fruit-wagon you nap in while the sun kisses your cheeks.

The sun smiles down and passes its brightly-soft-yellow-blushed smile onto you, your friends, their family, and yours, and that neighbor, and this passerby, and your cat named Tom. The sun hugs you all as you run about. All of you run - to the sappy-sweet melee you dash. It is the market where the fruit is taken to be purchased by the open hands in search of opportune opportunities, the moments of flavor and the could-be-maybe-finger’s-crossed glee. When you let them sit snugly between your teeth, the fruits smile at their own opportune moment. Crunch and swallow, down the hatchet. Opportune opportunities are still just a hopeful wish.

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Allison Chin ’24, digital art

36

Bullet Holes in Cheeks

By Hudson Warm ’23

Legal pad scrap Seven years you’ve been tucked Graphite on graphite smudging In the pocket of my winter coat My darling girl, Han, how I’ll miss you these next few months. I’ll be back before you know it.

See my windowpane for reference Of the tick marks; how many days ‘till dad’s back?

Smudgened, bludgeoned, tick marks off the wood and onto skin ‘Cause for years the ball floated around the rim My limbs, bloodened, on a plate To serve to him, Him, hymn Who has reigned, rained, reined me in Did you give me this?

The plate of limbs, chewy and loveless?

The red-green, love-hate colorblindness?

Here, the flames, hear the flames Spitting blaze, it welcomes you Legal pad scrap, falsely promised crap Your edges burn and curl and blacken I don’t want to find your author Any longer I’ve got your fucking freckles, mom says Bullet holes in my cheeks

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Consciousness

By Afsana Dhali ’23 it’s when you’re drifting in and out of consciousness the first that come to mind are the same ones checking in on you, and caring their love unparalleled, unmatched.

Drowning in a glass half full

By Anonymous

swimming, gasping, grasping onto undeserved hope.

“I can’t breathe,” I laugh.

Alexandra Elwell ’23, photography 38

Searching for crystals in the dried-up creek.

By Scarlett Kaplan ’24

Part of my August haze, Once again spent on that beloved farm.

Two weeks staring into the suns blinding rays, To me this place was nothing but charm.

That was when I was young.

All older than me, back then my cousins would look my way.

Through the berry fields always with sugar on our tongue.

With the dogs and the chickens and the goats we would play Always together, we would frolic those rolling lands, Now I walk through those berry rows As the sweetness of the fruit lingers on my tongue, utter silence expands, Around me. Nothing is the same, my boredom at this moment shows.

Now the only sounds they exchange are those of greetings and goodbyes.

They don’t seem to miss it, those happy days of play, But I still remain on that swing we used to soar on, alone I ignore its decay.

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40

Mira Zaslow ’22, drawings

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Flower with Pale Petals

By Hudson Warm ’23 A Retelling of the Greek Myth of Narcissus and Echo

A man in the forest eyed A lone stag with auburn fur.

His stomach growled and he notched An arrow without demur.

In his hair a golden sheen.

Her legs dangling from a tree, Echo watched, jaw agape As he thought of what dinner would be.

The morning was thick with dew and desire.

Echo wished away Hera’s curse To be silent except to repeat others, To have the last word, never the first.

Echo, clad in sheer drapery Fingered a rogue red curl.

She watched this man’s jawline gleam And trembled like a girl.

Echo followed his shadow, Rustling leaves behind her.

As the stunning hunter went about, She wished for him to find her.

Cloaked in red, he took his aim Off the stag and looked around.

Echo’s pleas were everywhere But they could not be found.

“Who’s here?” bellowed the man.

Echo scarcely made her presence known.

“Here,” was all she could muster Feeling a spark deep in her bones.

“Who are you?” He furrowed his brows.

“Would you tell me your name?”

Echo’s mouth was dry While her heart was aflame.

He inched closer, whispering “What’s the matter with you?”

A tear dribbled down her cheek.

She began to wonder, too.

Brendan Lynch ’23, photography

42

I am Echo, Oreiad-nymph of Mount Kithairon, she thought.

But though her mind could conjure this Echo’s lips could not.

She embraced him gently but he sent Her tumbling against a rock.

She wished now more than ever That she could simply talk.

“Leave me alone, you cannot love me,” The man sourly said.

“Love me, love me,” she cried.

But he shrank from her instead.

Red cloth billowing in the breeze, The man broke into a sprint.

He left behind a crying Echo And fading footprints.

Echo remained for the rest of her life In the forest, roaming around.

Until her spirit wilted and all That was left was an echo sound.

The man, Narcissus, found himself Alone. It was easier to think.

In his peripheral he eyed a pond Where he would go to drink.

As he bent down to sip some water A gorgeous man seemed to appear.

He smiled back when Narcissus smiled And sighed the same. It was clear Narcissus was finally in love.

He let slip a joyful tear.

But it distorted his lover and His heart filled with fear.

Nobody shared his beauty.

His lover was a reflection.

He would never live a life with love, A life with affection.

He dunked his head beneath the surface And didn’t ever rise.

His beauty held no power as he was Mocked by the skies.

And so the story goes, on his Stomach Narcissus settles.

Breathing in his place grows A flower with pale petals.

Lucia Butterfield ’25, drawing 43

Visor

By Tommy Troso ’24

If I were a poser

And you wore a visor

Luke Yerkes ’22, photography

I would be closer

44

And you would be nicer.

Reckless Yet Cautious

By Isabella Fauber ’23

My heart was trapped in the hem of your pocket

The leaves turned an enticing Scarlet hue, as the brisk wind whistled across their fragile branches

The water reflected the scene in distorted and contorted colors and shapes

I couldn’t distinguish the different versions of myself blurred in the shallow water

In your eyes I lost a part of me in the hopes that I would finally be able to see

45

Song of the Darkness

By Sophie Miller ’22

Midnight drummer Distant beat Broken summer Dark complete Old newcomer Burning heat A rhythm strangely uncontrolled

Float away Through drowning wonder Stark display Your man-made thunder Thoughts at bay Tear me asunder The whisper of a fall foretold

Midnight sorrow Strikes me deep Sounds you borrow Steal my sleep ’Til tomorrow Count your sheep And hear your sweet lament unfold

So you know me Call my lie Winters slow me End is nigh Words forgo me All must die The frost-kissed dark of stories old

46

Lucia Butterfield ’25, drawing

Midnight cleaver Hear my prayer Earth deceiver, strip me bare Autumn fever Always there I feel this August night grow cold

Massimo Soto ’23, photography 47

Movie Night

By Tommy Troso ’24

It’s a Sunday night.

I sit down and let out a sigh.

Finally I can lay, and watch a movie: A rather funny movie.

What some would call tragic, I consider comedic.

I reach to my right and into my large box of popcorn.

The classic vertical, red and white stripes, The salty, buttery aroma, And the feeling of kernels stuck in my teeth give me a rush of nostalgia, Which is something I rarely feel.

I am not sentimental, I never have been.

Not for you.

This is why I laugh When I reach into my pocket, Grab the remote, and click the big, red, power button.

BOOM! My eyes light up, and I crack a smile in absolute awe, As I sit on the porch and watch your car burn and burst into pieces.

I drenched your car in gasoline, The gasoline you used to fuel what once was your getaway, To cover your tracks.

To try and escape.

How dare you?

As I sit and listen to the liberating crackles of the flame, I notice the orange light of the fire reflect onto my shirt And onto my eyes as I watch the street fill with smoke.

The flames will never go through the fabric and into my heart, Just into your car.

Finally, I am free.

This might be my favorite movie.

48

Hailey Won ’25, drawing 49

In Orbit

By Hudson Warm ’23 As if the rats of the city would follow single file On the sidewalks, and the crickets would stop Singing when you asked them to.

As if the cold would halt When you shiver.

As if you could dam my rivers and The water would not bleed through.

As if you could plant streetlamps and Still see the stars.

And the night sky could be dark enough for us both.

As if you could shoot off in Your rocket, and the moon Were in your pocket, and the sun sat On your lap, and I was just Your planet.

In orbit around you.

50

Megan Chin ’22, photography

51

The End

By Luke Yerkes ’22

Luke Yerkes ’22, ,photography

52

Ah, this is grief. When it ends And the tears cleanse the path home.

Whatever was assured of rage is nothing compared to the emptiness.

Perhaps He was wrong putting us in this place...

to look at the ground and know you won’t fall, to look in the mirror unafraid of what looks back.

Despite all our promised time, even the worst of losses has to come in due course.

All kind eyes turn cold in the end.

[Inspired by Alex Dimitrov’s August]

53

Insult Therapy

By Anonymous

You, sir, look like a sock puppet.

Yes. You did hear me correctly Your face is ridiculous.

How does that make you feel?

Please describe below:

54

Max Calman ’22, drawing

A Coven of Darkness

By Alexandra Elwell ’23 When you glance down at the fallen cards from the Tarot deck, you peer into the eyes of La Diable. Each characters’ eyes glisten with knowledge, a slightly foreboding chill stiffens the bristles of hair upon your skin as the devil’s horns and winged back seem to protrude from the card. His reddened maniacal smile is surrounded by pawns of hellish character, whose arms and legs take flight towards the feet of those swimming away or those who absentmindedly stroll above. Lassoing whatever lay in front of them with their tendrils of divinity and sin, they flick their wrists and draw their prey home to be consumed in whole satisfaction. To the Devil that stands erect in front of frightened faces, they are welcomed in his haven of turpitude. But, fear not...you are welcomed here, too.

And let the fête begin. The wandering drapes that fall and cascade with accidental deliberation swarm the crowd, circling the partygoers like a silent companion. Rich oak and blackened bark is trodden on as each person meets their partner ahead. With touch of hands, a crossing of swords released, they began to waltz around one another.

Not for long do they do this dance of touching, parting, and swirling about as the halo of bloodied smiles request a switch of partners from behind. Wanton are their faces, sultry are their gazes, rigid are their steps, black is the ink of sadism churning within their eyes. Away you partner goes to be replaced by one of these ‘pleasant’ beings and you resume your waltz once more. The wooden floor fades to glass and down, down, down a pit goes, as far as the eye can see. A small fire burns at its base. Oh yes, you are welcome here, too.

55

Benevolence

By Hailey Won ’25 How can they claim to be benevolent towards the minority, when the only kindness they show is to the people who benefit the most from society.

Oppression is not something made up.

It has been malicious to people of color by using animosity to degrade the life of one who looks different from another.

In their world, there is equanimity.

In my world, the innocent get killed when benign, and not a part of the majority.

Now that these topics have become more relevant, movements have turned into trends.

However, this malevolent treatment has been present for centuries on end.

They claim to be a “white ally” by posting a black screen on their instagram page.

They are not a benefactor, when the “help” they give is for likes and for their followers to engage.

They say “why not be more cordial?”.

Well, I didn’t really have time to be polite when the cops pulled me over and looked past all of my rights.

That guilt? That sympathy?, That’s not what we need.

Your ability to empathize without living through the experience,

Max Calman ’22, drawing 56

Is proof of the cushion that is planted into your appearance like an ever-growing seed.

They might be in accord with the belief that all people should be treated equally, but that does not make them exempt from having privilege over people of color, racially.

They claim to know my struggles.

THEY DON'T. THEY NEVER WILL, because no one ever listens to me.

At least not when all they see, is some little girl who needs to go backto her own country.

Society's best The inept, the adept, The ugly, and the pretty, “Can’t I just be neither instead” They say, the career or the family No one has ever bothered to say “Live happily!”

They say we are this new reformed society then why is it so imposed on us constantly?

Standing up for discrimination is now based on disposition How can you only fight from time to time by doing Target loots?

How about the people who’s fight comes from more than just a mood?

Now that we have started to fight back you act like discrimination is now a figment, But history doesn’t lie just for your moral judgment.

Annabelle Gray ’22, drawing 57

Lost

By Sophie Miller ’22 Yes, I’ll have the salmon please Are these my glasses?

Yes? They are? Are you sure?

You’ll never guess who called my cell today Where is our waiter?

Anyway, you’ll never guess who called my cell phone yesterday It was my mother! She says hello.

I’ll be having the lamb please, if you don’t mind.

Oh, you’re not our waiter?

Where is our waiter? I haven’t ordered my food yet, you see.

Are these your glasses?

Excuse me while I use the restroom I’ll be back in a moment

Anyway, ever since mom passed I’ve spent so much more time with your grandpa He’s really a riot.

Aren’t you?

Oh, he is.

Where are my glasses?

I found these ones next to me, but I don’t know where they came from Have we gotten our menus yet?

So anyway, when my father called, he told me all about you.

He can’t wait to introduce mom to that boyfriend of yours A nice bubele isn’t he?

He’s going to be a doctor I love to brag about my granddaughter.

Are these your glasses?

58

It’s the same pair of glasses?

I asked that already?

No… Ha! You’re messing with me.

Is she messing with me?

She’s messing with me.

Come on, tell me the truth.

No, you’re lying.

That isn’t very nice, you know.

Here, these are your glasses.

You should really keep them somewhere safer.

Can you please help me find my glasses?

Wow, it’s very loud in here.

Maybe we should move.

Where is our waiter?

I want to order that cod.

Can you tell him I want the cod?

It sure is loud in here.

Did I tell you about when your father called me?

He’s one cute bubele.

Gonna be a doctor.

Do you think it’s loud in here?

My mother called yesterday.

Did you take my glasses?

You took my glasses.

She took my glasses.

Hey! She took my glasses.

You horrid girl.

I’ll need those back, please.

It just keeps getting louder, doesn’t it.

I can’t find my glasses.

Where am I? Were you at the funeral?

I miss my mother.

Wow, can you even hear over this racket?

Annabelle Gray ’22, drawing

Did I tell you about when my mother called?

We should order soon.

It sure is loud in here.

59

“smiley, smiley look here!”

Smile

By Hailey Won ’25

All I ever can do now is wish for the holed umbrella of happy and sad to disappear They asked me what happened to the infant memory of a little girl giggling and grinning straight, ear to ear.

I said, “That memory was of an infant for a reason”

Sophie Miller ’22, drawing 60

Faint, young, innocent, and gullible.

The little girl was bruised, battered, and bashed from the shakes in the cradle.

Her smile that went in with the blank glimmers of glee, came out with a holed umbrella stuck to her tee.

There was no laugh or cry that was worth a while.

From that day on she only had a crooked smile.

61

Cotton Candy The downpour starts out of nowhere, and soon water from every gutter streams onto the sidewalk as the buildings are hammered by fresh rain. The sky is a solid block of grayish-white, and the traffic light across the street glows through a blurry haze as I jog over to a crosswalk and stop to press the button. I tap Emmie’s number on my phone, and turn up the volume as I place it to my ear, straining to hear over the pounding rain.

“Ginger?”

“I’m outside, where are you?” I grasp the phone with two hands to prevent it from slipping. “Inside, I’ll buzz you in, come quick.”

Turning my gaze back to the street, I’m just in time to see the blurred pedestrian traffic light finally turn green, and I dodge the huge gathering puddles as I run across the intersection.

After yanking open a glass door I pause for a second, wipe my face with a wet arm, and allow my flooded hair to drip onto the ragged brown mat. I then press the silver buzzer for apartment 8C, which is located next to a small label reading GRAPTOS, EMILY. She lets me in almost immediately, and I run to catch the elevator, where I join a man with two young kids who are yanking the plastic wrapping off of huge rainbow lollipops, as well as an old woman. The man and two kids are dripping with water like me, but the woman looks irritatingly dry as she folds up a black umbrella and tucks it in her purse. The door closes, and I indicate for her to press eight as I pick up the buzzing phone in my hand. Emmie and I interrupt each other.

“I’m in the elev-” “Listen, Ginger, I’m really in a rush, and I’ll try to wait but-” “Emmie, I’m coming right now.” My voice gets a little louder, and I can feel everyone’s eyes watching me in the elevator. There’s a pause.

“Okay.” She hangs up.

After dropping off the old woman on floor four and the man and his kids on floor seven, I finally reach floor eight.

I pause for a second outside the elevator to try and squeeze the water from my hair, briefly wondering if Emmie dyed hers a new color since the last time we saw each other. I then walk to the door marked with a bronze letter C, and knock our old secret knock.

As I wait for her to open it, I notice a scrap of paper on the floor. I pick it up and read the scribbled note: Had to go, sorry Ginger. Next time. Candy grapes in fridge. Em. My stomach feels as though someone dropped a dumbbell in it. I look at the staircase door, which is propped open. Anger rises in my chest. I swallow and push open the door to 8C that she left unlocked.

The apartment looks the same as the last time I was here, when we sat on the leather couch and talked for just barely a few minutes. Her bedroom door is half open, and I glance in to see clothes scattered all over the floor, and makeup smeared on her dresser. The dumbbell grows heavier inside me, and I kick the molding at the base of her door, stubbing my toe.

I walk into the tiny kitchen area and open the fridge, where I pull out a big bag of cotton candy grapes, our favorite snack to share when we were younger. I pop two in my mouth and look out the window. It seems to have stopped raining just as quickly as it started, and cars honk angrily at each other as I watch the jammed up intersection.

I spit what remains of the grapes into the sink below me. They’re sour, anyway.

Talia Tirschwell ’24, personal narrative

62

Megan Chin ’22, photography

63

The Monster

By Sophie Miller ’22

As I tiptoe across my bedroom I taste your shadow Forever just a step behind me Watching Always You feel the same Curdled breath sticking to my collarbone Phantom claws ripping my back open like wrapping paper But tonight Instead of running I wonder What if I reached out my hand?

Caressed pincers with a soft palm Felt muscle beneath those child-shredding talons Matched your rhythm Do you have a heart?

Does it beat like mine?

Speed up when you’re near me?

Keep you swaddled tight in a spiderweb of capillaries Until I decide to stay here with you forever?

Yes, to flee would be wasteful.

Fruitless.

I cannot escape your pulsating thrall I no longer want to Do I love you monster?

Your ever presence comforts me Your venom makes me blush

But I know you think about me too

These nights we lose ourselves in each other Somehow you understand everything.

You know me better than I know myself I think I need you monster.

You complete me.

You are me Gracefully wrong Eternally right.

What made me run before?

Such a fool I was.

I’ll never leave you again 64

Max Calman ’22, drawing

65

Megan Chin ’22, photography

66

Goodness

By Mak Sabwami ’24

Our best days go by quicker than our worst

Some days, watercolors paint themselves across the canvas of our minds Our hands know pens like they know their own palms Notes ring through tunnels, caves, canals Whispers are like breezes in our heads, the coolness keeping balance with the warm sweet nothings that follow Those days, all is fine More than that, all is good

How rare it is, for all to be good For us to be at peace with every ounce of ourselves

But those days pass As all days do And new days come As all days do

Some days clouds don’t part making for murky water, heavy shoes Somehow we can’t think Somehow we can’t speak Somehow we can’t breathe Everything seems to escape as soon as we catch it When we bend back the pages of our thoughts we cannot reread

These days etch themselves into the marble of our brains until all we have left of the best days is the faint pitch of the notes the palmful of colorless brushstrokes The memory of goodness 67

Hockley

by Dechhen Sherpa ’22 Light blue Crocs Tests on lock Assured Jocks Long Socks Period block Google doc Gawking at hawks Walls held together with caulk Knock on wood from the Hackley trees Johnson center on the Rock Loud Talk Infinite Walk

Luke Yerkes ’22, photography

68

The Vision 2022

“For Students by Students”

The Vision’s mission is to create a platform for students to share their artistic and literary accomplishmemnts with the rest of the student body and faculty. With this in mind, we strive to represent all four grades 9-12, along with a wide spectrum of artistic media and types of literature including poetry, ficiton, non-fiction, paintings, drawings, photography, and various other forms of free and creative expression. Literary submissions are chosen by peer readers who review anonymous submissions and vote for the pieces they deem worthy of inclusion. Artwork is selected by the Vision staff with a focus on quality, variety, and all-around layout needs.

The Vision editorial team creates the layout on Adobe InDesign platform, using the Georgia font. The magazine is printed with four color process and an aqueous coating.

Hackley School is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.