Pegasus - Spring 2026 by The Haverford School

Leter from the Editors

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the 50th edition of Pegasus! Reaching this milestone is both an incredible achievement and a refection of the creativity, passion, and dedication that many Haverford students have poured into this magazine over the years. For ffty magazines, Pegasus has served as a space where students can share their thoughts, stories, and memories with the school, and we know that will continue with future editions.

To celebrate this milestone, this magazine’s theme was inspired by the Philadelphia rail map, refecting the many paths that connect our community. Much like the winding lines of SEPTA routes stretching across the city and suburbs, every piece in this magazine represents a different stop, destination, or journey. Though each contribution moves in its own direction, together they create a larger network of voices that intersect in meaningful and unexpected ways. We hope that as you move through this edition, you feel connected not only to the work itself, but also to the people behind it.

As a fnal word, thank you to every student who submitted their work to this magazine. Sharing creative work requires courage, honesty, and vulnerability, and this publication exists because of your willingness to express yourselves and trust others with your ideas. Your writing, artwork, photography, and imagination are what make Pegasus meaningful year after year, and especially in this historic 50th edition. So as you turn these pages and travel from stop to stop throughout this collection, we hope you enjoy the journey.

Sincerely,

William Bradford

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhan

YorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwiftTheWolf

HenryVandiverVennDiagrams GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradfordABostonDay AdamBrown

A long winter it was, with days subtracting warmth. Even in April’s birthing showers, the cold persists, grasping at its now chimeric strength.

Yet branches, once brittle, begin to reclaim their once clandestine youth. A quiet radiance glows with them, one no frost could ever silence.

Softly, the green returns. Not all at once, but in tender strokes, as if God paused between each careful touch of His creation. Once desolate and dark, the world grows vivid again.

Buds loosen, petals unfurl, and the air feels lighter, the burdens of winter’s anguish, carried away by summer’s gentle breath.

You notice without realizing: softer winds, longer light, and an ineffable euphoria reverberating within you. A subtle certainty that better days are to come.

But winter was never an apocalypse; it was never the end. Only an inhale before the world could breathe again.

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhan

YorkStation

SeanAllen

CrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace

WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwift

TheWolf

HenryVandiver

VennDiagrams

GianniWord CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradfordABostonDay

AdamBrown

The bus station on York Street smelled of gasoline, wet concrete, and week old microwaved food. At three in the afternoon, the building held a small group of people who appeared to have nowhere else to be. Among those people was a man named Carl Phinx, who worked unloading delivery trucks behind the Shoprite three blocks away. His paycheck was small, and his lunch was made up of a single sandwich carefully wrapped in a paper bag.

Carl examined the sandwich with such attentiveness to detail that one could think he was performing a scientifc experiment. The bread was slightly smashed. The meat inside, two slices of ham, had turned a questionable pale after hours of sitting in Carl’s backpack. Two thin layers of mustard and mayonnaise were spread across the bread and had begun to soak into it, creating a damp spot.

Carl had been hungry since noon. Across the room sat an older man studying a newspaper that looked older than the building they sat in. He peaked over at Carl, watching him examine his sandwich, and shook his head slowly.

“Organized...? How can a pigeon be organized?”

“You planning to eat that thing son,” the elderly man asked, “or are you just gonna keep lookin’ at it?”

Carl looked up with a blank stare and shrugged. “Just making sure it’s still safe to eat. Ya’ know?”

The old man chuckled quietly. “Son, If you’re eating lunch in this bus station, safety has long gone left this building.”

Carl gave the old man a comforting smirk and unwrapped the rest of the sandwich. The environment was not optimal for eating a sandwich. A broken ice machine buzzed loudly in the corner. The air conditioning unit dripped constantly every few seconds into a bucket that had already begun to overfow. Across the room sat a security guard that sleeps during

his shift. Carl removed the rest of his sandwich from the plastic wrapping and gently placed it on his knees.

At that very moment, a pigeon swooped into the building and trotted along the foor. The pigeon had likely fown through as someone was coming into the building. Or came through the old ceiling cracks that have not been restored since the building was frst established.

It walked across the foor with the cocky confdence of an animal that has survived many dangerous environments. Its small head twitched quickly from side to side as it studied the room and its surroundings.

Carl did not notice the pigeon immediately. Instead his focus was entirely on the sandwich in front of him.

Carl held the sandwich in both hands for a moment, turning it slightly, judging whether it was still worth eating. The bread drooped under its own weight, and the smell of warm turkey rose subtly into the dull air. Across the foor the pigeon had already begun inching closer and closer to Carl, its head jerking forward, inspiratic movements.

Carl scooted on the bench, his stomach growling as he watched it inch forward. Carl hadn’t eaten since noon, and that empty void in his stomach has desired something ever since. The pigeon paused, then took another step, its eyes locked on the sandwich determined to obtain it.

Neither of them moved an inch for a second.

Then Carl grasped his sandwich tighter, and the pigeon leaned forward in retaliation, as if both understood, without thinking it through, that there was only enough for one of them to be satisfed.

The pigeon was the frst to break the awkward tension by advancing closer.

Carl noticed the pigeon’s position and waved his hand for the bird to fy away.

“Hey, get out of here,” he said. “Not today.”

The pigeon retreated a few steps back, but still locked on to the sandwich.

The older man from across the room

lowered his newspaper, noticing the confict between man and bird. “Careful,” he said. “Those damn pigeons around here are organized.”

Carl laughed. “Organized...? How can a pigeon be organized?”

“I’m telling you. One of the little bastards took my damn pretzel last week.” The old man said.

Carl looked back at the bird, which was now slowly circling the bench Carl sat on. Waiting for the right moment to pounce. Like a savage beast hunting its prey.

“Well,” Carl said. “This one’s not getting my lunch. Been waiting all day to eat this dang sandwich. I’m not handing it over to you.”

The pigeon waited.

A loud bang from the far end of the station echoed through the hollow building when someone dropped a metal can into the trash bin.

Carl turned his head.

In that exact moment of distraction, the pigeon executed a precise maneuver towards the sandwich. It leaped on the bench next to Carl and snatched half of the sandwich with its beak. Carl turned his head back just in time to acknowledge the bird dragging half of his sandwich across the bench. For a moment he stared at the pigeon with an unbelievable amount of disbelief and disappointment that suggested he had underestimated the intelligence of this small pathetic creature. The pigeon continued to drag the sandwich with pure determination.

Carl sighed. He still possessed half of the sandwich. However the bread had been damaged due to the altercation between man and bird. One corner of the sandwich had a small bite mark that clearly did not belong to Carl. Carl looked at the remaining sandwich. The environment of the bus station continued deteriorating. The air-conditioning unit continuously drips into the overfowing bucket. Someone near the vending machine attempted to purchase a drink but instead it got stuck leaning against the glass. The man kicked it out of frustration.

Carl examined the sandwich again. In the end, hunger took over his pride. Carl shrugged his shoulders and took a bite. The pigeon watched from the foor and pecked at the stolen portion of sandwich he had seized.

On the Bump Jesse Kanefsky

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllen

CrispinTasty

ByronYang

YackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace

WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwift

TheWolf

HenryVandiver

VennDiagrams

GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradford

ABostonDay

AdamBrown

Crispy and Salty

Paper Thin, golden, crunchy, Those small yellow bags

Filled with potato goodness Satisfying your hunger greasy seed oils stain fngers High Cholesterol Problems? Artery blockage? Who cares about that dumb myth Worship yellow bags.

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYang

JackLevensten

MaxSides YackingintheBigApple

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace WalterFrazierQueenCity

JeremiahSwiftTheWolf

HenryVandiverVennDiagrams GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradfordABostonDay AdamBrown

The night before we were going to make our yearly winter trip to the Big Apple, my dad, brother, and I decided to go out and grab a bite to eat at one of our local bars called The Grog. The NBA playoffs were on, and at that, it was my team, the Sixers. We watched a young Ben Simmons just weeks before his mental health would decline due to the harshness of Philly fans. At the time, though, we watched Ben in the form of a talented 6‘ 10” point guard, and Joel Embiid slowly but surely dismantled the 8th-seeded Wizards, a team led by an out-of-his-prime Russell Westbrook. I enjoyed my burger and the taste of the Sixers’ victory. The night slowly started to die, and the bussers were working extra hard to get the hell out of there. It was around 11:30, and we decided that it was time for us to get the hell out of there as well.

Have you ever had one of those times where you did not feel sick right until the moment you threw up, or your fever heightened? Let me drop you right in the moment. Lights fashed, and noises buzzed through the window of my dad’s GMC Sierra. The soul of NYC was gleaming through the barely legal tint of the truck. I kept asking myself, “What the hell was that taste in my mouth?”

joy his night in Times Square. I think about it all the time. I ruined that guy’s night in one of the most disgusting manners known to mankind.

“BLEEEEH”

If I had to guess how to spell the sound of someone throwing up, that would be it. That is what it had to have sounded like. That’s what I imagine he heard. That’s what I imagined he heard when he looked up and saw 15-year-old Jack Levensten halfway out the window of his Dad’s GMC truck, projectile vomiting.

The rest of the night was probably the sickest I have ever felt. I recall the chill of the cold tile foor from lying on it, not being able to move; I was defeated. I spent the entire night in a cycle of being on the toilet and on my knees, and curled up on my side. I never recovered, and the trip was ruined, at least for me. My Dad and my brother got to enjoy their time going around the city sightseeing and shopping, while I lay defenseless against the unpredictability of a viral infection.

You might have wondered why I began this story with me at a bar with my family. It was the damn burger.

The day after we went to the bar and made our way up to NYC, whether I would burp or hiccup, there was a taste. The taste was horrid and indescribable, and I haven’t tasted it since. At no point did I think it indicated anything about what was about to come. No headache, no stomach ache, no fever, just confusion. I felt defeated, in a weird way. It was like I had no control over what was about to come. It was like someone fipped a switch. It all moved in slow motion. I sat up, one hand gripped the seat, and one hand went to roll down the window of the GMC. The taste, it was back, this time it had something coming with it, and that something was mean and gross. The victim was probably just trying to en-

Four Mountain

Josh Bloom

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace

WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwiftTheWolf

HenryVandiverVennDiagrams

GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradfordABostonDay AdamBrown

It was a modest apartment, just above a mini-grocer. All the essentials were there: a kitchen, a living space, and a door that led to the bedroom. The bedroom had a bathroom, and on the other side of the room was a window with a planter box flled with the red petunias Paul had gotten at a local fair.

Paul had bought the apartment thirty-one years prior, after he got his pension. Back then, the mini-grocer used to be a fancy jacket shop that was propped up solely by the local elites. But they had since left. In their wake sprouted apartments, like Paul’s, and also a textile plant, which only drove out the last of those who lived in the town’s most select homes.

Like his schedule, Paul rarely varied his order: a sandwich or soup, with a glass of water.

His apartment was furnished with the generosity of his neighbors. Not through cash donation, of course. No one had cash to just hand out, but in discounts and gifts of good faith, intended to bring in more customers by appearing busy. The three paintings that lined the walls of Paul’s abode were from the wife of a grocer down the street who, when Paul couldn’t pay, had insisted he take a few of the paintings off their hands. There was also the Cuckoo clock that Paul had gotten from the next-door neighbor. The Clock Man, as everyone would call him, had taken up shop a year or two after Paul arrived.

Paul followed the same basic routine every day. In the mornings, he woke up at 8:00, ate breakfast with coffee, read the news, watered his petunias, took a walk, came home, and showered. In the afternoon, he lit a cigarette and read a book. When he was younger, Paul would go to work as a security guard at one of the textile plants, but now he eats a dinner that leaves more to be desired and goes to bed early. On Saturdays, he goes to one of

the few establishments that is both run by the same owner and still exists from when he frst moved: the Main Street House. The Main Street House was a tavern located a good distance from the town’s main street. Why did it have that name? Paul had never believed the answer, but he was told by the locals that it used to be owned by Mr. Eduard Musgrove and that it was, in fact, on the main road way back when. Paul never could fnd real proof of the Main Street House’s starting location. There were no photos on the walls of the restaurant, no newspaper photographs or anything but oral record. “But don’t talk to Eduard. Jr {the current owner} about it,” they would say. “The only reason he owns it now is that his father died half a week before the war began. His older brother died in the war. If you do bring it up, poor Eduard Jr will wail like one of them wolves in the forest.”

So Paul never did bring up the tavern’s origin. Even when he went every Saturday, and ordered from the man himself. Like his schedule, Paul rarely varied his order: a sandwich or soup, with a glass of water. Paul stayed away from alcohol as much as he could because Tom Yarborough, a close family friend growing up, had been fond of the bottle, and he had witnessed frst hand what too much of the drink does to you.

When word got out that the Union was looking for recruits to fght in the war, Paul decided that this was his best chance to experience something new. Growing up, he had lived in a small town not unlike the one he lived in now. He had gone to school, had a small job, and even had a few signifcant relationships by the time he was twenty.

Despite his mother and father being from the South, he didn’t belong with Southern culture. Not like the rest of his family. His parents moved up years before he was born in search of better work. When they went back to visit relatives, and they rarely did, Paul could tell even at a young age that everyone held a certain distaste for his family.

In the barracks, the other soldiers made jokes about his more Southern accent, but the

jokes had never really bothered Paul; in fact, they made him feel a sense of belonging that he hadn’t found elsewhere. And besides, in basic training, he showed high marks in sharpshooting and had a fve rounds per minute fre rate on his Springfeld rife. This was a skill he picked up when he went hunting in the woods as a kid. He helped his father out with much of the manual labor due to his hurt back and developed callused and manly hands when he was just in the 5th grade.

He had worked too hard to contain that secret.

When it was Mapleton’s 5th annual Tapillo Fair, named after the town’s frst mayor, Robert Tapillo, that was the day that Paul met meny of the community’s members. He walked into the park and noticed the stands of food businesses and more. Local farmers who grow tomatoes in their backyard garden. Antique dealers, with trinkets galore. That’s when he noticed the Clock Man, surrounded by about a dozen clocks.

“You must be the Clock Man,” Paul said.

“Yes, that would be me, at least that’s what I seem to now go by,” he replied, waving his hand eccentrically in the air. A split moment went by as Paul searched his mind for something to say.

“What’s your real name?”

“Bob Elist, but you can call me Clock Man. It’s grown on me. So what can I do you for?”

“If I’m being honest, I was really just curious to say hi. You moved into the apartment next to mine, but I can’t seem to ever catch you.”

“Ah, that may very well be. I just moved here some two weeks ago from Ohio. I’m a slippery one too, couldn’t keep me up North. Apparently, nobody wants clocks anymore in Ohio anyway! Figured I would move down here, where the rent is cheaper after the war and all.”

Paul wanted to tell the Clock Man that he

had moved from the North. But he couldn’t. He had worked too hard to contain that secret. He moved to Mapleton after the war because he wanted to start a new life in the South, where opportunities were plentiful. His parents were crushed but understood, and insisted he go to see his relatives in Arkansas. Despite his objections Pual gave in when his parents showed him the ticket to Arkansas they had purchased, intending to go visit the family sometime in the next month. Paul knew that there was no chance they would let him stay with them. He reasoned that the whole South would treat a Northerner as an outcast, but luckily, his accent was passable as an authentic Southerner, preventing them from knowing the truth. So he headed toward Arkansas, but when he arrived at what was left of the main station, he got a map of the state from a stand and decided on the spot to move to Mapleton.

“Well, you must take a clock,” said Clock Man.

“I don’t know if I have the money to spend on clocks. They look too good for my apartment anyway.”

“Nonsense, everyone needs a clock. Time and math are the only defnites in the Universe. I’ll cut you a deal.”

He shuffed through his collection, searching with motive, either for Paul’s perfect clock or for one that The Clock Man could part with.

“How about this one?” pulling out what looked to be an old Cuckoo clock that was thoughtfully refurbished. Paul could tell because the wood coloring didn’t always match where it should, but it was nevertheless a quality clock.

“Oay, that one will do.”

When Paul had the clock in a bag and was ready to leave Clock Man’s stand, he saw Mr. Musgrove talking with some locals. Except for conscription losses like the Musgroves, Mapleton was untouched by the war. No falling debris as he had seen on the cover of a newspaper for other cities. The war’s real effect was on the economy and population. The few large plantations a mile out had made sure that Mapleton had some wealthy members who

could buy the more expensive products or give a donation here or there. With the signing of the proclamation, those plantations went out of business. Mapleton would survive without them; it was a resilient community, and nobody really liked the snobbish rich men that came into town with an unearned sense of superiority, as Mr. Musgrove had plainly told him. But it meant some township projects and maintenance budgets needed to be cut back.

Those newly freed from the plantations rushed into Mapleton. Some didn’t exactly mind. Eduard Musgrove, who wasn’t really the best businessman, capitalized on the food of new customers. Being the owner of the best and sole tavern in town, he faced little public scrutiny from the other locals. Same for the Clock Man. To him, if you bought his clocks, you were as good as family. But many others felt a strong resentment towards the newly freed. Paul had never seen an operational plantation, and so at frst, he thought that their treatment was similar to how he and his parents were treated by puals extended family. But one day, when leaving the textile plant, he saw a group of local men delivering blows to one of the newly freed. He realized then that it wasn’t resentment the people of Mapleton felt, but as if the mere existence of these newcomers was at odds with their entire being.

He ran around searching for his rife, but only found a revolver.

That night, after the fair, Paul came home and planted the petunias he had won in a ring toss competition. He cared for the plant for the remainder of his time in Mapleton. The only friend he made was the Clock Man. The two checked on each other regularly. Sometimes they even went to the tavern together. Their friendship was comforting to paul but he knew that it was supported solely by their living proximity and age. Seeing Paul anywhere but at home, work, or at the tavern, sitting in the corner end bar stool was unlikely. When his

efforts to suppress his haunted memories of the war failed, 15 to 20 years after he moved to Mapleton, it made his job harder and socialising impossible.

On a particularly stormy night, his symptoms were so bad that he couldn’t sleep. He felt as if he was back at the second battle of Cabin Creek. As artillery fre hit the Union forces, Paul became disoriented. He ran around searching for his rife, but only found a revolver. Then he heard another artillery shell hit nearby. When Paul looked up to assess the situation, he saw a confederate soldier and fred the weapon.

When Paul awoke the next morning, he checked the time on the Cuckoo Clock: 11:46 AM. He immediately arose to water the fowers as it would be useless after noon. Reaching the window with a flled cup from the bathroom, he found that the planter box had fallen in the night’s storm. Distraught at the fower’s fate, he turned to rescue the remaining petunias and saw his revolver on the dresser. When he walked into the living room to make a quick cup of coffee, he noticed that the front door was open. Then his vision panned down to the body of the Clock Man lying on the ground.

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSidesSulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace

WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwift

TheWolf

HenryVandiverVennDiagrams

GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradfordABostonDay

AdamBrown

Everyone loves eating at my papa’s restaurant. “These ham hocks sho’ is somethin’ else,” the loyal customers cry out. They tear it up like it’s they frst real meal and they last all at the same time. I’m not the type to eat such dirty meat, who needs a fattened pig when you can catch you some fsh down on the lake. But it’s Fayetteville, all of everybody turns nothing into somethin’ to make damn sho’ they eat. Hoe cakes, crackle, scrapple, hog head cheese, and anything else you’d might imagine. You give us scraps, and we gon’ turn it straight to gold. Them folk down at my papa’s store on the other hand, they ain’t eating nothing but fool’s gold.

Ever since my mama was killed right by the store my pop let himself go. He gone from a strong willed man with an even stronger body to a soft man with an even softer beer gut. He even got with this wench from down the way. She was his next “project.” Something to take the edge off. Him and I know he needed more time to wrestle with his emotions than with her in them sheets.

It’s like keeping the meats in the meat locker separate, can’t taint their fesh.

The body’s pleasures will never be flled, it’s an unlimited void, a bottomless pit that lead my poppa eternal unease. I still tolerate her at times because she helped make my lil brother Damian. He must be dealing with her still for the same reasons. Besides myself, that 6 year old is the only one in our house that I feed. I’d hate to taint his blood. I refuse to have him be anything like his skank mother or the shell of my pop. Damian gonna be just fne under my my watch. It’s like keeping the meats in the meat locker separate, can’t taint their fesh. As that woman and my papa fatten themselves with the store’s food, Damian and I eat what the Lord blessed this land with. Fish stews, pecan pies, cobblers, pot pie, food for the soul, not the body.

Writing is my outlet, at least that’s what Damian’s mom says. Although she won’t admit it, I know that she’s jealous that I gots me an education. Her and that sullied fesh of hers, always plaguing anything in her path. That’s why Damian hangs out with me. I’m mortifed by her bad mojo all on my lil’ brother. Her and that smug smile of hers, lifeless and without any sign of emotion or humanity, as if she’s a night crawler inhabiting a dark skinned middle age woman’s body.

My momma was and forever will be pure.

That might be the case anyhow, she chose him after business started slowing down. Who the hell wants a man after his body starts diminishing worse than his work. She tries her hardest to make me feel like her “daughter” and loves for me to call her “momma”. She ain’t ever gon’ hear me call her that, MY momma got killed right up the dirt road. They never found out who it was, all they found was her favorite sundress and blood…lots of it. Her pretty dress was maimed and looked as if it was the murder victim, especially with all the pieces missing. I still keep some of her dress close to me. My momma was and forever will be pure. She loved me an’ pop to the moon an’ back, couldn’t nothin’ ever sever the bond us three fostered, except for her killer.

Anne, poppa’s wife, called me down yelling, “Aaliyah get yo’ tail down here an’ come shuck these peas and crack these black walnuts.” She knew I ain’t want not a thing to do with her, but she knew poppa saw me and would make me go out there. She sat her young appearing yet old feeling behind on the rockin’ chair while leaving me the top porch step.

“You know I been shucking blackeyed peas since I was Damian’s age,” she tells me. “That crisp North Carolina air, always smelling like peach cobbler, would never fail to calm me down when I had a long day. Would go out side, bring my soaked peas wit’ my Memom, and get straight on to shucking. Nothing in

the whole entire North Carolina could take me outta that moment.”

“You do know there’s more to the planet than just North Carolina, don’t ya?”

“Well O’course I do, but all dem’ rock formations and big ol’ lakes ain’t MY world. You gon fnd yo world soon, chile. You just about 25 now, so you gon’ feel dem changes.”

That’s the frst thing she done ever said to me that I ain’t immediately despise.

“Yea you gotta point I suppose, but what you fnd yourself doing at my age? I ain’t got not a single clue as to what I can do outside of poppa store, even with this education. Some of these days I look at Damian and dream about how I wanna love and protect him, maybe even start my own family,” I told Anne. She smiles, not like the soulless, demonic looking smile, but that smile that conveys safety, satisfaction, and love. She thoroughly enjoys the idea of “Her Aaliyah” being a mother, especially one that’s educated. My type of breed is rare. Only other woman I knew that was like me was my momma. My momma’s killer stripped me of that connection, that impudent bastard.

“Hey Anne,” I told her, “Why’d you choose pop when you did? It’s not like he’s in tip top shape, and he’s got hardly any juice left after cooking and playing with Damian.” Anne finched, like she saw a phantom or a glimpse of the real answer but decided to only give partial truth.

“I always knew John since we was chil’ren. His papa always fed the whole neighborhood, and I’m talkin’ some good stuff. Dressing, chitterlings, ribs, collards, and even mustard greens. That man put his foot in everything he made, so when his son started cooking too, I tried to get his attention. I would wear more revealing clothes, show off my cooking, but Lizzy and that hair of hers took him over. Them luscious locks had him won over.” The only thought that screamed in my head was wow, louder and louder until it pounded my skull.

“So the only reason my momma is my momma is because of her hair! You know good an’ well that ain’t it. My momma more than just some hair?” I yell at my momma’s defense. The

sun starts to set as Anne makes that blank stare, the one that lights your soul on fre, and gets closer.

“You got dem same damn locks that made him run to her. You should be proud, any man in Fayetteville would wanna piece of you. Y’all both always thought you better than the rest of us.” Aaliyah couldn’t even get her scream out as Anne lunged at her. The sun went down as Anne dragged Aaliyah through the dirt road. Anne decided it’d be best to take her to the place Aaliyah always wanted to see. There was a small opening into the heart of the beating forest leading to a once dearly loved lake. Anne dropped Aaliyah’s body that clung hard unto the feeble amount of life it had left. Aaliyah couldn’t believe it, as the remains of the dress on the decayed corpse was the same in her pocket. Finally fnding the killer and her mother’s remains all in the same night. Aaliyah, while barely conscious, got her answer. The maggots, mice, and all other critters ran effortlessly through her poor momma’s rotten and decayed corpse.

Purple Love

Hezekiah Jones-Williams

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwiftTheWolf

HenryVandiverVennDiagrams GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradfordABostonDay AdamBrown

There once was a land where all the gods slept, And I imagined a powerful, unseen force hovering above the sacred city of Rome. As I walked through the crowded streets, Rome pressed forward around me, and I wondered if only the old and wise noticed the strange stillness in the air. Yet we all carried on with our daily lives, unaware of the quiet council of the gods watching from above.

I began to feel that the gods knew every whisper in the streets. They knew every love the people held, even the ones we tried to hide.

And I imagined them deciding to begin taking these things away, slowly at frst, like a fading echo through the streets I walked through.

A laugh disappeared from the market before my eyes. A child forgot his favorite song, and I felt something vanish with it.

And those of us who sensed it felt it only for a feeting moment, before we returned to our lives while Rome moved on around us beneath silent gods, and I realized, with a quiet unease, that the gods had begun to empty Rome.

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwiftTheWolf

HenryVandiverVennDiagrams GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradfordABostonDay AdamBrown

The red pinstripes on the Aaron Nola banner seemed to vibrate above the amber-red wooden headboard. Their dresser, a graveyard of plastics and metals, flled with video game discs and fgures, and adorned with trophies, trophies purposed as pillars, with medals draped across their necks. Trophies and medals of wrestling, Track, and gymnastics.

The cat alarm clock at his nightstand, its digital eyes frozen. It didn’t ring. Instead, his brother was there to wake him up. Brother stood in the doorframe, a silhouette cut from a denser kind of dark. He wore unfamiliar clothes, stark black with jolts of electric blue and yellow highlights in his hair that seemed to hum. Brother didn’t speak; he gestured toward the door. The young boy rose, his joints feeling like rusted hinges, and opened it.

The hallway to his parents’ room was gone. In its place sat the old playground they’d visit at his uncle’s house in New Hampshire. The playground, bathed in a sickly, eternal twilight. He followed his brother up the metal ladder of the slide, the rungs cold and tasting of pennies. From the top, the world had been erased. There were no houses, no streets, no horizon. Only a vast, screaming nothingness— that lacked a mouth, but stretched as wide as an eagle’s wings.

His brother sat at the edge of the slide and descended. As he went down, he vanished into a black pool at the base that shouldn’t have been there. The young boy hesitated, the frst spark of a question fickering in his mind, but the momentum of the dream was a physical weight. He slid.

The water was ice. He breached the surface, gasping, scrambling back onto a slab of concrete that felt like an altar. He looked back into the pool. His brother was there, suspended beneath the surface like a specimen in formaldehyde. He reached down, his fngers brushing the tension of the water, but Brother couldn’t break through. It was as if the water had turned to glass, as if a weight had anchored him. Sud-

denly, the pool vanished. The playground vanished. The nothingness grew to a thick, velvet black that began to fll the young boy’s lungs. He didn’t fght it, the dark blanket was tranquil. It was honest.

Sunday - 9:00 PM

The room is stagnant. The young man sits upright in bed, remnants of confusion cling like cobwebs as he deciphers what his mind just had him experience. He looks at the clock.

“It’s 9PM, I have to get ready for bed. I haven’t even showered yet”

He glances towards the hallway. The bathroom door is shut, a sliver of darkness beneath the frame. His brother must still be in there. He’s always been like that, sitting in the dark, brooding, and losing track of time.

“Well, he’s always been weird. I’ll just get ready in the morning, isn’t that big of a deal?”

He closes his eyes. In the silence of the house, there is no sound of splashing water. Only the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a heart that doesn’t know it’s breaking.

Monday - 7:15 AM

The rhythm of rain against the glass sings beautifully. It wakes him before the birds can. He watches the sun struggle to rise, a pale, sickly yolk breaking over the horizon, trying to fnd the urge to go again— But it exists in a cycle, a machine; it cannot be unwound.

He notices the time and leaps up. He’s twenty minutes late. He glares at his alarm clock, the plastic dalmation. Its mouth is cracked open, a jagged wound that yields only a low, pathetic hiss instead of a bark. He feels a surge of pity for it, how can it be expected to scream when its mouth has been broken?

He steps into the hall. The bathroom door is still closed. He feels the presence of his brother inside. He is still there, still silent.

“Fine. Stay in there.”

He ventures downstairs to the kitchen to wash his face in the sink. The clock on the stove

reads 7:30 AM. He freezes. He was supposed to leave twenty minutes ago.

“I’ll just grab something to eat”

In the kitchen is his mother. She isn’t at the stove. She’s sitting on the foor near the sink. She refuses to move.

“Moms in the kitchen. Is she alright? What is she doing… clearly not cooking. I guess she’s just not in the mood today, just wants to lie around I suppose.”

He feels a prickle of annoyance. The brother won’t leave the bath, and the mother is napping on the foor. This family’s laziness is becoming a burden.

A horn honks outside. His sister is here.

“I love driving with big sis. She’s so sweet. I just wish she weren’t so neutral all the time. I hate neutrality. In a world of so many evils…. She should always pick me. Why. Why. Why didn’t I ever matter more?”

He walks out to the car.

The young man is in the driveway. He opens the passenger door of the grey Toyota Camry.

His sister is already in the backseat, leaning against the window, her eyes half-closed as if she’s watching the rain. She doesn’t say hello. She doesn’t start the car.

“You’re all so lazy today. Fine, I’ll drive.”

He moves her, his hands staining slightly with something damp and metallic, but he doesn’t look at his palms. He gets behind the wheel and talks to her the whole way to the campus. He tells her about the dream, about the slide, about the black bird. She remains silent, her head lolling against the headress with every turn.

When they arrive at the school, he realizes she won’t get out.

“You won’t even walk me to the door? Fine. I still love you.”

He guides himself to the heavy oak doors, struggling his way past the trying gates of reason.

The bell rings, a shrill, a canary-like shriek. The young man leaves his classroom, one of the only two heads residing in the room. He heads to the stairwell. He picks up his bag, his incredibly heavy and cumbersome backpack, and he struggles his way down the four fights of stairs, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Hand in hand with my elder sister. My lovely sister.”

The drive home is quiet. The rain has stopped, leaving the world smelling of wet earth and copper. As he pulls into the driveway, he spots a car he didn’t expect. His father’s car.

8:00 AM 4:15 PM

He enters the house. The air is thick. His father is in the living room, pacing. There is a woman there, too young, kinky—amber hair, her face a mask of absolute terror.

“Dad? Since when do you come home before seven? Oh… you’ve brought a guest. A young lady. Dad, please don’t tell me you’re having another affair. You promised Mom.”

His father is screaming now, but the words don’t register. To the young man, it just sounds like the barking of a broken clock.

“Is there a sporting event? Oh, this yelling is directed at me. Why are you yelling at me? I’ve been so fair. I’ve been so understanding! Who are you to be angry with me?!”

The young lady starts to scream. It’s a high, piercing sound, the sound of neutrality breaking. He raises the heavy dark tool he found in his brother’s shoe box.

Bang. 3:30 PM

The scream stops. Kathlyn settles onto the carpet, fnally resting, just like mom.

“There we go. Now that everyone’s calmed down a bit, let’s talk, Dad. Sit on the

couch please?”

The father collapses onto the cushions, his body shaking with a violent, silent tremor. The young man sits beside him, leaning in close.

“Dad, it’s been so long since you actually listened to me. Before we talk, let’s just calm down. Do you remember my favorite way to calm down?”

He closes his eyes, a serene expression washing over his blood-fecked face

“I imagine the darkness. People are afraid of the black, Dad, but they don’t understand its mercy. It is the only thing in this world that doesn’t demand anything from you. Colors are loud. Red is angry, blue is cold, and white is a blinding lie. But black… black is the absence of struggle. It’s the velvet weight of the void I see in my dreams. It’s like a crow’s wing—iridescent and deep, a beauty that swallows the sun and keeps it safe. I want to drown in it. I want to be the ink in the well.”

He looks at his father’s weeping eyes.

“I like the color black. It’s so peaceful. Why can’t I just see it forever? You know what, Dad? I don’t think we’re going to have that conversation after all. Good night.”

The young man feels more at peace than he ever thought he could.

Bang.

The silence that follows is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard. He sits there for a moment, savoring the stillness of the fve bodies resting around the house. He thinks of his Brother in the bath, Sister in the car, Mother in the kitchen, and his love on the foor.

“Finally. Total peace.”

Bang.

Antigua Riyadh Rolls

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace

WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwiftTheWolf

HenryVandiverVennDiagrams

GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradfordABostonDay AdamBrown

The ebony tree rises above, Shrouding the streets in a shadow That stretches far and wide Leaves, stand tall, rumbling in the wind An emerald crown.

Pieces break off, landing upon children’s head Who run, who pedal, who laugh, Little kings in the city made for Queens.

They shout, “Yes ma’am!” And run to the porch Grandma’s waiting Her tea as sweet as cane, like a drug For those little kings Who run, who fall, who cry, She wipes off their crowns A reminder who they are, A group of boys, in a city made for Queens.

The day comes in Douglas, where One King, goes home, Leaving behind his companions Flying home to Philadelphia, Leaving behind his beloved, His Queen, Charlotte.

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace

WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwift

TheWolf

HenryVandiverVennDiagrams

GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradford

ABostonDay

AdamBrown

The crinkle of the cheap leather seat Alexey sat on seemed to grow louder with each nervous muscle spasm. Parked in an all black Van with dark tinted windows, Alexey sat waiting in an alley for Kirill. He could feel the sweat pouring down his neck and back. Minutes prior as he stared up into the sky, the moon was full and he felt illuminated and exposed despite being hidden. A strange noise caused Alexey to jerk his head to the left. A black shape refected upon the driver seat window. Its shape began to morph as it grew larger.

The shape looked like an animal, like one of the demons from the folktales his Mother used to tell him back home in Russia. One of the many stories that she refused to tell ever since the pair stepped foot on American soil. A story that he heard many times to warn him of the signs of imminent disfortune. Paralyzed and feeling claustrophobic Alexey recalled seeing this fgure multiple times in the last few days, however it has never been as clear as it was now. Memories fooded Alexey’s mind as he tried to piece together what the ever growing shape resembled. However, just as he was about to say its name the door slammed open as Kirill and his comrades piled into the van. Alexey’s mind shut blank, and when he looked back at the window all he could see was the graffti on the opposite alley wall.

“That is my business and my business only. Now don’t ask me again.”

Mother was sprawled across the old mildewed couch in their small dark New York apartment. The walls of the apartment were cracked with fakes of lead paint peeled back revealing brick. The lights, in an infnite cycle of fickering, brought the attention of any unfortunate visitor upwards to the rusted pipes that ran across the ceiling, which only increased the feeling of claustrophobia. The apartment was one room and if the need to go to the bathroom arose, its occupants had to venture into

the hallway, where they would fnd a communal toilet in an old janitor’s closet. Alexey hated it. Every second in the prison reminded Alexey of the large house he and Mother left back home in Russia.

She used to tell Alexey tales of demons, Russian heroes and spirits.

“Alexey,” Mother whispered. Her eyes shot open and she sat upright so suddenly that Alexey’s frst thoughts were of Nezhit’s.

“What have you brought me, child?”

“I brought your medication Mother, straight from the pharmacy like you always ask.”

“Thank you,” Mother whispered, putting the bottle of pills in the front of her robe.

“Mother, can you please tell me what illness you have?” Alexey said. For years he had acted as a devoted vassal for Mother, who has seemed to have been ill ever since they arrived in America.

“Child, neither I nor my doctor know. He says he has never seen anything like it. However, he said my prescription would help manage the symptoms.”

“Well tell me what symptoms you have,” replied Alexey feeling irritated.

“No,” snapped Mother. “That is my business and my business only. Now don’t ask me again.”

”Well,” Alexey started, anxiety building up inside him, “we are running out of money, and I can’t help you unless you tell me what is going on. This is chush sobach’ya… “

“Don’t speak that flth, ever,” Mother snarled, veins popping, neck and face tense.

Inside, the false foor in the cabinet was two thousand dollars. “That’s not enough,” Alexey thought. Alexey and Mother came to America with the two hundred thousand dollars in cash from Alexey’s father, who died a month after they left. Alexey, now twenty two, had left his homeland when he was sixteen.

The only connection Alexey had to his old life was his cousin Kirill Volkov who he remained in contact with, unbeknownst to Mother. If Mother knew, hell would break open in such fury that the consequences would rival what the devil himself could do.

Before they departed Russia, all Alexey’s life, Mother was deeply embedded in slavic culture and superstitions. She used to tell Alexey tales of demons, Russian heroes and spirits. She used to warn of people who brought misfortune, and taught Alexey how to keep bad omens at bay. Mother used to tell Alexey to always look for signs, as evil spirits must reveal a part of them before they strike. In six years Alexey hasn’t heard a whisper from Mother about anything to do with their homeland. Any reference to their old life would result in a rage so unhuman Alexey would think Mother had been possessed. For this reason when Alexey received a call from Kirill stating that he had arrived in America, Alexey made the decision to hide it from Mother.

Trouble seemed to fnd him.

Rain trickled down the windshield as Alexey drove to the safehouse. Kirill sat shotgun. He was dressed in black jeans with a black leather jacket and gloves. He wore dark sunglasses that obscured his eyes from view despite it being nighttime.

“Its good to see you, Bratan,” said Kirill. When Alexey didn’t respond, Kirill added sharply, “What, you don’t understand Russian no more? I’m saying it’s good to see you, bro.”

“Obviously I understand. I’ve only been away from home for six years,” Alexey replied.

“Well, you are living with your mother and all her trying to squash our identity out of you, so how should I know?” Kirill shot back.

Standing outside of his apartment Alexey’s phone buzzed. However, his mind was preoccupied with his money troubles. The construction job he had wouldn’t be able to cover both rent, food, and Mothers medication. With only two thousand dollars left there was

no way he and Mother could survive. However as his mind wandered into darkness Alexey felt movement behind him. Turning around in a jerk Alexey saw movement in the corner of his eye, a shape that scurried around the grimy corner of their building and disappeared. He thought he saw black fur.

Then he felt his phone buzz again. Alexey, having been brought back to reality, took out his phone. Kirill was calling. Alexey hadn’t called his cousin for a couple months. Back home in Russia, Kirill and Alexey were close friends. Even though they were already blood cousins they were more like brothers. Kirill’s father worked with Alexey’s in the family business. Alexey’s father hid his work from him all his life. It was only recently that he had learned the truth of how Alexey’s family attained its wealth in Russia: organized crime.

Alexey was always the good child who kept his nose in his own business and didn’t look for trouble. However, trouble seemed to fnd him. Kirill, on the other hand, was the opposite. Every scrape with authority and every fght he had been in, Kirill had been at his side. Back in those times Mother warned Alexey of Kirill. She called him his downfall. She called him a bad omen. In times Alexey found himself in trouble, Mother would tell the same folktale about a boy who met his demise after being deceived by an evil spirit called Volkalac. As a boy Alexey hated Mother’s superstitions. However, now, he would give anything for her to be how she once was. Abandon the past, leave the past behind—these are the only lessons she taught Alexey now.

“Kirill,” Alexey started, happy for a distraction, “it’s good to hear from you, my friend.” “Likewise.” After a pause, Kirill added, “Alexey, listen to this! I’m in America!”

At these words excitement built up in Alexey. “Thats amazing! I haven’t seen you in years. We should—”

“Listen,” said Kirill, cutting off Alexey, “I have been working for my father, and he sent me over here. I think I can help you.”

“Help me with what?”

“I know how your mother has been sick,

and I know about the shithole you live in, so it seems like you could use some money.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Trust me, all you have to do is drive. Just think of your mother.”

“I have a job, and all I need you to do is drive me to the destination. I’ll pay you real good.”

“I can’t,” said Alexey. “I just can’t do that. I know what work your father does, and—”

“Stop,” said Kirill, so harshly that Alexey was taken aback.

“Sorry,” Kirill recovered, softening his tone. “It’s just I know how you have been struggling and I want to help you, and this is the only way I can. I’m in America for a couple days and I also want to see you again, brother. Trust me, all you have to do is drive. You won’t know what we are doing, and you won’t have to do anything. Just think of your mother.”

His eyes were shruken with a shadow of a thousand years.

It was something in Kirill’s tone that made Alexey say yes without thinking. “Alright.”

“We’re here.”

Alexey brought the Van to a stop. They parked outside a warehouse which seemed to have been abandoned for years. Through a visible window of the warehouse, industrial lights illuminated multiple fgures. Their shadows magnifed and stretched in an inhuman manner so that it appeared to be home to a restless den of giants.

“Take this,” said Kirill abruptly. His arm was stretched out towards Alexey while balancing a black shape on his palm.

It took a minute for Alexey to register

what he was holding before he could say, “No, that was not part of the deal.”

Kirill took off his glasses. His eyes were sunken with a shadow of a thousand years, highlighting all of his features.

“I am not asking. Now take it and get out of the car. I’m short a man and I need you to stand guard outside of the safehouse.”

“You said nothing about this. What has happened to you?” Alexey said, feeling hurt and bewildered. He could feel the heat rise to his face as hurt turned to anger.

“Get out.” The words came out of Kirill’s mouth as a cold rattle.

Leaving the past behind is what Mother drilled into Alexey ever since they arrived in America. No speaking Russian, no discussion of their past, father, family, or homeland. Only an illness that never seemed to leave Mother replaced the woman she used to be. Bangs and screams shook Alexey awake from his thoughts. He was standing guard as directed when a man he had never seen before burst from the side door of the warehouse and beelined towards him. Eyes full of fury, the man drew a knife and knocked Alexey from his feet. His gun clattered on the cold damp ground beside his head. The man was the embodiment of raw power. He mounted and with both hands on the handle he drove the knife into Alexey’s stomach. The world turned dark with shapes dancing before his eyes. He heard growls, then a howling in the distance as Alexey fumbled for the gun next to his head. He felt no pain, only cold dread. Alexey had only enough strength to raise his wrist a couple inches upward as he fred into darkness.

Echoes vibrated in his head. Then he awoke. Rain poured down upon him as he raised his head. The man he shot lay dead beside him with a crater in his head. Then Alexey got to his feet. Still, strangely, he felt no pain. Alexey looked downward to assess the damage only to see where a deep gash should have been was untouched skin . Panicked, he spun in place looking for the knife that almost took his life only to conclude that the knife was nowhere to be found. He killed a man for nothing. “Was it all in my head?” Alex-

ey thought. The warehouse was deserted. The only evidence that anyone had been there was the body that lay beside him. Alexey dropped the gun and ran.

Once it strikes, there is no hope.

Arriving at his apartment Alexey felt panic surge through him. Each step up the dimly lit stairwell felt like he was losing pace to a predator closing in on a feast. He was the prey. Alexey opened the door to his apartment slowly. The creak of the door echoed throughout the room. Dust fell from the ceiling, and for the frst time there was no fickering of lights, only shadows that engulfed him. The sudden change of atmosphere was not what made Alexey nearly seize over, it was the complete emptiness of the apartment. His mother was gone, with only a note in place of where she always sat cemented on the couch. Hesitant and shaking, Alexey reached out and picked it up. The words on the parchment were small and scrabbled sloppily. Once Alexey made it out he read it: “I spent the last six years trying to make you forget the past. However, your resistance to forgetting is what allowed the wolf to fnd you. I won’t allow the Volkolak to fnd me. The Volkolak presents itself before the fnal strike. Once you see the signs you must leave. That is why I am gone. Once it strikes, there is no hope.”

“How did she know?” thought Alexey. Alexey rushed out of the apartment, panic rushing through every fber in his body. Rain continued to pour from the dark night sky. He pulled out his phone and called the only person he could think of: Kirill. A few seconds passed before the call transferred to an automated voice: “This number you are trying to reach does not exist.” In a ft of anger Alexey threw his phone as hard as he could into the trash bin next to the building. However, what he saw inside the bin spurred confusion. Bottles and bottles of familiar looking pill containers flled the bin. Cautiously, Alexey reached

out and picked one up. It was his mothers prescription. Curious, Alexey unscrewed the lid, dumped the pills out. Confused, Alexey picked up another. It was full too. Then another. They were all full.

Fading Away

Jesse Kanefsky

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord TheClockMan’sNeighbor

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace

WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwift

TheWolf

HenryVandiver

VennDiagrams

GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradford

ABostonDay

AdamBrown

The hardest part of my morning, harder than getting out of bed and cleaning myself up, is the train ride. Ironing my clothes and packing my bookbag are practically nothing compared to dealing with my commute. That same 3-car titan, train 538, haunts me even now. The man who blasts music on the speaker, or the one who keeps Although I am a North

I still question my allegiance to my stomping grounds.

Philly native, I still question my allegiance to my stomping grounds. Needles are on the corner and alleys are littered with heaps of trash, yet I still feel safer there than I do on train 538. I’m now stuck. Too comfortable with the mediocrity and below-average living conditions, and uncomfortable with the predatory eyes that gleam down my neck on the train.They always stare at my blazer and full Windsor, as if I’m undeserving of my tie and blazer. There is always the look of disapproval of me in my uniform, as if I was never meant to have it. Never before have I seen such a sharp change of mannerisms, skin color, and apparel. So sharp that it could cut through my confdence like a knife. Jordans and hoodies now become suits and ties. My only indicator of my safety is now gone. I’m too far west to be a “Philly kid” but too dark to be a “Mainline,” suburban kid. No matter where I am I feel unable to be authentic. I’m left constantly thinking “Who is Gianni, and why isn’t he here anymore?” The best way I can describe it is a venn diagram. The right bubble is Haverford, North Philly is the left bubble, and train #538 is the connecting bubble in between. Throughout all parts of this venn diagram I’m uncomfortable with myself due to being seen as “Too black” at school, “Too white” in North Philly, or too much to fully deal with in between. Yet despite this, 30th Street Station is where it seems like the last chance to breathe and realize I have allies. It only seems this way because there are people who look like me, but do they? There’s no black male going to high school in a suit and tie taking public

transportation. I’m an anomaly amongst those who I try to seek shelter in. The second I decide to put on my blazer and khakis, I indirectly reject all dap-ups and “what’s goods”. To them I’m the one that’s different. The new feeling of needing to “act right” and “speak correct” all overwhelms me to the point where even my posture changes.

Leaning and hunching over are now replaced with a 45-degree back in my classes, my hands folded or holding a book. In my mind, I cannot and will not be judged and seen as any less than my white counterparts. This double consciousness of mine, one that refuses to feel “othered,” but also clings to the warm embrace of familiarity, is what keeps me okay at school. I now say thank you and nod awkwardly as if it’s now not me living my life. White washed, code-switching, or whatever else you want to call it, is what I fnd myself doing daily, yet I don’t yet know if it adds or subtracts from what is Gianni Word. It scares me, because now that I’m in this new sphere of life that is Haverford, I don’t know if it’s really me talking. When I’m the only black kid, in a class talking about the black experience, with people who don’t know the black struggle, it frustrates me. Two sides of me are now at war, the preppy and proper me, against the “authentic” and “down to earth” me. I cannot add, subtract, or hate any part of me. The white washed me, the “hood” me, or the so-called “regular” me are all necessary for my survival as a black man.

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada

Velvet Embrace

WalterFrazier

QueenCity

JeremiahSwiftTheWolf

HenryVandiverVennDiagrams

GianniWord

CapybaraEssay(TBD)

AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradfordABostonDay AdamBrown

Consider the capybara for a moment. It lives in the Amazon rainforest and throughout South America—that same biosphere that footlong armoured centipedes, bullet ants, and piranhas occupy. Everything in the rainforest wants to kill you. Yet, the Capybara, the internet’s chillest animal, thrives.

The capybara is essentially an oversized guinea pig ftted with webbed feet and a lung capacity that allows it to take naps underwater. Unlike most rodents, the Capybara doesn’t survive by being small and squirmish, living a life in hiding. Instead it survives out in the open at the dangerous border between land and river, swimming away from Jaguars and running from Crocodiles. Besides these major predators, the capybaras are adored in every habitat it inhabit, birds stand on their heads, eating ticks and parasites, turtles and even small alligators sunbathe with it on the riverbanks, monkeys frequently snuggle and share warmth, and people, who watch them in zoos, obsess over their terminal chillness, completely unfazed by anything.

The explorers were a bit hungry during lent so they got the pope to call it a fsh.

The capybara’s comfort with humans has not always led people to love them. In fact, the capybara has served as an important source of food for people inhabiting South America for centuries. The frst European explorers who came in contact with it were puzzled by how the capybara could live in the rivers and on land at the same time. It couldn’t be an animal because it lives in water, and it couldn’t be a fsh because it is an animal… but the explorers were a bit hungry during lent so they got the pope to call it a fsh.

Recent history has been more friendly to the animal. Videos of the capybaras taking their winter visits to hot springs, bathing with birds and rubber duckies have garnered millions of

views. A song was even made to accompany these videos, with the lyrics composed only of the word “capybara”.

While these videos show a wholesome, screen friendly story for the capybara—a life it certainly often lives—they miss what it is to be a capybara. Boiled down, the survival of the capybara is to be “not faster than the bear, but faster than your friend.” It lives in groups of up to 100 and runs up to 35 kph on land, all while accepting that a few will hopelessly get eaten. Even then, it still carries its emotionless and relaxed facial expression as blood streams from their neck into the water… but the majority will make it through. While the capybara can do little for itself, eat poop in the morning to keep their digestion moving and soak in the hotsprings to keep their body warm, it can do amazing things for others, acting as gardeners for the ecosystem, friends for intelligent life like monkeys and birds, and a sensation for millions on the internet.

The capybara shows that being valuable and successful in an environment does not mean one has to conform to it. While it lives a life so seemingly weak and vulnerable in the harshest ecosystem on earth, the capybara proves that the world is too big for there to be one successful archetype, one correct opinion, one best way to live. You can try to tell one, simple story about this animal, but it gets replaced in an instant, the one that eats its poop, the one that calls it a fsh, the one that didn’t make it out alive.

Lake Chamberlain Sunset

James Church

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

MaxSides

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada Velvet Embrace WalterFrazierQueenCity JeremiahSwiftTheWolf HenryVandiverVennDiagrams GianniWord TheCapybara AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradford

ABostonDay AdamBrown

113 Veylin Court, Wiltshire, United Kingdom.

That was the address of the house that lay at the end of the cul-de-sac. It had high walls that were impossibly smooth, and its structure was built using weathered sandstone, which contained cracks that seemed to shift every time they were looked at. Sunlight spilled perfectly through the house’s tall, elegant windows, illuminating the polished foors in a warm, golden glow despite the dim sky above. The house was topped off by a wooden roof that arched into jagged peaks, like that of a ribcage.

This house was Laurence’s world. Yet, like any world, it held secrets.

Inside, the air was soft, as if it were a blanket and the furniture a bed. The corridors stretched in perfect symmetry, lined with polished wood, tapestries, and old paintings that seemed to pre-exist the house’s construction. Laurence was infatuated by the paintings. He felt they whispered faintly when he passed, like the house itself was telling him stories. The foors creaked just enough to remind Laurence they existed, but never in a way that frightened him; rather, it was a subtle rhythm, a heartbeat beneath his feet. To Laurence, the house felt alive. He felt it was aware of him. Protective, almost. He could not shake the sense that every polished surface and every glinting doorknob had been placed to show him exactly where he belonged.

This house was Laurence’s world. Yet, like any world, it held secrets. Every night, Laurence would lie awake, staring at the high ceiling, to listen for those secrets. He heard the walls shift - not with the settling groan of old wood, but with something slower. Intentional. Like a body adjusting itself in sleep. There were other sounds too: a faint dragging, deep within the walls, as though something heavy was being pulled through narrow spaces; a soft,

rhythmic thud that never quite matched his heartbeat, but came close enough to unsettle him; and sometimes a breath. Laurence felt the house moving, changing, yet when he woke, he always found the house looked the same as it did the day before. Or at least that was the case.

One seemingly ordinary morning, Laurence woke from his bed in the west wing - a towering four-poster of dark oak, draped in heavy velvet curtains, carrying a linen mattress stuffed with feathers. He shuffed down the long corridor full of his favorite paintings and tapestries to get to the dining room, as he usually does, before pausing halfway. His eyes raised, and in that moment grew more awake. Something had changed. No, something appeared. A portrait. Large. Ornate. Easy to overlook if you weren’t paying attention. Laurence didn’t recognize it. Was it there before? He didn’t know. It hung quietly between two candles; one golden, the other black and withered. It showed a family of four: A man, a woman, a boy, and a… “The boy,” Laurence whispered to himself. He took a step closer. The boy in the painting looked like him. He had his clothes, his hair, and even the dimples in his smile.

“Mother,” Laurence called out. “When did this get here?” Laurence heard his mother’s feet on the wooden foor ever so slowly approaching him. When she drew near him, Laurence repeated the question.

“Oh, this painting has been here for years,” his mother said kindly. Laurence looked puzzled. He loved the paintings in this corridor. He knew and admired everyone. Yet this one, he couldn’t remember ever seeing it before.

Laurence lingered in front of the painting a moment longer, studying the boy’s face until the familiarity became uncomfortable. His mother’s answer settled strangely in his mind.

“For years?” he echoed.

She smiled, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve. “You’ve always had a habit of missing what’s right in front of you. Anyway, breakfast is getting cold, so come down to the kitchen.” Laurence nodded, though his eyes

returned to the portrait. He wasn’t convinced by his mother. Something wasn’t right.

The day unfolded as it always did. Breakfast awaited him on the long dining table. He sat in his usual place and ate with the same polished silverware. His father spoke little. His mother hummed softly. Everything was precise. Predictable. Yet Laurence found himself distracted. All he could think about was that painting. He glanced around to see if anything else had changed, but nothing did. Breakfast was laid before him, but he couldn’t eat. The portrait flled his stomach.

That night, Laurence lay awake, staring into the dark, listening. The house behaved as expected: a slow shift in the walls, a distant dragging sound, a soft rhythm beneath the foorboards. Then the house changed. Its movements became faster. Sharper. A sudden lurch rippled through the walls, strong enough to rattle Laurence’s bedposts. The soft rhythm beneath him lost its steadiness and became erratic. The dragging sound transformed into a shrieking noise like that of scraping metal. The house was panicking. Its sounds became frantic, almost desperate, as if the house were trying to hide something from Laurence. And then a heavy thud……… Silence. The quiet rang loud in Laurence’s ear. The house lay perfectly still, almost as if nothing had happened. It unsettled Laurence. Whispers came from outside his room. He followed them.

The portrait lay face down on the corridor foor, its frame splintered along one edge as though it had been wrenched free. Laurence approached slowly, the foorboards creaking beneath each step. As he neared it, the whispers ceased, leaving a silence so complete it felt like a vacuum. He glanced up at the wall where the painting had hung and froze. There was a narrow doorway gaped in its place, dark and hollow, as if it had been hidden there all along. The edges were too clean, too deliberate to be an accident. Laurence was meant to fnd this.

A faint, cold draft slipped from the opening, brushing against his skin. Laurence’s pulse quickened. For a moment, he simply stared down into the hole, as if expecting the house

to slam it shut, to do anything. But it didn’t. It was still. Too still. Slowly, he stepped toward the doorway, like the house commanded it, and stepped through the threshold. The air changed instantly, becoming heavier, quieter, as though sound itself had been muffed. The darkness pressed close, swallowing the hallway behind him. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. A small room at the bottom of a concrete staircase emerged from the shadows. In it was a girl.

113 Veylin Court, Wiltshire, United Kingdom.

That was the address of the house that lay at the end of the cul-de-sac. Its basement walls were dark, cracked, and damp, almost like a tomb. The air was thick, creating what seemed like a fog, and suffocating anyone who breathed it in. Occasionally, narrow light would spill from cracks in the wood ceiling above, illuminating small parts of the cold stone foors below. Pipes groaned. Walls knocked. Sewage dripped. This was Eleanor’s world. She had been here for as long as she could remember, hidden from life above ground. Contained. Observed. Punished. She spent each day chained to a pole in the corner of the room, her head always tilted, hanging on her right shoulder. Her thick, tangled, curly hair covered her face, but she managed to see just enough of the doorway to know when someone would enter. One day, someone did enter, just not who she expected.

Eleanor heard the portrait covering her cold domain crash to the foor. Looking up toward the top of the staircase where the portrait was, she saw a boy. Or at least the silhouette of one. She couldn’t see his face, but by his body language, she knew he was frightened. The boy didn’t know it, but Eleanor was waiting for this very moment. She began to speak.

“So,” Eleanor whispered, “you found me.” Her voice felt rough, as if stalactites had formed in her throat.

“Who… who are you?” the boy said. Eleanor let out a small breath, almost a laugh.

“That’s how it works, then,” she said. “You don’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“I’m your si…” Eleanor paused. The boy froze as well. They heard footsteps echoing from above. Slow. Deliberate. They were coming closer. “He knows you’re here. Quick, you need to listen to me. This place is not as it seems. It’s a prison. You’re a pawn in this big game of chess being controlled by…”

“SILENCE, ELEANOR!” A fgure appeared at the top of the stairs. It was the boy’s father. “You were never meant to fnd this place, son. What are you doing here?” The boy looked as if he were in trouble.

“The painting it just. It just…fell. And. And I came through there and…”

“Enough,” his father interrupted. “It’s late, you should get back to bed. I’ll deal with her.”

“NO,” Eleanor shouted. The boy’s father snapped his head toward her as she grabbed her throat in pain. “Tell him the truth. Soon enough, the boy is going to fnd out what this house really is, and then he will rebel against you. I know it. You fear it, that’s why you keep me down here hidden from him.” The boy’s father took a step down the concrete stairs, the thud of his boot creating a loud echo.

“This house,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding, “is built on order. Structure. Position. Everyone has a place, a role, so that this house functions. The house gave you a role. A role to stay put in. YOU DEFIED THAT ROLE! YOU TRIED TO ESCAPE!!”

“I TRIED TO ESCAPE BECAUSE I WANTED FREEDOM!” Eleanor yelled. There was a pause before she continued. “Don’t you see father. When you told me my role would be to make the house look clean and elegant, did you think I wanted that? Did you think I wanted to polish the foors, clean the silverware, and wash the windows my entire life? NO! This house feeds on people, and soon this house will feed on him.” The boy looked at his hands in disbelief. Eleanor didn’t know whether it was because of the truth revealed to him or because he didn’t know he had a sister.

Eleanor’s eyes then turned to her father, who descended the stairs slowly, his steps measured, unhurried. Her chest beat frantically, but her face shielded anyone from knowing that. Her father reached the bottom stair before

he stopped. He had tears in his eyes.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said. “But you just had to start talking.”

“Do whaAAA…” The sentence never fnished.

The house shook violently. The foor cracked beneath Eleanor as if veins were pulsing through the concrete. The chains on her wrists tightened, holding her still. Her father watched. Not helping. Not moving. Just standing. Watching. The ground opened, peeling back in jagged layers revealing a seemingly infnite, breathing pit of darkness. The pit surged upward, wrapping around Eleanor’s legs, then her body, dragging her down. She clawed at the foor, her voice muffed as she called for help…then Eleanor was gone.

The foor sealed. Smooth. Whole. Silent. As if nothing had happened. All that remained was a single strand of hair and three broken fngernails. The master turned and slowly walked back up the basement stairs. He stopped at the top and gazed down at his paralyzed boy. He looked like he couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, son. But it was necessary. I had to correct her. That is my role here. That is the role the house gave me.” There was a pause. The master sighed. “Come, it’s time to go to sleep,” he said softly. The boy didn’t listen.

—

The boy stood in the corridor, long after his father went back to sleep, and looked at the portrait. It was the same family of four. The father. The mother. The boy. But this time, he noticed the fourth person: the girl. To him, she looked like the girl he saw in the basement. “You’ve always had a habit of missing what’s right in front of you,” he said, echoing his mother’s words. The boy put his head down and slumped slowly down the corridor, and closed his bedroom door behind him.

The boy lay awake as usual. Only this time I didn’t shift the walls, or create a distant dragging sound, or produce a rhythm beneath the foorboards. Instead, I fxed what was corrected. The portrait that once contained four now contained three, and by morning the painting looked exactly as it should have.

TheEarthWakesQuietly

DanielKhanYorkStation

SeanAllenCrispinTasty

ByronYangYackingintheBigApple

JackLevensten

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

GianniWord

TheSilenceaboveRome

WilliamKomada Velvet Embrace WalterFrazierQueenCity JeremiahSwiftTheWolf HenryVandiverVennDiagrams GianniWord TheCapybara AndrewCarrasco

WilliamBradford

MaxSides ABostonDay AdamBrown

I like the rain. The world muted in wet purgatory. A man walks by with a dog on leash, A mariner, just for a moment—for his friend. The window is specked with amoebae all round. They seem so eager to fall and escape— But to where? They cannot survive the fall. To the man and the dog from the sky to me On foor seventeen, they stop to watch too This marvelous city, mellowed in fog. They appear, life, on this day without. I like the rain.

Castle on a Hill

Adam Brown

Pegasus - Spring 2026

Mission Statement

Leter from the Editors

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

Bang.

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

Trouble seemed to fnd him.

TheEarthWakesQuietly

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

TheEarthWakesQuietly

TheClockMan’sNeighbor

SulliedFlesh

TheSilenceaboveRome

Colophon

Awards

Editor-in-Chief Advisor

Editors Staf

Acknowlegements

50th issue