scroll 2023_for web_FINAL NEW (2026)

SCROLL 2023

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Cover Artwork

Mission Statement

Front Cover • Britt Nordquist | Looking to the Future, digital photograph Back Cover • Manuela Guzman | Hard to Feel Belonging on the Edge of Loneliness, earthenware Inside Front • Alina Ahmad | Aqueous Palette,oil on canvas Inside Back • Grace Westerberg | Patchwork, earthenware Isabelle Evans | Night in the City, earthenware

The mission of the Holton-Arms School is to cultivate the unique potential of young women through the “education not only of the mind, but of the soul and spirit.”

Philosophy Scroll features writings by students of the Holton-Arms School.

Many pieces come from classroom assignments across grades 7-12; others come from writing assignments at Scroll Club meetings. In making final selections for the magazine, the editorial staff looks for original, powerful, insightful work as well as a range of genres.

They choose artwork that exemplifies the best work of the artists and that also speaks to the ideas or images of the written pieces.

2 Scroll was produced in the Student Publications Room of the Holton-Arms School. © 2023

SCROLL 2023 Volume LXIX editors-in-chief

club presidents

Sophia Hall • Emma Ventimiglia

Sophie Risser • Margot Ruland • Katherine Price

assistant editors

Claire Buchanan • Alicja Mazurkiewicz • Ash Srinivas

adviser

Ms. Melinda Salata

photo editor

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Britt Nordquist

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The Holton-Arms School 7303 River Road • Bethesda, Maryland 20817

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Authors poetry

haikus & tankas

personal narrative

Sophia Hall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Violet Gerson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

Katherine Yoon. . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Mary Loreto. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

Sophie Risser &

Marley Kurey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Ash Srinivas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Emma Ventimiglia. . . . . . . . . 46

Ava Josef. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Phoebe Cohen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Sophia Hall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

Callie Sava. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

Sophia Hall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Eliza Dorton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

Ash Srinivas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Mary Loreto. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

Sophie Risser &

Lucy Weems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

Ash Srinivas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

Emma Ventimiglia . . . . . . . . 47

Josephina Wang. . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

Rachel Tielking . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

EvaJolie Cavalier. . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Calla Doh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54

Phoebe Cohen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

Nora Goodin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Ayleen Acosta. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

Abri Iaquinto . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

Sophia Hall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Phoebe Cohen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74

Karolina Lickunas. . . . . . . . . . . 73

Eliza Dorton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Lucy Weems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76

Annabelle Dennen . . . . . . . . . . 81 Shreya Kella . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82

fiction

Ash Srinivas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 screenplay

Claire Buchanan. . . . . . . . . . . . 64

Mary Loreto. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Sanaa Perry. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

Sophia Hall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 musings

Charlotte Knight. . . . . . . . . . . .39

Nora Hinsch | As a Part of You, I Have Always Belonged, stoneware

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Artists ceramics

drawing & painting

photography

Claudia Moore . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Katherine Yoon. . . . . . . . . . 10-12

Britt Nordquist. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Nora Hinsch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Caroline Best. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Alina Ahmad. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Jincheng Zhao. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Cecilia Holdo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Alina Ahmad. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6-7

Ashley Federowicz. . . . . . . . . . 13

Sadie Schulman. . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Britt Nordquist. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Elisa Eng. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Peyton Hoffman. . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Elena Laguna. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Ava Didden. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Lilly Jamshidi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

Callie Sava. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20-21

Helen Binner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

Peyton Hoffman. . . . . . . . . 36-37

Ruby Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

Jacey Mordkin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Manuela Guzman. . . . . . . . . . . 54

Stephanie Mo . . . . . . . . . . . 28-29

Jacey Mordkin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

Rachel Tielking . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

Alina Ahmad. . . . . . . . . . . . 30-31

EvaJolie Cavalier. . . . . . . . . . . . 56

Sophia Ouanes . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

Britt Nordquist. . . . . . . . . . 32-33

Marley Kurey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

Rachel Tielking . . . . . . . . . 64-66

Callie Sava. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40-41

Elise Attiogbe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72

Maren Blalack. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

Callie Sava. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42-43

Leni Glassman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Grace Westerberg. . . . . . . . . . . 83 Isabelle Evans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Manuela Guzman. . . . . . . . . . . 84 digital art

Emma Ventimiglia. . . . . . . . 16-17 Sophia Hall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

Melinda Salata. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Britt Nordquist. . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

collage

Yvonne Zhu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Phoebe Cohen. . . . . . . . . . . 74-75

Elena Laguna. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Sarah Flynn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Sojo West-Seabrook. . . . . . 48-49 Ella Moore. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58-59 Abri Iaquinto . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Alina Ahmad. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Ruby Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . 70-71 Callie Sava. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76-77 Margaret Sussmann. . . . . . . 80-81

Jincheng Zhao | Must We All Be the Same to Fit In Beautifully, stoneware and porcelain

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Ode to Gratitude For Ms. Susanna Jones on the occasion of her retirement

Alina Ahmad | Floral Display, digital photograph

Gratitude sleeps in a shoebox underneath your bed, tucked between

letters from old friends. She slips into a room with rays of sunlight.

She perches atop candlesticks and flickers with the flames. Gratitude wears crocheted sweaters and knitted scarves, both handmade and hand-me-downs. Each night, she lounges underneath a quilt patchworked with memories: scenes of laughter and joy. When it snows, gratitude wakes up early to sled the neighborhood hills. She revels in the snowflakes, watching the intricate patterns land like planes on the runway of her mittens. She searches for four-leaf clovers in the green meadows of life, she splits a clementine in half to share with friends. Her shoelaces are always double-knotted, bunny-eared, like her older sister taught her. She is fishnets and sequins, an invisible string, a dreamcatcher. She shines like light bouncing off a disco ball. She builds sandcastles just to knock them down. She waves pinwheels in the wind and blows on dandelion seeds to make a wish. When she passes out presents, the gifts are wrapped with newspaper headlines and Sunday funnies.

She always tries to finish the morning crosswords. She doodles in margins and makes magazine clippings. She soars with the sound of music through the air and into the hearts of listeners. She lingers on the pleats of plaid and glistens on the gowns of blue. Gratitude finds a way or makes one.

Gratitude blooms wild as daffodils along Rock Creek Parkway.

She is as fleeting as the cherry blossoms lining the Tidal Basin.

You can find her in any room or any place –– you just have to remember to look.

Sophia Hall 2023 Washington, DC Youth Poet Laureate

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Britt Nordquist | Seine Sunset , digital photograph

citrine sea 1. some autumn eight years ago i must have learned my reflection for the first time, and, upon meeting september again, i must have recognized her smell of raw sugar and concrete i must have thought

i know this, i have known this this year, autumn stains and i think these bruises might stay my thoughts are earth-loud and i cannot write them out in that same gorgeous way as before

3. some hour eight years ago your mother taught me how to fall asleep within minutes she taught me to tense each muscle, then relax it and breathe out with each release, sink into a pattern sink beneath the water

now i’ve lost each murky memory

bundled with twine

to the tide of the citrine sea

2. some evening eight years ago i visited your home for the last time one of your glow sticks broke open in my hand i sat in the dark and stared at my palms mesmerized with this new light you were afraid i’d get sick, but i saw my lifeline a thick shadow within that brilliant green i knew i’d live longer than you

turns out i’ve just now forgotten you

two to a decade after you’d forgotten me

4. some time eight years ago i asked you how you knew which clouds carried rain you told me it was by instinct

the darker they are, the heavier you said

the way the earth molds itself into puddles in

anticipation

sidewalks darken you were shorter than me i wondered at how you were able to reach to feel the clouds coming when i couldn’t

Mary Loreto

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s

M e m d Covid Memories o i r v ie o C

A Personal Narrative

by Katherine Yoon

Quarantined during the COVID 19

pandemic, I felt trapped. Confined to my house and cut off from interaction with my peers, I needed to do anything other than lie in bed scrolling through my phone for hours. Being stuck inside made me reflect on the privilege of going outside without a mask and simply breathing the fresh air. To relieve this pent-up suffocation, I painted myself lying down on the grass, taking off my mask, enjoying the peace

of nature with my hair freely flowing across the grass as it begins to sprout luminescent flowers, conveying my yearning. During lockdown, this painting helped me to find joy and hope for a future without COVID. Katherine Yoon | Composed, oil on canvas

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Midway through

the pandemic, I started to fall into an absentminded state, struggling to get assignments done. After sitting at my desk for hours a day staring at a computer, I had a tough time adjusting to this new way of life. In this painting, I depict myself sitting down at my desk filled with paperwork. People tend to touch their hair as a nervous tic, self-soothing tactic, or mindless habit. Illustrating myself fixing my hair denotes my constant state of distraction as I look out toward a series of static, jagged, ROYGBIV pixels resembling a glitch, the glitch that life became midway through the pandemic.

Katherine Yoon | Glitch Mode, oil on canvas

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My favorite place, my Grandpa’s farm, brings me comfort and life. I

visited my grandfather after COVID had settled down. Upon arriving, I dashed past the viciously barking dogs and their unpleasant odor, then frolicked past the blueberry bushes, plucking a few to savor the sweet, vibrant burst of flavor. I paused to watch my grandpa feed his chickens and gather their eggs. Giggling, I stood outside the fence and saw my grandfather attempt to chase away the one obstinate chicken sitting on her eggs to mark her territory. “Do you want to pet her?” my grandfather asked as he picked up the chicken. Although I was terrified of the chicken, it touched my heart to see my grandfather cradle and smile at it.

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Two Lively Hyacinths stillness of grass against my back warmth of fire settling on my skin my eyes reach up to the clouds, grey canvas painted abstractly with a thick brush, bubblegum pops like fireworks above oceans, fields of marigolds blooming in rows, wisps of fairy dust float in unison with the birds

scanning the sky for glimpses of the past, soft sand rubs against my ankles as I run to the waves, hand interlocks with my sister’s, two lively hyacinths in harmony reflecting the sun as we dive to drink tea in our haven, alone in our shapeless sanctuary, fingers turning to prunes the bonfire cools, smoke rushing to stain the mural warm carbon embraces my mouth, leaving my lips tingling and the sound of those waves echoes in my ears as August fades to September Katherine Price

Ashley Federowicz | Under the Sea, earthenware

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.

to love a nonromantic do you believe in love, darling?

no, i believe in attraction. you’re probably thinking that i’m a pessimist. i think there’s a difference between being a pessimist versus a non-believer. because there are some people who simply don’t believe and others who spend their whole lives searching for a reason to.

maybe. maybe it’s just a way of saying we’ll figure it out along the way. but in a world of seven billion there’s no human who will only bloom for one because springs come and go, but the coral orange tulips will bloom the same. maybe so, but isn’t it better? to twirl under the stars until you’re dizzy one night, rather than not at all. and what do you call that? allowing yourself to be loved, perhaps

yeah, well that’s because it’s one thing to believe and another to experience but what do you think happens when you take faith and pump it with devotion? i call it taking a chance. even when the odds are less forgiving. isn’t that just trust?

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what about you, then do you believe in love? i believe in us.

Ash Srinivas

Elena Laguna | Self-reflection, photography

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Just Breathe A Personal Narrative by Marley Kurey

S

plash!

I hop into the water at exactly 6:00 a.m. Fortunately, it’s much less cold than I expected. Never in my whole high school career did I ever predict that I would be jumping into the Holton pool this early on a random Thursday morning, but here I am. Leading up to this moment, I became more and more stressed every day, questioning my decision to quit indoor track and switch to swimming. I keep reminding myself that if I run three seasons straight again, I could end up with another shin stress fracture like last track season, or possibly worse.

The music turns on, and an assortment of 2010’s hits blares through the speakers. I wait until the first swimmer gets past the first set of flags, fasten my goggles, take a deep breath, duck underwater, and kick off the wall. I break into freestyle, the only stroke I know how to do. A few strokes in, I realize that I can’t actually breathe at all. Panicking, I start to inhale water, choking and swallowing huge gulps of chlorine. I stop before I reach the deep end, standing on my tip toes as the three other swimmers in my lane effortlessly stride past me, the force of their waves pushing me in multiple directions. I can’t stay in the middle of the lane in everyone’s way, so I decide to try again.

Underwater once more, I can only hear the muffled, aggressive beat of the music and the sounds of the other

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swimmers rushing past me. Immediately, I’m inhaling water through my nose again. I gasp for air at the surface, transitioning into a doggy paddle, which I’m pretty sure is the only stroke that’s not allowed in the warm-up. This supposedly six-minute warm-up feels like sixty minutes.

Stopped in the middle of the lane again, I glance to the left where I see Ms. Smith mouthing, “Are you okay?” I don’t respond, just keep paddling to the side of the pool where I can grab onto the edge. The head coach, Malena, comes over, noticing my distress.

“I can’t breathe, I don’t know how to breathe, please help,” I exclaim desperately while out of breath. I explain to her that I am a runner and not a swimmer, so I’m not used to this kind of physical exertion at all.

“Okay, just stay calm and find a rhythm. Just breathe. We’ll keep working on this, don’t worry,” she reassures me.

I restart, kicking off the wall and attempting to find a rhythm in my freestyle stroke. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. For the first lap, I feel like I’m starting to get it. One, two, three, four, breathe.

One, two, gasp. I lose my rhythm. Choking and swallowing water again, I paddle the rest of the way towards the wall as our six-minute warm-up finally concludes.

Why did I sign up for this, I think to myself. I could very well be doing indoor track right now, but I don’t want to risk getting injured again before the spring Emma Ventimiglia | Bubbles, digital art

season, and swim is supposed to make me stronger for track. I remind myself why and how I ended up here, hoping to prevent myself from giving up so early on.

“Okay, we’re going to start moving you all into lanes now,” Ms. Smith shouts over the loud music.

“Marley, move into lane one.”

She doesn’t even have to say it. I’m already ducking under the lane line and bidding farewell to my lane two friends. Mr. Lynch awaits us at the edge of the lane, ready to tackle the obstacle of teaching me how to swim.

“I can’t do it,” I say as I look up towards him.

“Yes, you can; we just need to get your breathing right,” he responds.

No shit. We start off easy with kickboards, holding the board all the way out in front of us, using only our legs to propel us forward.

“Do a fly kick,” he shouts to me.

“What’s a fly kick?”

“Like butterfly.”

“Oh, right.”

I transition from normal freestyle kicks to butterfly, keeping both of my feet together and flapping them up and down. This feels so incredibly unnatural. After a few laps, he lets me switch back to freestyle.

“You might be good at fly!” he tells me.

“I’d like to learn how to swim normally first,” I respond with a sarcastic grin. Next, he tries, and fails, to teach me the kicks for breast stroke. That one definitely does not come as naturally, which I expected. None of this is natural at all for me. I never thought I would say that I miss cross-country workouts, but I would much

rather be suffering through 800 or mile repeats than whatever this torture is.

I look down at my watch. 6:33 a.m.

That’s not possible. I swear at least an hour has passed. I squint at the analog clock up on the wall. The arrows point to somewhere between 6:30 and 6:35 a.m. I can’t do another full hour of this.

We’re finally done with the kickboards and ready to start our (modified) sets. My swim cap starts to slide off.

Mr. Lynch makes me get out of the pool so he can fix it.

I hold the cap to my forehead, and he whips the cap over my hair, which I have tied up quickly in an attempted bun.

“AAHHH,” I exclaim dramatically as his unexpectedly forceful cap application almost pushes me backwards into the water.

“You’re fine,” he says.

I hop back in reluctantly, ready for our next set. He walks us through each instruction, telling me that he only wants me to focus on my breathing.

“All right, guys, your only goal for this set is to make it all the way through,” he announces. I don’t know if I can do that, but I will try my very best. We start our repeat 50s, and he watches me closely as I panic, struggle to breathe, but keep on trying to push through. “You’re a bilateral breather,” he tells me, seemingly impressed. “Even I can’t do that.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You breathe on both sides. Most swimmers can’t do that.”

“Ok…?” I don’t have enough swimmer knowledge to care about what any of this means. He teaches me

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different strategies, and the rest of the time, I practice breathing every four strokes, letting all my air out underwater and taking a deep breath each time I come up for air. I’m getting the hang of it, but I keep burning out and losing all my breath about 10 yards before the end of the 50. He asks us if we’re tired.

“I can’t even breathe outside of the water,” I claim.

“Yes, you can, you’re literally talking,” he responds in an annoyed tone. “Keep going, you’re doing great.”

Each time I come up for air, I hear the loud music and the rushing of the water for a split second.

One, two, three, four, breathe.

“Good job!” Lynch yells at me, walking alongside me as I push through the water. I see his feet every time I turn to the right to gasp for air.

One, two, three, four, breathe.

“Yeah!”

One, two, three, four, breathe.

“So much better!” he times his shouts of encouragement perfectly with every breath I take.

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At long last, after what feels like an eternity of swimming back and forth and back and forth, he lets us hop out of the pool. I urgently yank my goggles and cap off.

“Hey, good job today, you’re already a thousand times better than you were at the start,” Lynch says to me before I head to the locker rooms.

“It’s a low bar,” I reply, feeling validated but also embarrassed.

When I get back to the changing room, I sit down on the wooden bench, wrapped in my towel. I zone out, reflecting on how that first practice may very well have moved to the top of the list of the most humbling experiences of my life. I knew it would be hard, and I expected to start out as one of the worst swimmers, but being the actual worst out of everyone was quite a shock to my ego. I tell myself I can’t quit, because I’ve already made my decision and there’s no turning back now. I have to commit. I thought my natural athleticism would get me through, but it failed, and now I’m left with exhausted lungs, sore arms, and a stomach full of chlorine.

It’s only up from here.

Elisa Eng | Koi Pond, earthenware

The First Frost It was balletic and precise; Left untouched.

Like a secret whispered among strangers.

A single instance: maybe not never again, but never the same.

It ends here.

Clean in its tracing of flower petals, tree branches, car windows, November leaf piles…

Anything that needs warmth in this relentless… (it’s not personal) …yet stoic season.

Or perhaps simply anything left outside.

Even the morning dew is iced over.

Who knew pearls of pure water could be just as beautiful?

Phoebe Cohen

Caroline Best | Fresh Powder, oil on canvas

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clean

Fiction by Ash Srinivas

W

hat time is it?”

Atari glances at his watch. “Nearly five.

Why?” Haewon has been staring at the water for quite a while. His eyes haven’t left the water, cloudy like the sky. They aren’t speaking, opting to dangle their legs in the warm water instead.

The countdown ticks slowly. The only thing Atari really knows about time when he’s with Haewon is that he doesn’t want it to end. Everything moves a fraction faster when you’re happy, everyone knows that, and living in the moment, according to his journalist mother, is living in a cycle of countdowns that never reach zero.

“Thanks— for letting me tag along like this,” Haewon sounds almost apologetic, and it seems like Haewon was just slapped with a faceful of nostalgia.

“Your company’s helping me not feel like crap.”

Atari knows not to pry.

And Haewon wordlessly sits just as Atari turns away to pretend to look at the water, but really he’s waiting, and Haewon’s warmer body presses up against his side, and Atari finds that he likes it. He likes it because it makes him feel grounded. It makes him feel awake.

There’s mellowness and there’s melodrama in this setting, a place that feels like nostalgia where every breath feels a little tinged with the past, and Haewon is thinking about age seven when he hid his broken crayons at the back of the desk, broken from trying to color in the sky too hard. He’s thinking of his box of aspirations, his father telling him that he’d never make it anywhere. He’s thinking of his sister a few weeks before she disappeared after going abroad.

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Some people tattoo their lover’s names onto their skin with the faith that they will never regret it, the ink that inevitably feels like a bad sunburn, the days where you grit your teeth around the words I love you and put a bandaid over their name and the hole in the heart. The mistake made is the belief that this love is perfect.

Like an artist painting with runny watercolor only to create a disaster, growth isn’t perfection, it’s getting back up after failing again. Begin, and begin again.

So maybe a year from now he wouldn’t have seen Haewon again, and Atari will never be able to wear that same jacket without thinking of his cotton candy hair and glassy eyes, but in Atari’s mind, one day, things will end up all right.

Bring in Song Haewon: Atari’s saving grace.

“You’re crying.”

There are tears streaming down Haewon’s face, the time of glitter tears that don’t leave until hours after the break down. He laughs, and it’s snotty and sad; it shakes his shoulders and each noise sounds like a sob.

“I haven’t cried this randomly in years, it’s so ugly.”

“You’re pretty ugly right now,” Atari responds softly. “Crying and all. Pretending you’re okay.”

Haewon laughs, “I’m not crying,” into a cough.

“It’s sweat.”, “Totally.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Still ugly, though.”

“Oh, screw you,” Haewon shoves Atari hard, too hard, hard enough that he slips into the warm water of the springs, splashing and gasping through his surprise. Above him, Haewon laughs hard enough to give someone a stomachache.

Title of Piece author

F

irst para text

And a slap of cold water hits him in the face from Atari’s cupped palms, pruned as he gathers the lukewarm water.

He grabs Haewon’s ankle roughly and pulls him into the blue water next to him, hand tight and sure on his wrist.

And when he emerges, Haewon’s bangs are dripping and dark, and everything about this is ridiculous, but it’s exactly what he needs right now, to forget that he’s an adult and that being an adult means that it’s okay to still have feelings.

That, sometimes, it’s okay to not be fine. It all comes down to how you perceive it: one moment of happiness that makes the bad days worth it, or one too many bad days that makes everything crumble.

The water begins spilling out and across the smooth stones that border the spring as Haewon throws water right back at him, and with the growing soppy wetness covering their clothes, Haewon takes a clumsy step back and slips, right off his feet and goes flying backwards. But Atari catches him easily by the wrists with his icy hands like he’d seen it coming and uses that chance to cage Haewon against the rock, cupping a fresh handful of water. The only warning Haewon gets is an evil giggle as Atari smashes the water against his face, into his mouth so it’s streaming down his cheeks. His clothes are cold and wet, but he’s so warm.

“Eat that,” Atari laughs as Haewon squirms away, spitting and staring in disgust down at the water.

“Atari, what the hell?”

Then Atari kisses him hard in the water, all bitter and bubbly and salty with breath smelling like green tea and egg, says, “What a mess, what a mess.” Haewon kisses him back through the lukewarm water and

raindrops, water dripping in his eyes, the water dripping down Atari’s torso, water dripping from Haewon’s flooded eyes. Haewon then wraps arms around his body and hugs him close, says, “Such a mess,” but this mess is exactly what Atari needs right now.

Under all that warm water and overthinking and pretending nothing is wrong, Atari and Haewon stand completely defenseless and open under the water as humans just trying to survive.

Survival isn’t just an equation. There’s infinite methods to the madness. And the successful people are the ones who already sold their souls to the devil.

At the age of eight, all there is to know is that good things are sweet. At this age, Atari’s young, undeveloped mind was supposed to believe in ideal exaggerations and spoon-fed lies. Haewon ended up hiding all the crayons he broke from coloring the mountains too hard at the very back of his desk, afraid that he’d get punished in front those fake friends.

What comes after this youthful vulnerability is that you grow up and realize how screwed up you were as a child, shaped by a society with standards too high to follow through properly but they still force you to try — biting down on the kitchen towel while you file your fingernails down to the cuticle. That’s the way Atari grew up, at least. He’s bad at mature commitment because nothing ever felt right, so he runs instead.

That, right there, gives you two boys with lack of a perfectly functioning conscience that doesn’t necessarily come with insurance coverage either.

But when you’re this much of a mess, like Haewon and Atari splashing cold water at each other in a warm spring, you can find someone to hold tight to you and say we’ll clean it up, trust me,

Callie Sava | Self-Reflection, digital photograph

we’ll clean it all up.

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Cecilia Holdo | Catnap, oil on canvas

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The Absolute

Say that this storm will soon cease, and the

oars we use to paddle back to the shore for shelter are just our words, reaching out across the abyss. Say that those words will one day become more than whispers, that speaking is not just for saying ‘sorry.’ Say that all this waiting and weathering and whining wasn’t for nothing. Say that you will hold me through the night. Say that I am a spoon and you will be my bowl, I will only ever hold a fraction of your sorrows. Say that when sleep creeps up the stairs like a cat with great yellow eyes, we will surrender and reach out to stroke its humble head, listen to its sweet rumbling Purr, say that when love comes barreling at us like a pothole, we will hold on to the handlebars as best we can. Say that you will let me stay and write poetry for you in exchange for a soft pillow and an empty journal. Say that you will let me stay, even in the cupboard underneath the sink, or the nook above the washing machine, I really am quite small.

Say that I can steal clothes that you used to wear in the nineties and you won’t get mad. Say that we will turn our struggles into strength, our wounds into wisdom. Say that the glow-in-the-dark stars you pasted on the ceiling can light the glow-in-the-dark stories that I write, say that we are radioactive stardust decaying at a rate so fast it seems like we are standing still, silent, unable to indulge in anything but the quiet gentle gravitational tug between a mother and a daughter, the pull that says there is no love softer than this.

Sophia Hall

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nvas

Ballet Class versus Title ofa Ten-year-old Piece Girl A Personal Narrative author by Ava Josef

IF

adjust irst para my coral leotard as I step into the pristine room with spotless text mirrors on all the surrounding walls. The instructor, Miss Stephanie, with a too-tight bun and tootight smile motions us into the room.

“Welcome in, girls! Find your spot on the floor and begin stretching,” her soft voice echoes across the beige room.

I run over to my friend, Hayley, and immediately see Miss Stephanie’s smile get tighter and hear her voice become stern.

“Walk, girls, be graceful, please.”

I slow my excited jog to a poised walk as I join Hayley for our warm-up stretches.

“Hi!!!”

“Hi, Ava!” She whispers in the tone of a yell. I simply yell. The ballet teacher glares at me. I adjust my voice to fit the tone of the room.

“How are you?”

“I’m good. I have three more classes after this one,” she replies, a happy smile on her face.

“Oh my God, I cannot even imagine! I feel so tired and bored already.”

“I don’t mind! I love to dance.”

“Yeah! No, for sure. Totally! Me too!” I insist.

I lie. Plain and simple.

We begin to stretch, and I feel my muscles constrict and pull. I extend my legs in an attempt to do the splits, and the floor seems miles away. I look in the mirror and

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see the girls around me succeed at the splits, contorting their bodies like it is as easy as breathing.

Miss Stephanie, disguising herself as a pleasant woman, walks around the room and “oohs” and “aahs” at all the other girls.

“Beautiful développe, Sofia.”

“Great extension, Mia!” “Lovely work, Hayley.”

Until she gets to me. My brows furrow in concentration and my legs tremble. She cringes at the first sight of my sad attempt.

“Honey, try to extend your legs a little farther and reach.”

“I’m trying, Miss Stephanie,” I groan.

“You should probably practice this some more at home, yeah? I mean, look at all the other girls. Discipline is the key to ballet.”

“Yeah! No, for sure. I will totally work on that.”

I lie. Plain and simple.

As a fourth grader, I dread my time at C-Unit Studio throughout the whole day. C-Unit is a small studio tucked into the heart of Bethesda behind Trader Joe’s and Target off Wisconsin Avenue. The studio requires every student to take ballet classes before jazz, and I find myself regretting having my mom sign me up for any classes in the first place.

We step to the barre. Mirrors once again surround me and highlight my every insecurity. Familiar yet unknown classical music plays throughout the room as I look around

Ruby Miller | Princess, digital photograph

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to match my sporadic movements to the seemingly efmy frizzy, tangled ponytail into a perfectly sculpted fortless dancing of the other ten-year-olds. bun. My arms ache as I try to comb each loose strand “Plie, stretch, plie, stretch.” Miss Stephanie’s voice and twirl it up neatly. I feel clumps on the back of my drones on as I grimace in my attempts to be as graceful head and see various strands resisting the tamed position as the other girls.

I force my thick brown “Don’t forget to hair into. smile,” she adds.

“How was your day The other girls smile today?” my mom asks as softly, highlighting their her afternoon of schleprosy cheeks or dimples. ping her children begins.

I smile, only highlight“Oh, you know, it ing my protruding, metal was good! I just don’t feel braces and the wide gap great right now .…” I try between my two front to make my voice sound teeth. shaky to further illustrate She walks over to me the point of my ailments. again with a calm yet stern “Maybe dance will look in her eye. make you feel better. I “Careful, Ava, don’t brought you a snack!” forget to suck in your “Thanks! I just don’t stomach.” know if I feel up for the “Of course, sorry.” I class today. I’m really grimace at myself in the tired and my stomach leotard and glare at the hurts.” hands of the clock, wishShe doesn’t buy my ing them to move faster. act. I add in a cough and Earlier today, my hold my stomach to try to Peyton Hoffman| Pity Party, pastel on paper mom picked me up to win her over. arrive on time for the class “Ok, why don’t you go that promptly started at 2:30 p.m. Our weekly car ride to dance class, and then after, you can rest. If you start through Kensington into Bethesda consists of me changto feel really sick, you can call me on your phone during ing from my teal leggings and sparkly shirt from Justice a break. I spend a lot of time and money on these classes into scratchy tights and a coral leotard. I attempt to turn for you.”

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“Yeah, no, for sure. Dance will certainly make me feel better.”

I lie. Plain and simple.

I feel guilty about trying to get out of something my mom pays so much for. Each year, I dread dance class, but when the recital arrives, I do feel exhilarated performing on stage, even though the choreographers always place me in the last row at the back. And every year, I convince myself that next year will be better. I have yet to prove myself correct.

My mom’s response was not what I wanted. I hoped she would smile at me, turn the car around, and let us stop at Panera on the way home.

I removed my hands from my stomach, which has now begun to actually hurt with nerves. I decided to just suck it up for the next hour and a half, and I watched the buildings pass by us. I became jealous of the people walking to their next destination. They were not on their way to ballet class, so their lives must be significantly better than mine.

Now, during class, the piano’s mellowed melody drones on as we move from the barre to learning a routine. I mistakenly take another look in the mirror, seeing my unfortunate attempt at a bun and my even more

unfortunate attempt at extending my leg in an arabesque (which should be French for “unnatural”).

Finally, the hands on the clock reluctantly move from three to four, and from fifty-nine to zero. My breath releases, and I feel my muscles relax. My hands fall at my sides, and my heels touch the floor. My arched back becomes slouched again, and I can hardly contain my excitement.

“All right, girls, it’s time to go. Thank you for all of your hard work today,” Miss Stephanie says as she turns off the music.

I sprint out the door like an animal released from its cage. I rip out my bun and let my imperfect, tangled hair fall onto my shoulders. I change out of my dull leotard into my sparkly, neon outfit, and I feel like myself again.

After the dreadful part of the day, the best part waits for me outside the studio. My dad, still in his clothes from work, holds his briefcase and my favorite pretzel roll from Trader Joe’s. I run up to him, wrap my arms around his waist, and smile, wide gap, metal braces, and all.

“How was your day today, sweetheart?”

“Much better now,” I say.

I don’t have to lie this time.

Ava Didden | Bunnies, earthenware

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Sturgeon Moon: An Excerpt Mary Loreto and Ash Srinivas (Scene: A lake house in Glover, Vermont; CHARACTERS: LOUISE MARLOWE ELLIS, seventeen, and BRIANNA JODIE ROSAND, MARLOWE’s ex-girlfriend) (Lights change. It’s now three-thirty in the afternoon.)

MARLOWE: In some way, I guess, I was expecting something like this to happen.

It didn’t make sense to me that I was born in between all these major world events, if that makes sense? And, I guess I was waiting for something tragic — or, or life-changing, or, I don’t know, significant to happen to me, too. Tragedy makes people interesting. It gives them something to talk about.

BRIA: But we won’t be able to talk about this.

At least not after it’s over.

MARLOWE: Well, we’re talking about it now. It’s hard for me to grasp the “after” concept. I don’t really know how to talk … think … about it.

Katherine Yoon | title of piece, digital photograph

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(beat) I guess what I’m trying to say is that it felt before that we, like humanity we, was just droning on lazily waiting for some big change. And I was stuck in that time in-between. Just expected to live and die without anything really happening to me, and that would’ve been it.

BRIA: I get that.

MARLOWE: Can I ask you something? I know we just did this, but there’s another — BRIA : Now’s the time.

MARLOWE: Did you love me?

BRIA: Of course I did.

MARLOWE: (after a pause) What did it feel like?

STEPH MO’S CHORES

MARLOWE: To love me.

BRIA: It felt like — like. Like this.

(BRIA gestures around) MARLOWE: What do you mean?

BRIA: Like the world was f *@#ing falling around me. Like everything could’ve ended at any moment. And you just had to accept it. There’s nothing to do but to accept it. It did end. But I still loved you.

MARLOWE: I didn’t think you did.

Are you going to ask me the same question?

How it felt to love you?

BRIA: No. I think I already know.

(It’s four. Lights shift.)

MARLOWE: Holy shit, is that it? Is that it, right there?

BRIA: That’s it. That’s, it’s, it’s so — MARLOWE: Pretty.

BRIA: (looking at MARLOWE) Beautiful.

MARLOWE: Yeah.

BRIA: I did. And I’m sorry.

MARLOWE: (gently, looking at the sky, then at BRIA) I forgive you. (pause)

They lock eyes.

BRIA rests her head on MARLOWE’s shoulder.

The world falls around them.

(FADE TO BLACK)

Stephanie Mo | Chores, silver gelatin print

BRIA: To love?

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Meet TitleMy of Piece Father A Personal Narrative author by Callie Sava

IF

t’s a typical afternoon with muffled music echoing irst para through my house. My dad is upstairs in his studio, text one of the biggest rooms in the house. He’s cranked the stereo’s volume knob all the way to the right, so my mom has shut the three doors nearest the studio so the rest of us can hear ourselves think. I’m sitting at the kitchen island doing homework when I notice a particularly vulgar Doja Cat song playing from upstairs. I start toward the studio to tease my dad for his song choice, but by the time I get up the stairs, the song has ended and the stereo is playing the next one in the queue, which, naturally, is Beethoven’s Clarinet Concerto. Dad is seated in front of his desktop computer, which has two separate monitors. The left is littered with half a dozen work emails and a PowerPoint for an upcoming trauma surgery conference. But he’s looking at the screen on the right, where he’s pulled up a leatherwork tutorial on YouTube. A few feet of leather spill out of his lap and onto the floor as he uses surgical stitches to bind together two panels that will become a duffel bag.

Next to his chair, a painting is drying. It’s a portrait of my grandma, one to add to the collection of family paintings that starkly contrasts with his portfolio of medical ones.

Brains, hands, and a periodic table, all collaged with cutouts from surgical textbooks, decorate much of our house.

“Why don’t you bring those paintings to your office?”

I ask.

“People at work can’t know I paint,” he replies. “Surgeons aren’t supposed to have hobbies.”

After gulping down my last bite of cereal, I place my

bowl on top of the growing, precarious pile of dishes next to the sink. The sink itself is already full, and the mess has spilled over onto the counter, which is covered in Dad’s scattered coffee grounds from earlier this morning. He’d woken up early to start in on his home improvement project of the weekend and doesn’t care that he’s left the home itself in complete disarray.

I know that he has chores lined up for me this morning. If I don’t ask what they are now, he’ll spring them on me at 7 p.m.

So, after checking the backyard and garage, I find him in front of the house, planting bushes by the side of the street. He points to the container of pesticide by the house and tells me to spray it on the lawn. It’s Roundup.

“Isn’t that a carcinogen?” I ask skeptically.

“You’ll be fine. You can prevent the weeds with Roundup today, or you can pull them by hand next weekend.”

I roll my eyes and turn back toward the house to pick out my outfit.

In my room, I pull the ugliest t-shirt and baggy Nike shorts from the bottom of

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A

their respective drawers. I retrieve my mom’s multicolor Asics from the mudroom because I refuse to expose my own white tennis shoes to a day of yard work. I’m officially in chore uniform, as is my dad.

Dad’s closet is diverse, allowing him to dress for multiple personas in a single day. My brother and I have assigned each clothing style a personality.

Chore Dad’s t-shirt and shorts are caked in mud, and he’s probably bleeding in at least one spot from a run-in with the power saw. You duck into another room when you hear him coming because he’s about to ask you to weed the pool deck. Work Dad wears a button-up, slacks, and dress shoes. He will shush you and shoo you away because he’s on the phone. Casual Dad is smiling in jeans and a sweater, off to a dinner party. He revels in picking the perfect coat for the occasion, and asks for your approval of his outfit. Cigar Dad sits on the porch in his father’s red and black checkered jacket reserved for these

Alina Ahmad | Figures, silver gelatin print

kinds of nights. You peek your head out to say good night and hesitate to walk closer because the coat reeks of tobacco. But you end up sitting down next to him anyway, just when you really should be getting to bed, because Cigar Dad will always draw you in with another profound conversation.

This morning, though, charming Cigar Dad is nowhere to be found as Chore Dad takes center stage. He shows me how to pump the Roundup container to build up the necessary pressure to spray plants a few feet away.

I seize my trusty bucket of herbicide and disappear into the backyard while my dad remains at the side of the road. I always prefer working in the backyard because then I don’t have to interact with any neighbors. I want my privacy.

I pump the Roundup, spray the flower beds, carry the container up the deck stairs, fill it with more herbicide and water, lug the fresh mixture down the stairs, and repeat. As the chemical stench surrounds me and the (potentially toxic?) solution splashes against my legs, I couldn’t be more at peace. I find an odd serenity in doing this type of job. The weather is perfect and the neighborhood peaceful. I always dread outdoor chores, but once I get started each weekend, I have the same epiphany: manual labor beats doing homework.

When I finish up in the back, I return to the driveway to quickly spray the front yard. I’ve started on the first section when I notice two neighbors approaching on our side of the road. They’re the parents of a boy in my grade from my old school. This mortifies me. God forbid they tell their son that they saw me doing chores in this embarrassing outfit. I dart into the garage, pretending to be looking for a pair of gloves. But as I watch

31

my dad cheerfully stand up and greet them, I realize I isn’t embarrassed at all. He’s proud to be so industrious. should be proud to be caught working hard on what After all, his motto when it comes to landscaping is, could be a lazy Sunday morning. I step back into view “Why would I hire someone to do something I can do and wave as they pass our house. myself ?”

Once they’ve walked further up the road, my dad On that note, I ask him, “So, might you clean up the turns to me. mess you left in “There sure are the kitchen?” a lot of people He chuckles. out and about “Nah, the this morning,” cleaners will do he declares. that tomor“Like who row.” else?” I ask.

Thunder “I talked shook the to Mrs. White house and from across the lightning street. She asked flashed across what company the sky. It was I work for.” my favorite “What do you weather to mean? Like, enjoy from what hospital a comfortyou work at?” able distance.

“No, like she My mom, thought I was a brother, and I hired gardener.” were snuggled “Oh. That’s in a corner so awkward.” playing board Britt Nordquist | Family Portrait, silver gelatin print “Yeah, for games when her. I honwe noticed my estly felt bad for her; she was so embarrassed when she dad starting to unlock the back door. “Where are you realized I’m the guy who’s had her over for dinner and going?” we asked. picked her kids up from camp.” Of course, my dad “Outside,” he replied nonchalantly. He opened

32

the door to the back deck and strode towards the long mom mused at how I spent a solid thirty seconds washwooden table. In a matter of seconds, he was stretched ing my hands. “Looks like your doctor dad taught you across the table, laying on his back, gazing up at the how to wash your hands!” she said. Little did she know ominous sky. I darted to the door. my dad encouraged me to wash them for a fraction of “What are you doing?” I screamed over the roar of that time because “the world is feces, get used to it.” the rain.

Another bolt of lightning split the sky. “Dad, please!

“Enjoying nature!” He called Please come back in!” At this point, I was back. crying, terrified that my dad was about “No! You’re gonna get to die. struck by lightning!” I My anxiety only fueled him, as he yelled. I didn’t underrelished a chance to make me conquer stand why he was doing my fears. After all, this was the guy something so dangerwho had once appeared outside my ous. He was a safety bedroom bleeding out of his head like freak. My brother and a scene from a horror movie and made I spent our childhood me treat the wound so I would learn gaping at our next-door how to stop bleeding. neighbor’s trampoline, “I’m fine, I promise!” he shouted. which we were never He continued to lie on the table for anallowed on. At age eight, other minute, sitting up only when he I had to research the U.S. decided he’d gotten his Department of Transpornature fix. He walked tation’s height guidelines over to the door for child booster seats where I waited to convince my dad nervously, and he I could ride in a car explained how without one. I credit he could measure him with my persistent, the distance of the Britt Nordquist | Stuck, silver gelatin print ingrained fear of ice skatlightning by counting the secing without a helmet. His approach toward safety was onds between it and the sound of thunder. He reached rooted in his job. He’d seen too many accidents. for my hand and I stepped outside, wiping a tear from Yet his caution was selective, following a pattern I my cheek. I didn’t mind getting wet; I loved the rain. could never predict. One time at a playdate, my friend’s

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Lilly Jamshidi | Green Thoughts, oil on canvas

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and i follow (clara) settled in the more delicate branches of the winter-dulled maple tree outside my bedroom window is the pair of us at eleven you are velcro water sandals, even this season royal purple, stiff headbands that would soothe the childhood migraines that you didn’t think i believed in, you are the calluses you’d collect like dimes after lunch, you are raspberry leaf tea from the cabinet over your stove, the smell of honeysuckle syrup, back when we weren’t afraid of bugs and dirt and fertilizer spray and you are the feeling of stumbling behind in snow you are school bus green leather, thin as magazine paper back when we both thought we’d be fashion designers before you decided engineer and i decided something stable we would handpick our futures like grapefruits at the grocery store we shared half a mile down our street to pick between writer or scientist or teacher was the same as choosing green tint or orange or red ripe or rotting on the inside, we couldn’t tell you always seemed to choose right, though, tapping your bit-down nails on the grapefruit’s sturdy skin

so i’d follow you slice the fruit open along its width with the big knife and add honey where you instructed tease out sections and watch you pull apart your sticky, juice-stained fingers so that you’d have more freedom to speak with your hands to call us sisters and remain unashamed you are the small promise as i hold the carabiner attached to the bottom cuff of your puffer jacket that you will guide me higher than i’ve ever been splinters and scabs are the ribbons of achievement you fasten to my shirt i feel the safety pin’s fine wire on my chest and the cool wind searching for us underneath the peeling soles of my shoes you pull yourself up and i follow Mary Loreto

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No Monsoon A Peresonal Narrative by Ash Srinivas

FACT: I like rain.

OPINION: Monsoon is the best season.

FACT: There is no monsoon in Maryland.

OPINION: I wish there was.

The monsoon lasts from June to September — because in Mumbai, instead of winter, there is summer.

And instead of spring, there is summer. Instead of autumn, there is summer, and instead of summer, there is monsoon.

And when there is monsoon, there is rain.

The rains in Mumbai disappoint the tourists (not that many tourists land in India desperate to see the world’s most underwhelming metropolis). To the residents of my hometown, the rains were less disappointing and more annoying — think

36

about it like perpetual dampness sticking to your back, like you submerged yourself into a day-old, lukewarm bath.

FACT: Pollution clouds monsoon raindrops, making them grey, brown, and somewhat unclean. But to me, they’re clean enough.

FACT: As a kid, I used to play in the monsoon rains.

FACT: I’d kill to do it again.

I used to take drama classes at the small rec center near my little kindergarten — but there’s only so much “drama” you can teach a sixyear-old. Instead, we played games: four corners,

freeze dance, bandaid, and tag.

FACT: The sun tended to set at five. And during the Junes and Julys and Augusts I spent inside the small children’s rec center, it rained.

FACT: The floods rarely get bad in the city.

(SECRET: I like it when they do.)

Peyton Hoffman | Stream of Consciousness, oil on canvas

I remember one warm, wet monsoon night when my nanny came to pick me up from my little drama class, rain thundering on the roof like a horse ridden by gravity. Our drama classroom didn’t have windows, so I had no idea how bad it looked or how high the water had risen.

Twenty-one with dark hair, Rosie stood at five foot two with the golden proportions of twenty percent legs, thirty percent eyelashes, and fifty percent vocal capabilities. As I exited the center onto the porch, I waited for Rosie to finish arguing in vicious Nepali over the phone. Her hair was wet; it was so classic of Rosie to never bring an umbrella even though it was probably raining when she left to pick me up.

that pools underneath. It felt like I was standing atop a dock. The flood had reached its peak.

Rosie had one arm loosely on my shoulder, and the other shielding her eyes as she squinted through the rain to find the car. I shrugged her off quickly and made a break down the stairs for the water.

Stomping into the mud, I laughed gleefully. I wanted to play, and play, and play. I readied myself to trudge through the polluted water, wetting my shorts and shoes while the crazed wind ripped through the trees. I skimmed the surface of the flood with my hands.

The water swirled into a sludge of green and brown (but still water, nonetheless).

FACT: The average six-year-old stands at a steady 115 centimeters.

OPINION: Despite being bad at using them, the universe did grant me the gift of long, noodly limbs.

MEMORY: When we exited the building, the water came halfway up my thighs.

FACT: I’m a water sign. Cancer.

FACT: I don’t carry umbrellas, even when I know it’ll rain.

MEMORY: Rosie radiated heat like a human furnace, so I never had to be cold.

She stuck her phone in her back pocket and called me forward.

The wooden planks of the little porch creaked under my weight, and through the cracks, I could see the water

OPINION: I definitely like water more than other cancers.

FACT: I don’t actually believe in zodiac signs.

OPINION: People believe the things they want to.

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Having been in the body of a stubborn child, anyone can imagine my anger as Rosie yanked me from the water and dangled me in the air like a boneless ragdoll.

FACT: Children are surprisingly durable.

She pulled me all the way up and held me above the water. I looked at her questioningly, kicking so my crocs would cause ripples on the surface. Her mouth moved as her wet hair slapped around her face, the rain making it too difficult for me to make out her words. My indignation turned to rage as she carried me over the water instead of allowing me to walk in it. To me, the water was a gift from Lord Krishna, and with the fun he had sent me, I could live in a child’s fantasy and pretend to part the water like gods part the seas.

OPINION: Children are bratty.

FACT: I was a brat.

I screamed and kicked in her hold, her bruising grip not relenting as she half-walked and half-dragged herself to the parking lot where the water had risen to completely submerge the wheels of our car. She wrangled and threw me into the backseat before leaning against the car door to catch her breath.

Why can’t I play? The rain poured harder as I kicked off my soppy sandals.

It’s dirty, Akshu.

FACT: Polluted water carries questionable diseases and a few parasites.

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Well, no shit, genius.

QUESTION: What happened to bodily autonomy?

OPINION: You probably shouldn’t have bodily autonomy at age six.

GUESS: If I had autonomy at age six, I probably would have attempted surgery to become a very certain

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large cat whose name starts with S and ends with imba.

TRIVIA: Who likes water?

ANSWER: Big cats.

OPINION: Children are bratty.

FACT: If I had known any good curse words, I would have dropped them on her at that moment.

I didn’t curse; however, I used her moment of rest to my advantage and slid from the seat back into the flood like it were a pool, squealing in delight as I dragged my legs around under the water.

FACT: Rosie was not happy.

FACT: I did not care.

OPINION: I would not blame her now if she tried to drown me in that flood.

OPINION: Maybe it’s a good thing she didn’t.

FACT: Now, when it rains and I decide to go spin underneath the falling water, I think back to that moment in the Mumbai floods and wonder when I will get another heart-shaping moment like that. When I will get another moment where the warmness of the rain can soften my soul and mold it into a singular raindrop.

FACT: The rain is clear and cool in Bethesda.

OPINION: It’s not the same.

I love standing soaked under rainfall. I love spinning and laughing while my socks get unsalvageably wet and my jeans become difficult to peel off, leaving my thighs an angry red. I love recalling that moment so, so far back in time, craving that weightless, grounding, content, wet, watery feeling.

FACT: There is no monsoon in Maryland.

OPINION: I wish there was.

ts o g D f n e t h Looki or Musings by Charlotte Knight

T

he artistry of applying small dots of paint upon a canvas to create a piece of art is called pointillism.

George Seurat created the art form, made famous by his work A Sunday on La Grande Jatte —1884. While this may seem like any other painting, it took him 32 years to paint due to the tediouness of pointillism.

Each dot must be identical in size and precisely measured in order to create the illusion of a normal painting, disguising all of the time and effort that went into the piece.

Walking through a museum one may not recognize a painting as pointillism from far away; it takes a few steps closer to see the dots.

Pointillism is within people all around us. They spend all of their time measuring and analyzing, making life look effortless; everything they do and say is deliberate and well

thought out. They’re perfectionists, but they always pretend everything’s unchallenging and undercontrol. It’s easy to be fooled, thinking their lives must be easier than your own,

but if you have a good eye, and look close enough, you’ll see the dots.

39 Yvonne Zhu | Geometry , Yarn on paper

OLTREMARE

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Callie Sava | Carla, digital photograph

give me a song. whatever. something that– touches you.

like what?

oltremare.

einaudi? i’m not surprised. shut up and play it. it’s good. i think pain writes good music. fine. oh. are you okay? why?

because you’re crying.

olt

re m

e l t re m a re a re o o l t re m a re o l t r

m a re

o l t re

o l t re m a re o l t re m a r m a re

e ol

t re

re ma

o l t re

m a re o l t re m a re

because because because i feel like i’m thirteen years old again and messing up the same measure, over and over, and not realizing that piano already became forte while —

in another universe, there is a me that doesn’t cry over the sound of nostalgia over someone i may have never even met, pretending that the sound of the piano doesn’t make a dormant piece of my heart erupt and flood my entire body with an incomprehensible desire to press myself into the keys until we become one Ash Srinivas

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Title of Piece author

F

irst para text

A Personal Narrative

by Lucy Weems

Callie Sava | Candy Rain, digital photograph

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M

atthew, in his matching navy-blue shark swim trunks and rash guard, runs up to me, shouting “Coach Lucy, Coach Lucy, are you going to the pool today?” He’s seven years old, with short blonde hair and wide blue eyes, and he’s a little less than four feet tall.

I look over at Maia, who’s grinning ear to ear. She says, “Coach Lucy is definitely going in the pool today, I’m SO sorry I can’t. I just got my wisdom teeth out!” Lies.

She got them out a week ago, and the doctor said it was fine for her to hop in the pool with the kids. To be fair, I would do the same. I know this from our weekly Starbucks, long runs, and rants to each other. We’ve been friends forever, and this summer has meant everything to us.

It’s day five of pool duty for me, 12:40 p.m. on a Friday, and I’ve begun to feel my exhaustion. I stand up, chair screeching back against the stone tile, and grab my swimsuit. On my way to the locker room, Paige Merril, a lifeguard I’ve known for years, tells me good luck. I’ll need more than that. I change, struggling out of sweaty tennis clothes and old, faded red and white Nike tennis shoes that have a hole right through the sole. Walking out of the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is sweat-glued to my skull, my tan lines are crisp and unaltered, and clay creeps up my legs like vines on a tree. My skin is tinted pink, because I always forget my sunscreen, a habit I’ve kept since coming to this very camp for years. Maia has always been a zinc sunscreen kid and is endlessly mad at me for my lack of protection. Every once in a while, she’ll point out a spot on my arm or back and ask, “Is this new? Get that checked out.” Let’s do this. The deck burns my feet as I walk out, in a red and blue one-piece that cuts into my shoulders, way too small but my only option. And there they are, the little monsters.

My job as a tennis camp counselor includes hopping in the pool with them to bond even more with the little kids so they actually like being here. I would say that I am successful. Any and every seven- to ten-year-old truly enjoys these daily opportunities to play attack the teacher. I personally do not enjoy these opportunities, at all.

43

Matthew, potentially my favorite camper, but on very thin ice after today, yells, “Coach Lucy, why’d it take you so long!” I sigh, hop in, and prepare my enthusiastic, incredibly happy alter ego. We start with a game of Marco Polo. Naturally, I am it first, and I cheat to make it fun for me. We end up in the deep end when I hear huffing and puffing behind me. Matthew isn’t on the swimming level of the big kids, but he gives it his all, and when he reaches me, he puts his hands on my arm, which rests on the edge of the pool, the only thing keeping me afloat, to take a quick rest. This is good because usually he hops on my back in the deep end and expects me to swim and not drown. I can tell he’s proud of himself for coming this far, but he’ll never admit that he needs help. His older brother, Bryan, who, I kid you not, looks exactly like a very young Cole Sprouse, is nine years old and has way too much confidence as he dives in and out of the water. The similarity is terrifying. Then Maia comes over and tells everyone, all 14 of them, to start attacking me because I’ve become a zombie. This is from two days ago when the zombie game started.

Here are the rules. One, I am the chief zombie, I cannot be saved via vaccination, and my job is to stick my arms up and start yelling, “Brains!” and chasing (slowly) after everyone to make them zombies. Two, normal rules don’t apply to everyone else. This game ends with me sputtering at the bottom of the pool.

44 44

I glare at Maia and she grins, mouthing, “Sorry.” She’s not sorry.

The sun beating down on my shoulders, I feel my skin burning to a crisp as I throw my arms up and go into slow motion.

Matthew and Bryan tackle me first. Mathew jumps on my back and starts yelling, “Die, zombie!” as Bryan starts splashing me, and everything escalates. A minute later, I’ve got a kid on each arm, Anna and Johnny, trying to drag me down, Matthew on my back, Bryan hanging onto my neck, and they’re all using their very limited critical thinking skills to determine the best way to take me down. I am so glad to be tall at this moment. The Skyscraper that I am, I sink and jump up, eliciting screams.

The zombie game gets a lot worse when Jules dives under and grabs my ankles. Jules is a troublemaker.

She constantly grabs my butt and says, “Got your butt!

Haha!” even though I’ve told her to stop. So obviously she decided to grab at my legs. I do not like her. It’s irrational to not like a small kid, but sometimes I have trouble with that. Everything goes in slow motion, and then I’m falling.

The skyscraper’s going down, and everyone runs away. Matthew, ever the kindest, stays on my back making it much more difficult to get back up.

I break through to the surface, yelling zombie noises (I assume) and searching for my next target with a “RHAAAAA.” Anna, who’s seven years old, quiet, shy, and every counselor’s dream, gives me a wide-eyed look and starts running for her life. I’m so good at my job. I glance at the clock, 1:17 p.m.

Oh thank God. But just as I’m about to yell, “Tennis camp out of the pool and get changed,” I’m taken down by a teamup, including Anna. I’m shocked. At the start of the week she would have never betrayed me like this. Her wide, tooth-gapped, sheepish grin is contagious, and I grin right before I smack into the water. I’m once again at the bottom of the pool, and this time I didn’t get the chance to breathe before going down. Now I’m really sputtering. Bewildered, I barely shout, “GO CHANGE” before those same three culprits cling to me, trying their best to keep me in the pool. I take one monstrous step after another toward the stairs, dragged down every step of the way. I collapse on the top stair. I still have two of them holding on for dear life around my legs.

I give up.

I sit on the deck, burnt, tired, every part of my body going numb with pure exhaustion, and I can’t bring myself to pry them off of me. Finally, they lose interest and I’m able to get out. Changing in the locker room, I’m hit with the weight of this week. Peeling off my swimsuit as the humidity of the locker room covers me with sweat, I realize that I need another decompression session after today. This is when I get home, sit on the curb of the street, and stare into the distance for twenty or so minutes. I use the tiny shower mirror in the locker room to inspect myself for damage and am happy to note that there’s only a bleeding scrape on my back and some skin torn off on my hand, but that one is on me. My blisters have not been doing very well, it’s been months since I used a racquet this frequently, and as I stub-

bornly refuse to put on new, cushioned grips, the result is blood and skin. My eyes, however, are bloodshot and stinging, with purplish bags under them. I grab my things from the pool deck to prepare myself for the rest of camp, and Maia laughs at my sunburnt face and red eyes.

We clean up everything and collect all the children who wander after us like little ducklings. I feel a tiny hand around my wrist and look down to see Anna, who quietly tells me she’s sorry for attacking me. I tell her she doesn’t need to apologize, that she did a great job taking me down. As we finally, miraculously, leave the pool area and head to the courts, Maia tells me she can’t wait to be a mom.

I stop. Haggard, exhausted, and overwhelmed by an entire afternoon of enthusiastically teaching tennis and sprinting all over the court while convincing children that running in one hundred degrees in the sun is fun, I gape at her. I respond, “You’re on pool duty all of next week.” Maia and I went to this same camp as seven-year-olds; we met here and have been close friends ever since. Now, as coaches, we are shocked every day by the energy little kids have and the fact that our boss has managed this and other kid programs for years, ever since we started.

In the middle of September on the way back from Tropical Smoothie Cafe, Maia and I see Matthew and Bryan having a water gun fight in their front yard. They turn to attack us. I unfold my umbrella to deflect them, Maia hides behind me, and it strikes me that these kids are exactly like us.

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Blossoming

Farmer’s Market

Cherry blossoms bring

Bees buzz their sweetness,

waterfalls of pink petals dance underneath them Violet Gerson poetry poetry poetry poetry poetry

hexagonal honeycomb dripping down my chin

Title

Sophia Hall

Spelling Bee Here is the next word:

P-A-N-T-H-E-R, Hey, I know that one! author of poem Sophie Risser and Emma Ventimiglia

poetry

Title Daffodils

poetry poetry Sprouts of green emerge poetry Then buds of yellow unfold poetry Pristine petals stem A vibrant color tall authorstands of poem Alone in March’s crisp gust

poetry

Title

Eliza Dorton

poetry poetry poetry poetry

author of poem

Melinda Salata | Pollination, digital photograph

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Haikus and Tankas Title of Piece author

Dialogue

Ouch!

Honey, not the sting for honeycombs, not waffles thick, sticky, sweetness

What’s that Buzz?

EvaJolie Cavalier

Lots of flowers bloom

Bzz, ouch, I got stung,

Every year my eyes get red And my nose tickles The pollen moves through the air Oh, how I love the springtime

Yellow and black stripes I see, I think it’s a bee!

Sophie Risser and Emma Ventimiglia

Springtime

Welcome to our Hive

Eliza Dorton

A hive of spellers alphabetically inclined remix twenty six Nora Goodin

Artwork Center - top • Britt Nordquist | Magnolia, digital photograph Center - bottom • Elena Laguna | Roses, digital photograph Right - top • Sarah Flynn | Lilies, digital photograph

Good Guess!

Final wordle guess

I type the final letter H-O-N-E-Y! Sophia Hall

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Why I’ll Never Miss the Bus Again A Personal Narrative by Josephina Wang

“D

ad and I have to go to work early tomorrow but as soon as I see the time on the oven, I know that it morning, so you’re on your own. Make sure is over for me. you don’t miss the bus, ok? No one will drive you to I grab my backpack, bolt out of the house, run down school if you do,” my mom reminds me as we sit at the my street, only to see the empty bus stop. Panic sets in. dinner table.

Sprinting back to the house, I grab the landline and call “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I respond, ignoring her my mom. Voicemail. serious tone. I don’t know why she’s being so stern I call again, and as I hear her say, “Hello?” through because I only miss the bus about once a week. And the phone, I can hear her disappointment as she underwhen that happens, my dad drives me to school. Exstands the situation. citement fills me as I think about using my iPad in the “Mom! I missed the bus! What should I do? How morning. am I going to get to school?”

Before going to bed, I set my alarm for 7:55 a.m., “Relax, you’re going to be fine. Why don’t you go five minutes earlier than when I normally wake up, over to the Stopacks’ house and ring their doorbell? but I know that I need extra time to get out of bed, Maybe Mrs. Stopack can drive you to school,” and seeing as no one will barge into my room at 8:10 if my after giving those instructions, Mom adds jokingly, alarm fails to rouse me.

“If not, then I guess you can run!”

The next morning as my Hello Kitty alarm goes I don’t find the joke very funny. In fact, I start off, I jump out of bed with newfound energy and crying. I put the phone back, wipe away my tears, determination to be on time. I brush my teeth, get and walk shamefully across the cul-dedressed, and grab my iPad from its charging station on sac to the Stopacks’ house. I ring their the floor. I make myself a breakfast of toasted Eggo doorbell, and while I can hear their waffles and eat them as I scroll through my enlarged dogs barking, no one responds. Shoot.

Instagram feed. The bus comes at 8:35, and it’s only My mom’s unfunny joke has become a 8:25 when I finish eating, so I have plenty of time. reality.

Unbothered, I begin scrolling through YouTube to With no other options left, I embark see if there is anything interesting to watch in the ten on the 1.2 mile walk to Lakeminutes I have left before leaving the house. I pour a wood Elementary School. After glass of milk and proceed to watch cooking videos. walking two blocks, I start runThe clock hits and passes 8:35 while I am still seated ning. I run past all the houses at my kitchen table. I don’t notice the time until 8:40, I normally peer at through Sojo West-Seabrook | The Yellow Bus, digital photograph

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the window of the school bus. I run up and down two massive hills and past Lakewood Country Club’s golf course. At this point, it is well past 9:00 a.m., so I am going to be late no matter what, but all perception of time left a long time ago. I can only imagine what I look like: An eight-year-old girl running with her massive Jansport backpack bouncing all over the place. However, the direness of my situation blocks out any feelings of self-consciousness.

By the time I get to school, I’m huffing and puffing as well as sweating profusely. I enter the office, and before the desk lady can process my haggard appearance, I blurt out, “Can I use the phone? I need to call my mom.”

With her nod of consent, I dial my mom, and when she picks up, I exclaim loudly, “Mom, I made it! I ran to school!”

Another kid and their parents are also checking in late, and they look at me in shock, which is exactly what I wanted. My mom says good job and promptly hangs up. It’s 9:30, so I quickly sign in and scurry to class. My friends look at me with confusion, and I just shrug.

But I never missed the bus again.

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A bathroom crowded with unnecessary clutter. A fishbowl sits on top of the toilet bowl tank, in which GOLDFISH swims.

OLIVER stands, dropping little pellets into the water.

G

GOLDFISH: Oh, joy, yummy fish pellets.

OLDF SOPHIA

ISH

OLIVER: Ugh, this f *#@ing fish.

GOLDFISH: Hey, what did I ever do to you?

OLIVER: I knew getting her a fish was too much responsibility.

HALL

GOLDFISH: Yeah, but she’s just a kid, cut her some slack, man.

OLIVER screws the lid back onto the fish food, then goes over to the sink. He splashes his face and puts on shaving cream.

GOLDFISH: Still trying to impress her by shaving, huh?

The bathroom door shakes. CAROLINE, his daughter, speaks from behind the door.

CAROLINE: Can I come in?

OLIVER: I need a little privacy right now.

CAROLINE: Do you have to work today?

OLIVER: Yes, I’m getting ready now.

CAROLINE: Will you be back for dinner?

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OLIVER: I have to drop you off at your mom’s tonight, so you’ll have dinner there.

GOLDFISH: Otherwise, it would be another night of boiled hotdog and plastic-wrapped cheese in a bun.

CAROLINE: I don’t want to go to Mom’s!

OLIVER: You have to.

CAROLINE: Can you stay for dinner there? At least? Pleeaase.

CAROLINE: Mommy doesn’t like a lot of things … but if you like it, why do you take it off ?

OLIVER: I don’t know if your mom wants me to.

OLIVER turns around from the mirror and pulls CAROLINE into a hug, lifting her up from the ground, just trying to play around and connect with his daughter again.

GOLDFISH: Oh, she definitely does not.

OLIVER: So I can do this without scratching you!

CAROLINE: Okay… well, if you’re leaving, can I come in and say goodbye?

CAROLINE: (Giggling) Stop!!! You’re so tickly.

OLIVER sighs, puts down his razor, opens door. CAROLINE, wearing a flower crown, bursts in and gives him a hug.

OLIVER: (Places her down, resumes getting ready) I know, I’m sorry.

CAROLINE: Good morning!

CAROLINE: I think growing and cutting a beard every day would be hard work, but I think I would want to try. Even just once! For Halloween, or something, I can pretend to be a prince.

OLIVER: (Picking up the razor again, shaving his chin and cheeks) Hey, sweetie.

CAROLINE: Does it hurt?

OLIVER: Only if I cut myself.

CAROLINE: Can I try?

OLIVER: Only when you grow a beard like me one day.

CAROLINE: Will I? OLIVER: I don’t think so, but you never know.

CAROLINE: I think I’d like to have a beard. Do you like your beard?

OLIVER: (Leans over sink, rinses off shaving cream) Yeah, but your mom doesn’t.

OLIVER: (Deliberately goading) You know, if you really wanted to … never mind.

CAROLINE: What?

OLIVER: I can’t tell you.

CAROLINE: What is it?!

OLIVER: Top secret. CIA classified!

CAROLINE: Tell me!!!! Please!!!!

OLIVER makes a zipping motion across his lips, throws away the key, lips shut.

CAROLINE: I’ll even pinky promise.

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OLIVER picks up “key” and unzips lips

CAROLINE: No?

OLIVER: Okay. Pinky promise.

They lock pinkies and shake.

OLIVER: Look, I’m not mad at you. I just want you to be more … responsible. Take feeding the fish for example.

Did you feed it this morning?

GOLDFISH: Aw, what a cute bonding moment.

GOLDFISH: It? I am no it.

OLIVER: Listen close. Each night before bed, you have to try this special trick. Put applesauce on your chin, go to sleep, and you’ll wake up with a full beard.

CAROLINE: …. No.

CAROLINE: Ewwww, no!

OLIVER: If you don’t want your special fish to die, you have to feed it.

OLIVER: That’s the only way.

CAROLINE: My chin will be all sticky.

OLIVER: Yep. Just try it. My dad taught me that trick. Don’t tell anyone else, though. Just between us, okay?

CAROLINE: I’ll do it tonight, so I won’t forget!

OLIVER: It doesn’t have to be tonight, I don’t know if your mom would — CAROLINE: It has to be.

I always forget to do things, and then you get mad and yell and sometimes you even — OLIVER: No, I don’t. Darling, no, I don’t. Did you … tell your mom this?

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GOLDFISH: I wasn’t starving or anything, though. Fish can last without food for a few days.

GOLDFISH: Pshh, I’m just a goldfish, I’m not that special.

CAROLINE: But you nearly drowned it in the bathroom!

GOLDFISH: Aw kid, don’t worry about me, I can’t drown.

OLIVER: People drown, fish don’t. Now, it’s time for me to go, Princess.

CAROLINE: Oh, okay.

OLIVER: I’ll see you tonight. There’s cereal in the kitchen. Remember to pack.

OLIVER places a kiss on the top of her head and exits.

GOLDFISH (From the fishbowl): Psssst. Psssst! Hey, kid!

Jacey Mordkin | Fish Bowl, earthenware

Sophia Hall | Fish, digital art

CAROLINE: (Approaches, unsure) Fish? Is that you?

GOLDFISH: Yes, it’s me!

CAROLINE: How are you talking right now?

GOLDFISH: I can speak, just like you. Just sometimes people don’t listen close enough.

GOLDFISH: Ah, to be young again … here it is. I’m running away today.

CAROLINE: What?

GOLDFISH: Yeah, my bags are packed, and don’t even bother changing my mind. You’ve been a great kid, and thank you for all the food this past year. But I have to go, I need to go see the world, I haven’t even really lived yet!

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CAROLINE: What?! Is it that I’m princess of the goldfish kingdom? I’ve always wanted to be a princess! I’m not sure if the goldfish will like me as their ruler though … oh well.

Yay! Do I get to wear an actual crown?

or

GOLDFISH: No, kid, I got to tell you something. It’s gonna weigh on my soul if I don’t tell you.

M

CAROLINE: Okay, you can still get extra!

ey

GOLDFISH: No, no. Your dad already gave me food.

Ja c

CAROLINE: I always knew I was special! Wait ‘til my mom hears that I can talk to animals! Wait, fish, are you hungry?

Sorry that I didn’t feed you last night, I forgot …. Today, you get an extra flake since you’ve been such a good goldfish.

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CAROLINE: Okay, um, can I help? Do you need some extra food or anything? Wait, just a sec, don’t leave yet!

CAROLINE rushes out and grabs a hot dog from the kitchen.

CAROLINE: Here, take this for the road.

GOLDFISH puts it in his bindle, which he slings over his shoulder, a la 1920s cartoon.

GOLDFISH: Thanks for the grub, kid. You’re too good for this world, you really didn’t have to do that –– You’ve already done enough. Sayonara.

GOLDFISH leaps out from the fishbowl and into the toilet.

CAROLINE slumps, leaning against the bathroom door.

CAROLINE: Why do they always leave?

BLACKOUT.

53

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Manuela Guzman | Playtime, pencil on toned paper

irst para text

he time for my debut on the big screen finally arrived.

No, I never got to fulfill my childhood dreams of starring on Liv and Maddie or Camp Kikiwaka, but this particular dreary January afternoon during Year Four (third grade) marked the culmination of weeks of anticipation and hard work as an aspiring actress. I perched on the arm of the classroom’s singular sofa, squished between my friends, and felt overwhelmed with both giddiness and nerves as my teacher, Mrs. Lycett, fumbled with the Smart Board to pull the screen down before turning on the projector. My mind wandered to the movies about to be shown to the entire class: we had just wrapped up our World War Two unit with a movie project, for which we wrote and directed a short video simulating a family experiencing an air-raid in London during the height of the war.

“Who would like to go first?”

Mrs. Lycett exclaimed. Without consulting my other group members, my hand immediately shot up, almost causing me to topple off the narrow arm of the couch

and fall into the cluster of my classmates sitting crisscrossed on the rug below. I beamed as she gave me a thumbs-up and flicked off the lights. The fluorescent glow of the board bore deep into my vision, and the fluttering of my heart sent chills through my arms as I bounced my leg up and down, eagerly waiting for the red curtains to appear on the screen. As the movie began to play, I grinned from ear to ear. I looked over my shoulder at my classmates, eager to see their reactions to this project that I had poured my heart into.

Then I heard my voice. Hearing my voice felt like dragging my sharpened fingernails down a blackboard. Heat flared through my face, and my heart began to pound against my chest, drowning out the sound of my voice in the background (thank gosh, right?). I stared hard at my black Mary Janes, unable to bear the sound of … me. As the video played on, a deep ache began to settle in my chest as I realized I couldn’t pronounce my R’s (“Rocket” was “wocket”), and my slight British accent coupled with my inability to articulate my words made me feel utterly stupid for ever opening my mouth. Cold chills ran through my feet, and I became hyper-aware of the limp sensation in my left foot signaling the coming of pins and needles.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Tears sprung to my eyes, and the once giant classroom suddenly felt unbearably stifling. I felt the pull of the door, beckoning me to escape the room, but the thought of seeing my classmates’ disgusted faces and smirks kept my head glued towards the fuzzy rug. After a heated back-and-forth debate in my head, my curiosity to see my classmates’ expressions

overwhelmed me. Straining not to noticeably move, I peeked up at my friend sitting next to me. I braced myself, ready to see the wrinkle of his nose in confusion or sideward glances of what the heck at me. To my surprise, his expression remained neutral. He looked perfectly content; the grating and alien sound of my voice did not bother him.

By the time I heard the ending jingle of the video, my neck throbbed with a dull ache and my feet felt mushy from the absence of blood flowing through them. I dug my thumbnails into the crook of my index fingers in a futile attempt to focus on anything but the room I sat in; the sharp pain spreading through my finger felt more bearable. The sudden sound of clapping and Mrs. Lycett’s appraisal brought the classroom spinning back into focus, and I blushed with both gratitude and mortification as I reminded myself over and over again to speak less.

Today, though, I’m proud of speaking. Nineyear-old me would have never believed it: it took years for me to fix my pronunciation and articulation. After the mortifying movie project showing, I stopped raising my hand as much in class. Before I opened my mouth to speak, I would pause and question whether it felt necessary for me to talk. If not, I just kept quiet.

Now, at this point, it may sound like I stopped speaking entirely and became a hermit. To my amusement, I quickly discovered I couldn’t not talk about my crushes to my friends, so I found corners of the classroom and spots on the playground to free my thoughts with others.

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Between speech therapy (the one positive from the experience — I would mysteriously leave class early twice every week with a teacher, much to the curiosity of my friends), journaling, and singing in my room, I slowly regained my voice. Over the next year, I started playing hockey and cheering loudly on the benches, acted as Juliet in my class’ reenactment of Romeo and Juliet, performed a

choreographed song performance with my friends during a school-wide talent show, and even purposefully spoke in a British accent during our class tea party.

Once in a while, before I’m about to speak in front of a large group, I take a moment to remember eight-year-old me and smile at the future awaiting her.

EvaJolie Cavalier | Boots, stoneware

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Mater Arachnid Avert your eyes from this horrid creature burrowed in silken folds punished for her wretchedness Pity her this majestic specimen grotesquely nurturing her kin wilting limbs unfurl a mechanical wonder

Rachel Tielking

Rachel Tielking | Deus ex Arachnid, oil on canvas

This abomination patiently waits for the arrival of her many cradled offspring how beautiful it will be when they feed on her sustained by her flesh as they always would and left no more for God’s unfavored child

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Steps Through Sachsenhausen The skies were so gray that I didn’t notice at first when snow began to fall on the grounds of Sachsenhausen.

I felt insignificant for what wasn’t the first time.

My feet were aching inside my tennis shoes and I stood very still to keep from shivering As the group paused for Martin’s storytelling.

While listening I looked back at the etched gate.

Arbeit macht frei.

We were surrounded by stone and dead grass.

Martin showed us three - eins, zwei, drei - wooden poles where rusted nails stuck out.

He told us of people who were hung there from their wrists … screaming in agony until they would suddenly pass out from the pain.

For a sickening moment we imagined it before continuing on together in solemnity and thought.

It was silent if not for the sound of our footsteps disturbing the gravel.

I looked up from my own feet to see that we were walking in unison.

Phoebe Cohen

Ella Moore | Enigma, digital photograph

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A Game of title of story

Marley Kurey | River Stones, earthenware

author

f

irst para other text

“Q

uieres jugar domino?” my aunt asks as she walks by my bedroom door.

By now, setting up the table only takes us a couple of minutes. Tío Ivan unfolds the chipped wooden table legs, I steal four chairs from our dining room, Tía Minerva gets the pieces out of the games cabinet, my cousin Odette queues up familiar Latin beats on the speaker system, and we sit down to play our favorite game: dominoes. A classic pastime in any Cuban household, dominoes perfectly combines teamwork, math, and strategy. Two teams of two people battle to place all their pieces before the other team by connecting equivalent numbers. Tío mixes up the fifty-five tiles, and we each select ten. Each piece will play a vital role in helping me win.

The thud of Tío placing the first domino shocks me. I quickly organize my tiles to prepare for the upcoming battle. The sudden panic reminds me of being eight years old again and sitting on my dad’s lap as he played the game. At all family gatherings and parties, a domino table, set up in advance, was essential. At my dad’s house in Miami, they always brought the domino table outside to the backyard and set up four

60

Do mi

A Personal Narrative

by Ayleen Acosta

noe s

plastic chairs around it. While my stepmom prepared snacks at the outdoor bar area, my cousin connected to the speaker system and played music. Usually, the adults were the only ones who played dominoes since most of the other kids my age were more interested in playing Minecraft or Wii games. I would, however, quietly observe and learn some of the domino strategies. My dad used English to explain the rules to me but communicated with the other adults in Spanish. I felt like an outsider who didn’t understand the game.

“Ayleen, say something in Spanish to us!” my dad’s teammate had shouted across the table.

I was on the spot, nervous, and scared. I couldn’t think of a single word in the Spanish language. That wasn’t the first time adults had tried to get me to talk with them. At one of the first parties we threw after moving to D.C. from Miami in 2010, during which I sat on the couch the whole night, my mom’s friend had bribed me with a twenty-dollar bill to say at least one word in Spanish. Excited by the prospect of making money at just six years old, I had responded with a short and

rushed, “Hola, me llamo Ayleen.”

Every time we came back to visit Miami, I was reminded of how living in D.C. created a disconnect from the Cuban environment I had grown so used to. When I started kindergarten at my new school in DC, I wanted to blend in with other kids, so I copied how they spoke or laughed. My accent in Spanish became that of an American pretending to be fluent instead of a proud native speaker. Though my mom would talk to me in Spanish, I would only respond in English.

I shake off the memory and bring my attention back to the current game. I quickly decide to play the double nine. It’s the best move I can make since the opposing team started. I think about when I learned these fundamental strategies in Abuela’s small studio apartment.

I had spent the summer before middle school in Miami and alternated staying at my dad’s house and my grandmother’s.

One day, she picked up my sister, Anaily, and me from our dad’s and took us to Publix, everyone’s go-to grocery store.

Abuela had worked at Publix as a cashier ever since she immigrated to Miami from Cuba in 2005, and it was practically our second home. Green uniforms, bright lights, and Spanish signs over the aisles. We walked into the store, past the claw machine at the entrance, past the line of familiar cashiers, who smiled and always commented, “You two have grown so much since last summer,” and finally reached the snack aisle.

The next stop in our Publix routine was the art supply aisle, where Anaily and I each chose a watercolor set and coloring book featuring Plato, Publix’s green dinosaur mascot.

Last was the DVD section, where we picked a copy of Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2. We checked out, and Abuela drove us to her small efficiency, only two minutes away from the market, close enough so that she could walk to work every day.

After pulling into the driveway, I eagerly hopped out of the car and ran to the front door. Tía Minerva also stayed with my grandma that summer and insisted we play a few rounds of dominoes before our scheduled watercolor and movie-streaming session. I teamed up with Tia, leaving Anaily to be Abuela’s partner. We gathered around Abuela’s small square dining table; I sat opposite my aunt, Abuela was to my right, and Anaily was to my left. Tia taught Anaily and me all the strategies: repeating the same numbers, keeping track of what numbers other players were missing, and blocking other players by using tiles they likely did not have.

I started counting pieces and memorizing the patterns in the numbers. I was fascinated.

Throughout that summer, I reflected on the parts of my identity that I had previously shied away from. I discovered my love for salsa and bolero songs; I realized the richness of Spanish phrases; I experienced the joy of communicating with my cousins. But more than anything, I learned how much I loved playing dominoes.

My dad hosted the Fourth of July party later that summer. Without fail, the domino table was set up before the congri and tostones had even finished cooking. Moments later, everyone grabbed their partner, and all the adults took their positions.

“Puedo jugar?”

It was the first time I had volunteered to play at a party, and the room was silent for a beat before my dad’s teammate said, “The spot’s all yours.”

I finally had a seat at the table.

Knock. Tío’s fist hits the table, signaling that he can’t play, and suddenly focuses my mind on the present game. It’s my turn. I look at the table to retrace the moves I had missed.

Tía, my domino partner ever since that first friendly round

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at Abuela’s house, had just played a seven, a tile that we had both noticed the other team lacked. I understood years ago that the game can only be won as a team. To succeed, you need to know the perfect balance of playing numbers that favor your hand while also setting up the game for your partner so they won’t be skipped. I play my double seven forcing my cousin, Odette, to play a seven or skip if she has none. The sevens end up being the key to the game.

Neither Odette nor Tío can play, allowing Tía and me to get down to two tiles. I play mine; one left now.

I wait in suspense to find out what her penultimate tile will be. If she plays a number that Tío does not have and I do, I can connect my final domino and win the game. The probability of that occurring is low, and I try not to let myself get too excited, but as my aunt puts her piece on the table and Tío knocks his fist twice on the wooden edge, I yell, “Me pegué!” and connect my final piece. I let the satisfaction of the win sink in before helping to flip the tiles over to start a new game.

Four hours later, it’s two a.m., yet we remain in the same positions, except we have had to lower the music since my mom went to bed several hours ago. An empty bowl of potato chip crumbs and four cans of CocaCola are the only signs we’ve stretched our legs at some point. We don’t keep track of how many games we have played or which team has won more. Instead we simply enjoy the time we have together while forgetting our responsibilities. Our domino nights are often also a game of least resistance: who will be the first to show weakness and admit that they need to sleep? I know my aunt and uncle are exhausted from their long days at work, but they also enjoy playing the game just as much

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as I do. And they are just as competitive.

“Mira, aquí es de donde mi familia originó,” Tío says as he places his tile on the table right over the labeled town of Baracoa. Our domino table has a custom design depicting the Historical Map of Cuba. My dad gifted me the table four years ago for my fourteenth birthday, which I admit is a weird gift, but it’s also one of the most frequently used objects in my house.

“My parents traveled from the easternmost point of Cuba, which consists only of farmland, through the countryside before finally settling in the lively city of Havana,” Tío continues and traces a line along the map with his finger. “They passed through Guantanamo, Camaguey, and Matanzas.”

I recognize the names of the provinces and am reminded of our trip two years ago to Varadero, a touristic beach town in Matanzas. We spent a week at a resort with all our cousins and family friends who lived in Havana. After long days running through scorching white sand, swimming in crystal clear waters, and tanning under the blazing Caribbean sun, we would gather in the evening by the pool and play dominoes.

Since the pool closed at sunset, no other guests or hotel employees were nearby. My mom’s cousin blasted music through his portable rolling speaker; other family members lay on lawn chairs, waiting for their turns. We would rotate through partners letting everyone have a chance to play at least one game. Ages at the table ranged from nine to fifty-nine. When my turn came, I joined three of my mom’s friends at the table. It was the first time I had played dominoes in Cuba. The only child and English speaker at the table, I was forced to communicate in Spanish and aimed to prove my

domino skills were up to par. At that moment, united by language, culture, and passion for the game, I knew I was just as Cuban as anyone else in my family.

That sunny memory fades away while Tío, who is currently mixing up the tiles and has just realized it is nearing three a.m., suggests, “This next one is the last game, and whoever wins will be considered the winner of the night.”

“Are you ready to lose then?” I shoot back.

We gather our pieces as quickly as possible. I tell myself the ensuing battle will be the most important one of my life. Tío and Odette have the upper hand as they get to start.

Halfway through the game, everyone has five tiles left, and I wince as Tía knocks on the table and is skipped. I help her out by playing my last nine and giving her a new number to play on. Unfortunately, my uncle repeats the

number nine on his next move and blocks me. It’s down to the last round; my aunt and uncle each only have one tile left. It’s my turn, and I have three tiles in my hand.

I have to choose the one I think Tía most likely has so that she can place her final piece before Tío. I count and count, seeing which numbers have already been played and eliminating the unlikely options for her to still have in hand. I’m not confident, but I slowly put down the most likely candidate, a five. My aunt keenly flips her tile over, showing a matching five.

After Tia and I whisper-scream, we smugly high-five in celebration.

As we organize the tiles back into their wooden box, return the dining room chairs, and store the domino table, fatigue overcomes me. Yet, I don’t regret playing dominoes for six hours at all. Enveloped by the warmth of my Cuban family and my satisfactory win, I go to bed, already looking forward to next week’s tournament.

Sophia Ouanes | Home, oil on canvas

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c a i l S g a ister M y M Fiction by Claire Buchanan

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Rachel Tielking | Remember Me, Little Crow, oil on canvas

I

stare at her, unblinking. This person before me, this being who has made me laugh until my lungs burst and cry until my heart shattered. She is only human, I know that, and yet she feels like something larger. She has to be some kind of spirit or deity. I refuse to believe that she could have inflicted so much havoc on my life, seeped into my everyday routines, carved her screams into my heart without some sort of otherworldly power.

“I just need some money,” she says. She sounds torn and raggedy. I wonder if she can still sing like she used to or if that too has been eclipsed.

“Please.”

Her voice cracks. Maybe she wants me to feel bad for her so that she can get what she wants. Or maybe she knows she’s tearing me apart. Maybe she cares.

Across the film screen, unprompted, comes the first day of school, eleven years ago. Me at five, French braids already giving me a headache, shaking with nerves. Her at nine, already bubbly and confident. She held my hand all the way to my classroom, even though it was in the opposite direction from hers. When she dropped me off, she leaned down and told me a secret.

“You’re magic,” she said, “just like me. Mommy and Daddy aren’t, but we are. I waited to tell you until now because you weren’t old enough, but you’re starting kindergarten, so you should know. You can do anything, even if it’s really hard, ‘cause you have magic, okay? So don’t be nervous.”

And all of a sudden, I wasn’t anymore.

Three years later, me at eight and her at twelve.

She was fighting with her best friend Erika, who wanted them to go to a boy’s house on Friday instead of having a sleepover.

“Are you okay?”

I liked Erika fine, but secretly I was happy they were fighting. In the years since kindergarten, we had both gotten older, but it seemed like she was growing up at a far faster pace than me. She was already in middle school, which apparently made her much, much older than an elementary school kid like me.

She turned to me, and I could see that she was about to cry.

“I don’t wanna grow up yet, Georgie,” she said. “I don’t get why everybody’s always in such a big rush. I just wanna stop for a little.”

Five years later, thirteen-year-old me crept downstairs to listen to her argue with our mom.

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” she said. There was a sort of laughter in her voice, like she found the whole thing to be extremely funny. It wasn’t the warm sound I knew, the giggles that used to burst forth all the time and had become increasingly rare since her freshman year of high school. It was cold and mean, a sharp sword that cut with precision and intention.

“It is most certainly a big deal.”

There were tears in my mom’s voice. Her wavering words scared me. She sounded like a completely different person than the authoritative mother I had always known, the woman who always had a plan.

What could my sister have done? It couldn’t just be the sneaking out and the bad grades, could it? My parents had been mad about that, but not like this.

Not scared.

“Can you just relax? You’re freaking out when it’s not even —” “You are not going to downplay this right now.

65 I found needles in your room, your sister sleeps in

there too, you know — ” “Please. I’m gonna get clean, I promise. I just need a title of story “Oh, fine great, make it about perfect little Georcouple hundred bucks to live on while I figure it out. I author giana —” want to come home. Please, Georgie.”

“It’s about everyone in this family! what you’re I stare at her. She’s lying, I can see it. Doesn’t she irst para doing is dangerous — ” remember that she was always terrible at playing Clue? other text life, isn’t it? You’re so smothering, I “It’s my own I’ve seen you cry! I want to scream. I’ve seen you cry and need to make my own decisions — ” it looks nothing like this, you liar, you destroyer of lives, “Oh, and your own decisions are to do this? To you sad, sorry excuse for a sister. throw away your life? Why, why would you do this, I But what can I do? Here she is, half of my soul, and don’t understand — ” she needs my help. I have never been able to stop root“Give me a break — ” ing for her, to cut my losses and bet on the winning team I bolted up the stairs and barricaded myself into instead. Here she is, my magical sister, and I cannot refuse my room. Our room, technically, although it was her. more of a rest stop for her these days. I had never I look down at the table and try to convince myself heard voices raised like that, so angry and fearful and not to do it, but I’m already pulling cash out of my coat distraught. I was sure that this could not possibly be pocket. my family. This was not the same person who had “How much do you need?” told me I was magic on the first day of kindergarten. The twelve-year-old who had said she wanted to take a time-out from getting older. My breathing came faster and faster until I felt like I was suffocating. This isn’t real, I told myself. This is not actually happening. I am eight, seven, five years old again ,and the whole future is in front of me, and the ending is going to be happily-ever-after.

“Georgie?”

Click. Just as fast as they came, the tapes of years past turned off. She is not a confident nine-year-old or a nostalgic twelve-year-old or an angry seventeen-year-old. It’s almost worse to see her like this, stripped of all that she used to be.

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A Night in Italy In a moment of silence and slow time Salty, sweet smells float fresh from the sea Wind trails up the mountains text And light slowly disappears on the cobbled text streets text text.

No worries No work Only wonders A young child again exploring text With older eyes to understand text.

Everything new different and wonderfully similar text text.

Is this real? text text.

Sample poem

I stand alone on top of the mountain Listening Looking Leaning over the railing The church bells ring the dusk in text.

Look up! Look up! it calls text text.

A moment… text.

The reward for the day of exploring text A painting in the sky text.

Pink,Yellow, Orange against the blue blue sky text With a small sliver of a moon to hang text. my dreams on text Abri Iaquinto text

text text. text text..

text

text text.

text text

text

text text.

author

Abri Iaquinto | Positano Sunset, digital photograph

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68 Alina Ahmad | Levels, silver gelatin print

Call Title It of Nothing Piece Fiction by author Sanaa Perry

F D

irstecember para air is a cold lover. Light icy touches that never text fail to leave trails of a burning chill. Cool kisses that turn your breath into a frosty smoke as it leaves you to filter out into the hazy sky. However, even the frigid lover’s demeanor couldn’t shift the rain to snow.

Still, N thought it was a lackluster December night, no matter what pretty words were used to describe it, and being forced to spend it beneath the shelter of a bus stop wasn’t ideal. The warm bed at home was definitely calling N’s name, and what kind of person wouldn’t answer? — Unfortunately, N didn’t get a chance to pick up because the watch’s impolite flickering with the numbers ‘10:12’ signaled 33 more minutes of waiting for the 10:45 arrival — then another 24 until the bed could be called back and begged for forgiveness, just at the chance of a good night’s sleep before the sequence repeats and another 14-hour shift starts. The repetition does provide some order and stability in life, but the exhausting boredom loves to crawl in. Like now when a dead phone weighs down a pocket, and the rain starts to drip through the bus stop’s roof.

Lonely was the word that came to N’s mind. It was lonely boring moments like this when the air is especially unsympathetic are — “Are you okay?” The startle of a new voice halts N’s dramatic musing as a person, practically drowning in an obnoxious yellow raincoat, stops under the bus stop.

A simple glare and firm “What?” is the only right reply to a random stranger that so rudely interrupts a very nice brooding session.

The concerned stranger’s fretful expression twists into one a lot more embarrassed. “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you or seem creepy — it’s just I was walking by and you seemed sad and cold and I wouldn’t —” N thinks it is odd that someone would just stop in this type of weather. The reasoning is even odder, and in some ways, the observation itself was kind of rude, but at the same time, N is too tired to even care at the moment. Too much thought into this random person’s motives would probably worsen the urge to just sleep on the ground anyways, so N takes the explanation at face value and looks back to the open street. If this is a trick, then at least N will get an episode in a true crime podcast — “ — So yeah, I —” N’s attention comes back to the maybe-criminal, who’s still talking up a storm despite apparent sheepishness. N even falls into a cycle of tuning out and refocusing on the one-sided conversation several times, “— And, well, I sometimes wait for the bus at around this time too, and it’s always late and empty. What I’m trying to say is it’s lonely and depressing, and sometimes just being around others can make the wait better. Even though I can’t really stay for too long, I still wanted to —” “Wanted to what?” N questions, finally cutting through the draining tangent with the amount of patience an exhausted wet person can manage and only dimly noting the way the other winces at the tone.

“Give you this.” The stranger finishes with a kind yet flustered smile as a hand pushes an umbrella into N’s palm.

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Ruby Miller | Structural Spiderweb, silver gelatin print

The icy touch the hand leaves behind causes a sudden rush of alertness and confusion as N instinctively grips the item.

A shocked frown and confused, “What?” is now the only right answer to something like this.

The stranger just continues to smile and softly answers, “Well, like I said, you looked cold and lonely, and I already have a pretty snazzy rain jacket, so you can have the umbrella.

It’ll have to keep you company too, though, because I do still have to go soon.”

“I can’t take your um —” But the words are cut off as the stranger waves the protest off in a way that showed arguing wasn’t an option. “— I mean, thank you, I guess.”

A simple “don’t mention it” is muttered out from the stranger’s coollooking lips as they both slip into an awkward but soft silence that’s only broken when the umbrella is opened, and N moves so they’ll both be protected from the rain.

“Thanks.” Another warm mutter from the chilled pair of lips before they curve into a smile and open again to say, “I probably should’ve said this earlier, but another reason I came over was because I was also sad

and cold when I saw you, and misery loves company.” It’s stated in a joking manner, but something about it makes N understand that yes, misery does in fact love the stranger’s company.

An almost tender company permeates the air amiably as they stand huddled under the umbrella. It’s a patch of time where the only thing worth noticing is the comfortable present. It’s nice — “Oh darn —” The moment ends, and like the swift wind, the stranger steps away as December air fills the empty space next to N. “— I really gotta get going. You can keep the umbrella, though, and before you decline, I own others, so don’t worry about it! Have a nice day– or, well, night!” The stranger quickly waves before starting down the street as N barely has the time to wave back.

Nothing is interesting about watching the stranger go, and right as N turns to stare back at the street while descending back into boredom — a small but obnoxious feeling reaches out and forces N to yell after the stranger,“Hold up! What’s your name? My name is N —” A car roars by drowning out the yell, and N is sure the stranger didn’t hear it, but those fears are quelled as the stranger halts and turns back with a startled look. It’s an embarrassingly

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long moment before the look melts into a delighted grin and the raincoat stranger calls back, “Well, hello there, N —” Another car buzzes past “— I’m P —” An additional car tries to swallow the words, but they still pierce through the December air.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, P —” This time it must be some kind of karma because the timing of the cars rushing through is frustrating, to say the least, but it is fine — it is fine because the way the smile on P’s face brightened said that the words N had scrambled to get out were heard and accepted.

P sends a wave over one final time, which N readily returns, before turning and walking until that yellow rain jacket is lost and out of sight. N turns back to the road and checks the time. An eyebrow is raised when the watch flashed ‘10:18’. That exchange was a long 5 minutes.

N waits out in the cold for the next 27 minutes and spends 24 more on an empty bus before finally being able to collapse into bed. The umbrella has been left a

stray in the hallway along with N’s still in wet clothes. It takes multiple internal arguments before N gets up and the nightly routine is started. It’s nothing special, just changing the uncomfortable office get-up and washing a dirty face. It’s not hard either, but the need for sleep makes the whole process amble by. Things only truly get better when N slams into the softness of a rough pillow and heavy comforter. N never stands a chance against the instant knockout as exhaustion takes over.

N agrees that getting good sleep is important — but N also believes the waking-up part is a real struggle because it’s always a game of whether you sleep in or not.

N, unsurprisingly, sleeps in. The thought of being fired is honestly the only thing that propels N to get ready as the alarm clock mockingly beeps and the numbers ‘7:30’ flash on the screen. It’s raining again when N finally runs out the door and out of the apartment building.

It’s the same sequence as yesterday’s, but this time an umbrella is clutched in N’s hand as an obnoxious storm drifts through the almost tender December air.

Elise Attiogbe | Identical Opposites, earthenware

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Where

Peace

is Found

Sea and sky grapple in an inflamed battle.

Water fights air to win possession of the world’s castle.

The sea, indistinguishable from the hazy sky, Provides a masterpiece of blue and grey to the eye.

Like a pulsing blue vein, Comes beating down the furious rain.

Waves compete to engulf one another.

They crash and yelp, give in and take cover.

The mighty wind howls his battle call, And pierces through rain, waves, and all.

With sudden intensity, appears the sun.

She glows with concern for what has begun.

When her rays strike, the world grows silent.

The waves and rain, awestruck, become compliant.

A greater power than one can express, The sun vanishes the conflict and distress.

Her warmth envelopes the tiny microcosm.

The water glimmers, the breeze sings, and the world blossoms.

And this is the story of Klaipeda every day: The sea, the rain, the wind, and the rays.

The battles against the world daily extend.

Yet here, peace is always found in the end.

Karolina Lickunas

Maren Blalack | Pink Wave, oil on canvas

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very once in a while, I make the conscious decision to set aside a few hours just for myself. The intention: to create something; to let go of all the deadlines and stress to make room for joy. And I do this through collaging, an artistic process with a requirement for creativity and imagination that rivals all others.

Last Saturday was one of those days. To ensure I would appreciate the time and space I made for myself as much as possible, I followed a routine. I steeped a cup of chamomile tea (the current favorite) in a big mug, then added in a touch of oat milk — enough to turn the color inside the mug a creamy yellow and to elevate the floral flavor with its chalky, oat taste. I put on some music — this time a mix of Harry Styles, Taylor Swift, and the La La Land soundtrack. I opened all the blinds in my bedroom, revealing the windows and allowing the space to be filled with gorgeous, healing natural light. I lit a candle, one that wouldn’t make the air unnecessarily thick but instead would provide a soft, wonderful fragrance — this time, a lavender-thyme scented one that my friend Tina gave me as a birthday gift. The setting was perfect — serene, yet vivifying. So I got out my materials. Then the magic began.

I first learned of the craft of collaging in elementary school. Ms. Seebohm, Carderock Springs Elementary School’s iconic art teacher, with a kind and wonderfully down-to-earth personality, always had a salad-like mixture of different mediums prepared for her students to learn about: bits and chunks to allow for us to try everything and discover what we liked. One week we’d have a ceramics unit with her instructing us to shape eccentric creatures from our dreams into clay, and the

Letter of Recommendation -

Phoebe Cohen | April, collage

- The Magic of Collaging

next we’d be making cityscapes and drawing precise, sharp lines with thin black pens onto white cardstock.

But every once in a while, it would be a collage day, and all the students would watch in curiosity and fascination as she pulled a couple of blue plastic bins from the classroom closet. Those bins were the epitome of wonder, filled with materials Ms. Seebohm had probably been collecting for years for occasions such as these — glittery stickers, colorful feathers, thick ribbons and striped string, paper with watercolor prints and fabric-like textures, tubs of bright paint … and of course, tons and tons of magazines.

In elementary school, my version of collaging was just mindlessly covering pieces of paper with other pieces of paper and coating glitter all over everything, but isn’t that just what collaging is about? Just like Ms. Seebohm’s teaching, it’s the process of forming art out of a mixture of things, a mixture that you’ll scour through and figure out what you like as you go. Even though nowadays I’m much more intentional (note: less whimsical) with placement, the nature of collaging has always remained the same — collecting and combining the things that catch my eye. In that sense, the process is incredibly reflective and revealing of personality and vision — and that’s truly what sets collaging apart from every other craft. The old saying we all know goes that the eyes are the window into the soul. Well, I’d like to correct that (though it sounds cheesy), as I think there is no greater window — or mirror — than collages!

A Personal Narrative by Phoebe Cohen

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One Two Three Four F Five Six irst para text

A Personal Narrative

by Lucy Weems

Callie Sava | Optics, digital photograph

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Title of Piece author

O

ne Two Three Four Five Six. I count every step. Six hundred meters to the finish, a little less than half a mile. One foot after the other. Around the bend, up an incline, around the field, then I’m done. Come on come on come on, I keep telling myself. I started this race with a pit in my stomach. I had my regular stomach issues, I didn’t take my inhaler on time, and the second the gun went off I got a ‘this isn’t a good day’ feeling. At mile one and a half, as I reached the halfway turnaround point, my lungs were already collapsing. Never mind the months upon months of practice and meets every week, hyperventilating will always get me. It doesn’t matter how strong the rest of me is, something has to fail.

Finally, the finish line. I hate this finish. A thin line of trees on the left side of a flat trail, with a steep fivefoot decline on both sides, bring me to the end. Down sharply, then up again, then onto a small soccer field, the kind you’d find in any middle school. I have to go around the perimeter, taking several sharp turns that slow me down before rounding the final corner and having roughly fifty or so feet until the finish line. You can’t really see it or open up your legs until it’s too late, and I only start kicking long after I should have.

Come on come on, it’s your second to last race ever, come on, just get to the finish, everything you have.

Cross-country is gaslighting yourself into going faster. Actually, cross country is destroying every part of you for a plastic medal and the tiny chance of a championship or runner-up trophy. I contemplated falling and just lying face down on the course a few minutes ago.

Today isn’t my day.

I sprint it out, pushing as hard as I possibly can and lunge across the line. Four steps later, my right knee

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collapses, my legs follow, and I collapse into a ball, my lungs quickly following. A knot lacerates my chest as I gasp for any air I can get. I usually hyperventilate, but while I’m breathing way too fast, I’m always getting air into me. Something is very wrong right now. Nothing will come into my lungs, and nothing’s going out. I feel hands on my shoulders, then a voice.

“You gotta get up, come on, get up!”

I can’t get anything in — panic in every part of my brain as my vision spins and the shakiness starts coming.

That’s how cross country meets go for me. I run my heart out, collapse, hyperventilate, start shaking, get extremely cold (sometimes I turn blue or gray), everything spins, I enter a delirious state, and then I take a nap on the bus and I’m basically fine again.

“Lucy, oh Lord, come on,” Ella says, her voice drifting into my consciousness, passing the barriers of pain and alarms going off in my head.

Ella hauls me up, throws my arm over her shoulder, and starts walking me (dragging me really) to the tent.

As I fall onto her, Gabi comes up to support my other side. Gabi! I’m so proud of her. Gabi is on fire this season. She’s become such an incredible runner and seeing her grow from her freshman year is just insane. I move one step after the other, knees buckling, fully reliant on Ella and Gabi to support me. Bless her, Ella does this every single race. I feel terrible about it.

Oh, whoa, it’s Marley! She survived!

Marley limps over with my water bottle. No way. I forgot about water. I really need water right now. I’m so dehydrated. Shaking, I reach my hands up to grasp it, so unbelievably excited. Marley tries to compensate for my shaking by holding it up for me, but there’s a miscalcula-

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tion and it spills everywhere. Right down my jersey, on my spandex, legs, everywhere. I get out a muffled “Are you okay? How was your race,” to Marley before Coach Braun yells out that JV is starting and we need to get over there to cheer.

I’m shaky, breathing shallowly now instead of hyperventilating (it’s the little things that count): ten minutes later I’m finally at the tent, grabbing my sweats.

I’m still wet and cold, and I just want to be in completely dry clothes. I wander around, trying to pick up my things and find my sweats, and Siburt, our trainer, gives me a look. During ISLs, our first championship race, last weekend, I ran into her at the finish and collapsed, then collapsed onto Ella.

“Lucy, where are you going? Put on your sweats.”

“I am, I’m just so cold … and I was cramping but I want to be dry so I … I want to go change there.” I point randomly behind me to where I think is a portapotty, but honestly my fine motor skills aren’t doing so well, so I’m probably pointing at a tree.

“No, you need to put sweats on.”

I’ve never been more stressed in my life. What if Siburt won’t let me change? Am I just supposed to accept being this cold? What’s happening?

Ella and Marley are cackling.

They’re falling on each other laughing at me.

“No, no, nothing, you just are not okay to go change. Come on,” Marley says as Ella continues to giggle.

“I’m just … I’m going.”

“Uhh, no, you are not. You can’t even walk right now!”

I start my slow walk to the single porta-potty.

“Lucy, you cannot be walking by yourself right now.”

“Yes I can. I’m fine. I’m, um … I’m independent.”

I sway from side to side, focusing all my energy on the porta-potty, finally getting there, and holding all of my clothes, I realize one slight common sense issue.

I can’t really put the clothes in the porta-potty because there’s nowhere to put them, and I can’t really put them on the disgusting floor. Some people don’t know how to aim. I stand, looking at my clothes, willing a solution to come to me. It doesn’t.

“What am I supposed to do,” I glare accusingly at my clothes as if this is their fault.

“Ok just give me that. I’ll hand it to you when you need it, just go and change and don’t fall,” says a voice.

Oh, whoa, Marley is here now — how’d she get here?

I appreciate her confidence in me. I walk in, affronted by the stench of stale shit and dehydrated pee mixed with an overarching smell of panicked throwing up, and shut the door behind me.

“You didn’t lock the door,” I hear from the outside.

“I knowww … I don’t know.”

“Lock the door.”

“No, because I need to be able to open it … because of the … because … wait, what am I doing.” I change into my sweatpants and, putting my hand on the door to steady myself, nearly fall out.

“Oh God” comes from the outside world.

Vaguely confused about my surroundings and what I’m even doing here, I make a logical statement: “Whoops.”

I stick my hand out for my shirt, then my sweatshirt.

“Can I have my sweatshirt? Thank you, sorry, sorry.”

“You know you’re wearing a shirt right?” Marley says, her tone toeing the line between concern and slight exasperation.

“Yeah.”

“So you can come outside the porta-potty now.”

“Oh…that’s a very good point.”

I return to the light, dry and warm and much better.

I am still unbelievably dizzy, shaky, and under the everconstant threat of chills, but Ella, Marley, and I set off to cheer people as they finish.

An hour later, after receiving my little plastic medal and trying not to sway as I stand in line to receive it, I’m on the bus. Peaceful silence ensues as everyone contemplates the hell they just went through. It’s a Thursday, and this lovely experience is just the precursor to hours of homework.

I’ll end up sitting on the bathroom floor in flannel pants, a long sleeve, and a hoodie, but still with chills.

I’ll prop my calc book on the toilet, uncomfortably straining myself to stay warm and still do my work.

After twenty minutes, I’ll slump to the floor and take a thirty-minute nap. I’ll wake up with a bad taste in my mouth and a grid on my face from the tile floor. I’ll be asleep around eleven, having finished half of what I need to do for tomorrow. Such is the post-meet way of life.

Still delirious, with no filter between what’s popping into my brain and what comes out of my mouth, I’ve finally reached a calm point. As my thoughts finally slow, I count, one two three four five. Every breath, in and out, makes two. Focusing this way, my surroundings become clearer as I realize I did what I came to do. I gave that course everything I had.

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Title The poetrybirds start to chirp Ipoetry hear them sing as day breaks Ipoetry open the blinds And poetrywatch them flutter about They poetry mark the start of springtime Eliza Dorton author of poem

Margaret Sussmann | Atlas Drops, digital photograph

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Ode to the Ocean

a pulse constantly coming and going with the tide gets sucked away my worries the water caresses the inside of my ankle, tickles my skin with its icy fingers leaving droplets of wisdom on my ever browning skin salt is a healer, kissing wounds to seal them back together. she’s not neat, she doesn’t believe in bows because time is the gift she leaves when you’re all alone when i float out on the waves i’m scooped out to where the sun balances every evening. i watch as it teeters along the horizon, its rays sending streaks of honey and lavender onto the clouds, painting the sky like a blank canvas and when my head goes under, my thoughts melt and spill out, cascading to the sandy floor to turn into silvery pearls that twinkle like the midnight sky. a veil of serenity has been cast upon me, and peace fills my senses. yet i am ever so alive when i am exploring and searching, She provides mystery and adventure with her mere existence.

She is a mediator of life, a storyteller to the world. to everyone she shares, to everyone she belongs, yet everyone she owns. my regard for her cannot surpass her being, cannot transcend her presence. and i pray to her that her love may be felt as strongly as i love her, the ocean.

Annabelle Dennen

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Where I’m From I am from the hairpins scattered across the planked floor while music blasts from the window above.

I am from the chaos of backstage from dancers frantically trying to recall the next move and managers forcing the little girls in tutu’s onto the stage.

I am from tap shoes and hairspray, both of which sing to me like a lullaby, the lyrics of which chant my memories.

I am from Sonya and Vipul who shaped me like clay into a well-rounded being.

I am from Bhua, Mama, and Chacha, relatives that handcrafted my childhood nostalgia I am from Raina and Daven from the “turn it down!” and the “how come she can have a friend over?”

I am from Dada and Dadi and Nana and Nani tossing food onto the yard for the birds and carefully stroking the canvas to fulfill the grandchildren’s wants.

I am from Hinduism from lighting candles and throwing colored powder at one another to celebrate gods and goddesses.

I am from morning puja and evening arti from the “three Om’s” and worshipping Lord Shiva.

I am from reincarnation from the life before the one I live now.

I am from the memorization, the elegance, and the discipline.

I am from the grace, the love and the generosity.

I am from the morals, the worship, and the beliefs.

I am the philosophies that sculpted me into Shreya Devi Kella

Leni Glassman | Globe, earthenware

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Shreya Kella

Scroll Members Betty Rose Bean Claire Buchanan Sophia Burton Phoebe Cohen Eliza Dorton Priyanka Fisher Sophia Hall Audrey Meierhoefer

Katherine Price Sophie Risser Linda Robinson Ella Ross Margot Ruland Sami Snow

Ash Srinivas Margaret Sussmann Emma Ventimiglia Kai Wells

Special Thanks Ms. Ambria Archibald • Ms. Monica Campbell • Mr. Ben Ferry • Ms. Nandini Giridharadas • Ms. Donna Maclean • Ms. Melinda Salata • Mrs. Suzi Maybee

Scroll, the annual magazine of the Scroll Club, publishes writings and artwork submitted by students of the HoltonArms School. The club, founded in 1905 by Miss Arms, is the oldest club at the school and dedicated to “the reading, writing, and speaking of good English.” This year’s issue, printed on recyclable paper by IronMark, in Annapolis Junction, Maryland, uses Bembo Book MT Pro for text and artist and author names and Bernhard Modern for titles and headings.

Scroll is designed in Adobe InDesign CCloud 2023 and produced this year in the Student Publications Room. If wishes were rainbows, we would wish that the chairs in the Student Publications Room were, in fact, all massage chairs.

The Holton-Arms School does not discriminate on the basis of race, religion, national or ethnic origin, disability, or sexual orientation in the administration of its hiring, educational policy, admissions, financial aid practices, or of its athletic and other School-administered programs.

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The Holton-Arms School

7303 River Road • Bethesda, Maryland 20817 www.holton-arms.edu

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