THE VISION
THE VISION
Table of Contents
“I Am Asked Where Home Is” by Fiona Pedraza Photography
“I am Fuchsia” by Nkechi Ude
“Bonsai” by Lola Frey
“December’s
“Freshman Girl” by Arri Bentsi-Addison Posey
“Sonnet Poem” by Daisy Roesser
Painting by Troy Song.................................................................................................................page 40
“The Worst Place” by Arya Gauba
Photography by Charlie Perlman..............................................................................................page 42
“Winter, Four Blocks West of the Bowery Mission” by Austin Shapiro
Drawing by Ben Nadorf.............................................................................................................page 44 ...................................................................Photography by Noah Meng...................................................................
“Piccola Poesia Che Ho Scritto L’anno Scorso” by Isaac Ahn
Photography by Olivia Houck...................................................................................................page 48
“Somewhere South of Eden” by Austin Shapiro
Photography by Kalin Huang....................................................................................................page 50
“The Moon Goddess 嫦娥” by Sophie Huang
Drawing by Nima Jones
Photography by Ben Nadorf......................................................................................................page 52
“Alters and is Altered” by James Devereux
Photography by Ben Nadorf......................................................................................................page 54
“To Search for Sunlight Is No Sin” by Austin Shapiro
Photography by Christopher Flores..........................................................................................page 56
“(Oh World) What did You Expect” by Amity Doyle
Photography by Frances Clifford..............................................................................................page 58
“Shopping Lists” by William Early
Photography by Finn Fisher.......................................................................................................page 60
“The House on Flagg Road” by Charlotte Duffy
Painting by Troy Song.................................................................................................................page 62
“Superficial” by Sarah Sichel-Outcalt
Photography by Olivia Houck...................................................................................................page 64
“The Trapeze Artist” by Ace Perez
Painting by Lucia Butterfield
Painting by Hailey Won
Drawing by Zora Blu Teacher
Drawing by Isabella Edwards....................................................................................................page 66
And so the visionaries bravely offered their brilliance Their dreams, inspirations, and selves
To contribute to TheVision
This precious and proud publication, of which we all so deeply care Oh, what a wonderful gift to share!
To everyone who helped make TheVision2025 possible, thank you.
Francesca Jones & TheVision
I am asked where home is
by Fiona Pedraza ’26
I am asked where home is a midwestern wind blows, and I am riverside where we recalled our sisters have you sat yellow beneath street lamps, lain with the fireflies? ink laughter coffee flowing it must have been the matching flannels— or maybe the walk back home past the chapel in the rain. I see faces I will never see again in riverbanks, honey jars, everywhere But I do not speak of this— they will not understand how out of nothing grows everything
Then I think they will understand the woods, the lake
But there too on a far shore where a moose casts a shadow on a mud track that fits a hand or two
The pine groves echo with lullabies sung, right arm over left Hand in hand
Now I stand alone in a cathedral years and an ocean away I can hear the sun bouncing off curls and belly laughter. But they only see the emptiness inside me
There is a flat stone by a reservoir but since September the water has fallen and the shore grown, A girl’s reflection in the pool beneath disappeared but she was there, she was like the moon, she was wanted and that is enough that is enough.
Like my grandfather said “Mesentiocomounlagarto”
They do not know what turning wet wood into warmth with your own hands does to a sixteen year old girl.
I am still here, but the car bought a month after I was born could only make so many trips to the woods.
I place sun baked stones on my belly and on the backs of girls whose friendship is as new as the brown on my skin we grow warm beside the icy pacific bay.
Isn’t it funny?
She stopped by a used bookstore on her way uptown to you and We’re getting older, over dinner and nestled in a twin bed, he’snotright that’s what you told her so when she leaves him in summer she will be alone but feel your fiwngers when she braids her hair
before the sunrise, light leaks out from somewhere the ginkgos and their leaves are seen shadowless ground And everything is simply what it is.
Frances Clifford ’25, photography
I am Fuchsia by Nkechi Ude ’26
Fuchsia
in between red, purple, and pink
the red hues of my frustrations outline the sketch of my mother’s expectations
deep, dark maroon claws at my insecurities until red is all I see
It bubbles and boils till the floor is covered in overflow
till rational thinking evaporates replaced by burning fury at the world and each one of its colored people
whose shaded blues I will not mix so instead I will lie in Maroon like it’s my security blanket
Lucia Butterfield ’25, painting
mostly red, some purple some pink
Baby pink shades of girlhood put that grin back on my daddy’s face even when my hair grows too long and split when my fractures make me ugly
gorgeous, daring, and free purples of personality. that only twin brothers can see in their imaginary lands where I dream about forbidden fruits
My daddy will never stop tying little pink ribbons in my hair Preserving me as I am pretty little Cleopatra I will never be a woman. Fuchsia some red, mostly pink, and a bit of purple never too much
the juicy taste of success not meant for my color
A drop of lilac too many and I start to feel plum
Hailey Won ’25, drawing
Bonsai
by Lola Frey ’27
Brand new sapling of the giant red oak
Soon uprooted with his gentle gloved hands,
The nourishing soil replaced with rock sands.
The palm places grafts, a node is awoke,
A well timed snip then a branch quickly broke.
This beast once growing in a distant land
Now belongs to his flawless child’s nightstand.
“Perfect” trees line the porch, act as his cloak.
His daughter in shadow, secretly tied.
Behind the picture another stern speech
Family paintings won’t show this heartache.
Despite, desire for more lingers inside.
She dreams of the heights she was born to reach,
To break the pot and rise for her own sake.
Lucia Butterfield ’25, painting
December’s Vision
by Zariah Stewert ’25
For as long as I could remember up until the 7th grade I lived in my favorite house. My problems only consisted of going up and down the stairs, the long driveway I had to go down in order to catch the bus, and the at-home dinners I had to eat.
The At Home Dinners….
I didn’t despise vegetables when I was younger, I’d say I hated them as much as the average kid would. Chinese broccoli, or broccoli with ketchup was fine but when it came to those ugly, red, grape tomatoes, something inside me couldn't comply. I hated them. I begged for carrots or for brussel sprouts, ANYTHING but my grandma and mom insisted on a schedule of food.
I could have Mcdonalds maybe once every two weeks, frozen chicken fingers from home, frozen chicken nuggets from home, a rotisserie chicken and all would be served with vegetables. Once every “cycle” the vegetables would have to be those tomatoes. I was told it couldn’t be carrots and greens every day.
It drove me insane. I hated the taste, the feel, the time it took to eat them. They corrupted my other senses and erased whatever good meal I’d just had.
By the 7th grade though, my mom and I moved, leaving my grandma. We were only 5 minutes away, same town, same zip code, but still. We left and no matter how close we were to her, I was no longer spending every week and every meal at her house.
My favorite house was gone. Sure I could go any day for dinner and hang out but it would NEVER be how it was.
When I look back on those dinners there’s not one thing I wouldn’t do just to eat a disgusting tomato again. With my grandma and my mom watching as I wash it down with warm chocolate milk and loads of ketchup. And my dog at my lap drooling for a piece of food.
The BasketUnderneath the Bed
Ella Chen
I pull the overflowing pot of gold out from underneath my bed.
worn in years.
Through the corner of my eye, words jump out at me. A letter, addressed to me. Suddenly, I find myself giving a gift at someone’s birthday party—someone I haven’t seen in years. I find myself eating pink frosted cookies I haven’t eaten in years, and dancing along with music I haven’t heard in years.
My nose starts to quiver. I set the birthday party down and reach for the perfume. The scent of the perfume is written “Warm Cashmere,” but all I can smell is a lake house, with the sound of Mario Kart, all while a cake is fresh out of the oven.
I crawl into my bed and close my eyes, my mind brimming with memories. I attempt to relive each and every single one, but fail. No one really can relive a moment, so instead, my mind wanders, rediscovering memory after memory after memory.
After hours of staring at the ceiling, I shove the memories back under my bed, just for them to be
Mariyam Henderson ’26, photography
He Thinks
by Angela Croce ’25
You can say you understand
A million different ways And I will always, in my dreams, Cackle in your face.
My friend and I share music And movies and poems too
Because she doesn’t have to say A thing to prove it’s true.
You can go to school for years
And write a moving speech
But when I was a toddler I unearthed it on the beach.
Call my feelings what you like It’s warm or it is cold, But our writhing inner voices, I swear, you’ve yet to behold.
Freshman Girl
by Arri Bentsi-Addision Posey ’25
As I got older, I found myself inheriting certain traits that remind me of people I’ve known. and I reflect on my own growth.
The way I text, speak, dress, work, feel has changed.
Emotional maturity.
I look back on freshman Arri and scream words of caution to her. You’renotasawareasyouthinkyouare. Youwander,naïveandunafraid,toyourfolly.
I watch him set his eyes on her, more aware of her volatile meekness than she. I tell her to Run !
But no sound leaves my lips. She must endure to grow.
It’s like when lighting strikes a sapling. Part of it may have died, but there’s always a chance that an even more fruitful beautiful tree will grow from the damage. stronger,
Hailey Won ’25, painting
Zora Blu Teacher ’25, painting
Thousand Bristled Brush
by Lilo Haidara ’25
I flinch and feel the follicles of my hair being pulled, As my mother’s hand attempts to navigate The curly forest in the crevices of her fingers. Soft, cocoa butter nourishes my screaming scalp, As I shut my eyes and pray for it to be over.
My moms oily hand reaches for the thousand Bristled brush as she begins at my forehead, Brushing my hair back, then at the nape of my neck Brushing up, Intricate rivers and streams, She tries to collect all into one lake.
A bun that sits atop my head.
I think it’s ugly, and I almost cry, But she kisses my cocoa buttered head And tells me I look beautiful. I smile just a little Even though I think it’s a lie.
fe t fo my littlelife .
Untitled by Anonymous Need A Napkin? by Lucia Butterfield ’25, painting
Snowmen on Banana Island
by Nkechi Ude ’26
As I lie there masking under the palm trees of Banana Island
I am called inside
The table is set.
adorned by a steel rimmed washbowl and table cloth. The utensils are stored away
At the bottom of the cellar for the christmas holidays
When the foreigners refuse to eat with their hands
As the washbowl makes its way to my side of the dinner table, I hold my breath.
I take a deep inhale as my tongue salivates from my ancestors hypnotic smell
The aroma’s I love you’s whisper softly to me
My stomach’s desperate growls roar in anticipation; my bowl perfectly placed on the side closest to my heart.
I wash my hands, once, twice, three times Always three times up to my wrists, right first Always right first
The ablution ritual forever ingrained in every ounce of my existence
The meal is served.
I expertly roll the Gari in soft steady circles at the center of my palms, till in my hands lies 3 perfectly round balls
And while my grandmother’s head is turned, I place one ball on top of another and call it a snowman
At the sight of imaginary snowmen in our Banana Island my cousin and I chuckle
But straighten out before my grandmother cranes her neck, warning us not to play with our food.
After a few of Earth’s full rotations this is nothing more than a core memory
A figment of my beautifully free, vibrantly colorful childhood imagination
But now I place the Gari into the stealing hotplate, indulging in my first slurp of soup
The soft yet sticky texture, the tough pull of the meat in its attempt to lay between my teeth
Cause it’s not quite ready to leave the ivory white teeth I flash fleetingly to the foreigner
Instead the rough pieces of meat will make my mouth a silent protest
The strength of my roots against the inevitable assimilation
So even as the elasticity of the okra clings and brings soft burns to the roof of my mouth, either from the warmth or the spice
I devour every last bit, till I’m licking the bowl Despite my grandmother yelling her old school melodies
I lick the bowl clean.
So that every time I am back to the place where I am the foreigner
Everytime my pallet grows dry from a double whopper combo with a side of fries
Dry from buttered pasta and parmesan; The taste of home lingers deep in the back of my throat.
There was once an old oak
Who was a legend to old folk
It would watch the the sun and the clouds from its spot on the hill
Until winter came along with a great chill
It was one warm afternoon that a squirrel climbed up the old tree
He clawed at the bark, gnawed until dark, until a hole came to be
Once the hole was complete, the squirrel brought straw, the warmest and very best
And by morning of the next day, it called the hole its nest
The squirrel wasn’t finished yet, bringing any and all acorns he could detect
He laid them down at the end of his nest where he knew he could protect
The squirrel also carried his prized possession, a beaded necklace, and buried it into the tree
And finally the squirrel took the day to rest and to be free
Winter and the cold soon came and the land it did claim with its cold and frosty hand
The squirrel retreated into the tree to warmth and safety as the cold swept over the land
The trees had gone to sleep, their leaves like sheep scattered across the ground
And in the forest where the old oak stood was quiet with no sound
It was high past noon and the squirrel did swoon as he fell into a laze
He had worked hard, he had built his nest and sleep was the next phase
As the cold attacked the tree, the squirrel soon fell into a warm and happy slumber
He was surrounded by food, his prized possessions as he slept inside the lumber
As the squirrel fell asleep he felt a sort of elation
But to anyone watching the squirrel it was just good ol hibernation
And so the squirrel did sleep, the longest nap he had ever had
And he slept and slept until sleep became bad
The Old Oak by Owen Lee ’26
Finn Fisher ’27, photography
’26, drawing
Things I Wonder
by Riya Monday ’27
Sometimes I think about how my little brother will be in high school when I’m off to college.
I think about college, where I will go, how I get there, who I will become. I wonder about my parents and how they are so brave.
What if my favorite song will be playing during the best moment of my life.. I don’t think I would ever turn it off. I obsess about my spurs of anxiety.. And I don’t know how to make it go away.
Sometimes I think about why Timothy left and Annabel didn’t go with him. What would you do if the love of your life asked you to run away with them?
I wonder who is going to look at my friends the same way I look at them.
I don’t know how or why ADHD has explained so much of my life and why I can’t stop daydreaming.
I ask my aunt why she became so strong in a field begging her to be soft.
I would really like to see how some people see colors with words and how their life may be a little bit brighter.
I love thinking about how my parents knew me before I really even knew myself.
What’s your favorite city? Where’s your favorite place? Who’s your favorite person?
I want to know more. I want to know who makes you laugh, what’s something that makes you cry.
I wonder if I always was adventurous reaching adrenaline levels no cloud could even touch.
Sometimes I get scared of life thinking I got lucky life turned around this way.
But then I get fearless thinking life is whatever whoever whenever I make it. I wonder what it’s like to not feel important. And then I imagine grabbing those people and telling them in my eyes you have never been nothing less.
I wonder if I will get to experience life with you.
Ben Nadorf
I wonder if daydreaming can be a forever kind of thing. Because one thing I know It already is.
c les arebenign
by Ellorie Karger’26
circles are more benign than squares, continuous, smooth, the cup that holds my oat milk cream latte, the bangle made from silky jade around my wrist, the gold hoops my mother wears while she sings me goodnight, the pebbles on the driveway beneath my feet, the lollipop that coats my mouth in a citrus sweetness, colorful marbles my little sister leaves on her fuzzy pink carpet, the face of my watch, ticking away. these circles bring calm unlike the sharp corners, corners of my bed frame my restless body turns in every night, the school books piled eye level on my white glossy desk, the room i enter to cry to one voice trying to help me, the pages i flip while my brain tries to find something to write, the building i enter everyday where i feel judged by the eyes around me, oh how circles make me feel safe and these wild edges of a square make my life miserable
Lily Adamski ’26, drawing
Ella Chen, ’26, photography
The paintings hang in the hallway, dank, decrepit, disgusting, the eyes watch you, crying invisible tears, that drown the cries for help
They follow you in your mind, back to your room, where the door, dark lacquered wood, tries to hold them off
But there is no escape, two thousand miles away at night, the faces haunt, because there is no escape, from the plot of land, with the hotel, with La Posada
Ella Chen ’26, drawing
La Posada
by Christopher Flores ’26
August Now
by Amity Doyle ’28
Dull popcorn ceilings of drifting cloud masses
Cool summer nights
The fleeting of the quick Perseids- shooting stars disappearing
Like the first fall of snow
August is quick, and yet it is eternal
The souls of our squirm ancestors packed tightly in the mountains Winter,
One’s eyes see m to lea k A nd the stream in a backyard migrated for the
going
steadily, not yet willing, not yet ready, To be fro ze n ov er, trappe d in such a misdeed.
Frances Clifford ’25, photography
To go back and relive that day would be, the greatest joy I could ever receive.
To perceive regret is to truly see. To ignore a flaw is to be naive.
Sometimes it is hard to see the issue, sometimes it is hard to revisit it.
Now the time has come to grab a tissue, and see to it that the problem is bit.
We must reflect in order to move on. To love, we must have authenticity.
And before the truth becomes too far gone, we must convert to full felicity.
Sonnet Poem by Daisy Roesser ’27
Troy Song ’27, painting
Charlie Perlman ’25, photography
The darkest place in your mind, The place where you leave your anger to boil, And forces you to walk through your mind, Only to find,
That single shard of black glass, Revealing something so painful, A piece of black glass which is so, Crass.
You stare at yourself, Realizing your mind is in turmoil,
But it won’t foil.
The problem is,
That it’s your subconscious realizing it, And that it’s not actually you, Or at least your conscience.
The devil in your mind is undermining your grit, Causing you to fall bit by bit,
And you can’t breathe,
You can’t get up, And everything that you have to achieve, Is out of reach.
Your reaching and reaching because you want to overachieve, To excel and be the best that anyone can see.
But you can’t and that black glass, That damn black glass, Is a reflection of your past, Of all your failures,
And soon enough it’s showing tapes, Of everything that you have failed to escape, In order to reach that success, Behind that drape.
And soon enough that black glass, Pierces through your once tough skin, And you’re trapped, Trapped in the darkness of your mind, And you can’t find, Anyway through the maze,
Of your mind. And that darkest place, It drowns you, And for the rest of that time, You’re behind in life,
Because you can’t seem to get out, And you don’t know how,
So you start to scream and cry and destroy, Until you’re finally out,
But you know it’s only a matter of time,
Until you find, Yourself back in the darkest part of your mind.
Winter, Four Blocks West of the Bowery Mission
by Austin Shapiro ’27
IntrashcanfiresIhavewatchedadream Betossedandpummeled‘gainstthemetalwall And,likeabatter,beatenintocream, Be hopelessly compressed into a ball Just to, thereafter, be pressed down again, Against the dismal, searing ember floor
Then, thrust up still into a weightless pain, Be tempest-tossed about the flaming shore, And slowly ceding all its hope to rage, Be shriveled by a nova in the sky
Then, as if it had broken from its cage Beshotuptowardsthestarsonlytodie. Becauseourdreams,likepaperbags,burnbright Wethrowthemintowarmourselvesatnight.
Ben Nadorf ’26, drawing
Noah Meng, ’27, photography
piccola poesia che ho scritto l’anno scorso
by Isaac Ahn ’26
Olivia Houck ’25, photography
When she lives in the past
She cries in the future
Spilled champagne in hand
Soaked from standing under a gap in the sky
A day where all went north
And the sun suddenly went home
Having gone home
She looked through her past
If she too had gone north
Maybe her soul would lead the future
Swimming in the sky
Adam’s outstretched hand
Filling her hand
With trinkets to hide her home
Stars twinkling in the sky
Celebrating the past
Gazing into future
Stepping north
Floating north
Hand in hand
Snuggled in the future
At home
The present slowly returning to the past Slipping through the gaps in the sky
Falling from the sky
All going north
Forgetting the past
Reaching up, a grasping hand
Finding what is to be home
To look into the past, finding the future
Accepting the new life full of future
Closing the gaps of the sky
Skipping to a place known as home
Turning away from the north
Gently caressing hand
Living the past
Forgetting the future in her house
Using the past to fill the sky
A clenched hand confronts all things gone north
Somewhere South of Eden by Austin Shapiro ’27 photography
Kalin Huang ’26
If I had but the means to point and say: “Transport me there”—somewhere south of Eden
In my mind I have seen since long ago.
If that ephemeral garden was pristine, My spectral village to the south rebukes Such thoughts of innocence and unchecked bliss, For nought that claims perfection to its name Could ever truly fathom what it means. Abundance blossoms trees that grow with greed, But every now and then, a season’s drought
Reminds one even in the smallest stalk Is yet found Beauty’s lips, subdued and sly. It is more difficult, perhaps. But life Has never been one who takes more than gives.
Save those who come by force of nature’s way Or those whose lives have always been right here, Few folk have sought to stay here for a time, Where, to the most of them, there’s ought to see But an unremarkable desert town. Yet, here is harmony of night and day, Accord of sun and sky, of peace and war— Impossible to touch, yet felt within
Each ox on plough or hat of straw and mesh. Oh, I cannot make you feel it—not yet .
But someday when you’re sat beneath an oak, Your feet half-sunk in sand, absorbing sun Into your soul, at any given time Or place or date, I shouldn’t wonder if You’ve wandered somewhere south of Eden.
The Moon Goddess 嫦娥
by Sophie Huang ’26
I sit here alone, In the valley of stone
In white lakes of ash, Where comets come and pass
Once in your embrace, Now left without grace
Chained to cliffs of grey, Here forever I will stay
Ben Nadorf ’26, photography
Nima Jones ’26, drawing
Alters and is Altered
by James Devereux ’26
Nives
translation of Horace’s Diffugere
Ben Nadorf ’26, photography
The snow has fled, now green returns again,
And leaves come back to blossoming trees the Earth herself alters seasons in turn
The streams slow down to flow within their banks
The Grace, the Nymphs, the twin sisters all dare
To lead the joyous spring- invoking dance
The passing of the hours and years reminds
‘Do not believe in hopeless, endless life’
All while they take away the kindly day
The winter withers back, and is replaced then summer crushes spring with heat
Even then it’s damned to die to fall
With fruit and leaves and coming winters wrack.
But moons always repair through light and dark
Despite us going where gods of old still reign
Aren’t we all just dust and shadow now?
Who knows whether we’ll have tomorrow’s death today?
Once you have fallen down, you will be judged
And nothing will save you - no faith, no wealth, No speeches will restore this life again.
To Search for Sunlight Is no Sin
by Austin Shapiro ’27
Look at this world, and breathe it in. It is too often I forget To search for sunlight is no sin.
When, now, I see where some begin, Around whom, walls of concrete set— Look at this world, and breathe it in.
An animal will know within, Despite an ever-constant threat, To search for sunlight is no sin.
Beside them, we are merely skin, About whom only floats regret. Look at this world, and breathe it in.
Though some will say it doesn’t win Or hasn’t done a damn thing yet, To search for sunlight is no sin.
Now quick, before you grow too thin, Lay in the grass before sunset. Look at this world, and breathe it in. To search for sunlight is no sin.
Christopher Flores ’26, photography
Life,Itneverends itishere,Whyarewehere?SatellitesAndhow? boom,Colorsclash,Itallseemsso ButSimple,toonewhoisdull, Cancomplexityiswithinus yousmile? (Oh, world) What did expect?you by Amity Doyle ’28
Frances Clifford ’25, photography
Cheerup, Rubyourfacewiththeclothof Wrinklestime,willappear
Whatdidyouexpect? YouWalkalongthesandsofpastjoy, won’tfeelgay,butmelancholy Oh,world, Whatdidyouexpect?
Early ’25
Shopping Lists by William
First ListSaturday, December 2, 2002: Second ListFriday, Feb 14, 2003:
-Two steaks, on the expensive side
-Large bag of brown rice
-A nice bottle of wine
-A bouquet of roses
-A fancy cake, the name “Harley” written in gold
-Two bottles of champagne
-Cooking wine
-Two LARGE bouquets of daisies, LARGE.
-A bag of oranges
-Vanilla bean ice cream
-Linguini
-Cream
-Parmesan cheese
-Butter
-Fancy chicken.
Pre-made, chicken is hard.
-A diamond ring. Third ListMonday, March 17th, 2003:
-Two dozen eggs
-Two rotisserie chickens
-Four large bags of rice
-A bag of shredded cheese
-Cheap tomato sauce
-A pint of Chocolate Ice Cream Fourth ListFriday, March 22nd, 2003:
-Protein Powder
-Packaged Ramen
-A box of tissues
-2 bags of oranges
-Something nice to wear
-A gift for her family
Finn Fisher ’27, photography
The Houseon FlaggRoad
byCharlotteDuffy’28
Every morning since you left I’m stranded by the aromatic breeze, Is it that old perfume left spilling on the counter?
The needled pine trees?
In the plush rooms I sat playing for hours but never did I see, A shadow cast from my silver woman, watching over me
Every morning when I would wake, in her house on Flagg Road, The Massachusetts frost would loom, but never was I cold
When the dust would dance in the light, the magic never seemed to cease
Outside the fawns were tenderly prancing, amidst the golden leaves
Every morning since you left my thoughts would take me far from this earth of loam
The only thing tethering me, my silver woman in our house on Flagg Road.
Olivia Houck ’25, photography
My heart stops.
Well, Maybe it just a little, Into my throat, when you told me. I don’t know what I was expecting. Definitely not this tiny fall, To as many bones as it did. My heart is not shattered, just bruised. It feels like only a scratch, but I know, break leaps
It could hurt so much more.
by Sarah Sichel-Outcalt ’27
Lucia Butterfield ’25, painting
THE VISIONARIES
Editor-in-Chief: Francesca Jones
Co-Editor: Joshua Lee
Isaac Ahn
Ashley Hollingsworth
Sophie Huang
Zena Hume
Riya Monday
Ben Nadorf
THEREADERS
Laura McComiskey
Molly Perla
Joshua Lee
Ashley Hollingsworth
Francesca Jones
Sophie Huang
Isaac Ahn
Lily Rosenthal
Ben Nadorf
Charlotte Duffy
Gemma Lasky
Saifan Mir
Jael Nuamah
Ari Spiegel
Aliya Pine
Annabel Previdi
Gabrielle Paes
Alex Booth
Ava Derby
Gabriela Nunes
Amity Doyle
Owen Spencer
Nima Jones
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.
Cover Art by Lucia Butterfield ’25
THE END
