Pegasus Spring 2020

pegasus

The Haverford School Issue No. 39

“The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.�

Chinese Proverb

Mission Statement

The Haverford School literary magazine, Pegasus, was created to bolster our community by spreading the passion of its writers. We especially recognize its importance during these trying times. Even while social distancing, the Pegasus staff still strives to assemble and keep The Haverford School’s literary passion alive. The job of the literary magazine staff is to compile the literary works of our school, support them with beautiful photography or art pieces, and organize the two in a cohesive design that is both visually appealing and audibly ringing. The hardworking staff utilizes the extra time they have in their schedules to collaboratively piece together this magazine.

Letter from the Editors

As disappointing as these current social distancing circumstances are, we have to hold our heads up during this time of adversity. Like an old Chinese proverb goes, “the gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.” The Pegasus staff truly enjoyed reading the submissions for this year and had a blast designing the magazine from our couches and dinner tables.

The spring edition of Pegasus is always special, as it marks the final edition for senior editors who are leaving for college. This issue is symbolic in that it represents a handing off to the juniors and sophomores who will assume our mantle. In this edition, they led the way by coming up with the main design philosophy of the issue, as well as taking on much more responsibility bringing the magazine to life.

As always, we want to thank our faculty leadership for their guidance and support, Ms. Smith-Kan and Ms. Hitchcock. If not for Ms. Smith-Kan’s unrelenting enthusiasm for the magazine and initiative in keeping everyone on task, we have no clue where we would be. Every year, we constantly rely on them as the backbone of Pegasus, and with this year’s challenges, we have needed them more than ever. As always, they were there to guide us, teach us, and lead us in pursuit of finishing this magazine.

Most of all, we could not have made this magazine without the amazing students who submitted their works of prose, poetry, and photography. We thank you so much. All your hard work and dedication is what makes our magazine so unique and special. Enjoy the magazine! We would not be able to do it without you guys.

Peace Out, Obaida, Noah, and Sunny

Origami Crane Instructions Jeffrey Yang

Poetry 8

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Dust

The Last Delectable Piece

Jeffrey Yang 16

Noah Rubien

Toby Ma

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Ever Flowing Time

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Will Cordray

Playmobil Chairs are Sturdy

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Cleanup on Aisle 10 Quinn Luong

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Noah Rubien

Wilted lily

Patrick Bottin

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The Magic School Bus

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My Playset Noah Rubien

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“en kulanthai enge?”

Nachikethan Srinivasan Pegasus || Issue No. 39

Collisions Jeffrey Yang

Origami Butterfly Instructions Jeffrey Yang

Prose 30

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Running Hot

Fable #1— Brown Bear

Vincent Scauzzo

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The Perfect Drift

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A Walk Down the Lane

Will Boyes

Tommy White

The Treehouse Toby Ma

Ryan LaRocca

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A Number

Sam Reisbord

Noah Rubien

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Lockdown

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Silver Eyebrows Yeshwin Sankuratri

The Haverford School

The Soldier Toby Ma

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Dust Jeffrey Yang

Shooting Stars Jeffrey Yang

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They stood in the night, peering at the stars that glisten and shine.

Some twinkle and one falls, leaving wispy streaks of dust that catch thin light.

The parents told the child to make a wish, tooling him to believe that counting on a smear of dust would fulfill his silly dreams.

Still gullible, he smiled.

The Haverford School

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Quest at Dusk Jack Kirkpatrick

The Haverford School

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The Last Delectable Piece Patrick Bottin The warm sun comforts me under the cool breeze off the ocean.

The knife slices like a trailblazer.

I grab a thick piece, as the water drips down my hand.

I take a full bite, as my teeth crush into the elicit fruit.

Its cool colors welcome you.

It draws you into summer memories with the water running down your chin and dripping off.

My mom hands me a napkin, and it collects the water off my face.

My friends and I notice the end as we fight for the last delectable piece.

Our wet hands quiver and tremble.

It feels like a war. With my hand grasping my enemy’s wrist, I tear the piece out of his hand.

Suddenly we both hold a piece.

The watermelon has become severed, similar to the battlefield of Somme; distressed and ruined my friends and I look at each other confused for the reason and cause.

No one gets the last piece.

Severed Watermelon Jeffrey Yang

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Lilies Jeffrey Yang

Wilted Lily Toby Ma

Lily flowers, so white, so bright, a silver river in the vegetation.

Brown stalks, uprooted, discarded, a heap next to the road.

Who replaces the lilies once they wilt?

And where do the brown stalks go?

The Haverford School

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Untitled Tyler Brown

The Haverford School

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The Magic School Bus Noah Rubien In the rolling suburban backroad hills, another yellow school bus brushes past mine tempting my eyes to the left.

A Nameless Girl appears, if only for a second.

I realize she’s seen the ones in the windows that come before me, but for now, only I breathe in the window pane.

Sneezy Samantha sneezes three times every morning.

She sits three before me.

The Nameless Girl and her must have already been introduced.

The Long-Haired Boy arrives with a smooth slick, a collective flow. He cut it recently.

Buses Obaida Elamin

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The Dreamer is two before.

When in the right company, he blabbers of ambitions beyond the bus.

And there’s the little one who likes flowers in her hair.

I call her the Hyacinth Girl.

She chants in a way only known to her, a smile ridden with laughter.

Acting as if we cannot hear her shrieks of morning delight.

The nameless girl on the passing bus asks, “and you?”

I mouth, “I am Noah…”

I say, “and you?”

But time ran short, And the bus went on.

The Haverford School

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Ever Flowing Time William Cordray The flowing of time passes from the hourglass.

Ever flowing out.

X’s being crossed across the calendar’s dates, flipping through the years.

Adventures streaming past probing eyes of people into history.

Memories gathered, rotting away in piles, forever fading.

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u n ea

n o p

l ng o u C nL n Qui

0 1 le

s i A

Cleanup on aisle 10‌ Someone has thrown up on that shiny, waxed floor again.

A grotesque mess of words with complex adjectives that no one understands.

Chunks of obsolete words and pieces of rhymes leak into the shelves.

What a meaningless piece of crap.

Pity this poor soul.

He has the disease of poetry; poor thing thinks he can write poetry.

The Haverford School

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t e s y a l P

y ien b u M hR a o N

I kneel for my telescope all small and blue.

Looking up to a sheet of white sky, its drops weigh my hair below my eyes until I can’t see, and my knees are numb, and as I exhale, the mossy mess of wood wiggles with me.

Breath like a dragon, I speak mist off the tongue, wilting little buds that now live in my playset — The new pilgrims with knobs of wine at their tip, polka dotting the wood with a muted glow.

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I leap off the playset, with a beat of my wings where a great yellow slide once stood.

Etched underneath are the marks of a child with a rock, my ancient runes, counting four lines and a slash.

For the summer evenings when my sister and I played without fight, when the windchimes charmed the birds to bed and the fireflies dot the sky with a fluorescent glow that lights our faces, giddy with glee.

And I unhooked the windchimes, letting out its final song, for the touch of youth.

The Haverford School

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Playmobil Chairs are Sturdy Noah Rubien Little, red plastic chair In the basement corner.

Perfectly the same Since I first sat on you.

But who will sit on you When I have grown?

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En kulanthai enge?

Nachikethan Srinivasan

There are the lions standing amongst the frightful din.

Blood drips off their paws as they come marching in.

Amma holds her kulanthai fast, as their presence stretches the day thin.

Amma says, “we will be ok.”

Kulanthai asks, “will we be ok?”

But she can’t dare to say, “it’s not okay.”

Amma wishes to halt the child’s tears. What can she do as the lions and their rifles come drawing near? She hugs her kulanthai close as the shrieking shells leave her in fear.

Sweat beads around her pottu.

It’s too much to bear. Suddenly her eyes are blinded by the sun’s flare. She gasps and bolts up, her hands empty, her kulanthai’s photo hanging in jasmine there.

Shell after shell. Bed after bed.

Body after body. She runs with her child in her arms out the hospital rendered shoddy.

She cries as she yearns for help from somebody.

Amma whispers hoarsely, “it was never okay.”

For the mothers of the unseen.

Lion Charlie Aschkenasy The Haverford School

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The Queen Mother Jack Kirkpatrick

The Haverford School

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Breaking Waves Jeffrey Yang 26

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Collisions Jeffrey Yang Pressed between two facing waves colliding as they forgo nature’s rules.

I stand desperately gasping for my last breath before the water comes crashing down.

The mass of broken ribs, twisted limbs, and blood drift in the sea staining the liquid a dark crimson red.

But the rumble of the waves mask any sound of my brittle bones breaking.

And for just a moment my remains lay still, until the waves wash them away to the horizon.

The Haverford School

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Gateway to Heaven Jack Kirkpatrick

The Haverford School

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Running Hot Vincent Scauzzo

It was after the Valvoline 400 at North Wilkesboro Speedway and all the hootin’ en’ hollerin’ that went along with it when the boys started packing up to head back down to Mooresville. It had rained that morning so the race had been delayed for two hours. It also made the air real heavy on the already hot August day, forcing every fan in the arena to take off his shirt, or hers. The bugs were particularly persistent in clinging to the backs of people’s necks. The track was running slick with the heat and old rubber from the exhibition race the day before: no car came off the track with a clean quarter panel by the end. There was a lot of beatin’ and bangin’, but Bobby Allison eventually took the lead from Richard Petty with ten to go and saw the checkered, which was good since his car’s sponsor was also Valvoline.

By now it was gittin’ pretty close to dark and the boys wanted to be back at least so they could get a few hours rest before prepping the car for next week. Darrell ran a good race that day-Darrell Waltrip, that is, or DW. During the first pit stop, he said the car was plowin’ hard and that he couldn’t get it to turn in, so when the boys took the tires off to change ‘em they took a few pulls at the suspension, but it didn’t seem to do much.

Still, by the end of the afternoon, all the boys out there had their rides runnin’ wrong in some way, so DW managing a 12th place finish wasn’t that bad. He had some not very Sunday-appropriate things to say at the end--Terry Labonte received the brunt of it--but we were happy to be done with it and to get out of the heat.

So we rolled the old Monte Carlo up onto the hauler and settled in for the slow, dark drive.

I was up front with Buddy, the crew chief, and Ricky, the gas man,was at the wheel. He was a big boy that Buddy had worked with since his time in Darlington, and Buddy felt like he could use this chance at life in the Cup Series. As for me,

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well, I’d always worked on cars with my daddy at his shop in Concord. One day, Bill Elliott’s team pulled in on their way to Charlotte Motor Speedway when their truck’s radiator busted.

Without anyone looking, I climbed into the bed of one of their trucks and rode all the way to the speedway. When the boys saw me in the back of the bed, they weren’t real pleased, to put it lightly, but it worked out. They had me take old tires back to the truck after they took them off the racecar, which meant I got to spend the whole race in the pits. All day, the drivers swapped paint on the front stretch and then came slammin’ on the brakes down pit road with their tires steaming. Six boys changed four tires and fuel so fast that Bill was back in the race and hadn’t even lost a lap.

I knew there was no other career for me. After the race, I got to talking with one of the boys on the pit crew about joining the team. He said they didn’t need anyone for Bill’s car, but that Mr. Walltrip could use some extra help. The boy I met was nice to introduce me to one of the crew members on DW’s car and by the end of our conversation, I had a job, and the rest of the story put me in the seat of this here truck.

And so we went on down that dark, tree-lined country road with a beat up racecar in tow. It was real dark now but the heat wasn’t going anywhere; if anything, the cab felt like it was gettin’ hotter. It wasn’t my imagination. About five minutes after I started to feel the sweat coming from Buddy’s side, the engine overheated in a cloud of steam.

Ricky pulled us over and grabbed a couple of the boys from behind to help pop the hood. They said the truck needed to cool before they could try firin’ it up again. An Armco guardrail was the only thing in between us on the bend in the road and the rocky surface a few yards below.

Out in the distance, I heard some yellin’ which I imagined were race fans that were pulled over like us. So while the boys sat by the side of the road, I moseyed on over to investigate. I eased my way down from the road into the valley, across

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the creek, and through high cattails, and as I went further into the trees, it became real dark and quiet: there was no sound from where I came or anymore yellin’. Only the cool moonlight guided me through the silent evergreens. An orange speck of a fire stood out in the corner of my eye, to which I advanced. I counted about six or seven of them sitting around the blaze with a spinning rotisserie over it. ‘T smelled good, but it didn’t smell like any barbeque I’d ever caught.”

“ ‘T smelled good, but it didn’t smell like any barbeque I’d ever caught.”

As I approached, their gruff voices and cackles of laughter became clearer, as did the writing on the back of one the gentlemen’s jackets.

“The Night Riders.” Shoot. The boys down at the police station recently had a run-in with these bandits, and then the week after they had a memorial service. These dudes praised the devil and stood for nothin’ good. They built their own houses of worship--dare I call them that--on the Injun reservations since they thought the red skin of natives made them people of Lucifer. However, when the Injuns tried to work with the authorities to kick them off their land, they, too, had a memorial service next week.

Backing away to the truck, my foot knocked something on the ground. It was kind of soft and cold, and it didn’t roll straight, but when it ended up in a bush that made a rustling sound, in sync they all turned around from the fire

and pointed their glowing eyes at me, their red teeth showing through long, pointy grins.

I remembered that at each of the funerals, the bodies were said to have been cremated, but I never saw no urn. The only sound came from the one girl in the back. As she stood up I saw her shorts didn’t come down below the knife at her hip. “GITIM!”

Oh boy, did I run. I ran and ran and ran, barely balancing myself through all the bushes and roots sproutin’ up. Still, the cackling continued and it felt the faster I ran, the closer the sound came. Louder and louder the howlin’ and wailin’ came from those sickos--it echoed around the valley and enveloped me, so much so that I hardly knew which way was up. The sound pierced the air and dug into my head like some kind of possessed worm. Then I saw the moonlight shining on the Armco from the road and the headlights of one of the trucks.

“Then I saw the moonlight shining on the Armco from the road and the headlights of one of the trucks. ”

Jeffrey Yang Race Car

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“Start it up!” I said between breaths.

“Run!” I could see them jump up and look towards me, although they didn’t seem to be in much of a rush, more in a puzzled state at my frightened gait. As quick as I could, I climbed up the side of the hill to reach them and stopped in front of Buddy with my hands on my knees, breathin’ hard. I told ‘em about the Night Riders and how they were chasin’ me, but when Buddy asked where they were, I looked into the valley in disbelief. No crazed bikers or wailin’ from the heavens. All was quiet once again.

“Buddy, I swear, I was bein’ chased.”

Buddy just shook his head like he always does when one of us does something stupid and told

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me to get in the truck. They got it working again.

And so, down the road we went back to Mooresville, the radio playing some new guitar song and the moon shining overhead. When Ricky turned off the main road, the radio went all static. He tried adjusting the dial, but there was no signal to be found. We thought nothing of it--it was an old truck, after all--and continued on until we hit a big bump and blew a tire. This put Buddy in a fuss, but he was soon sedated when he looked through the windshield. Ricky turned off the lights so the moon could shine on sets of chrome handlebars at the end of the road. Seven individual headlights stared us down like the eyes of a crazy bull.

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Fable #1 — Brown Bear Noah Rubien

Brown Bear and I ride the school bus every morning through rolling, suburban hills of lime, lined with rickety fencing and trees — feigning soft crimsons and pinks for as long as spring will allow it. A spring day so perfect, you’d want to throw open all the sliding windows to feel the lick of wind, and watch as your backpack becomes etched in sunlight. The birds scribbled in the margins of your notebook lift themselves up by their flimsy graphite wings and fly towards the sun in their own divine intervention, through the window, past the trees, and into an abyss of blue until they are... gone. One tree, its trunk stained a muted red from the morning dew, reaches up to the clouds with a limp branch. Brown Bear tilts his head down, left ear to left shoulder, and whispers “I’ll call that one Adam.” I say, “clever.” We like our mornings slow.

plastered white. The buzzing of silence murmurs in his ear. Ambiguous colors and shapes streak endlessly along the white space. The colors warp and twist and turn, they hurt his head. But he sees new colors, pioneered by only him, like a mistybluish-silver, the most grandiose of gold, and a greenish pink with orange tips. He sees himself — a perfectly vague color — just like the rest. And he sees all he could be. I say, “welcome back.” Brown Bear is back in his seat. He looks down at me and says, “I think it’s time I really leave the bus. Do you know what my mother used to tell me? She’d say — Oh, how would she phrase it? — she’d say, ‘Brown Bear, to make it in this world you must be oh so pleasant, or oh so clever.’ For years I was pleasant. I think I’ll try clever.”

“Brown Bear is imaginary just as I am to him.”

Brown Bear is imaginary just as I am to him. He reaches his paw across me towards the window resting his tough padding on the metal frame. The breeze rattles his fur to the air lifting him from his seat and taking him soaring.

I watch him go. I look where Brown Bear sat, he left an indent in the seat padding with a sense of unaltered finality... Brown Bear sniffs the trees and flowers, stuffing his nose full with pollen. He sneezes profusely, propelling him to the clouds.

He floats well above the ground, but with no wax to melt, he flies higher, and as he goes he notes our yellow bus in the distance hiding ever so often in the folds of rolling hills. Higher and higher, Brown Bear finds himself in a quiet space

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Untitled Tyler Brown

The Haverford School

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Lockbox Sam Reisbord

One Sunday afternoon when the novelty of a newly-minted driver’s license was still burning a hole in my pocket, I ventured over to my grandmother’s house to explore the basement of various items she’d collected over many years in various countries. I shuffled down the steps and moved onto the uncarpeted floor as she trailed behind. Frankly, I think the excitement of my arriving there alone outweighed her interest in actually supervising me.

“Do we have any collections of papers— your parents? His?” I said, tripping over an old VCR player. I caught myself on the drawer filled with comic books which had belonged to my grandfather.

“No,” she said “Jewish people don’t care about those things.”

“Their own citizenship, you mean?”

“No,” she said “family bibles and the like.”

I turned on a desk lamp by the corner and flipped through my father’s yearbook. His childhood photo albums were also underneath.

As I looked through the two, I couldn’t help but notice how he and I would be confused for the same person under the right pretenses.

I knew that my grandmother wasn’t entirely wrong in her assertion. Her side of the family was, admittedly, not too fond of gaudy histories.

British people cared about their lineage and name; Jewish people, the nuclear family. These are generalizations, of course, but in this case the stereotype was quite applicable. I stopped as I randomly stumbled across a photo of my grandfather as a child. He had a sailor’s hat on his head and an oversized tie wrapped loosely around his neck. His grandmother was standing there with a smile on her face that reminded me of how my own grandmother looked at me. “Look,” I said, “Minnie Reisbord. Minnie Hopkins. Manya Hopkins.”

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“Oh, let me see!”

As she examined the tiny laminated square, her expression shifted from a happy grin to a more pensive furl of the brow.

“Check under the artwork.”

I turned the knob on the lamp up one more notch, and I glided my fingers over a small mahogany lockbox right under the sketches. I brushed dust off the top then another layer. The photos inside were in a state of complete disarray.

There was no organization whatsoever.

Most of the pieces consisted of my aunt, her aunt, her parents when they were younger, and there were some slides in it as well. Nothing was worth my journey until I finally found a public works badge with the portrait of a man I’d never seen before. There was a serial number next to the man’s face, but no name.

“Your great grandfather’s brother,” said my grandmother, sensing the confusion, nodding.

I felt it rather quaint that for a man to have lived such a long life as Mark Reisbord, nobody seemed to know who he was or what he did besides her.

The ambivalent tone. The indifference towards his very existence.

It all bothered me.

So many hours were spent in my childhood looking through websites like Ancestry. com or FamilyTreeSearch, and what I typically discovered amounted to not much more than the concrete floor I was standing on— rock solid, perfectly useful, and without any discernible sense of life. I often found dates of birth, marriage numbers, voter lists and death certificates. Census data was probably the most useful of the bunch, but even that was limited to the most basic traits one could possess. All of it was important information for sure, but it lacked character.

As I grew older, I started searching for old newspapers. One of the first headlines I came across was “ALMOST LYNCHED

BY MISTAKE: HERMAN NOLTE JR. NARROWLY SURVIVES HUNTING TRIP.” According to the article, my maternal ancestor had been confused with a murderer while off

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course, there were never any newspapers talking about Mark Reisbord; he was a name on a page as far as anyone was concerned. Moreover, in this particular case, even the name had gone missing somewhere, imitated through seven digits. I stared at his eyes and they stared back at me. My thumb moved around his silhouette.

Human beings exist in a weird transcendental state. Life— the metaphysical sense of it— exists every bit as much in what significance you have to others as in who you really are. Over time, we all become data points on these pages and half-scribbled notes in a boiler room; if we are lucky, maybe we become the occasional headline as well. As such, a lifetime of emotions can be (and is often) overshadowed by the dim flash poorly illuminating one’s face in the basement of a party. A handsome man is forever reduced to an angry smirk because of a misplaced shadow around his mouth. No matter whether we are boisterous or reserved, a mensch or a crook, funny or dry, we all end up in the lockbox, away from human hands. Caricatures ultimately shape the legacy of spirits once refined.

I put the picture back in the box and shut the lid. My grandmother had already gone to check on something upstairs, so I was alone in the eerie room. I switched off my lamp and flipped

the switch for the overhead before closing the door behind me. I made sure not to trip over the VCR on the way back. “Four hundred and fifty seven comicbooks,” I wrote on a notepad. “DO NOT THROW AWAY.”

“Caricatures ultimately shape the legacy of spirits once refined.”

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The Perfect Drift

Will Boyes

I became accustomed to the cicadas’ incessant buzzing, which echoed not only inside the walls of the canyon, but also inside my head.

As the current pulled my fly downstream, I waited for a quick flash of silver to surface and strike the fly. Each time I tucked a seemingly perfect cast below the overhanging sawgrass exactly where a hungry rainbow trout should have been waiting the anticipation mounted. One cast became three, became five, then ten. I stepped back from the edge of our drift boat, set my fly rod down, and sat for a while.

The sun, which once loomed overhead, now descended below the limestone rim of the surrounding canyon walls. With the sun out of my eyes and off my scorched nose, the canyon was cast in a completely new light. The soft greys and blues of dusk replaced the bright oranges and yellows that once dominated the arid canyon.

As I listened to the river bubble underneath my feet, I admired the canyon and all its beauty.

Surrounded by the canyon’s towering limestone bluffs, shaped by millions of years of rain, snow, and sleet, I realized the insignificance of my worldly issues. Sitting on a small drift boat in central Washington’s Yakima River Canyon, I found peace.

For much of my life, I enjoyed a certain level of precision. A regimented schedule helped me function and perform my daily tasks with comfort and ease. I woke up every day at 7:00 A.M., ate the same breakfast, wore the same shoes, and arrived to school at the same time.

In rare instances, people have the power to control their environment; more realistically, though, the variability of life cannot be controlled. Trout and fly fishermen must adapt their approaches to accommodate their ever-evolving environments. The canyon

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showed me that nature and the universe always lean towards chaos, while humans cling to a sense of illusory based control.

Fly fishing had directly confronted my illusory sense of control. I did everything in my power to catch fish: made hundreds of casts, changed my fly pattern countless times, and sought the expert advice of our experienced fishing guide, but with little success. I could control very few things on the river. Over time, I learned not to struggle against the proceedings of nature and its innate chaos. Instead, I embraced it.

“Instead, I embraced it.”

A gentle breeze breathed life back into the canyon. The leaves of the aspen trees, which lined the river’s edge, quivered in the wind. A mother mule deer and her two fawns cautiously raised their heads above the tall grass to observe our drift boat move downstream. Control the controllable, I told myself. Mother nature will do the rest. I adjusted my tactics and tied on a purple stonefly imitation in place of my bulky grasshopper imitation. I made a calculated cast to an eddy forming behind a large boulder and watched in a state of pure jubilation as a small rainbow trout sucked down my fly.

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Austin Zhuang Fishing Boat

A Walk Down the Lane Ryan LaRocca

From a distance, I glimpse its flashing lights illuminate the clear night sky. For the first time in over a decade, I glide up its stairs to the wooden planks that supported my childhood.

On this chilly late summer evening, I expect the moment to feel somewhat different. After all, my purpose tonight is so very different than that of the visits of my youth. Every time I climbed these steps in my nascent years, I entered this special area—my sanctuary. It is this place—the Ocean City Boardwalk—to which I equate some of my fondest childhood memories. I have arrived early for my appointment; an opportunity presents itself to traverse the establishments that once regaled me. Trying not to listen to the discomforting creaking noise accompany each step, I walk up the entrance’s wooden stairs. As the faint aroma of cotton candy reaches me, a slight upward curvature involuntarily appears on my lips. However, I do not beam with delight; rather, my anticipation seems more muted, more composed.

Stepping upon the wooden planks, a putrid scent of cheap perfume, body odor, and the overflowing waste bins wafts towards me. The incessant screams of unruly children are matched by parents who bark orders that go ignored; others plead and engage in overzealous bribery bidding their offspring to behave. The riotous sounds overwhelm me. I involuntarily reach up to cover my ears. Neon lights adorn the fronts of each storefront.

My head begins to throb, and I have trouble continuing up the Boardwalk without shielding my eyes.

What did I once love about this place?

Has the Boardwalk changed so much in the past decade? A rumble in my stomach interrupts my unwelcome deliberations—a splendid opportunity to indulge in my

childhood’s “go-to joint.” Time to validate the accuracy and flavor of my most important memories. Hunger guides me to the favorite pizzeria of my childhood. Up ahead, I spot its glowing lights which sizzle in the night air. Walking through the doorway, I begin to reminisce about all of the great nights I spent in this very place. For a moment, I am again an eight-year-old surrounded by my brothers about to order two slices of pepperoni.

“For a moment, I am again an eight-year-old surrounded by my brothers about to order two slices of pepperoni.”

My decision to enter the building, however, further shatters my reminiscence. To my right, I notice a small boy whose face suggests he has just taken a bath in marinara sauce; to my left is the bickering of a couple with two young children. The parents’ bickering makes me even more uncomfortable than the shrieking of children all about the restaurant. And behind me, without even a glance, my nose detects a man in desperate need of a shower, accompanied by a companion who wears as much Axe Body Spray as a typical sixth grader.

And oh, the grease—that wretched grease! The simple press of my napkin absorbs an entire sea of pizza fluid. Those around

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me, even the parents are... enjoying it? For every bite the other customers take, I seem to gravitate away from them a little bit more.

In a condescending manner, they eyeball me: weirdo. This restaurant, I reason, cannot possibly be the pizzeria of my youth. I cannot take it anymore. Eventually, I find myself in complete and utter isolation. I don’t belong here like I once did, in this repulsive pit of bad taste. In just a few seconds, I speculate, commotion will undoubtedly ensue. I must escape!

Appetite gone, I make a hasty retreat and increase my pace down the Boardwalk toward my appointed place. A glance at my watch causes my steps to slow. Still several minutes to spare before my rendezvous.

Instead, I continue down the Boardwalk hoping for some validation of my youth.

The rolling of strollers echoes throughout the night air. At last, I come across the favorite Boardwalk pastime of my childhood: amusement rides!

Exhilarating and enjoyable, the rides once showcased my daunting bravery and served as an exciting way to spend my summer nights. Hoping to reinvigorate my love for the Boardwalk, I prepare to ride the Zipper ride, the most adventurous of all. Yet, in line I begin to reconsider my decision. The man in front of me holds a toddler forward with outstretched hands. The child reeks of a smelly nasty brown mess. From ten feet away, the machine’s rattling reverberations suggest its potential to disassemble at any given moment. Even from this distance, the ride is visibly in need of a cleaning. I see discarded trash laying upon the floor and spilled food coating the seats. What illness and disease might be ingrained in those seats, I question. I slowly back out of the line; my head shakes slightly side to side with my eyes remaining fixed on the ride. I cannot even begin to fathom why someone would voluntarily enter this abhorrent cesspool. Is this the ride I so thoroughly enjoyed? Its stains, its frame, its quality. Has it changed so much, or have I?

“Has it changed so much, or have I?”

Walking away from the cesspool, I see a beautiful woman walking down the Boardwalk.

Did such beautiful women always walk on this Boardwalk? As the woman disappears into the distance, I begin to cough. And thus, I become aware of another of the Boardwalk’s features.

I cannot help but note the children juuling on nearby benches and suspicious middle-aged men smoking cigarettes in nearby alleyways.

I equate the abominable scent with the home of my grandmother, an in-the-house smoker

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of sixty-five years. Has cigarette smoke always permeated the boardwalk’s entirety? After another realization, although reluctantly, I accept the truth. The answer to my question, and all those before it, must be yes.

Turning back to the boards, I ponder the present circumstances of the Boardwalk.

My gaze does not fixate on the amusement rides, arcades, or any of my memories. I don’t focus on my mini-golf score or the flavor of ice cream I will eat. I think instead of the prospects of my appointment. I don’t hear the “Beep! Beep! Splat!” of zombies’ brains being shot in the nearby arcade; nor do I smell the nearby mound of cotton candy. My thoughts instead vacillate between college applications and how my water polo team will perform in our tournament the following week.

My pace slows as I first hear the ocean’s waves crash and recede. Perpetually, they repeat this cycle in glorious fashion. As I draw closer to the edge of the boards—to the crashing waves—the seashore’s salty smell masks that of the Boardwalk. Captivated, I find myself sitting atop the beach’s lifeguard chair.

I become aware that next to my childhood safe havens lies a tranquil body, one that today offers so much more comfort than my former

sanctuary of the neon lit Boardwalk.

I choose to delay my planned encounter, claiming that my car suffered a flat tire along the Garden State Parkway. And so I sit there, alone, while the sea’s breeze chills my face. The water’s reflection glistens in the moonlight, offering my eyes the first soothing sight since my arrival at the Boardwalk. The repugnant smells have dissipated, replaced by the salt water’s enriching scent. I can no longer hear the echoing of strollers or the shouting of children. Rather, the crash and the recede serve as the only breach of the silence. I note with surprise the proximity of this natural treasure to the honky-tonk commercialism of the Boardwalk. Walking along the path of my youth, I recognize that the Boardwalk is not what has changed. Although the Boardwalk no longer acts as the sanctuary that it once did, I will still fondly recall its role in fostering such enjoyable childhood summers.

But my new perceptions, a newly found reverence for the ocean, warm me as I renew my journey up the boards to meet my fairhaired friend. Oh the surprises, the clarity, a walk down memory lane can bring!

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The Treehouse Toby Ma

I’ve wanted to have a treehouse for as long as I remember. The origins of my obsession are lost in the fog of my younger days. I lived in an ordinary suburban development with ordinary lawns, ordinary roads, ordinary sidewalks. My only chance of escape from this ordinary life was through hiking—which my family never failed to do every week—and reading Calvin and Hobbes treasuries—taken from my brother’s shelf when he went to college.

I loved reading about Calvin, a philosopher and intellectual at six, and his dearest friend Hobbes, who made me wish I had conceived my own imaginary companion.

While Calvin lived in a typical ’80s Midwestern suburb, their backyard entered a boundless untouched wilderness — a portal to extraordinary adventures. My backyard had nothing special: it led to the neighbors’ houses and beyond that, the main road. My father, the horticulturist, spent his summers planting flowers. I dreamed of a swimming pool, but dad dreamed of zinnias and petunias.

But a tree grew in the backyard, on which I rested my dreams. Despite its small stature, it was the only greenery that could support a wooden superstructure. It would be a perfect fortress for my antics: I’d be perched in the crow’s nest, wearing a newspaper hat and scanning all of two blocks with eyes of an assured captain at the helm of a ship or a nervous sentry on the lookout for aliens. However, my parents disagreed; instead, they provided a site in the corner of my backyard surrounded by tall jade-green arborvitae and pale yellow coneflowers—but no tree for my treehouse.

They bought a packaged wooden playhouse from Lowe’s. The sides of the box showed children frolicking around a quaint little lodge with plastic window grilles and a white-columned portico. My parents had good taste. Following the instruction manual, we finished in a few days. My dad

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also built an eight-foot by eight-foot platform that would raise the playhouse by two feet—a substitute for the lack of elevated greenery. With that, my treehouse—a liberal interpretation, but a treehouse regardless—was complete.

The summer I spent that year was trancelike: everything glowed under the haze of the sun—the green grass and glossy leaves, the purple flowers and the yellow-black bees. Despite the heat, my treehouse was cool and comfortable.

I used a large plush duck as a pillow, laying on it as I read a book whose story I’ve forgotten like a distant dream. My mother brought me lemonade, bright yellow in the sunlight, ice-cold and refreshing. I remember the tart taste of lemon and the generous spoonfuls of sugar, which left an aftertaste that made you savor every drop: I’d drink it in tiny sips, running my tongue over my teeth to capture every mote of sweetness.

When I entered middle school, summer ended forever. Like waking up from a fantastical dream, my halcyon days subsumed into the edges of my memory as I moved on from the treehouse. Time has not been kind to the treehouse years since— autumn rains etched dark grooves into machined wood and rusting hinges, winter snows covered the house in heaps and icy sheets, and spring mildew blossomed from pillar and roof. Wood distorted and contracted, springing free of screws; paint flaked, exposing the natural wood underneath; thistles grew from below, peeking through slots between the planks.

Despite its deteriorated state, I can’t bear to take it apart—it would be too troublesome, and I enjoy it too much to bear destroying it.

My treehouse is like a ruined sandcastle on the beach, worn smooth by the waves. It will crumble, but pieces remain: the pebbles that lined the battlements, the shells that adorned the walls, the

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stray flotsam that stood guard on listing towers.

They survive the waves, remain buried in the sand to be rediscovered upon one’s return, worn but recognizable.

You’ll find my treehouse along the beach of my childhood, among the other pieces lost in the sand—well-worn cartoon treasuries and dusty toys from a more marvelous time. I inadvertently return to this beach from time to time when I find

a once-cherished stuffed animal abandoned in my closet, hear an old song on the radio, or see the treehouse on the edge of my backyard. They evoke memories that I wish to feel again, from a time I wish I could experience again.

However, indulging in memory is dangerous; even if I could return to the past, it will never be as I thought it was. Color seems muted, feeling dulled, extraordinary ordinary.

I’d waste my life trying to recapture something that only exists in my head, like pining for the lost flowers of summer in lifeless winter. But I’ll treasure the flower in its impossible beauty—it’ll be something that I’ll remember forever. People make memories, and memories make people.

“People make memories, and memories make

people.”

I know that my backyard is special.

Passersby will see a strange old playhouse, brown and wrinkled like a wilted lily stalk after the last bloom of summer. They’ll stop, stare, move on, and forget. I must go as well, but I’ll remember.

Toby Ma Hat

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A Number Tommy White

It was cold. He looked out the car window and saw the neverending sea of trees covered in snow. With a quick breath on the window, the car moved up the highway, smiling at everyone it passed.

“How much longer, Dad?” the boy asked his father.

“We just have to make it out of this traffic, but from then on we should be smooth sailing until we get there,” he told his son.

“What’s the matter? Do you need to stop and go to the bathroom?” the mother asked her son.

“No. I’m just excited to be back.”

That was the truth. The boy had been thinking about coming back ever since he left.

His parents thought he hated it. Last time he hadn’t been able to enjoy himself until the very last

Jeffrey Yang Ice Cream Cones

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night. It was tradition that on the last day of the trip, the family would go out and explore downtown. This was the only time he was able to interact with anyone outside of his immediate family for the trip.

Usually, the trip downtown consisted of the same old stops: the gift shop, the hardware store, somewhere for lunch, a movie, and ice cream to wrap it all up. But last year was different. Last year was the only year he had found a way to think of the trip as something he could look forward to next year. Last year, he saw her.

She was perfect in every way. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; a diamond in the rough. His heart fell to the snow-covered sidewalk as she walked by. But as quickly and suddenly as she came into his life, she was gone. Reduced to a memory and never to be seen again. Except the boy was not going to let that happen.

Everything he did for the next year was for her. All he thought about, all he dreamed about, and all he cared for was the woman on the sidewalk.

Now, the boy couldn’t wait to go back.

He wanted more than anything to find this woman again and express his feeling of love at first sight.

“There it is!” the father said driving the car. “Welcome back, everybody.”

The boy was so blinded by the idea of seeing the woman on the sidewalk again that he forgot that he had to wait a week before even getting the chance to find her.

Days got longer. He kept wanting to just go downtown and search for the woman, but he couldn’t leave his family. He wasn’t going to sneak out. He just had to be patient.

The days passed and on the last morning of the trip the boy sprung out of his bed. He had been thinking of this day ever since he first saw that woman on the sidewalk.

“Ready to go downtown?” the mother

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asked.

“More than you know, Mom.” the boy responded.

The first thing after arriving in town was to go straight for the snow-covered sidewalk where he had seen her last year. He went; no sign of the woman. He waited; no sign of the woman. He wandered around the town; still no sign of the woman.

The boy hadn’t given up yet. He knew he could find her; in his mind they were soul mates, after all.

There she was. He could see her across the street. The boy got the same set of feelings that came with his first time he saw this woman, but now there was the added nervousness and anxiety. He had never talked to a woman like this before. What would he say? What would she say? He decided the best option was to just go up to her and lay his heart out.

“Excuse me. I think you’re really pretty and want you to be my girlfriend.” he said.

“Awwww. Aren’t you the cutest and sweetest boy I’ve ever seen” the woman said.

“So, you will be my girlfriend?”

“Of course, sweetheart!” she said.

It worked. He had done it. He had found and successfully wooed his dream girl, and life was looking up.

“Son, who is this?” the father asked following behind.

“This is my new girlfriend, Dad!”

“Oh really?” the father laughed it off.

“Can we go get some ice cream together?” the boy asked the woman.

“Oh honey, I don’t think I can, but thank you.

Let me tell you something. Give it ten years and maybe we can get that ice cream then,” she told him.

His heart was broken. At that moment, he could have dropped dead.

On the car ride home, all he could think was age is just a number. Age is just a number. Age is just a number.

“Oh honey, I don’t think I can, but thank you.”

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Untitled FIsher Bond

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Silver Eyebrows Yeshwin Sankuratri

I saw a man’s face.

Each day, as the sun traveled his home from east to west, the old man would move with it. In the summer, I would often find him deep in thought outside on the deck leaning back on a chair, one leg over another, beaming while his white hair and round spectacles gleamed in the sun and his interlocked hands rested gently on his well-nourished paunch.

He, like the mighty, wise, cloudcompelling Zeus, had a fringe of river-silver hair that traveled around his dull spots of balding and bound half an eyebrow. He looked interesting. He possessed a wizened face which covered up his worn body and the wrinkles that bore deeply into his skin. Some mornings, broken down, bowed head caressed in the depths of his elbows, emotion flowed through his eyes and shook his whole body.

The man had stories to tell and wisdom danced upon his lips.

Today, he was there again: I looked closer this morning, passing by his house as I went for my Saturday morning jog. He sat on the deck, beside his armchair, perched on a step, one arm resting on his knee and one hand coursing through his hair. He looked up and stared for a moment.

“Young man!” He bellowed, as I looked at him. I was caught in a trance. “Ho there, young man! Come here!”

I see him every day. Every morning, rather. Always staring at me as he drives past my house, on his way to work, I assume. Freckles canvassed his face and he had a peculiar fringe of river-silver hair covering half his right eyebrow.

No, sorry. Half his left eyebrow.

In the summertime, the young man drives by in his custom jeep, with the windows down, wearing sunglasses, as his wavy hair catches the wind. In the wintertime, the young man drives

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with the windows down, wearing sunglasses, as his wavy hair catches the snow. All the same, he had a familiar sparkle in his eyes. A particularly venomous smile. The man belonged, but not quite.

I often watch and wonder what kind of man could wear sunglasses, hit a deer, and keep going, music blaring. Every morning, we both stared deep into each other.

I was just out for my Saturday jog, so I guess I had some time to stop by the old man’s house. Known as the sore spot of the cul de sac, everyone had seen the old man, but no one dared enter. It was, quite literally, the log-cabin among mansions.

Still, I thought it couldn’t hurt. I drove by the damn thing everyday.

I approached a little slowly. I mean, I wasn’t scared, but I had heard the stories. As I climbed the hill and lost view of the old man on the deck, his home came into focus. Log by log, it was rooted firmly into the ground and built up strangely high.

Everything about this place felt so perfectly abnormal. Even each log was too smooth, as if personally sanded, reflecting his desire to relive his unwrinkled youth. There were no windows, no roof, I turned around, no driveway, no mailbox, and no walkway; just a door and some wood.

Almost as if I was entering the old man’s mind, I gingerly stepped into his home. As I tiptoed around his place, slightly perturbed, I chose not to register its unnatural emptiness. I quickened my pace to the back of the house and, just before I walked through the open patio door, I stopped. On this wall of wood hung a US Marine plaque: “Sgt Robert Pine: Semper Fidelis”. Right next to it was a young picture of the old man.

He had a lot of freckles and hair back in the day, I thought to myself. He stood about my height.

Wavy hair and sunglasses. There was something familiar about that face.

As I looked closer, trying to pinpoint its

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Eyebrow Obaida Elamin

origins, a ghostly brush of air jolted me. This cold gust took hold of me and lured me around one-hundred-eighty degrees.

The last thing I saw was that face. A truly venomous smile. A cold, metallic touch to my forehead. A bang. A thud. Red. A silver eyebrow. Blackness.

Sirens shot up in the distance. As the wavelengths shortened and the red and blue lights became visible, the many dwellers of the opulent cul de sac girdled the base of the hill on which the log-cabin sat. As the officer got down from his flashing vehicle and was directed up the hill, his figure gradually disappeared from the view of the people. Alongside him, the witness who had reported the shooting, trekked upwards.

When they both reached the entrance of the perfect log-cabin, the door was shut. Slowly, back turned, leaning on the door, gun up, the officer broke in and quickly looked left and right in the old man’s oddly vacant property, making sure the coast was clear. Then, relaxed, the officer then turned his gaze towards the crime scene. The witness inched forward in the old man’s home.

There it was: A single body. A gun. An old man. Red. A silver eyebrow.

Before approaching any further, the officer turned to the witness and questioned him,

“Did you see anyone enter or exit Mr. Pine’s residence at the time of his death?”

“No Sir. Not a soul,”

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The Soldier Toby Ma

Although it was only mid-afternoon, the planet’s small star hung low in the sky, creating long, dark shadows in the trees.

The soldier’s boots crunched through the thin layer of snow on the forest floor, leaving light footprints swept away by the light wind. He scanned the forest for enemies. The colored tint of his helmet bathed his vision in a dark red light, heightening his perception of objects moving in the thick vegetation. This planet was covered in dense forests, perfect for an ambush of Rakin soldiers.

The mere thought of the horrific species made him shudder. He remembered the video briefing of the Rakin before his deployment.

“The Rakin is a dangerous alien race,” intoned the calm voice, “In only a matter of weeks they were able to overwhelm the defenses of six Federation planets and level major urban centers.”

Images flickered across the screen: wrecks of ships, the burned-out husk of a city, piles of bodies. He didn’t need the reminder. He was there when they attacked, razing his homeworld in a matter of minutes. After that, little gave him more happiness than the chance to choke the life out of one of them.

The soldier reached the bank of a frozen creek. He scanned left and right before hopping across to the other side. His role in the battle today was simple; kill any scouts or stragglers from the real conflict happening miles away.

“Their fleets came from an as-of-yet unexplored region of space, although evidently, their goal was to raid and pillage the prosperous Federation.” A video feed appeared onscreen of a Federation battleship blasting a Rakin cruiser into bits. “Without the intervention of the unstoppable Federation navy, the Rakin would have swept through the core planets in a matter of weeks, to your home planet, your family.”

Once the navy repelled the invading Rakin force, the counterattack swept through many Rakin planets. The worlds were very primitive, containing very little urban or industrial development. However, the Rakin had resorted to guerrilla warfare, upsetting Federation cleansing and resettlement missions.

The undergrowth rustled ahead, breaking the dead silence covering the wood. Too loud to be some creature that lived in this wilderness.

Besides, the engines of a Federation troopship would scare away most wildlife nearby. The soldier raised his gun. The sound came closer and closer, and the soldier recognized the stride of something sprinting over uneven ground.

A figure burst out from a dense cover of trees on the soldier’s left. Turning, he fired two shots at the moving form, but it dodged and fired two shots in return. The soldier dove to the side as two blasts pierced the air where his chest was.

On the ground, the soldier lifted his gun to retaliate, but with a sweeping motion, the Rakin took the weapon out of his hand. The Rakin slammed its gun into the soldier’s helmet, shattering the red visor. The soldier’s face felt the rush of cold air. He kicked at the alien, sending it to the side of him. He sat up, his broken helmet only covering half of his face. Drawing his pistol, the soldier aimed it at the Rakin and shot at his chest.

The bullet pierced through the Rakin’s armor, sending the alien screaming in fury.

Without pause, the soldier ripped off the Rakin’s helmet, intending to see it die before his own eyes.

A human face stared back at him, eyes wide open and face flushed with the cold. Blood dotted the edges of its lips, a dark, human red.

The soldier stared at it in shock, and the human face looked at him with the same surprise before it coughed up a clot of blood and collapsed.

The soldier looked at the dead man before him, studying the facial features, noting all the shapes and wrinkles. He was distinctively human, all right; so what was with the Rakin uniform.

He knew his eyes must be deceiving him.

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He knew what a Rakin looked like; he saw a corpse vrecovered from their initial attack.

Bulging sacs covered its face, a pair of slimecovered tentacles spilled from the space between its jaws, and three pebble-sized, coal-black eyes poked out from its forehead. The rest of its body was covered with strange protrusions. He remembered thinking that it looked too horrible, like a nightmare in real life.

But then, who were they fighting?

Chilled by the thought, the soldier stood up and walked away from the body, trying to push the implications from his mind. How could he warn someone of this revelation? He was miles from any ship, and he didn’t want to forgo his mission by dragging a body wherever he went.

And even if he did get this body back to a ship, would anyone believe him? They’d think he’d gone crazy, dressing up human soldiers in Rakin uniforms. But could he just leave the body here, and continue on with the burden of knowing that he killed a human being?

The soldier shook, his head, eyes filling with tears or sweat, he didn’t know. The pale blue of the snow and dark black of the trees

disoriented him; he wished for the both of them to have their helmets on, where the world would be

bathed in a comfortable shade of red and where he could not tell who the other was underneath.

Then, he saw the truth.

The human he had killed was real as

This was all a trick. The Rakin were a well. The soldier removed his broken helmet, highly advanced race. It wouldn’t be surprising his vision tainted a shade of pale blue, the cold if they had somehow learned to copy the wind swirling light snowflakes about his head. He appearance of a human being to strike at our breathed in the brisk planetary air; fresh air, not humanity, something they clearly lacked. He the recycled air of the troopship or the stifling air looked at the other soldier again. The image inside the helmet. He looked at the corpse and flickered in his brain, fuzzy like an untuned saw its skin turning pale, like the snow around radio, fading. The disguise was probably him. wearing off. Perhaps it had been playing

The soldier got closer and reached out dead, and while his back was turned, warily, touching the dead man’s face, making sure would spring upon him and slit his throat. that he wasn’t hallucinating. Now that he was

The pistol erupted, piercing the stillness right next to the body, the soldier saw the man of the wood. The soldier fired at the Rakin, more clearly. He had a plain face, freckled, the again and again, and again and again. When he faint hint of dimples creasing its cheeks. He could finished, the soldier looked at what remained. walk down the street and wouldn’t give a second

Its blood, instead of a deep red, stained glance to this man. He imagined that the man the ground black. In the midst of the gory face probably lived in a comfortable house, perhaps and chest, he saw slimy tentacles and ugly claws with his girlfriend. Every day he’d go to work at protruding from the rough flesh. Subterfuge had the corporation, all smiles. At night he’d return no match for the harsh bite of steel. It was a home and eat dinner, talking with his girlfriend Rakin, after all. about her day. The more he thought, the more the He picked up the dead Rakin’s helmet, as face seemed to come alive. The man certainly was it had no use of it anymore. He noticed that it had no alien. a red tint in its visor as well.

“He remembered thinking that it looked too horrible, like a nightmare in real life.”

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COLOPHON Front cover text is Bell MT 48pt; spine text is UNKNOWN 15pt; back cover text is UNKNOWN 18pt; table of contents title text and numbers are Bell MT 18pt; and the table of contents author text is Gabriola (Regular) 16pt; all title text is Bell MT 36pt; all body text and photo credit lines are Minion Pro (Regular) 12pt. Artistic layouts credited on page using Minion Pro (Regular) 12pt.

The software utilised is Adobe InDesign CC 15.0.

Awards: Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist (2013, 2014) Gold Medal Winner (2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019) Gold Medalist with All-Columbian Honors (2015, 2016)

Editors-in-Chief:

Staff:

(Leaders of design and writing from initial layout to finished product)

(Continues the prestige of the literary magazine by writing and creating) designs)

Obaida Elamin Noah Rubien

Advisors: Ms. Taylor Smith-Kan Ms. Emma Hitchcock

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Jeffrey Yang Will Cordray Austin Zhuang James Wang Ethan Diamond Toby Ma Lleyton Winslow Charlie Aschkenasy Nachikethan Srinivasan

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The Pegasus editorial board thanks the following: Dr. Nagl and Mr. AndrĂŠn for their support; The Haverford School English and Art Department faculty members for their encouragement; Mr. Keefe and the Poetry Club for their frequent contributions; The Haverford School Custodial Team for accommodating our late hours; Lulu Publishing for its press resources; Ms. Smith-Kan and Ms. Hitchcock for their extended patience while advising the meetings; All of our contributors for their hard work and limitless talent.

In an anonymous screening process, the Pegasus staff considers submissions and selects works for publication based on creativity, quality, maturity of style, and variety. Editors reserve the right to make technical corrections, although authors and artists reserve all rights to their individual works. The views expressed in this magazine’s published works are those of individual contributors.

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