The Vision 2019 by Hackley School

THE

VOLUME XXX

V IO I

THE TEAM EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Max Mallett ’19 Frances Schaeffler ’19

STAFF Olivia Curran ’19 Molly Rosenthal ’19 Isabelle Thomas ’19 Rachel Troy ’19 Emily Afriyie ’20 Christopher Arnold ’20 Alex Evangelidis ’20 Ava Knapp ’20 Eliana Lee ’20 Eki Uzamere ’21

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.

Francesca Auricchio ’22 Corinne Cheong ’22 Thomas DeGirolami ’22 Parker Diaz ’22 Clare Didden ’22 Niky Dhakad ’22 Meredith Greenberg ’22 Carter Hogg ’22 Campbell Johnson ’22 Maren McCrossan ’22 Maya Miller ’22 Grace Park ’22 Noah Tirschwell ’22

Marie Wurtz ’22 Mira Zaslow ’22 Kiri Fitzpatrick ’21 Cate Goodwin-Pierce ’21 Hannah Leighton ’21 Camille Ngbokoli ’21 Allie Oh ’21 Will Rifkin ’21 Ava Roberts ’21 Lara Schecter ’21 Sophia Thomas ’21 Sadie Friesen ’20 Paola Garcia ’20

Chiara Kaufman ’20 Kylie Morrison ’20 Liam Murphy ’20 Princess Ohia-Enyia ’20 Sophia Ribeiro ’20 Kellsie Shan ’20 Emmy Wenstrup ’20 Grant Albright ’19 Mikhaila Archer ’19 Evangeline Coffinas ’19 Cristina Paz ’19 Natalie Sukhman ’19

Hackley School • 293 Benedict Avenue • Tarrytown, NY • 10591 Volume XXX • Published Annually • © Hackley School

Thank you.

We dedicate the 2019 Vision to the free-thinking spirit that has uniquely allowed Hackley to thrive as a center of diversity and freedom of ideas, thought, and opinion. The inspiration for this dedication came from the incredible range of submissions which we received from our student body this year, from the serious, weighty prose to the more light-hearted works of poetry. While one student might use metaphors to dissect complex social issues, another might use satire to prod at the same problem. Composing this year’s issue from such a varied range of styles allows us to highlight the vast patchwork of perspectives that comprises our community. Likewise, Hackley’s faculty has made efforts to showcase a diversity of perspectives inside and outside the classroom as demonstrated through the thoughtful speakers hosted during school-wide assemblies. We are thankful for Hackley’s various initiatives to diversify the ideas and ideological perspectives to which we are exposed in our education as they have allowed for our student body to develop thoroughly informed stances on contemporary issues. We would also like to thank the Hackley English and Visual Arts departments for facilitating the creativity of our student body through inspirational teaching. Last but not least, we owe everything to our advisor, Suzy Akin, and photographer, Chris Taggart, for their irreplaceable guidance and efforts towards the creation of The Vision.

Table of ConTable tents of Contents

Drawing “Wolf” by Nicole Yang ’19 ��18 “Skulls” by Jordan Wade ’19.....................................................................................................................................................20 “Figures” by Jordan Wade ’19....................................................................................................................................................21 “Aguayo in Movement” by Cristina Paz ’19............................................................................................................................... 29 “Knot Aguayo” by Cristina Paz ’19............................................................................................................................................ 29 “Eyeball” by Robert Patterson’ 19..............................................................................................................................................31 “Braids and Hoop Earring” by Madison Carter ’19................................................................................................................... 38 “Two Little Girls and Dog” by Lilly Yerkes ’19.......................................................................................................................... 40 “Slamming Door” by Nicole Yang ’19........................................................................................................................................ 44 “Bird” by Catherine Marshall ’19................................................................................................................................................47 “Popsicle Eyes” by Lilly Yerkes ’19............................................................................................................................................ 49 “On Ice” by Kit Greenberg ’19....................................................................................................................................................67 “Madison” by Madison Carter ’19............................................................................................................................................. 68

Photography “Bird” by Oren Tirschwell ’20..................................................................................................................................................... 8 “People Gazing” by Ingrid Lauerwald ’19.................................................................................................................................... 9 “Hands” by Catherine Marshall ’19..........................................................................................................................................10 “Box” by Emma Lauerwald ’20.................................................................................................................................................. 11 “Leaves” by Frances Schaeffler ’19.............................................................................................................................................14 “Nun” by Emma Lauerwald ’20.................................................................................................................................................16 “Basketball” by Ingrid Lauerwald ’19........................................................................................................................................ 22 “Person Swimming” by Emma Lauerwald ’20.......................................................................................................................... 22 “Girl in Mirror” by Kendall Wieland ’19................................................................................................................................... 24 “Merbs” by Ingrid Lauerwald ’19.............................................................................................................................................. 25 “Boils” by Kyle Spencer ’19........................................................................................................................................................ 26 “Ingrid” by Robert Patterson ’19............................................................................................................................................... 30 “Girl on Playground” by Kit Greenberg ’19................................................................................................................................31 “Salt Flats” by Cristina Paz ’19.................................................................................................................................................. 32 “Boardwalk 1, 2 & 3” by Isabelle Thomas ’19........................................................................................................................... 33 3

“Girl in the Mirror” by Kendall Wieland ’19 ��34 “Bookshelves and Table” by Frances Schaeffler ’19 ��36 “Kids on Beach” by Emma Lauerwald ’20 ��43 “Bark” by Molly Rosenthal ’19 ��46 “Grocery Store” by Frances Schaeffler ’19 ��50 “Man in White” by Kyle Spencer ’19 ��52 “Mountain Top” by Emma Lauerwald ’20 ��56 “Sun in the Sky” by Kyle Spencer ’19 ��57 “Girl in Train Station” by Kendall Wieland ’20 ��58 “Girl Underwater” by Cristina Paz ’19 ��60 “Oranges” by Catherine Marshall ’19 ��63 “Girl on Monkey Bars” by Cristina Paz ’19 ��64

Painting “Man with Shapes” by Evangeline Coffinas ’19 ��6 “Evangeline” by Jack Chen ’19 �� 12 “City” by Jack Chen ’19 �� 12 “Hands” by Chiara Kaufman ’20 �� 14 “Fiona and Stars” by Evangeline Coffinas ’19 ��55 “Baby” by Evangeline Coffinas ’19 ��62 “River” by Mason Chapman ’21 ��65

Mixed Media “Girl With Sunglasses” by Jordan Wade ’19 �� 17 “Hands” by Chiara Kaufman ’20 �� 14 “Shapes” by Lilly Yerkes ’19 ��48 “Linnea” by Fiona Boettner ’19 �� 61

Personal Narrative and Short Fiction “Perfect Place” by Tajah Burgher ’20 �� 13 “Entry #346 of Leslie Buchanan’s Diary” by Frances Schaeffler ’19 ��35 “Stonewall Jackson” by Kylie Morrison ’20 ��37 “Mikhaila Archer’s Chapel Talk” by Mikhaila Archer ’19 ��40 “Blue Delphiniums” by Evangeline Coffinas ’19 ��46 “Day on the Job” by Emmy Wenstrup ’20 ��53 “Elementary School: A Six-Word Memoir” by Erin Lynch ’20 ��64

Poetry “A Watched Pot Never Boils” by Grant Albright ’19 ��7 “Me, Kerouac, and We’re Sure This is Jazz” by Ben Marra ’20 ��8 “Moths” by Evangeline Coffinas ’19 ��11 “Unpopular Opinion” by Anonymous �� 15 “1995” by Mikhaila Archer ’19 �� 17 “Found” by Ava Knapp ’20 ��18 “Romulus” by Erin Lynch ’20 �� 19 “How He Dreads Himself” by William Goldsmith ’19 ��20 “Ode to Rupi Kaur” by Frances Schaeffler ’19 �� 21 “The Projects” by Raghav Chopra ’19 ��22 “The Lost Man” by William Goldsmith ’19 ��24 “Catch and Release” by Ben Marra ’20 ��26 “Reaching” by Eki Uzamere ’21 ��29 “Picture This” by Isabelle Thomas ’19 �� 31 “Salt” by Raghav Chopra ’19 ��32 “Ralph Breaks the Internet” by Mikhaila Archer ’19 ��33 “Braids” by Sophia Thomas ’21 ��38 “Somewhere I Would Rather Be” by Charlie Hite ’19 ��42 “Two Lies and a Truth” by Tajah Burgher ’20 ��45 “Instagram or Twitter or Something” by Ben Marra ’20 ��49 “1 Star” by Christopher Arnold ’20 ��50 “Cornmommy, an Ode to Monsanto™” by Alex Evangelidis ’20 �� 51 “Astroland” by Raghav Chopra ’19 ��54 “Bi/Racial” by Erin Lynch ’20 ��56 “hey moon!” by Kylie Morrison ’20 ��57 “To A City I Used to Love” by Chiara Kaufman ’20 ��59 “Is a Fish Within Water Wet” by Anonymous ��60 “A Theme in Yellow” by Grant Albright ’19 �� 61 “Kiddo” by Ava Knapp ’20 ��62 “Seven Billion Rubber Balls” by Erin Lynch ’20 ��63 “Peanut Allergy (A Modified Haiku)” by Emmy Wenstrup ’20 ��65 “Mausoleum” by Evangeline Coffinas ’19 ��66 “It Keeps Moving Up” by Chiara Kaufman ’20 ��66 “Or What They Want To” by Ava Knapp ’20 ��68

Front & Back Cover: “Grant,” Mixed Media, Fiona Boettner ’19 Table of Contents: “Girl & Ocean,” Photography, Jordan Miller ’20

A Watched Pot Never Boils by Grant Albright ’19

Painting, Evangeline Coffinas ’19

i sat wrapped in grey amidst the darkness of the living room a silhouette with eyes fixed on the window, where the watercolor trees in front of me grew more and more orange as the day went on she would have to come. i would light the duraflame and let frank sinatra’s voice carry throughout the house: And while the rhythm swings What lovely things I’ll be sayin’ ‘Cause what is dancing Making love set to music, playin’ yet here i am eager like a lump of dough that’s dried out waiting for the oven When the band begins to leave the stand and folks start to roam As we waltz home, cheek to cheek we’ll be Come on, come on, come on, it was at most an interrupted hibernation awakened from a sleep that i didn’t know i needed i lie awake my metabolism now sped up hunger pangs strategically calling for my expiration Come on, come on, come on, Come on, and dance with me i never could have guessed that the declining horn flourish would become my epitaph that a song becomes infinite before the record even starts. 7

Me, Kerouac, and We’re Sure It’s Jazz by Ben Marra ’20

“Run!” he warned “Run from the Middle At all costs. TV sets and dispassion And anyone drunk on anything but the cheapest whiskey. Let fortune-cookie dharma or torrid motel affairs snuff the mess out before the atom bomb can. Shamble, and I mean it, after bright-white frenetic freedom Dig as far underground as you can until the dirt gets too dense-packed God isn’t anywhere You get f***in— (hiccup) bored Then leave Those saintly suffering ‘negroes’ to their ascetic oil flats Where they spurt saxophone into the dark— those million chromatic Buddhas. Spit out the silver spoon as I have. Know the only warm part of America is the brown Underbelly humming with wavy guitarrón and trumpet wielding Saints descended from Buffalo Bill’s white-plains heaven to sit by the road and watch your cotton spectre flash across the Continent and call you baby, brother mi amor, blanquito. Free, Free, free, Twitchy Benz-Bopping in desert silence to what you’re sure, above all things you’re sure is Jazz.”

Photography, Oren Tirschwell ’20

Photography, Ingrid Lauerwald â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

M O TH S

Photography, Catherine Marshall ’19

by Evangeline Coffinas ’19

Photography, Emma Lauerwald â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

Trapped in half-dead somnambulance and walking towards the light on crooked wings, the animated carcasses of dust and ash infest my mind.

Paintings, Jack Chen â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

Perfect Place by Tajah Burgher ’20

In a small, quaint part of the earth is a small, quaint town: Perfect Place. Clean boulevards with pristine homes lining the streets and trees bordering their backsides, shoulder to shoulder. All of the houses are of the same size, except for one which is standing atrociously two inches taller than the others and has yet to be... changed. Aside from this sore thumb, each house sports bright red roofs and four spotless white walls. They each are accentuated by their perfect white picket fences which end in the back, three yards before the trees. Everyone knows of everyone, the air is civil, and Perfect Place is perfect. And right when the sun quiets down and the streets continue to show no life, that’s when the changers appear. We aren’t sure where they come from but they have a great eye for the imperfections. A fog gingerly rolls in, thin enough to show their figures but thick enough to only show their figures as they stalk into the boulevard and confront the ugly home. There are only two of them but soon enough there is a home, perfectly level with the rest of the block, the changers doing who knows what with the original building and replacing it with perfection. Turning, they begin to circle the boulevard, looking into the homes through their windows, to make sure their units are appropriately set up. Male figure reclining, Female by the kitchenette, the offspring in the living area, or Barbie and GI Joe, as I like to call them. They do overlook a small being cowering by the once warm fireplace in the fourth house down, but I don’t mind. I think it gives the place character. This is Perfect Place, population 13,456, 13,455, 13,456. I guess character... changes. Perfect Place, tell all of your friends!

Unpopular Op

ini

Painting, Chiara Kaufman â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

by Anonymous

ffl

So, opening with much bravado I say: everyone loves avocado. They’re green and spreadable, Squishy and edible, Everyone likes avocado. One time I went to a restaurant, Ordered a taco, all nonchalant. I bit it, unwise, And to my surprise, I left with a mouthful of guac. Now, I’ll declare with much bravado Ready, I HATE AVOCADO. They’re nasty, not credible, Slimy, not edible, I really do hate avocado.

’19

19 16

Photography, Emma Lauerwald â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

95 by Mikhaila Archer â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

Drawing, Jordan Wade â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

summer came after teen imagination struck their daughters. plaid skirts, barely there clueless with doors open wide for everyone.

Found by Ava Knapp ’20

Can’t we rot In solitude, instead of In harmony with contrived spirits? They descended upon us in Dreadful symphony, our silhouettes Were bathed in chartreuse by their Bitter light. Apparently the way that the Spread canary petals looked by our fragile figures was too Jarring. The best of us aspired to be botanists, For they were fascinated by dying realms. I thought I tasted tobacco Where my gums met the soft corners of my mouth, I didn’t mind at the time. We are in sure and certain hope Of a blessed resurrection. The first line of it was tender, A beginning. Mother rocked the baby slow and soft, Caressed the crown of its head, Gazed down in wonder. Heartbreak and condolences were expressed Melodically, the hum of her voice upon The spaces that breathed its reverberations. I wanted it to end under a ceiling of crashing airplanes. Perhaps I would lie on my own. Will you lie there with me, So I am not alone?

Drawing, Nicole Yang ’19

Romulus by Erin Lynch ’20

Frater: I began pumping you full of poison long ago, slipped just beneath the skin then veins pulsing black, labyrinthine network of toxin. I was cautious; you, resistant, bewildered—eyes starry wide. And scientists called it the Anthropocene: I, Anthropos; you, static beneath my feet. History would have us believe you died quick and bled slow, a fratricide too swift to fault me, but this was a calculated game from the start, and the gleam in my eyes flickered frigid as you fleshed into the soil of my young empire. Death nothing more than a chore to complete. Life nothing more than the conquest of worlds: intersection of blood and desire. I want to expand outward, to explore— to clutch the cosmos in my fist. To leave you behind, curled fragile small, brother bruised blue and green. Before the Anthropocene, you and I suckled on wolf-mother’s teat. Carnivorous already, milk of a blood-seeker’s breasts catching fire in our stomachs, we were bred to kill.

by William Goldsmith â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

How He Dreads Himself 20

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only a simple task, and yet it must be completed. Trivial indeed! Such a task ought to be completed to the utmost degree of perfection. Not a smudge of error nor carelessness is acceptable. Luck is a Lie. Those that claim to have grasped it tell tales of dishonor, for success is a platform for those who can produce. The task, though small, is significant. Perfection lies in the eyes of the creator. Not until the task is perfected can it be showcased. Then it must be vehemently criticized and critiqued. Perfection is also a Lie. The task still must be pristine. The task still ought to shine like the greenery present on an excessive English country estate. The ideal becomes more fleeting after the task is completed. no. Logic contends that the goal cannot be arrived at. Obsessive pursuits and the grip of a pregnant guilt are the death of him. This ambition is used in excess. Idealist! Idealist! Idealist!

Ode to Rupi Kaur by Frances Schaeffler ’19

Nested on a shelf above flamingo string lights and adidas superstars, I saw your anthology seated upon a throne Neighboring Kim Kardashian’s latest novel, Selfie, and a succulent-themed adult coloring book. My hands rushed to the pockets of my mom jeans and I searched for some change, proceeding to fork the money over to the cashier at Urban Outfitters™. Upon seeing your book, the cashier whispered, A single tear running down her cheek, “Rupi changed my life,” Touching my hand with her soul which was somehow scarred. I opened your pages, And like a flower, Blooming--as all women do along with Hating themselves (a product of society) and sketching dandelions in the margins of their poetry--The premasticated metaphors Dripped from your lips like milk and honey and 3.3 million instagram followers.

Drawings, Jordan Wade ’19

Photography, Ingrid Lauerwald â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

The Projects by Raghav Chopra â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

A father weeps on his bed, his son is dead His wife prays his absolution, curses and bows before the Lord. In the apartment next Door a man trembles as he holds a .45 colt pistol, In the middle of his lonely saloon, no one watches him Watching the blood splatter, his body fall limp, collapse like Jenga blocks Keeps replaying in his mind, the cold metal falls from his sweaty palms to the ground, Slamming the floor, under which a young girl floats in a dream, That her parents will let her go to school, that they will call off the arranged marriage And free her from the projects; she wants to be a scientist, Her pink duvet comforts her, but the distant sobs, the bang and thud overhead remind her Life is no ballet, rather a farce, put on by some sardonic God

Photography, Emma Lauerwald â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

The Lost Man by William Goldsmith â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

Trust is all you need. Forget the others, however Provocative They may be. Trust your steadfast desire; Trust Your ability to create. Enjoy the luxuries You have been provided. Trust your latent resilience, And trust The pebbles leading you along your uncertain path. Ignore inadequacies; Disregard your concrete weight. You cannot leave a Ghost in awe. Do not look to the past in sorrow. Remain entrenched in the glory of the present. ***** A boy grows up in a world of excess. But then he loses his future and his father. He proceeds on while he houses The loathsome choke hold of his own shame As well as a wild craving for success. He was a rubber band ferociously trying not to snap. He proceeded even further. And he was controlled by anger, And a defiant wish To Make The Lost Man Proud. He did just that, and still, the Ghost Lives on Gloriously.

Photography, Kendall Wieland â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19 24

Photography, Ingrid Lauerwald â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19 25

Catch & Release by Ben Marra ’20

On a perfectly horrible Tuesday, when rain blustered and spat in my face I limped and I hobbled in sideways, through the door of that dreaded old place. Well the nurses they saw me and gasped, unprepared for a sight so macabre But I shambled on in through the grim waiting room, with a wince at each dull, painful throb. With stony resolve and his scrubs to his nose, a man led me back down the hall, And although I can’t figure exactly how come, I was taken into a strange thrall. Doctors and nurses like wasps filled the room, taking samples and needling my arms But at last through the fog of my mind rang a voice, saying “sir you have cause for alarm— It’s a dire case of genital herpes, It’s quite easily the worst that I’ve seen, If you value your own urination, we will have to remove your whole spleen.” Now I don’t know a thing about herpes, whom I thought was the Greek god of thieves, But the moment he named my red-boiled irritation, I made up my mind—I must leave! So I sprang from the bed and I shot out the door, with bare feet slapping loud in the hall My arms and legs churned like spilt water, unkempt hair kicking loose as a horse from its stall. To most, this must seem quite unhinged, for a sore-covered boy to escape his physician But if you’re to understand why, you first need to know my precarious position. Now I don’t know just how one gets such a disease, but I do have a sneaking suspicion. And if I’m correct, then the real problem lies in the frowned-upon means of transmission. Well, my parents, you see, remain blind, to the indecent products of too much spare time, And if they, by some nightmare, find out, they’ll spurn it like some great contemptible crime. So I ran and I just kept on running, my starched gown trailed through sterilized air All along the white halls parents shielded their children from seeing my pock-marked derriere. After many wrong turns and back-tracking, I finally came to a door, Where a red glowing sign promised “exit,” like a light on some heavenly shore.

I pushed through the threshold and tasted the air—sweet, cold, and wet as a plum, Then set rabid sights up the slope that receded towards trees—my heart still a-drum. Once safe in the woods one would think I’d have stopped, but then one would be utterly wrong. I kept up for miles on dark dappled ground, as the earth wept its soggy old song. I didn’t let up ‘til I came to a stream, emboldened by rain to a river, It lunged at the bank, threw spray twice my size, and set all my nerves right a-quiver. I knew it had no plan to let me pass through, nor relent in its raw, scornful torrents, So I sat on the bank and untied my gown to expose my carbuncled abhorrence. I sat there for hours just staring, and wishing the sickness away But it bled and it frothed and it vomited pus. “F*** you,” it verily did say. Well after a time I again was entranced, this time by the gossiping eddies And before the sun set I was taken by sleep, though my breath remained weak and unsteady. Around three I was pulled from my dreams by a hideous retching that sounded close by. I peeled my eyes open to survey the scene, but could see no clear source of the hair-raising cry. Beneath where I lay, to my groggy surprise, I felt a bizarre slimy jerking. When I lifted my gown, I hollered in fright, at the sight that beside me was lurking. My boils, they were gone, and the skin beneath, smooth—for this I sighed in relief. But in their stead stood a tiny pale man, leaping into the night like a thief. And as he fled, I noticed his legs, which were covered in sores I knew well. My herpes took flight, leapt into the stream, and was dragged, I assume, straight to hell. And even while I try to tell you this, a mist finely drips from my eye. For even a virulent virus would prefer to jump ship than be mine.

Photography. Kyle Spencer ’19

a e

by Eki Uzamere â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

As the water curiously laps against the shore A brief lament and luster under the silent breath of vagabond cicadas I am reminded of you To this, I’ll say that my clearest memory of you is The stiff molt that clung to your lips Holding every word of you under its breath The salt frothy overlay of your drink And the twisty forget-me-nots you enveloped around The doltish pucker of my belly Cruising over every swift wave Crushing under the collapse of every sober breath Remember the bottle that never dropped No matter how much it trembled in your palms Remember the kept turbulence of your hands The way your fingers watchfully fastened, Cradled and nursed the bottle This enkindled fire in you, will it be stoked in me? Will I one day feel it linger in the pits of my stomach, In the hollows of me? Does it creep around every dark corner in drunken stupor, Like ripened fruit, is it a vine that grows and spreads Like your body dancing alone for hours, Intoxicated from the waist and too implanted to pluck “If I am the color of the earth then God wrapped me in his love, covered me in his heel, and shipped me here” I watched the light cave within you, what is now an eroded piece of this earth A fermented body sunk in the ale of an inland sea, trapped under the sod, smothered and doused in the reek of vaporless ashes and a magazine of gunpowder Veil and unveil yourself in the domino of the tide Ascent to these battered shores and line the broken seams of any and every anguished vessel This stretch of abated curves reaches only to be teasingly receded once again and now, This gazing blush of sun pleads upon the bitter ends of my mind Each pointed ray is a hand of yours, a finger Reaching

Drawing, Cristina Paz ’19 29

Picture This by Isabelle Thomas

Photography & Drawing, Robert Patterson ’19 30

’1 9

Some of us get dipped in flat, some in satin, some in gloss; (Flipped) [But] honey, you’ve never looked better. (The Parent Trap) You’re not going to be scared this time are you? (Unaccompanied Minors) Look, it’s empty. No monster in here. (Monster’s Inc.) Man, you think too much! (Sandlot) The truth is, you come into this world alone and leave it the exact same way. (Little Manhattan) What do you think it’s like? (My Girl) [Well,] just because you’re going to be alone now doesn’t mean the world stops turning. (Harriet the Spy) [And] that’s no reason to shut the world out [either]. (Now and Then) [But] I mean, that’s [just] what I’ve read in magazines. (Aquamarine)

Salt

by Raghav Chopra ’19

Photography, Cristina Paz ’19

And curl up in the supermarket chilled racks alone where the foggy breaths reek of recklessness between milk cartons. Dance to Ray Charles in the booster seat, Go grocery shopping before groceries cost money in suburban white neighbourhoods alone in foggy Washington suburbs. Neighbours I don’t really remember but feel safe near their pink Hummer. Dance to Ray Charles in the booster seat. Forever live in tableaux in a mind too small to oppress time; remember to tell the titans not to sell it on Craigslist, It reeked with a security As long as you had it you would never grow but now the seat belt fits and so do your father’s shirts. Peppermint fumes fog glasses not tickle noses. Mother’s hugs, Mother’s tears, Wipe them away with tiny brown paws, like her warmth did your fears. Tell Father how to find her in the foggy hills Clutch to the booster seat as she gets back in the Pieces Prius Large hands wipe tears make you cry too Sorrys and the sadness evaporates like hot cocoa. Fresh Salad

ralph breaks the internet by Mikhaila Archer ’19

what does it mean that i saw his sugar heartbreak and thought of us? squeezing into things much too small, purple pain like fresh box braids, conversations you should have with your mother, but don’t. she held up “Future” and i thought both genesis and catastrophe, race cars speeding backwards through fire and gradual expiration, dreams i’d seen before i knew how to speak. laughter came as the heartbreak seeped into our red velvet seats and into the Internet. the credits’ role was the hardest goodbye.

Photography, Isabelle Thomas ’19

Entry #346 of Leslie Buchanan’s diary by Frances Schaeffler ’19

Photography, Kendall Wieland ’19

Dear Diary,

Today I was asked why I learn. I’m not going to let that b**** Deborah with the boytoy from Goldman Sachs one up me at this corporate holiday party. She may be able to recite each one of Martin Luther’s 95 theses, but does she know the metallic composition of the nail which he used to pin his theses on the door of the Catholic Church? I think not. From a young age I learned the importance of appearing intellectual for the praise of others. While those drooling toddlers who call themselves “venture capital financiers” were going through their ABC’s, I was out here derivating the morphology of the entire Proto Indo European language. When my cousin Susan stole my thunder at the family Thanksgiving Dinner 23 years ago by rattling off her internship at the Harvard’s Kennedy Institute of Politics studying the geopolitical implications of Mao Tse Tung’s chronic gingivitis, I vowed I would never let something like that happen again. I was set on a path for vengeance. A path for stardom. I soon realized what it took to rise in the hierarchy know-it-alls: trivial academic degrees. At Becky Waldorf’s engagement party last spring, I wooed each and every one of the bachelors there with the story of my summer with Mongolian monks learning the metaphysics of Buddhism. They were shocked that the monks would let a girl into the monastery, but I winked and said my “daddy” knew a guy—the ambassador to Mongolia. Did Becky say she will never talk to me again for being “a bad friend” and letting her much younger fiancé cheat on her with me? Yes, but it’s not my fault she picked the Hamptons over Ulaanbaatar. For now, until I write my fourth dissertation on the macroeconomic impact of zoology on the nation of Eritrea, I’ll make do with memorizing the Encyclopedia section on string theory for the Vanderbilts’ next cocktail party. Yours truly, Leslie

N by Kylie Morrison â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

“And Stonewall Jackson, misidentified by those he led, was shot down in the dim light of the moon.” Sounds like betrayal to me. Mr. Custer has the most boring voice known to man, and I swear every time he speaks the smallest molecules in this classroom stop vibrating and begin to snore. I wish I were a molecule. So small that no one could see me and my only purpose would be to exist. I would be the basis of function in this world, and no one would think about it. “How could they shoot their own commander? They must’ve seen it was him. Who else could it be?” Garrett also shot his own commander, once. How unfortunate to be shot without the intent of the shooter. That Stonewall had a pretty disgraceful death. No wonder why they won't ever stop talking about him. The soldiers aren’t to blame. We keep bringing it up. Forget it. The moon is at fault this time. Betrayal of the universe. “Well, they only saw his silhouette. He could have been anyone fitting a soldier's outline.” That's not the real answer, Mr. Custer. All of them would have fit the outline. They were all the same. Stonewall was their commander, but Ulysses could’ve been. Confederate was their flag, but Union could’ve been. They all come from the same land. All fit the same outline. But they kill each other. Battle of one difference, between many similarities.

“Yes.” I could hear him. I watch as they fly. They take on the textbook’s wish. They take on my wish. They join the wings of the wind. Looping around the air molecules. Soon they change direction. I want to join my notes on that Stonewall Jackson. I want to join them in the dim light of the moon. In the muddy fight between similarities. Through the jagged direction of the wind. Among the molecules. I reach for them. “Get back inside. You can get them later.” No, I can’t. I really can’t. So I keep reaching. I can’t reach them. I try. I cannot reach them. I hear the intense song of the wind. Stop, before I take you. I make one more attempt. I fail again. I feel gravity take hold. I am no longer in the seat of Mr. Custer’s AP US History class. I hate those seats, anyway. The wind is sharper. It pricks the skin on my ears. The air encompasses me. I am not fearful. You should fear me, tremble in the presence of my power. I am among the molecules. I am with that Stonewall Jackson. I am in the muddy fight. I am on the edge of flying on the wings of the wind. My good friend, Wind. The ground reminds me of pain, weaker than what I normally feel. I can’t feel my left leg. This pain is peace. But it still hurts. Betrayal of the universe.

“Oh okay,” Garrett did not really get it, for he also killed his own commander, once. The wind is sharp. It strikes through the window and into the depths of my veins. It carries the grayness of the sky. Colliding with the gray of the classroom, right in front of my eyes. The grays seem different. “Are you listening?” Mr. Custer’s teeth are so yellow. My papers lift at the corners. I look into the sky. The wind pushes my face, as a warning. The paper of the textbook begs to fly with the wind. They can’t go far. The binding holds them back. My notes begin to levitate.

Photography, Frances Schaeffler ’19

Braids by Sophia Thomas ’21

Dear Braids, So, we’ve been entangled with each other for a while now Never really became split ends You’ve basically been my ride or dye But lately I’m afraid things have knot been good I mean to be honest we haven’t gelled for a while I guess we’ve just grown apart? I tried to work out the kinks I mean I really did my bestI truly thought we could straighten this out You being the problem and a flattening iron the solution I’ve cut you out of my life a few times Thinking that if I could get rid of pieces of you Maybe it would all just disappear You just always fell(t) short Never quite reached the goals I wanted for you I mean I thought you could grow But here you are and you’re still the same I guess I couldn’t blame you I mean you just needed time But time had a price I wasn’t willing to pay So instead With you, I played a game of hide and seek Searching for you was difficult, You were always the winner Because you mastered the art of hiding in plain sight I morphed myself into a magician Thought I managed to pull off the ultimate disappearing act Hoping that with the wave of a flattening wand Poof, you’d be gone You were the trick even I could never explain A foreign concept, understood by very few

To them, you were a lion in a cage Stared at in blissful ignorance They asked how I kept you tame, if you were washed, or well kept Stared at with fear They were thankful something so “wild” was being managed I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry I’m sorry that I let them define you I’m sorry I let them take each curl and make them spell out words that didn’t match who you are I’m sorry for letting my cloud of shame overcast you on your sunny days Letting drops of embarrassment dampen your shine But you have to understand They never told me you were beautiful Never told me that before you were a “zoo animal” You were King of the Jungle That there you weren’t “wild,” you were just you Never told me that magic is all about perception That it’s impossible for the seeker to win That clouds are not permanent and change with time That even dictionaries make mistakes I think I’ve realized something I don’t need to get rid of you I’ve realized that There’s nothing wrong with being tangled up sometimes Nothing wrong with being a little harder to deal with There’s nothing wrong with knots and curls and twists Dear Braids Hair we are in the same place we started But this time: I leave saying thanks for knot leaving my side And for helping me comb to accept you I mean I would say more but I guess I’ll just shave it for later

Drawing, Madison Carter ’19

So before I came to Hackley in 9th grade, I was wearing plaid kilts day in and day out at Sacred Heart. I was convinced that I’d stay there for my entire academic career; a combination of growing used to the all-girls environment and being too lazy to make new friends. However, I began to have lots of That’s So Raven visions of a seventeen year-old Mikhaila in college, being unable to contain herself when a boy sat next to her in class for the first time. I distinctly remember the night I brought these fears to my mom. That was the same night I started my application for Hackley. Fast forward a year, 13 year old Mikhaila thankfully realized that boys weren’t all that. Like at all. Yeah, there was that initial weirdness of seeing them everyday and not just across the street at Brunswick, but I quickly predicted their significance in my life to be exactly as it was at Sacred Heart: non-existent. As you can expect, that mindset didn’t last long. There had been a boy in Ms. Leffler’s English class—let’s call him “Boy”—who I was strictly annoyed by. Like it eventually got to a point where I started mentally rolling my eyes at him before he even started talking. However, as time passed, the eye rolling stopped and he annoyed me less and less…and less. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what my new feeling was, but I knew something had changed. Come exam time, on a break from studying, I decided to tell one of my friends in the class about my new-found feelings. I was hoping she’d tell me I was dumb and swiftly move on. However, she did the exact opposite. Not only did she label these new feelings as a “crush,” but she insisted that I tell the boy about my feelings immediately. I proceeded to laugh in her face, and almost immediately responded with a firm “you must be out of your damn mind.” The nice thing about Brunswick boys was that they were across the street; any embarrassing moments were always held at a distance. I’d have to see this boy every day for the next four years, and I couldn’t possibly risk that kind of social suicide. But, of course, my phone lights up with a text. From Boy. Long story short, my friend had made up some ridiculous story and told Boy that my computer texts only worked if someone else texted me first, and that he had to text me immediately if he wanted to hear the important news I had to tell him. I still have no idea how he fell for that, but that’s a conversation for another day.

Drawing, Lilly Yerkes ’19

Anyways, while I was vigorously trying to act like I had no idea what he was talking about, I couldn’t help but picture the outcome of me telling him the truth. Like yeah, I guess Hannah Montana was a bit outdated at that point but she told Jake she liked him and everything worked out, right? Like if she could do it, I most definitely could too. So, I retreated back to my Sacred Heart ways and said a quick prayer. Then I told him. And threw my phone across the room. And left it there for thirty minutes. When I finally decided to go back and look for it, mainly to check for damage, the response was, well, a piping hot rejection. My exam studying took a back seat to the mental preparation I believed I needed to show my face at Hackley ever again. In that moment, I firmly believed my life had ended before it had the chance to begin. After God blessed me with not having to see Boy the next day due to different exam times, I used the time to concoct my master plan of never speaking to him ever again. I had practiced my uninterested glances in the mirror, and assured myself that the best way to deal with this tragedy was to avoid it at all costs. I walked into English class the next day with my game face on, prepared to follow the plan to a T. However, Ms. Leffler decided that group work was the plan and, of course, Boy and I were put together. I tried to pull a Matilda and mentally inform Ms. Leffler that she’d made a huge mistake, but no luck. I moved my chair next to Boy’s and waited. After a few moments, we made the eye contact I’d been dreading for days. My brain was intensely trying to remind me of the plan, but before I knew it, I had said hello. And he said it too. And the world didn’t end. Today, almost four years later, Boy isn’t just the jerk who rejected me; he’s one of my best friends. He’s helped me deal with the annoying boys that came after him, and has helped me realize that there are plenty more to come. But, most importantly, (and what I hope you’ll remember most from this) he helped me realize that the world keeps on spinning if you let it. These moments, the minute tragedies that feel like the end of everything, are the experiences that help you learn and help you grow. I promise you, it’s never as serious as you think.

Somewhere I Would Rather Be by Charlie Hite â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

It is 6:30am and my alarm clock rings. My daily routine begins, And the same bird outside of my window sings. I grab my bag and get ready to go, But there is somewhere I would rather be. I tell myself I have too much work, But I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop thinking about where I would rather be. I want to march the streets and do what is right Because what happened at MSD proves our future is not bright. My mom tells me I cannot go And that school is the only place to be. She tells me I must learn how to fight And that I will be perfectly alright. I listen, and my mother smiles to see me walk out of the door. I am in the most safe place on earth and she is sure. I arrive at math and hear nothing but chaos. I hear whispers spread in fear of the shooter. But I am sure it is only a drill. This was until I began to feel the worst sort of thrill. We knowingly fear that people have died As my classmates and I are forced to hide. The loud bangs continue to burst through the halls And creep closer and closer as if they were calls. Boom! A shot bursts through the door And I see a hole in the desk that I was sitting in before. It was at this moment that I realized my life would never be the same, As the complete and utter worst has came. I make it out alive, but many did not. I want to forget, but I can still hear that shot. School is no longer the place it was before, And it will be incredibly hard to find a cure. Does America really turn a blind eye? Even as it watches her kids vanish into the sky. All I want is for others to see That there will always be another place to be. 42

Photography, Emma Lauerwald ’20 Photography, Emma Lauerwald ’20

Drawing, Nicole Yang â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19 44

Two and Lies a Truth by Tajah Burgher ’20

I was Sunday-born, mango-loving Held joy in the palm of my hand, commanded love Taking my time, carefully forming that I might not trip up or not have to trip up Running at my dawn and never-ending, I was I am a force Unmovable, unstoppable Except for when I waiver in my footsteps or my thinking. I am tired physically and mentally I can’t turn without a feeling I am tired of being tired Of being me Here and now, I am I will be the life-bringer before life is o’er Life is a race to be won, if I can finish ahead, finish first I can win and I want to win I will

Blue Delphiniums by Evangeline Coffinas ’19

The thunderstorm outside shook the glass of the window panes with furious gusts. The wind flung the drops of rain onto the house, and every drop that plummeted onto the roof seemed to stab at his brain. He looked down on his shaky, wrinkled, veiny hands, which were clasped around the book he was attempting to read. He might have been more successful if it weren’t for that persistent drip on the rooftop, if it weren’t for that trembling of the panes in the window frames, and if it weren’t for that vase of crumbling flowers on the kitchen table.

Photography, Molly Rosenthal ’19

The vase itself was not the problem, it was only the vessel for his decaying sorrows. It was rather the tall, thin, sickly delphiniums that drooped around the sides of the glass vase, bowing heads down to the time that had overtaken them. At one point, they stood so tall that she had to retrieve the tall glass vase from the top shelf of the garage. You see, when they first met, he’d bring her roses or carnations. After time, he found that every time he passed the florist, any flower that held the same pigment as her eyes would call to him. He slowly began bringing home bluebells, ageratums, and siberian irises. His affinity for her color blue became so immense that he planted morning glory by the fence in front of the house, which it now had overtaken so much that not a peek of sunlight could slip between the gaps in the picket fence. At the time, however, sunlight filtered through the clear kitchen window and illuminated the center of the kitchen table, where the cut flowers would reside. And on that Tuesday that he brought home those delphiniums, they shone in their little spotlight.

The delphiniums stayed tall for a few days, only beginning to drop their petals on that Saturday. That’s when it all seemed to start going downhill. That Saturday, she was carried to the hospital with flashing red and blue lights. These manic lights crept through the kitchen window and cast a shadow of the vase’s silhouette onto the far wall. For the next few days, these silhouettes became less proud, beginning to droop just as she did in her hospital bed. Likewise, he drooped more and more, hunching his shoulders over the all-white bed whilst making sure she was still breathing. He did this until she was not still breathing, and then he hunched over a casket decorated in blue flowers. Once the casket went into the ground and his loneliness rose, he hunched over the paper-dry flowers that had been forgotten on the kitchen table. And that’s where he was now-book abandoned on the tabletop with all of his focus diverted to those damn blue flowers. He grabbed the flowers harshly by the very tips of their stalks, blue petals crumbling and flaking off at his touch, and carried them over to the trash, where he dropped them and turned his back.

Drawing, Catherine Marshall ’19

He sat down once again and hands around his book. His pages as the rain subsided to the walls of the

set his wrinkled, veiny mind got lost in the a calm drizzle outside house.

Instagram or Twitter or Something by Ben Marra â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

Mixed Media & Drawing, Lilly Yerkes â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

If you were to look at the face closely You would first notice the the elegant absences. The starved, smooth ones underneath the cheeks Or the cavernous ones underscoring the dunes of the brow. Then the jaw, which drops off so suddenly as to frighten the uncareful wanderer. The you might be drawn to the living parts. The abrased pink pointillism on each apple, and the twitch of the eye that turns lashes to legs of some unlamented white beetle. You might then decide to share with her, Your findings, that she may learn from such careful research: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Please get your eye checked b****, I thought you were having a stroke.â&#x20AC;? 17 people agree below. Nice!

1 Star

by Christopher Arnold ’20

If I could give this establishment a zero I would If you’re considering closing this joint, you should You’re a disgusting institution hiding behind “Gino’s Pizzeria” I’ve never been, but this place was a parallel of North Korea The paint was chipping and roaches scurried across my feet The pepperoni gave me salmonella, it was freaking raw meat The hostess was disrespectful and spat on my face The chef was a meanie and sprayed me with mace The manager didn’t seem to care about their actions Despite the poor service it was a billion dollar transaction I excused myself from my table to go to the restroom The mold in there was alive, a fungus in full bloom It stank like death and an old man sat in the corner I was disgusted, I shouted and cried like a mourner I went to the front and screamed at your boss He shoved me outside like I was a frisbee he tossed I was happy to leave and I will never return I hope and I pray that your store will soon burn Gino, your store needs some help There’s a reason your restaurant averages 1 star on yelp.

Photography, Frances Schaeffler’ 19 50

Cornmommy, an Ode to Monsanto™ by Alex Evangelidis ’20

You stand tall, unbroken, Growing in masses, growing Despite the wind, the hail, the droughts. You guard your prize, enduring The cracking Brought on by the squirming maggots the gouging crows the swarming aphids. Your silken hair peeks out in thick golden tufts Your leaves undulating with the wind In harmony. I once despised you. You were taradiddle Looming over the others Lulling countless Americans into false Security. You seemed Wholesome Your plump kernels gleaming under the fluorescent lights Of the supermarket shelves Yet You were A menace. You had to be stopped. And so I ran through the maze Brandishing a shovel Driving it into your stalk, screaming “Die, you genetically-engineered scum! Die!” Looking back, I was but A deeply misinformed Child. Despite my vitriolic harpyism You stand tall, unbroken. My bumbershoot is yours.

Photography, Kyle Spencer â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19 52

Day On the Job by Emmy Wenstrup ’20

He approached the quaint cottage with a grimace. Its disheveled garden, uneven grass, and mossy cobblestones disgusted his naturally organized self – he feared for the safety of his crisp black pants. The house reeked of old English architecture – dark brown wooden panels formed x’s on the smooth stucco, and smoke billowed out of the chimney. The gentle buzzing of honeybees both frightened and soothed him. The makeshift white fence, with handprints gradually increasing in size on each individual picket, both kept him out and welcomed him in. Finally he reached the door, stepping on a mat reading “welcome,” and coming face to face with the terrifying handwritten “Home of the Millers” sign on the door, hung by a single nail and old twine. It was the quintessential American home. He finally mustered the courage to ring the doorbell, for the first time doing it without his partner, and within minutes and overly-cheerful woman answered. She was slightly out of breath and perhaps a touch sweaty, yet she beamed with unnecessary joy. She wore old sneakers—five, maybe seven years old—with clean, mediumblue jeans and a bland white shirt. To complete the look she wore a mauve apron with splotches of white powder on it. “Come on in dear, I’m baking,” she said, “the cookies are almost done. Have one if you like?” He reluctantly followed her into the kitchen – this didn’t normally happen – and was confronted with the harsh but pleasant smell of cookies. Worse, they were oatmeal raisin. He politely turned down the cookie and waited for her to finish baking, so he could best deliver his message. To worsen his anxiety, she offered him a glass of wine. Not just any wine, but chardonnay. He considered leaving, but remembered his duty. “Now, what can I do ya for?” He gulped. Now he was sweating, too. His nervousness missed the dulcet tones of the Dave Matthews Band floating throughout the room. He again considered leaving, then considered accepting the chardonnay. His brutal anxiety muted him – “hello?” she giggled. “I won’t bite, now,” she added. She’s going straight to hell anyway, he thought. What’s the point? But he couldn’t stay silent forever. He remembered his duty once more, and finally spoke. “Hello ma’am. My name is Elder Cunningham, and I would like to talk to you about the Church of Latter-Day Saints. Could you spare a moment of your time?” 53

Astroland by Raghav Chopra â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

The gentle tingle as the sun tickles his skin Wakes him up to the rotting pizza boxes cartwheeling across the boardwalk And that Italian man grinning uncomfortably wide, Whose teeth so pearly white, his gums like charcoal It feels like some remote â&#x20AC;&#x153;foreignâ&#x20AC;? market, Cairo or perhaps Rabat. He walks the yellowing fruitcake of dropped candy and beer bottles, He feels himself roasting a perfect golden brown, as if he were some chicken. Or perhaps he would find himself abducted by strange tentacled creatures Of a lifeless gray, flaring lights and strange mist would consume his body. The heatstroke becomes rather concerning; he needs to find an ice cream parlour, Where some mysterious gal will eye him and leave Whisking away her tangerine hair, and plucking the maraschino cherry from her sundae And into her glossed lips, strutting to the beat of some Miles Davis tune, The deafening hiss of the frothing tide stirs his mind, teetering on the edge of reality and the railing of the platform. He grabs another half finished bottle from the plank floor, and chugs away.

Painting, Evangeline Coffinas â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

Bi/Racial by Erin Lynch ’20

Photography, Emma Lauerwald ’20

Two halves of a boy-body stand side by side at the lip of a cliff, the ocean below swelling with sleepy breath. One of the halves is yolk-stained, squinty-eyed. Plays the piano. Does math. The other is purer white than the celestial, gleaming— In his fist he clutches the world by its jugular. The grass between them is scorched, a startling hot Line knifing the earth crisply in two. It runs back farther than the human eye can discern, splitting its way through sea, through unwilling mountain. Neither half-boy touches the Line. Neither half dares. Also between the halves hangs a silence, bent but unbroken by the ocean’s sighing. The bleached tongue of fog, probing the base of the cliff, swipes up all the bright sound for its own. The white half-boy parts his lips. I want to touch you. His sound stings the heavy, silent air. I want and then it unfolds before them, blossoms grotesque and grinning: a single bridge, jutting sorely from the tip of the cliff and keening out toward the horizon. The white half stares, his gaze fever-bright. At the end of the bridge, he knows, rests the sun; one brilliant baleful eye—yellow at first glance, but the longer he looks, the whiter it turns—unblinking, eternal— All the promises whispered to him over the length of his childhood, manifested finally— He tosses half a glance over one shoulder at his past, yawning out behind him— I want to be whole again. We used to be the same, you and I, twined together so tight even we couldn’t tell us apart. We were born before the Line; born one, whole self—a human body. A new creation. Our parents promised us this future. They promised. And I told you we would, see. Take my hand. Consumed by his monologue, the white half does not notice that the bridge to the sun only stretches before him, only exists on the right side of the Line. We’re here, we’re finally here. Take my hand. The white half smiles expectantly at the endless future before him, lost in babbling rapture. The other does not respond. He has blinked—silently, rapidly, as if from wake to sleep— between the salivating folds of the ocean.

hey moon! by Kylie Morrison ’20

Photography, Kyle Spencer ’19

i have always found myself wishing for sunset in the sunrise. as the fiery sun plunged into abyss, the bright moon illuminates the ready darkness. darkening the trees somehow brightening the sky it’s not black anymore they sleep and us two converse, in words they cannot analyze. to them it is gibberish. a two person cult. to them it is night. i awaken at your companionship. i sleep in my loneliness. my only friend. as the your life ends, i hope to see you again. please rise again. rise from your fall. hey moon. 57

To A City I Used To Love by Chiara Kaufman ’20

Photography, Kendall Wieland ’19

In the city, I met a man forced to Flee his stolen park. He was a Meanderer in mourning of dying Reveries; moving by step-stop to curbs from Roadsides and then back. Rags from thirdHand coats unraveled outwore him— an Imposition upon long withstanding ranks of the Human touch and the softer caress of Flesh. But even palms abstain from Meeting plastic cups, although I think we All know that the mediator keeping one Apart from the next is good for Nothing but a coddle too close for Those wishing to bathe only Themselves in the greened waters of the Oasis. Little lappings so gentle become Waves from the fence; the compression so Palpable in its diseased formation. We will not discern what lies inside New York Streets— we will merely feel it, as it Burgeons with every burn in mal-gridded Sensations. Any surface can be Pinpointed upon the cheapest tourist Map alongside provocations of the coordinates’ Command; to align a straight edge this way and That, and to secrete the essence of your private Dreams so that its direction may be Planned alongside your placement’s same path. Here, we do not hand over Permanence to the Promises of chance.

Photography. Cristina Paz ’19

Is a Fish Within Water Wet? by Anonymous

Is a fish within water really wet? With brief consideration, we say “yes.” A dry palm of man, cool substance has met, And induced a feeling of wet no less. This certain sensation, water does dish; But when we are submerged, why is it none? Completely submerged, like that of a fish; Might we o’erlook, the fish’s perception? Is a fish within water really wet? Deep in the ocean, wet on its fins spread. The sole feeling it has ever known, yet We humans can’t get inside of its head. So we conclude: man should not be the sleuth, It’s up to the fish, it is their own truth.

a theme in yellow by Grant Albright ’19

Mixed Media, Fiona Boettner ’19

my back to the ocean, the tide gnawed at years of seesaws and swingsets. the pull wasn’t enough to take me until its strength had robbed the sourness from my cup. Lemonade spilled out, hesitant at the sides of my mouth: two streams that met at the center of my chin. drip. I spot the hills. sand. dunes. hills. sand. dunes. hills. sand. sky. yellow dripped onto the the battle scars from fallen monkey bars, a sting so ephemeral you couldn’t complain it hurts. i’m left to my own. sand-covered. disoriented. i no longer like lemonade, now that I know what it means.

Kiddo by Ava Knapp ’20

Silhouette bathed in chartreuse Blond curls tinged orange at the tips From recent years a jaw too straight And curved eyelashes, I was always jealous He told me he’d be gone Away for an immeasurable time Hands mangled, Knotted and mannish Four years ago he told me It is tradition For geese to fly in v formation I never liked Comparing people to geese

Painting, Evangeline Coffinas ’19

L i o V B n Se E Li n ruBb E r b a L

by Erin Lynch ’20

We learn to bounce back, you know, thrown smack against the scowls of these walls, you rattling furiously around like

shark teeth. We flip smooth belly up, all skies beneath— If we had feet, how we’d walk

these stars. Instead, we glide the breeze. Cut flying free of gravity, we thrive on this frenetic kinesis you threw at us, thrumming feral bright. Only way we stop is you do, leave us to the pitted weeds and bottle shards.

Motionless.

Photography, Catherine Marshall ’19

Elementary School: A Six-Word Memoir by Erin Lynch ’20

Bit a kid. Made no friends.

Photography, Cristina Paz ’19

Peanut Allergy (a modified haiku) by Emmy Wenstrup â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

natural selection asthma, peanut allergy darwin wants me dead

Painting, Mason Chapman â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

Mausoleum by Evangeline Coffinas ’19

there is a mausoleum in my basement. a playroom from time faced defacement. spiderwebs are a snare for moths in dusty air. memories from my childhood’s erasement

It Keeps Moving Up by Chiara Kaufman ’20

Saplings can only have so many leaves— Weight is cruelest when loss is known only from Love and forces foliage to fall faster than Grown. I have seen too many naked Trees wearing their branches barren to Appear with arms unbroken, for if Nothing is uprooted, we pretend to perceive (orworseperhapswedo) Everything writhes at rest within the Constant State of Life in some perpetual Place, tucked inside the bed of earth. If I could burn bark to Ash and compress it to a Seed, I would ask that its Experience be preserved only as Essence, from which we can Extract without pain’s rebirth. But I cannot burn so exact.

Drawing, Kit Greenberg ’19

Or What They Want To by Ava Knapp ’20

If I were to ask you a question I would pause and press my finger Against my cupid’s bow, then lift it And raise my calculated doe-glance Ever so slightly Before curling my tongue to let the words Do what they will or What they want to, A choice made by the slight tilt Of your left eyebrow in the upward direction, Your sole digression from symmetry which Prompted me and my rogue pink tongue To stray, to wonder why you came here And what you intend To do with my feelings

Drawing, Madison Carter ’19

“FOR STUDENTS BY STUDENTS” The Vision’s mission is to create a platform for students to share their artistic and literary accomplishments 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, fiction, 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 in the Adobe InDesign platform, using the Georgia font. Six hundred copies are offset printed with four-color process plus aqueous coating. The staff then distributes the magazine to Hackley Upper School students, faculty, the Admissions Office and Hackley’s Global Education Office to share with visitors to campus. The Vision has an online component as well, an interactive presence which celebrates Hackley’s talented and diverse student body through videos, interviews, photography, art, and writing. The Vision’s Facebook and Instagram pages are updated periodically, showcasing talented faculty and students, revealing the process of the print magazine, and sharing The Vision with a wider audience. Hackley School is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.