Scroll 2025

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Cover Artwork

Front Cover •

Vivienne Craig | Droplets, oil and water digital photograph

Back Cover •

Mary Claire Gilbert | Shade, oil on canvas

Inside Front •

Sojo West Seabrook| Flamingo fandango, digital photograph

Inside Back •

Lucy Hagen | Houses, stoneware

Mission Statement

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 9-12; 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.

SCROLL 2025

Volume LXXI

editors-in-chief

Phoebe Cohen • Eliza Dorton

assistant editors

Betty Rose Bean • Maggie Shelton

• Sofia Aquino • Enaya Mohsin

• Audrey O’Beirne• Raniya Syed

club presidents

Leela Cohen • Sophia Lekeufack

club vice president

Lucy Berry adviser

Ms. Melinda Salata

Cindy Miao 12

Anne Henochowicz

Anne Henochowicz

Zara Shamim

Dorton

Rosie Lee

Nyah Magsino

Eliza Dorton

Alex Cox

19

& tankas

Tabitha Cutler

Alisha Agha & Jacky Stanton

Sedona

Zara

Kayin

Artists

Sophia Grossman| Naomi Sophie, oil on canvas

In the Blink of Youth

The grass greens, air warms, allergies show; The plants bloom and breezy picnics arise, We hope Punxsutawney sees his shadow, Yet somehow, I miss the days of freezing sighs. When the bell sings, we prepare for the burn, With a big smile on everyone’s face, New beginnings with no worries or concerns

Yet somehow, I miss my pencil case. Suddenly, the leaves begin to fall, And a time for joy, as holidays begn –White flakes cover ground, time for a Christmas haul! Yet somehow, I miss the blazing sun I can only wonder why time moves so fast

And hope my youth won’t be left in the past.

Emma Rock

Maren Blalack | Animal , oil on canvas

Miss Ballman’s Classroom of Horrors

Sophie Famili

Miss Ballman’s kindergarten class during the school year of 2012-13 was the most chaotic, loud, obnoxious, and iconic class ever to exist at the Primary Day School. Our class of sixteen kids was filled with absolute icons and even more iconic moments.

We started off the school year strong when I called Kara, “Stupid,” and had to flush that nasty word down the toilet, and when Hannah was kissing all the boys and had to be sent home for the day. Diana told everybody she had a crush on Drew, which caused him to hide under the slide for the rest of recess and cry. Andrew told me I was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Daria flipped over the tire swing during a swinging competition at recess, and Juliette got stuck in the chicken coop for hours. We were your typical spoiled-rotten six-year-olds.

kids. She was like a fun, kind of crazy aunt, and she did things like put Oliver headfirst into the trash can when he misbehaved and kissed us on the cheek. She had a round, cheerful face that always seemed to be smiling, and her arms were always ready for a hug.

I was a loud and bossy six-year-old with unwavering confidence. Everything was always my way, and I was always right. One particular winter day, I confidently strutted into class wearing a headband with a bow attached, a Hannah Andersson poofy mini skirt, Ugg boots, and a sequined, long-sleeved shirt. I let my hair hang wild and free that day—I was feeling frisky.

Miss Ballman was a woman who clearly loved her job, for she was so comfortable speaking with

“Okay, boys and girls, everyone sit at your tables,” Miss Ballman declared over our loud noises. “I have a surprise for you!”

I sat down excitedly at my assigned table with Daria, Andrew, and Noah. I was eager for the surprise.

“Since you’ve all been sooooo good, I’m going to give you all chocolate!” she announced.

Sophia Grossman| It’s Been a Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, oil on canvas

Ella Ross | The Language of Laughs and Smiles, watercolor on paper

We erupted into screams. Andrew and Noah gloriously high-fived one another, and Daria embraced me. Daria’s favorite thing in the entire world was chocolate: chocolate milk, chocolate croissants, chocolate shakes, chocolate cupcakes, chocolate cake. She grabbed me and started jumping up and down. In hindsight, giving a bunch of annoying and loud six-year-olds chocolate at nine in the morning may not have been Miss Ballman’s brightest idea.

She slowly walked around the classroom and began handing everyone a little piece of chocolate, explaining, “You guys must wait until I say to eat it! Be good and behave!”

My bossy self, being naturally a goodytwo-shoes, patiently waited and glared lov ingly at the chocolate placed in my hands.

Suddenly, though, chaos erupted. Noah and Andrew shoved the chocolate into their mouths, and everybody else followed. I was too late. Daria had already eaten her own piece of chocolate and snatched mine out of my hand to gobble it up.

“Hey!! Daria!!” I screeched, so, so, so upset and ready to scream my head off, but before I could, ev eryone else in the room started to scream.

Gagging noises erupted as Grace and Drew sprinted to the trash can. Daria pushed me out of the way, and I fell hard to the ground as she, Caitlyn, Andrew, and Milan sprinted to the sink. Everyone was spitting out the chocolate left and right.

“WHY IS IT BITTER?”

“WHY IS IT GROSS?”

“EW EW EW EW DIRT!”

Miss Ballman was laughing her ass off.

“I told you children to wait, and since you didn’t listen, this is what you get!”

I sat in my seat, smug and happy, knowing I had missed out on a dark-chocolate prank rather than a delicious milk chocolate treat. It’s safe to say that after that moment, we all began to listen to Miss Ballman and became more patient. It’s also safe to say that no one ever tried dark chocolate again.

I Want Candy!

Gumdrops, twizzlers too

Don’t care as long as they chew!

Children love candy

Tabitha Cutler

Three chocolate kisses, One rainbow lollipop swirl, Children want candy

Aliza Mendel

as we climb this mountain, our feet

sink into the fleshy folds of earth and I can’t help but think that we are all made of mud.

ingredients: wonton skin, watercress, & 1 lb. of pork shoulder

three generations of hope in one woman’s breath: she exhales softly with a wisp of mint.

step 1: rinse watercress & mince on cutting board she winks and sows hawthorn flakes into my open hands.

home from the market, my grandmother’s sun-baked skin crinkles when she smiles.

A Guide to Making Wontons

step 2: slice pork shoulder into small bits she sinks into the rocking chair and presses a damp cloth over her forehead. beads of water and sweat slide down her cheeks.

in front of the bathroom mirror, my mother’s smooth skin shines. she wipes her face, eroding

step 3: with a wet spoon, mix ingredients until uniform to a complexion of stone.

I mold my body from a potter’s wheel: step 4: trace the edges of wonton skin with water & spoon filling breathing fire through my mouth and heaving my hardened tongue with every word.

Taylor

the sunlight spills over the mountain like the yolk of a cracked egg,

step 5: unite the opposite corners of wonton skin shells disguised as leaves tumbling down its body.

we trudge up the mountain, our footprints wider than the soles of our shoes.

step 6: heat water to a boil & add wontons we inhale, then exhale, the air in our lungs drifting away with the breeze.

step 7: share with family will you be a good daughter? how will you remember us?

Cecilia Cohen | Stormy Swirl,

Cindy Miao

Title of

Piece author An Egg-citing First Love

Claire Shannon

The annual second-grade egg drop is the best place to find a boy. They’re all sprinting around the classroom with their dreamy eyes and strange contraptions. Countless spare cartons of eggs fill our teacher’s desk. She hides behind her computer screen, trying to make the carnage in front of her disappear through sheer force of will. For the boys, the egg drop is a sacred mating ritual where they show off their ingenuity and intelligence. Forget the grade, the real qualifier of the egg drop is how many girls each boy can get swarmed around him.

I cradle my egg gently, placing it into its box. Everything has to go perfectly today. I’ve never dared to consider the possibility of not being good enough. I stayed up way past my bedtime hot-gluing marshmallows to the inside of one of my mom’s jewelry boxes before carefully attaching the plastic parachute. I accidentally left the hot glue gun plugged in and almost burned down the house. Visions swirled before my eyes of a raging house fire, me leaning out of the upstairs window and letting a single tear run down my face like in all the movies. And then he would be there, my second-grade hero, ready to carry me in his arms through the toxic smoke to safety.

While every man had his own seductive qualities, my two favorite boys were Henry and Elijah. Henry was tall and blond, meaning that he was the perfect boy. When we locked eyes in our accelerated math section, I saw no future for myself except for being his wife. When he first invited me over, the driveway to his house was a wedding aisle. He offered me a soda, the forbidden liquid even more

Hannah Wiseman | The Eye of Aldhani, digital photograph

special than a ring on my finger. We walked to the living room, and I made sure to say hi to his parents. After all, I would have to get used to them once we were married. He turned on the Nintendo, the foreign glow of the TV entrancing me. This wasn’t

Dinosaur Train, Team Umizoomi, or any of the other various educational shows my parents confined me to. Henry must have been an adult. He laughed at my confusion, beckoning me to the couch. Eyes glued to the screen, I moved to sit down, every muscle in my body tense and strange. It looked like a TV show, moved like a TV show, but something was very, very wrong. The grass was strange and flat with weird blobs all over it, and the character was blocky and simple. The screen had animal characters, just like my shows, but while the animals in my shows were round and soft-looking, these ones were pixelated and fake. If being mature meant dealing with terrifying, simplistic animal-like beings, I would be happy living in ignorance forever.

piece of devil’s media. But he was Henry, my Henry, and so I let him get close and hand me the weird-shaped piece of plastic he was holding. It was long and thin with a strap at one end, and it was a color that may have been white at one point. He gave me the safety lecture, saying, “You put the cord around your wrist like this. If we don’t put the cord on, then it might break a window or something. That’s what the instructions say.”

What kind of new-age technology does my husband have that is capable of breaking a window if we don’t strap it to ourselves?! I am sure that this is the beginning of the machine revolution. Here, in this room, this piece of plastic is going to fly through a window and push a piece of broken glass into my neck. Maybe I’ll bleed out in Henry’s arms. He’d try to plug the wound in my throat while confessing that I am the only one for him. He’d do chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, throwing everything he has at the task of saving my life.

“You press this button to move the character,” he added. So this thing has mind control too. That poor person in the screen, being tied to this plastic just like the plastic is securely tied to me. “We’re going to do some fishing now. It looks hard, but really it’s easy.”

After his words, he put his hand on top of mine, guiding me to the river. I never knew fishing could be so romantic. My academically-focused life seemed so boring next to a life of fishing with Henry forever.

“Do you want to try?” he asked, and I had none of the vocabulary to explain how much I wanted absolutely nothing to do with this

Now, as the chaos of the egg drop continues, Henry sits in the corner. It’s a place we both know well. I go there while the class takes their spelling tests, and he usually sits there during at least

Firstpara text

part of recess. The corner hides behind a cabinet of books, and it’s the one place to go if you don’t want to be seen. His contraption is one of the most complicated. A shoebox is glued to chopstick rails on the bottom. The box is lined with cotton balls and bubble wrap, the many layers almost filling in the entire box. His egg is held by rubber bands stretched like spiderwebs throughout the box. After he applies more rubber bands to hold the lid on, sealing the egg in its casket, he checks his parachute. I examine his hands, but there are no telltale hot-glue marks. Simply perfection. While I am proud of him and can’t wait to show him off to my family at our wedding, I can’t stop one thought from going through my head. What if I’m not the best anymore?

Title of Piece author

On the other side of the room, Elijah enthralls a group of girls. He walked into school this morning tossing his football again. The fastest runner and unchallenged sportsman of the grade, he could have his pick of girls. I knew he would never pick me unless I impressed him with my egg drop proficiency.

I fell in love with Elijah as soon as I started second grade. He was the star of our annual school Olympics, the hide-and-seek champion, and the first pick for every kickball team. I imagined him at world championships, winning a gold medal, then running over to me. I would do interviews, answering many questions about what it was like to stay by his side during all of his practices and workouts.

The first time I actually interacted with him was after a baseball game. Knowing that he liked baseball, I had begged my parents to go to a game for months. When they agreed, I made a mental note to thank them later in my wedding speech. I arrived at the stadium bright-eyed and ready for my future.

He explains each safety device to me. The chopsticks add more surface area to absorb the force before the egg takes it. The cotton balls and bubble wrap protect the egg by dispersing force throughout the box. The rubber bands keep the egg secure while allowing for movement, because rigidity is the enemy here. Henry’s girlfriend hangs on his arm. I bet she doesn’t understand the science like I do. I don’t think she understands much of anything; she only communicates by meowing. Hopefully, her egg will break, and Henry will see that she has nothing to offer him. Henry and I are endgame, the true academic power duo of the school.

The countless hot dog stands called me in, acting as waypoints visible through the crowd of people. I’m terrified of crowds, but I would do anything for Elijah’s love. Even more enticing than Elijah, however, was the promise of Dippin Dots.

I made my way to my seat with my frozen orbs of victory and was ready for an exciting game. Elijah loved it so much, so it had to be worth my time. In my mind, the game would start simply until the best batter came

Hannah Wiseman | The Eye of Aldhani, stoneware

up. When the pitcher threw the ball, crack! The batter would hit it right through the pitcher’s skull! Vultures would flock down and feast on his brains as the batter got a home run! There would be violence and fireworks, the field converted into a gladiator match! Then everyone would start kissing each other in the middle of the field!

Two hours into the game, I had accepted my fate. The players were ants far below me, and the only sense of action I got was the slow updating of the scoreboard. I opened my third container of Dippin Dots, the novelty wearing off slightly. They stuck to my tongue, tearing more of it off with every bite. When the crowd cheered, I just went along with it. There were no more teams, no more loyalty, just riding the wave of cheers. I kept my eyes on the scoreboard, waiting for the ninth inning to appear.

The next day at school, I excitedly told Elijah that I had gone to this game, and he asked who won. I was able to tell him, and he acted surprised that I wasn’t lying. He was obviously in love with me. He cared about me enough to test me. He knew not to take my word at face value because if he got to test me, it meant he got to talk to me longer. I didn’t realize that being distrusted and having to prove myself could be so romantic.

Elijah’s egg drop contraption is a football. His favorite football, he tells us, one that has never failed to bring him luck. He slices open the football, puts his egg in it, and tapes up the hole. No parachute, no padding. His lucky football will protect the egg.

The teacher gathers all of us to do the drop. We lounge on the grass outside of

the building. One at a time, we will walk up the stairs, drop our egg, then open our capsule and check it in front of the entire grade. A couple of girls go first, their glittery pink contraptions shimmering in the sunlight. To the surprise of the male population of the grade, all of their eggs survive. Each of them returns confidently to the group, staring the boys down. They were ridiculed for their cutesy designs and pushed to the side as dumb girls, but they proved to everyone that science could be hot pink.

Henry goes up next. The midday sun hits his golden hair, appearing like a halo around his head. He holds the box over the edge of the railing, unfurling his parachute. The box drops faster than we thought it would, his attempts to beat gravity not entirely successful. Gravity has a tough acceleration to counteract. The field is silent, save for some very rude birds, as Henry treads down the stairs, each footfall making a hollow clanking sound. The box sat almost directly under the stairs, no longer upright. The air had hit the parachute unevenly, causing the box to twist and invert. Henry tenderly holds his box, removing the rubber bands one by one. Hesitation shows in every part of his body as he removes the lid. Inside the box is a perfectly intact egg, saved by the meticulous layers of cotton balls.

I go up after him, my marshmallow box unimpressive and small in comparison. The cold metal railing does nothing to dry my sweaty palms. A small piece of rust at the top of the stairs catches my attention. The stairs looked so perfect from a distance, but when I am on them, the surface is riddled with rust and peeling paint. I still relate to these stairs deeply. I was meant to be perfect, forged into the academic weapon that

everyone expects from me. As I peel a piece of paint away from the stairs, I remember the conferences with that broke, so maybe I should have made a marshmallow-lined box big enough to keep me whole.

I wonder what it would be like to have no academic cares in the world like Elijah. He is one of the last to go, a cheer squad of girls forming behind him. He raises his lucky football up in the air, yelling like he was a real football player. Looking at him, I can’t breathe. I wonder if he noticed my egg drop, if he took note of the fact that my egg was perfect. That I was perfect. Elijah runs up the stairs effortlessly and drops his football over the railing. It drops exactly like a football should, that is to say, extremely fast. It hits the ground in front of me and rebounds back into the sky. Elijah runs back down the stairs and removes the tape covering the hole. Egg yolk drips out of the crack, the inside of his football covered in yellow. While he mourns his lucky football, we all go back inside, the group of girls who used to stand behind him now laughing.

I place my egg back in the carton on the teacher’s desk and pack my bag, thinking only about my lovely boyfriends. Henry, so smart, composed, and mature, but his work tangled up by forces he cannot control. Elijah, sprinting through life like a superstar, but neglecting the small details and subtleties that make life worth living. Two boys on two different paths through life. What does their idea of success look like? How would they define failure? Was the egg drop a microcosm of their future, or simply a second-grade outlier?

Thinking harder about these questions, I decided that the answers weren’t important because all that mattered was that these boys were beautiful and I was going to marry both of them.

Zara Shamim | Splat!, earthenware

Drinking from the sieve of my hands, furtive slurps from the faucet.

A humid evening holding me close, mosquitoes cupping my neck.

A cup of mint torn from the pot outside— a plate of fruit and a glass of milk.

Milky was the night, a cupful of light spilling down our faces,

staring into the cups of your eyes, held close, swimming in the heart.

Anne Henochowicz

Not a single summer goes by without a visit to Lake Gage. I find it hard to believe that 42 years have passed since my grandmother and grandfather bought the place. Gage was born under the Craig name as just a petite and modest cottage that kept no shower and embraced the art of tying a bar of soap out along the pier.

“Wash up in the lake,” they said. “The lakewater makes your hair extra soft.”

Time at the Lake

Vivienne Craig

Each Memorial Day weekend, all of the youths chanted out with wide grins, “PIPP! PIPP! PIPP!

Let’s have a Put In Pier Party!” while the to-somesisters and to-others-mothers prepared cold-cut sandwiches, and the to-some-fathers and to-othersbrothers, grilled Hawaiian bratwursts and shared hearty laughs in their blue and white folding chairs. That little cottage took care of more than ten people sometimes. With only three bedrooms designated to the adults, the kids had to fend for themselves by sleeping on the plaid couch, blowing up countless air mattresses, settling in on the chilly front porch, and, in a very rare case, bunking down in the dark yet comforting closet. It was perfect, those summers at the lake, with water that sparkled a beautiful blue you’d never forget. Life was simpler then.

Many things have changed since those days. My grandfather is now 91 years old; my grandmother has been gone for 10 years, and my father, once known as Pete, is who I now know as Dad. While he has grown into a man, a father, and a husband, his memories of Gage have never left him, and while I can never quite understand how my grandmother and her siblings could

cram their energetic, summer-deprived families into their little station wagons and Tornado 2 Oldsmobiles for what seemed like a forever-long drive out to Gage on Memorial Day weekend, my father can still make perfect sense of such a thing. He remembers it all just like it was yesterday. Even as his white beard replaces his full head of hair and as construction workers tear down the little lake house, 42

Mary Claire Gilbert

Marjohry, oil on canvas

years in the past never felt so near to him.

No longer a cottage, the house stretches to its property lines and has the neighbors astonished at the bright lights that one cannot miss from across the lake. On the backside of the house lies a breezeway connecting the newly renovated and lively part to the old traditional guest house. It is the walls of this guest house that hold tight to the strawberry wallpaper and light brown wooden kitchen cabinets that my grandmother once loved, and it is the bedroom floors that support the soft cream carpet that once felt the movement of all who passed through 42 years ago.

with glimpses of the past. For a moment, he swears the lake looks the same as it did 42 years ago.

So, on that very morning, as he turns on

On the opposite side of the breezeway, as I wake up in the comfort of a high, full bed and feel the brisk Indiana summer air press against my face from the open windows, I find my father emerging from the guest house to enter the main house. I watch him as his feet shuffle against the hallway’s retro-style floor, and I listen to the sound of his coffee mug sliding against the stone countertop. As he cups his hands around his “I’d rather be watching trains” mug and the smell of his black coffee fills the air, he walks over to the house’s large, clear windows. He stands with his arms crossed, and his bright blue eyes squint at the lake’s blinding sparkles from the sun’s reflections. His expression shows a straight face, but his eyes twinkle

“Sirius XM’s Top 40 80s Countdown” and hears Spandau Ballet’s “True” float out through the house’s speakers, all of a sudden, my father is 15 again; he is no longer just standing and observing the peaceful lake but now running and diving into the ice-cold, 72-foot deep sea. Instead of hearing the whines and complaints from my adolescent mouth, he enjoys the “Oh, Pete[s]” that come from the animated cousinly voices as he cracks a dumb joke that earns chuckles from just about every person around the table.

He blinks his eyes a few times and sighs as he begins to walk away from the window, his shoulders slightly hunched over and his stride a little slower. He takes one last sip of his black coffee, puts the mug down, and turns his head toward me. For a moment, my eyes feel like his, and his eyes feel like mine, and peeking through his straight face comes the hint of his smile.

“Whatcha gonna do today, Vivi? We’re at the lake!”

And to that I respond, “I don’t know, Dad, what do you want to do?”

Mary Claire Gilbert | Lake Swimming, oil on canvas

Yosemite

Grace Ding

Two summers ago was the first time I felt tiny. Under the crushing presence of the looming mountains and sequoias of Yosemite, I understood that nothing I ever do – or hope to do – would ever live up to this grandeur. Mountains towered into the distance, streaks of gray cutting through the cloudy sky.

I thought about how I would paint it – not just grayscale, but hued in blues and purples from the drizzle, scattered with spurts of green where trees take root halfway up the mountain. First the shadows, dark purple mixed from magenta and viridian – my art teacher’s favorite combination. She would tell me to start from the dark colors, always emphasizing the adjective in her accented English. And then the bright colors, the pure colors, and then the highlights. Lord help me if I were ever to even touch the white in my palette before finishing up the base colors. You can cover dark colors in gouache and oil paint – but you can never hide where you’ve used white.

I would do the trees next, the deep shadows and then the lighter foliage. The

sky, maybe. The background was the only place she would forgive the no-white-paint rule.

Misty purple clouds – again, viridian in the sky–before, finally, the mountains.

Yosemite was devastating and magnetic, and suddenly I realized why people fight for the natural world. Nothing we ever build may ever live up to it. The higher I went, the more I seemed to see, mountains multiplying into the distance as I understood the sheer scale of what I was looking at. The trees, too – uprooted ones that I could practically walk through, incomprehensibly tall and wide. Saying this makes me feel immensely privileged. Like every rich kid who needs to be taught how to care about the world. It seems ridiculous that I had to go to Yosemite to understand the marvels of our world. I feel like I should have been able to find it in my backyard, in the patch of chives we cut to make dumplings with and the flowers my dad cultivates so lovingly.

Marjan McNulty | Blue Paisley, stoneware

Cecily Brooks | Creek Thoughts, watercolor on paper

Title of Piece

author

Praise be to muddy shoes to crabgrass opening the sidewalk praise be to the state of New Jersey for lining the Turnpike with cosmos

Praise be to whichever god kept the taro alive through the winter and praise be to the taro, lifting its ears up to the spring

Let us all adore the little things— woodsorrel and woodear toadshade and bluebell food and shelter of the forest

Let us adore the toad in the compost the rabbits homemaking under the shed Praise be to muddy knees sweet from kneeling at these altars

Anne Henochowicz

Hymn

Melinda Salata

| Spring Rain, HDR digital photograph

Shelf Life

Grace Curley

Iam a blue wooden bookshelf, five levels high, sitting on the left wall of a striped, yellow bedroom. Delicately painted butterflies spot the room and stuffed animals fill the corners. I used to stand tall in a green-painted room across the hall; my shelves were crowded with stories passed down from older sisters.

My middle shelf, parallel to the rickety, creamcolored rocking chair, fills with favorites for bedtime reading: Sandra Boynton’s Pajama Time!, The Rainbow Fish, and The Giving Tree The bottom row is reserved for board books and Little Golden Books, their edges frayed and pages torn. Although their home was to be the bottom shelf, they are often left strewn around me on the floor.

Roald Dahl’s James and the Giant Peach, and E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web. Horse books are replaced by stories of ballet dancers, like Angelina Ballerina. Some of these books will stay here with me – but only if they are Grace’s favorites.

Titles jam my shelves. I discover that this new reader loves Mary Pope Osbourne’s The Magic Tree House series,

Nancy Drew takes up two shelves. Grace devours mysteries, trying to figure out the endings by Chapter Two. Harriet the Spy also makes the cut, and I watch as Grace curls up in the corner with a glass of milk and a tomato sandwich. For over a year, every week, Grace pulls out The Land of Stories: A Grimm Warning by Chris Colfer from its place and sits down on her bed. Opening to Chapter Three, she begins to unravel the mysteries of Conner Bailey as he decodes the Brothers Grimm’s clues. Grace dog-ears her pages. Some nights, she bends the rules and continues reading by a night light.

Talia Green | Shelf Life, watercolor on paper

I miss those books when they are replaced by heavier volumes with fewer pictures. My shelves are overtaken by science, mathematics, and history textbooks. I bend and sag under the weight of American Born Chinese, Animal Farm, and Maus. I adjust to seeing Grace bend over her desk, memorizing dates of world wars, parabolic functions, formulas for balancing chemical equations, and the proper fixes for a dangling modifier.

Grace always makes room for books that don’t go to school. On rainy Sundays, for an hour, she stops and grabs her bean bag chair. I remember Everything I Never Told You, Matched, and Heartless. I try not to get attached, for Grace constantly lends these out to friends.

As years pass, paint chips and dust begin to cover my shelves. Grace now spends much of her time balancing her studies and life at her dance studio. I observe as she tirelessly completes outlines, worksheets, essays, and presentations. I notice as the voices of Grace’s teachers and classmates flood out of the Google Meet computer screen. But she never forgets her old friend, adding a new novel whenever she gets a chance.

I watch as the house grows quiet in the absence of her two older sisters. I watch as Grace finds her passion for writing and journalism. I watch as Grace spends every free moment examining the biographies of Clarissa Ward and Misty Copeland. I watch as my shelves become crowded, books stacked on one another again.

I am content with the concept of growing up and

moving on as books are rearranged and taken from their place. Trash bags filled with our literary adventures make their way downstairs and out the door to new families. Grace observes my bare shelves with delight as she fantasizes about the narratives that will take its place; however, her eyes become glossy at the sight of Sandra Boynton’s Pajama Time! in the donation pile alongside me. She slowly collects the precious black book and traces its rainbow-colored stars with her fingers. Grace gently places it back on the bottom shelf where it belongs.

Maya Hendricks | Book Stack, oil on canvas

Title of

Piece author First para text

EIGHTEEN

Eliza Dorton

“What about you, Alice? Are there any boys in your life,” asked Carter, one of her childhood classmates and the only person she felt comfortable talking to at the party. This type of setting was completely out of her comfort zone, and she barely knew anyone there.

“No,” she replied contentedly. It’s not that she wouldn’t like one, it’s just that she neither puts herself out there nor has the time. She wasn’t really thinking about his question though. She was thinking about what might happen next in the book she was reading.

“What about school? I heard Milton’s really hard,” he said.

“Oh, it’s good. Busy.” She wasn’t a big talker but mostly hated talking about herself unless it was in the form of complaining. These questions often came from her extended family members: grandparents, aunts, uncles, second cousins twice removed but never from boys her own age. She could tell Carter didn’t know anyone at the party either but didn’t seem to care about the social circumstances they shared. Maeve must have invited him because their moms are friends, she thought to herself.

Today, at a birthday party for her childhood best friend Maeve, she was particularly tired of the questions.

As a seventeen-year-old girl, she was already overthinking everything in her life. Any extra self-talk wasn’t necessary.

Maeve’s eighteenth birthday wasn’t really the kind of birthday party they used to have as kids. Every October 18, Maeve’s mom would take Maeve and Alice out to lunch, then to get their nails done, and finally they’d return to Maeve’s house to watch a movie and have a sleepover. They had done it every year since Alice could remember, but a couple weeks ago when Alice ran into Maeve at a restaurant with her parents, Maeve had mentioned maybe substituting their lifelong tradition with a party full of people Alice didn’t know nor want to know.

Okay, Maeve didn’t exactly word it like that, but that was how Alice heard it.

In truth, Maeve said, “I was thinking of throwing a party for my birthday this year. You know, with my friends from school or something. Of course, you would be there too, but I thought it would be better since I am turning eighteen after all.”

What does she mean by “better?” Alice thought to herself at the time. Why is giving up our tradition “better?” Ever since they went to separate schools for high school, they had been growing apart. They still texted every now

and then, but now, as seniors in high school, they didn’t have the same connection.

Maeve had always been more social. While she had found a group of friends that participated in the classic high school experience of football games, parties, and dances, Alice had preferred to keep to herself, becoming good friends with only a few people in her class and spending her Saturday nights doing homework or seeing a movie at the local theater. Over the years, Alice had found that Maeve had begun to care more about her social life than their friendship.

On Maeve’s thirteenth birthday when they were getting their nails done, a group of girls from another school walked into the salon. They were all blonde, wearing different versions of the same outfit, and picking out the same color acrylics for their hands. Alice and Maeve were never allowed to get acrylics. When the group

walked towards Alice and Maeve, Maeve completely cut off Alice.

“Oh, hi guys! What’s up?” said a girl Alice recognized but couldn’t figure out where from.

Maren Blalack | Old Friends, watercolor on paper

“Hey,” replied Maeve. “We’re just getting our nails done. I’ll see you guys later,” she said excitedly.

What’s later? Alice thought. Why didn’t she introduce me?

After they walked away, Maeve brushed it off — those were just some girls she knew and that they were all going to the same party later that night. Alice nodded and told her nail lady what shape she wanted.

Now, just last month, Maeve had told her that the reason they couldn’t have her annual birthday sleepover was because she had to get up early for a lacrosse game. Alice thought she might have lied but decided it was something Maeve would do so as not to hurt Alice’s feelings about not being invited to whatever party it was.

I would never want to go out with your friends anyways, Alice thought to herself but didn’t say.

On the night of the party for Maeve’s 18th birthday, she had a pretty strong feeling that Mrs. Williams had made Maeve invite Alice, which made the whole thing kind of awkward. When she walked in the front door, Mrs. Williams exclaimed, “Oh, Alice, sweetheart! I’m so happy Maeve invited you. I thought it would be a great chance for you to meet her friends!”

This party began at 9:00 pm, and included not just Alice, Maeve, and Mrs. Williams, but about thirty other people Alice couldn’t even begin to name. These were all kids that went to Maeve’s school, so it seemed to Alice that it wasn’t really worth her time to get to know any of them because being their friend would be somewhat impractical and inconvenient.

Sick of making small talk, she told Carter that she was thirsty and walked away. She headed into the basement kitchen of Maeve’s house and opened the red cooler on the ground to fish for a soda. If she was going to stick it out until 11:30 pm at this party, which her mom made her promise she would do, she would need some serious caffeine. She clasped her right thumb and pointer finger around the tab of a Diet Coke, but it was too cold to budge. She tried once more, but it pinched her in the process. “Shoot,” she exclaimed a little too loudly. The boy standing next to her, who was talking to some kid she didn’t recognize, turned around to face her less than a foot away. He was wearing a T-Shirt that said “Gryffindor Quidditch.” She found it weird how close their faces were and couldn’t look him in the eye although his eyes were several inches above hers.

“Can I help you with that?” he asked in a way that made her feel embarrassed for not being able to open her can, which she thought was weird, because that wasn’t something to be embarrassed about.

After several beats, she mumbled a response. “Oh, yeah. Sure.” He took it out of her hands, opened the can easily, and passed it back to her.

Still not looking at him directly, she took a big sip and loudly said, “Mmm, that’s good!” He looked at her with confusion but smiled slightly. Why the hell did I

say that, she thought. She knew why she did though. He was cute, but more importantly, he was voluntarily talking to her.

She was never really incredible at interacting with kids her age that she didn’t know and often would try and find an excuse to get out of the conversation.

“Thanks,” she told him.

“Yeah, no problem,” he responded.

“I like your shirt.” She thought it was kind of a dorky thing to be wearing at a party, but it obviously didn’t bother her.

“Oh, thanks. I got it during the varsity lacrosse trip to Orlando. We went to Harry Potter World at Universal.”

“When I was there, my little brother got picked in the wand shop. It was the best day of his life.”

“No way! I wanted to get picked too,” he said a little too enthusiastically. Alice didn’t care though. She thought it was funny that he had slightly embarrassed himself as she had only moments prior.

“Didn’t you think Order of the Phoenix was too divisive?” she asked. But he suddenly became distracted by another guy their age, probably his friend, yelling at him to play a game of ping-pong.

“Dude, let’s go,” he shouted across the room and to the corner where his friend was standing on one end of a ping-pong table. Eager to blow him off instead of the other way around, Alice quickly and excessively

nonchalantly told him, “Oh yeah. I gotta go talk to someone.”

“See ya,” he replied as he walked around the kitchen island and towards his friend.

Feeling awkward standing by the cooler alone, Alice took another sip of her Diet Coke and opened her phone, pretending to be busy. She clicked the one notification on her lock screen: a text from her mom.

MOM: How’s it going? Having any fun?

ME: Yeah it’s going OK

MOM: Ok. Find someone to Uber home with. I don’t want you going alone.

ME: OK, Mom

MOM: Say happy birthday to Maeve for me!

Alice turned her phone off and slipped it in the back

Caroline Peterson

| Snow Night, oil on canvas

pocket of her jeans. Who the hell is going to want to Uber home with me, she thought. She looked around for people she knew who lived in her relative neighborhood. There was Becca, with whom she used to carpool to field hockey practice, but they hadn’t spoken in years. It would be awkward if I asked her, she thought. She spotted Charlie, a nice kid who lived a few blocks away from her, but he would probably end up staying later than she would or even go to another party. As she was scanning the room, she suddenly yelped from someone grabbing her shoulders and shaking her.

“Hey, party girl!” Maeve said in a giggly voice. Her face was red, and her eye makeup was smudged a bit. Probably from sweating while dancing.

“Oh, hey, happy birthday. I’ve been meaning to find you,” Alice replied.

“Are you having fun?”

“Totally. Thanks for inviting me.”

“That didn’t sound convincing. Why don’t you come and meet some of my friends?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’m good here with my soda. I’m actually looking for someone to Uber home with.”

“Please, Allie. It’s really important to me that you make an effort with them,” Maeve said in her guilttripping voice. It made Alice feel like a bad friend, which wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Maeve had the tendency to guilt trip Alice, especially when she was being anti-social.

“Okay. Yes, of course.” They walked over to the TV area, where a group of people were sitting on the couch.

“Guys, this is Alice. We’ve been best friends since forever.”

A girl with bleached-blonde hair shouted loudly over the music blaring from the speaker next to the group, “Yeah, we all go to school together!”

“Cool!” Alice shouted back. She felt a little left out but not more than usual.

“Alice is looking for someone she can share an Uber with,” Maeve told the group.

“Where do you live?” another girl asked.

“Oh, about fifteen minutes down Pinecrest Road. I live in the neighborhood behind that Safeway.”

A boy standing next to Maeve and wearing some kind of sports jersey jumped in and said, “Walker lives over there.”

“Walker would definitely say yes,” said the blonde girl.

“Oh, for sure,” Maeve replied. “Let me ask him now.” She walked over to the boy Alice had been talking to by the cooler earlier.

Is that him? Alice thought. He walked over with Maeve to where she was standing. “Alice, this is Walker. He’ll Uber home with you!”

“Oh, awesome. Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he told her. “Just let me know when you wanna leave.” Then, he turned and told the group, “We met earlier.”

Maeve smiled at her and pulled her aside. “See,” Maeve said. “There. I found you someone. Now stop worrying and have fun.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Alice said and then hugged her.

Alice probably wasn’t going to have fun, but at least she would get to talk to Walker more on their way home.

“Hey,” Alice said, her voice cracking a bit in the process. “So, do you guys all go to school with Maeve?”

Ode to Clay

As I glide my fingers across the clay, Gently molding it into shape. It listens to me, And I see the vision coming to life, With each indentation.

And with the conversation and music, Filling my ears, My heart swells with joy. I am surrounded by creation. I become more aware. I breathe.

In and out. I reset.

text text text text. text text. text text.

What once was mere dirt, The child of the Earth, Now coats my hands and settles in my nails, I am filled with gratitude.

text text. text text.

Thank you, Mother Nature, For you give life to my imagination.

text text..

When I have added my final mark, And smoothed over my last fingerprint, It enters the kiln, And at last, The clay has become something more. It is no longer defined by individual pieces, Rather it comes together as one being. It holds unique meaning in each crevice.

text text.

Sample poem

text text. text

Kayin Bejide | Ominira (Freedom), white earthenware

tick-tock

SETTING:

[The setting is a dystopian, sprawling metropolitan city. Towering skyscrapers stretch high into the sky, their reflective glass surfaces shimmering in the sunlight. Bright, flashing neon signs in every imaginable color flicker across the buildings, advertising everything from luxury hotels to strange products, each designed to catch the eye. There’s a strange mix of hurried, purposeful steps, and leisurely strolls, as though everyone is caught between the weight of time and the desire to savor the fleeting moments of life. Massive, sleek vehicles zip by in the sky above, casting brief shadows over the city’s busy roads below. Street vendors call out from every corner, selling everything from street food to high-end gadgets, but no one seems to notice them much, distracted by their surroundings and their own thoughts. Messenger drones zip by, and flying cars hover above them. Everyone, regardless of age or status, wears the same type of device: a sleek, high-tech wristband. The wristband’s screen glows faintly, displaying a countdown timer, ticking down relentlessly.

Rosie Lee

Zoe Nash | The Chair, digital photograph

(At a bustling city square, LORRAINE stands alone, gazing up at the digital clock looming above the city. The screen of her wristband glows faintly, showing a timer steadily counting down. The sound of the crowd blurs around her as she takes in the scene, detached, her mind elsewhere. Her fingers tap nervously on the wristband, but she doesn’t look at it directly. She knows the timer is ticking down, just like everyone else’s. She knows she hasn’t long left. Her appearance reflects the wear of living in a world where every second matters. She wears a hoodie, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, causing the fabric to curl and bunch up, dark jeans, and scuffed sneakers. Her hair is messy, swept to one side. Her wristband beeps, catching her attention. She glances down.)

LORRAINE: Three hours, twenty-nine minutes. (She muses.) Wonder how it’ll happen. Car crash, maybe? Or a falling flower pot. Perhaps an assassination. That’ll be quite the story for passersby to tell. (A horn honks, ushering LORRAINE away from the center of the intersection. She crosses the street, taking a seat on a bench.) Jeeze, old geezer! Have some patience, won’t you? (She snaps in annoyance.) If I have three hours left, I don’t want it to be spent on nothing. (She tilts her head.) What should I do with three hours? What even can I do? People usually call their parents or spend time with their children when they have less than a month left. But I don’t have either, so …

RANDOM PERSON 1: Maybe not contemplating death loudly? It’s kinda ruining the mood for everyone else. (He walks away.)

LORRAINE: (She rolls her eyes, shouting after him.) My goodness. No sympathy for the dying. I hope you’re next!

NARRATOR: In this world, death wasn’t … bad. The timer wasn’t evil. Why, you may ask. First of all, gosh, you nosy child. Some things don’t have to have an answer. Second of all, think of your world, for example.

If you asked: Would you rather know when you die or not? Many people will surely choose the former. To some, fear of the unknown is greater than the fear of death. Of course, nobody in this world truly knew how the timer worked. Just that when it reached zero, people died. But you might be thinking, Well, I don’t want to know when I die! And that’s fair enough. There are also many people here that don’t want to, either.

LORRAINE: (She sighs, opening up her phone and begins scrolling. There isn’t much to do, though, because she has already written up a will weeks beforehand.) Really does suck I’m dying so young. This stupid system … must’ve been a dumb glitch … The government should do something about it, make a rule saying that you can’t die until you’re, like, thirty or something. It’s just such a pain, having to prepare — (She pauses, eyes going wide. There was a giant BREAKING NEWS! headline strewn across her news page.) What the hell? (She furrows her brows.) What is … what in the world …?

NEWS REPORTER 1: (A giant billboard in the city square lights up, a news reporter dressed in a formal navy suit and red tie appearing. NEWS REPORTER 1 has a solemn expression on his face.) All across the world, a rampage is breaking out. Hundreds and hundreds of people are now killing others, murdering to trying to hoard more time. (Everyone in the vicinity instantly start to panic, some running around and screaming, others quickly darting away to find a spot to hide. As another reporter appears on screen, the chaos pauses momentarily.)

NEWS REPORTER 2: But how is this even possible? Everyone has their own designated time; stealing time is simply unheard of!

NEWS REPORTER 1: That’s what we all thought too. But this happened at 9:43 PM, approximately twentyfour minutes ago, at the Wxoya Prison.

Three criminals, Quinn Tilda, Annie Masse, and the infamous Mudd R., managed to break out. They wreaked havoc and broke into a local electric station, in an attempted robbery. The cashier was killed, and Mudd R. likely noticed his time increasing.

NEWS REPORTER 2: That has a very high possibility. As you probably know, Mudd R. was sentenced to death by quantum disintegration, and his execution date was two days from now. In an act of desperation, he and Tilda and Masse escaped prison. His timer changed after the crime.

NEWS REPORTER 1: But, folks, as we all know, that’s not possible. They’ve never changed and have been set ever since we were born. So, don’t worry. The government will get this fixed promptly. Remember: timers don’t change.

LORRAINE: (She stares at the billboard as it fades back to black. The panic in the crowds has died down, and they seem to believe what the reporters stated.) But … what if they do? (She whispers under her

breath.) What happens then? (She glances down at her own timer. It was the same. Now, three hours and twentytwo minutes left.) But … stealing time … (Suddenly, her phone rings. LORRAINE waits for the second ring, and then picks up.) Hello?

RHODES: Raine, did you hear the — (His voice sounds urgent although staticky over the holograph call. The frames flicker into place, and a mini-Rhodes appears before LORRAINE.)

LORRAINE:

(She interrupts him.) — about the time stealing? Yes, I have. Can you explain to me what the hell is going on? They’re saying it’s not possible, but clearly, something is happening.

Cohen | Exorcist Steps, film photograph

RHODES: I know, Raine. Hundreds of people heard the news before we did, and they obviously believe it. Some people are in their last few hours, and desperate people do desperate things when they have little left to lose. You have to get out of the city, get far away.

LORRAINE: What’s the point with three hours left? I might as well join in, or grab myself a bagel and watch the show. I’ve been

Phoebe

craving some bagel with cream cheese and tuna … maybe some hummus and chili paste … (Her voice trails off when she doesn’t receive a response.)

RHODES: (He goes silent briefly.) Raine. What are you talking about? (The mini-Rhodes crosses his arms, lips pursed.) Are you high on caffeine? What are you going on about?

LORRAINE: So, there’s three hours and twenty minutes left on my timer, and I don’t see a point in leaving — (She is cut off by RHODES.)

RHODES: And you just went, nah, I don’t need to tell my best friend about this; he won’t freak out when I totally drop the bombshell on him at all?

LORRAINE: I didn’t know that I needed to mention it, Rhodes. It’s not that important, and you’re kinda a busy guy, so … (She sighs, suddenly jolted by the sound of someone yelling. A man, ragged and wild-eyed, charges toward her from the crowd, wielding a knife. Her heart races as she instinctively steps backward. She shouts as she fumbles to back away.)

Holy crap! I don’t wanna die by stabbing! (In a split second, the knife swings erratically, and Lorraine, in a desperate reflex, swings her own arm to try to block the attack. Instead, the knife flies out of the man’s hand, straight into the chest of a man passing by.)

LORRAINE: (She gasps, her eyes wide.) Oh my god! What did I do?! (She scrambles forward to check, but it’s

clear the victim is dead, the knife embedded deeply in his chest. The man with the knife stumbles away, his wild expression turning to shock and disbelief.)

RHODES: Raine? Raine, talk to me! What happened? RAINE!

NARRATOR: Lorraine hesitates and glances down at her wrist again. It is no mistake… it doesn’t say three hours and twenty minutes, but now five hours and forty-nine. . . .

Vivienne Craig | Time Warp, film photograph

The Uncaring Pond

I scream, but my voice loops endlessly, a ripple in the stillness of an Uncaring Pond.

I scream, but who listens when silence has learned to devour sound?

My echo mocks me, The words never mattered.

I stand at the edge of my reflection, watching it fracture, shards sinking into depths I dare not touch.

Do I dive, or do I drown?

Do I reach, or do I run?

This pond, this prison, Every ripple is a question, and every answer comes back a lie.

Who am I if the waters forget me?

Who am I if I forget myself?

They tell me to find myself, but which one?

The one I see, or the one I hide?

The one they built, or the one I destroyed?

They say identity is a home, but my doors are locked, my windows boarded, my key swallowed by the very pond that echoes my cries.

I sift through ashes of who I was, fingers blackened, lungs choking on the memories I didn’t choose.

Is it in the laughter I faked?

The smiles I sculpted to fit their mold?

Or in the rage I buried?

Tell me, is identity something you create, or something they carve into your skin?

Until you bleed enough to belong? Is it in the pieces they stitched together, the Frankenstein of expectations? Or is it in the deep cuts of rebellion that turned me into what I was never meant to be?

I scream, but my voice is a stranger’s now, shaped by years of swallowing their words.

They tell me to find myself. I laugh.

How can you find what you’ve never known?

Soraya Farid

2 . A perpendicular line

“Final Exam”

1 . A parallel line

a) is the same distance from another at any given point / moves in identical directions / never intersects

b) was 6 feet apart / on opposite sides of the street / mirroring light blue masks / waving at you walking your dog / fearing that the gap between us / would remain forever

c is thinking I knew you / and your love of cats / remembering the scratch that we never talked about / wondering if we’d recognize each other / in the next life

d) is a two-way highway interstate / cars speeding 70 mph / rushing past / headlights blurred with tears / pressing down the gas / running from / whatever the hell is tailgating me

a) intersects another line at a right angle

b) was why we met / in September 2017 / when I walked beneath the welcome-back-to-school banner / and your smile bathed me in sunshine

c) is my thoughts / drifting downstream / dwelling in silt deposits / while my head is nodding / at my friend / who chirps about the beautiful boy she met / how I am simultaneously existing / in two places / at once

d) is a dusty desert crossroad / voices pulling / left or right / this or that / where horses’ hooves kick orange fog in my face / blurring the existence of choice

3 . A transversal line

a) is a line that crosses two lines in the same plane / at two separate points / an indication of their parallelism

b) was sitting on your front steps / sipping mugs of homemade duck broth / shivering and laughing / in the december wind / not sharp enough to slice / this last moment / holding us together

c) is driving down the icy road / past your neighborhood / pressing forehead to cold window / warm blobs of breath fog / my finger spelling / “i miss you” / as if maybe you are watching

d) is the slash slicing/ through an equal sign/ reminding me / to give more/ to smile at the school janitor / to greet them the same way you / greeted me / on the first day of school

4 . A tangent line

a) is a straight line that passes through a curve at a single point

b) was our necessary ramble about soup dumplings and the superior movie-theater snacks / laughing like normal / a conversation so utterly unrelated / to the chemo / slowly tarnishing your smile

c) unraveling / strings of memories / your fuzzy sweater hugs and happy birthday singing / drifting gently like crimson leaves / on a fall morning

d) extends / away from where it’s tethered / moving towards the next sunrise / never forgetting the moment where we began Nell Choi

Sofia Aquino | Little Miss Butterfly, colored pencil on paper

THE CANVAS

Lilly Jamshidi | Rumi’s Dance, oil on canvas

Lilly Jamshidi

I,too, dance the rhythm of this moving world,” I write, finishing the sentence with a straight line upwards, an “A” in Persian calligraphy, capturing the mystical dance of Rumi on canvas, breathing life into an ancient rhythm

I begin with a dark, velvety background, inviting light and motion to emerge with a palette of muted golds and deep indigos In delicate brushstrokes, I trace Rumi’s figure mid-turn, his white robe cascading in graceful, layered folds that defy gravity . Around him, Persian calligraphy spirals outward, creating a vortex of poetry that blurs the line between word and movement Each letter was crafted with care, a script woven of soft oil . Rumi’s spiritual dance spins counterclockwise, with arms positioned with one hand reaching toward the heavens and the other directed toward the earth, a channeling of divine energy . One of my favorite paintings to date

Painting has been my meticulous ritual since freshman year . Each step involves skill and dedication to detail . The first day I learned to make a canvas from scratch, my teacher Mr . Ferry was in his usual spot in the art room, hands covered in chalk dust, ready to guide me through what he called “a true artist’s rite of passage .” He handed me a stack of wooden frames and a roll of canvas fabric .

“This part matters more than you think,” he said with a stern look in his eye, catching me off guard . We walked into the dimly lit hallway outside the Art Studio as he added, “If you rush this, you’ll be fighting the canvas the whole time you’re painting . ”

He walked over and knelt beside me .

“The process begins with stretching fabric across wooden hand-built frames, fastening it taut with staples along the edges . It’s like building a foundation . Strong and steady,” he explained, helping me align the pieces . As I fastened the fabric, he showed me the right amount of tension to pull . “Tight, but not too tight . Imagine you’re tuning a guitar string — you need just enough resistance,” he said, gently pulling the canvas and letting me feel the difference in my fingers . After I stapled the last corner, he handed me a wide brush and a bucket of thick, white gesso “Now for the fun part,” he smiled, “give it two good coats, and take your time .”

“Why two coats?” I asked .

“Think of it like priming your mind for inspiration,” he replied, his tone lighter now and proud that he came up with that analogy . “Two coats prepare the canvas for your ideas to stick, to sink in deep ” He paused, noticing my unsatisfied frown . In a quieter voice, he added, “No, but really it’s to cover the wheat-colored threads beneath . ” Then he nodded as if to say stop wasting time So I replied, “Easy!”

It, in fact, was not easy . Each part of the process was intricate and timeconsuming . I felt a growing frustration as I spent hours sanding, layering, and smoothing the canvas until my hands were sore .

“Mr . Ferry! Mr . Ferry!” I’d call out . He somehow always knew that I needed help, whether it was the frame warping or the fabric unstapling, but he never seemed annoyed

I fumbled with the wooden frames, trying to line them up evenly .

Day one: build . Hammer, stretch, and staple . Day 2: paint,

dry, and paint . Day 3: sand, sand, and sand .

Three days later, after hours of layering and sanding– smoothing the surface to a satinlike finish, I finally had a canvas that felt right A perfect foundation for the paint to glide and soak into the fabric . My arms ached, and my fingers were rough from handling the materials Still, I felt an intense satisfaction— quiet pride in seeing my efforts take shape rather than resorting to Amazon for a canvas that ships in one business day, an order still sitting in my cart . Over these past few years, the process hasn’t gotten faster; I’ve just learned to handle it with a little less help from Mr . Ferry . Finally, the prepared canvas invited me to paint It was an invitation I accepted with reverence . The memories I chose were carefully selected, like opening a photo album and letting each image flood back to life One of my favorites: a string of laundry sunlit yard in Shiraz, each piece of clothing waving gently, familiar and intimate As I painted, I almost heard my grandmother’s voice calling, “Lilly! Don’t run, or you’ll knock everything over!” I let the colors flow in soft waves, each brushstroke a tribute to those cherished moments I painted it to remember and feel the comfort of those sunlit days and the warmth of home . Sometimes, the painting process felt like having a conversation with the canvas . I’d pause, looking at the brush in my hand as if asking, “What next?”

Painting has become more than a skill; it’s a form of creative documentation, an outlet that lets me share pieces of myself and my past in an unspoken language . And whenever I come home with a new painting to show my parents, I can’t help but chirp proudly to anyone who’ll listen, “Oh, and by the way—I made the canvas, too!” The Rumi painting sits proudly in my parents’ office, a fusion of my passion and my culture

Nell Choi | Muses Find Me by Moonlight, white earthenware

Reese Udler | The Flower of Truth, stoneware

WOMAN LIFE FREEDOM

Yahs Paydar | Re-writing History, white earthenware

In Memoriam

Alex Cox

“Memories, like pieces of a puzzle, assemble to create a soul. To give up a memory is to sacrifice a part of that soul. That is why it can never be done unknowingly.”

- The Memory Erasure Management Office Employee Handbook, p. 131

Tabitha Cutler | Sunken Petals, digital photograph

Smiling faces swirl across the clumpy dregs of Hazel’s coffee, sear themselves into her sagging eyelids. Thirty more, twenty-five, thirteen. She doesn’t realize she’s saying the numbers out loud until her own exhausted voice begins to blend with the bright laughter from the screen in front of her. Jamie is asking Ella to marry him, she thinks, but she’s seen enough of this couple’s memories today to piece together the recent and probably bitter end of their relationship. Both of them, it seems, chose the easy way out. So many do these days. She flags the memory with a sharp click and downloads it to the 3-D neurochip printer — marriage proposals tend to sell for a lot.

Seven left. Fragments of Hazel’s own apathetic face, blue-tinged and ghostly, flicker across the screen. The sixth memory is a funeral, the fifth a pair of cloudy, wrinkle-furrowed eyes closing for the last time. Worthless, Hazel thinks, the casket and the cataracts already fading from her memory as she scrolls down to the fourth. It’s just a silly argument, a fight between sisters, and Hazel wouldn’t think anything of it but for the fact that the girl screaming angrily into the lens is her own sister.

Which can’t be possible. Hazel keeps a meticulous log of every memory she erases, and within the last week, she’s only erased two — she doesn’t remember them, of course, but she remembers the cold sting of the neurochip against her palm as she inserted it into the MemMachine, remembers the cooly impersonal female voice reminding her, “You have three memories left to erase this week.”

But Maria’s honey-colored hair is cropped into the pixie cut she just got two days ago, and Hazel hasn’t erased a memory since Tuesday. How can she have forgotten doing this? Maybe it’s somebody else’s memory, somebody else’s quarrel. But no, the name spitting between strings of curses from Maria’s mouth is definitely, impossibly, “Hazel.”

Someone has taken Hazel’s memory.

Hazel knows what she should do. She should report this breach immediately to Murphy at the Memory Crimes unit. She should let the higherups at the MEMO deal with this, keep her head down like a good Analyst would. But if the MEMO begins to dig into Hazel’s memories, she’s afraid they’ll find out what she spends the rest of her nights doing. Hazel flags the memory, sends it to the 3-D printer, and then deletes it from the computer as soon as the red-labeled neurochip prints. She flicks through the last few memories in her inbox, barely watching, and, with a satisfied chirp, the computer powers itself down. Night shift is over, and she needs to get to her next job. She’ll have to deal with this later.

A A A

Swooping canopies of rich midnight-black silk drape the wire fencing, cleverly enveloping the reclaimed pasture in folds of night. The hum within is hushed but audible, and when Hazel gives the password and is ushered through a gaping hole in the fencing, a cacophony of music, light, and chatter washes over her. Lugging the scuffed patio table to her usual spot, a heaping cardboard box of illicit gray neurochips nestled in the crook of her

elbow and a single red one tucked into her pocket, she tosses a quick smile toward Zoe, who nods back as she pins her banner between the creases of the ragged tablecloth: TRUTH HAS A PRICE. Beside her, Aadhya, thick hair braided into a crown, uses the drooping sleeve of her black cloak to polish her bronze-cast sign: WANT A THRILL? SCARIEST MEMORIES HERE ONLY! Hazel unfolds her table with a creak and tacks up her own poster. Printed in a blocky, painstakingly precise hand, it reads, GOOD MEMORIES: MAKE U HAPPY.

Customers begin to stream in as the night market comes alive, and soon, Hazel has made two, three, ten sales. Unlike her work at the MEMO, this type of counting never gets tedious. People crowd like vultures around her box of neurochips, each person so desperate for happiness that they’re willing to break the law and implant someone else’s memory into their brain. It’s pathetic, but somehow, it’s also comforting, the lengths a person will go to to feel at peace.

The moment the last neurochip leaves the box, Hazel furls her canvas poster, collapses the patio table, and waves goodbye to Zoe, Aadhya, and the rest of the nightly trespassers of this forbidden world hidden beneath shrouds of midnight-black silk.

A A A

Hazel pulls into the driveway, unlocks the door, and sags between the moth-eaten cushions of her couch. She fishes the red neurochip out of her pocket and clasps her fingers around it. Analysts are authorized solely to use MEMO-issued computers,

but neurochips aren’t the only commodities that change hands beneath the black silk tent of the night market. Beneath the couch cushion, Hazel’s fingers find the sleek weight of her contraband Macbook, and as she inserts the neurochip into the computer socket, she sucks in a nervous breath.

The pledge she’d had to recite ad nauseam during job training marches word by word across the stark white loading screen: As an employee of the Memory Erasure Management Office, I shall not steal, forcibly seize, or acquire through deceit the memories of another. Finally, the folder pops up, and it’s …empty?

Hazel reloads the page seven times, but by the eighth, it’s obvious that the neurochip is blank. Her mind rewinds the events of the day in stuttering flashes: drive home (chip in her pocket the whole time), night market (same story), work (3-D printer in perfect condition). Hazel can’t even begin to imagine the revolutionary — and dangerous — technology it would take to erase a memory from a neurochip after it’s been printed, but if somehow it existed, the whole world would have heard about it. That leaves only one explanation: the caffeine, sleep deprivation, and endless procession of video memories must have driven Hazel to a hallucination. Well, it’s been known to happen — didn’t that old lady up in Amnesia Care get arrested last year for attacking her husband, convinced he was a Martian or a robot or something?

Hazel laughs, giddy relief and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation exhilarating her. Nobody’s out to get her, no evil mastermind is wasting

his time plotting the demise of a random entrylevel MEMO employee. She’s just crazy! Stifling a giggle, Hazel tucks the Macbook back under the cushions and curls around the quilted throw pillow. Martians, cyborgs, and crazy old women swim across the insides of her eyelids as her eyes fall shut …

A A A

… A harsh prod at her cheek wakes Hazel from a deep, dreamless, almost narcotic sleep. When she cracks open her eyelids, a pair of laughing green eyes blinks back at her. Maria hums tunelessly as she draws apart the curtains, and Hazel winces at the harsh glare of the winter light. She’s slept in again — that damn alarm clock’s never loud enough — and, as she confirms with a bleary glance at the clock, she’s late for work. Maria flicks Hazel’s nose, the playful script worn from years of use passing easily be tween them: wake up/I’m tired/time for work, Haze/shut up/coming?/com ing. When that familiar crooked smile crosses Maria’s face, that’s when Hazel

knows. Even if there were some villain out to get her, he would have to erase her whole life before he managed to steal her memories of her sister. Like twin braids fastened with green satin ribbon, like pudgy baby fingers clutching each other and refusing to let go, Maria and Hazel are intertwined. MemMachines seal momentary wounds — lovers’ spats, faux pas, awkward morning-afters — but the blood beneath the bandage still runs thicker than water. Forgetting in this world is easy, but loving Maria, that’s something Hazel will always remember.

A few fuzzy, coffee-soaked minutes later, Hazel kisses Maria on the cheek and climbs into the car. At work, she logs into the computer, and the overgrown garden of yesterday’s erased memories springs into being before her. She spends the day wading through tangled weeds, pruning thick vines and slipping the occasional delicate bloom into her pocket for nighttime. She clocks out, as always, with a bundle of 3-D-printed

Palmer Holley | The Abandoned Family, dark brown stoneware

neurochips crammed into her box. This time, none of them are red.

A A A

Hazel arrives at the night market right on time. She tows her patio table past Zoe’s stand, past the bustling food cart, past a new booth she doesn’t recognize, manned by a cloaked woman with a strong nose and a thick braided crown of hair. The woman inclines her head at Hazel in a sharp nod, and Hazel nods politely back. She sets up the booth and shoppers swarm around her table, grasping handfuls of neurochips, shards of synthetic happiness. Hazel always tries to imagine what it feels like to plant another person’s memory into your mind, but she’s too scared to do it. Becoming someone else, even for just a second — doesn’t that risk losing yourself? She has a few repeat customers, but every time they come, they’ve changed somehow, dyed their hair or tattooed their neck or whitened their teeth. Hazel wonders whether it’s the new neurochips in their brain somehow rebuilding them, piece by piece, from the inside out.

As Hazel leaves, the cloaked woman surprises her with an oddly friendly smile. She must know Hazel from somewhere, Hazel thinks. Maybe she works at the MEMO. Most of the vendors here do; a pledge doesn’t mean much to a hungry mouth. Hazel loads the table into the trunk and drives away, a sensation she can’t quite describe pulling at her brain. There’s something, she feels, that she should have done before she left. She has no idea what it could be, and by the time she gets home, she’s forgotten about it.

A A A

The next month passes wrapped in gauze, a fog of rain-spattered sidewalks and weak gray skies. Not once does the red neurochip cross Hazel’s mind, until one mid-February morning, when as she walks from the parking garage to the office, bent against the bitter wind, a flash of crimson catches her eye. The wings of a red knit scarf picked up by the wind, nothing more, but for some reason, Hazel feels her stomach curl with unease. She hurries inside, puddles of rainwater splashing against her quickening heels.

The day unrolls slowly before Hazel, soulless and haloed in blue light. Hours at the computer seep into each other, and when Hazel’s cell phone buzzes in her pocket, she eagerly checks her messages for any sort of novelty. A number she doesn’t recognize is texting her in short, frantic bursts: haze ur late where are u???? lunch today remember

HAZEL WHERE R U hello??????

With a sigh, Hazel blocks the number. Some troll found her through the MEMO database, she guesses, and stalked her thoroughly enough to access her private contact. It’s happened before. She sets her phone to silent and turns back to the computer, where four hundred and seventy-three more memories await her.

Once the last memory leaves her inbox, Hazel logs off the computer and rushes outside to her car. As the engine rumbles to life and the GPS maps out the fastest route home, Hazel’s stomach twists with the creeping sensation that’s become too familiar to her in the past month: she knows she’s missing something, but she has no idea what. It isn’t until she checks her side mirror that she spots the cardboard box of neurochips sitting beside her on the passenger seat.

She has no idea why they are there.

A A A

Hazel drives home automatically, her mind whirling through wild conjectures and improbable rationalizations, anything to explain away that damn box. Did her boss ask her to keep them safe? Are they special somehow to MEMO? Well, she doubts the MEMO admins would trust a mere Analyst with information important enough to print and preserve. Maybe she’d printed them herself, was planning to do something with them? Trade them? Sell them? But why? She turns into the driveway, climbs out of the car, and unlocks the door, and the box of neurochips slips from her arms and spills haphazardly across the floor because there’s someone in her house.

“You’re home early, Haze!” The intruder lounges comfortably on the couch, socked feet propped up on the coffee table. She’s beautiful, with a honey-blonde pixie cut and wide green eyes, and the sight of her face tugs insistently at something deep inside Hazel — an ancient sadness, a long-forgotten grief. Hazel stares at the girl in amazement, and five awkward seconds shuffle past before the stranger opens her mouth again.

“I was worried, you know, because you didn’t come for lunch at Mike’s. You must’ve forgotten about it, which is fine, you’re busy, I guess, but when you didn’t answer my texts, I literally thought you had died or been abducted by aliens or —”

Hazel stops her with a desperate look. She surveys the girl from head to toe but no, she’s never seen her before in her life. Hazel draws in a breath and lets the barbed question wrapped around her tongue pierce the silence between the two women.

“Who the hell are you?”

Palmer Holley

Family

dark brown stoneware

The Dividing Line

Setting out onto the road

My feet pick up off ground,

One by one, faster and faster

Turning the corner to the open path

In the distance

Glistening blue shines

Caps of white roll over

Roiling foam fans out

Closer and closer and closer

Only the vastness

Of sea-green sea in sight

All the way to the horizon

Where sits the sun half set

And a speck of gray floats before it

Sailors going to sea

While I stand here alone

The point where ocean meets the land

Eliza Dorton

Talia Green | By the Rocks, oil on canvas

Rose Sussmann | Snorkeling,

In Water

Phoebe Cohen

Igazed off the edge of the dock, caught up in memories. An entire month of hard work, shivers, and tears had gotten me here. I had spent an entire month’s winter nights tucked into a small office in Rockville, hearing lectures on using scuba gear and all the many ways you could die trying. I had finished one day crying in that same room over my practical exam, losing my mind over questions like what percentage of an air tank is actually made up of oxygen (only 30 percent). And then, of course, there was the weekend my brother and I spent in a sixty-degree pool, weighed down by gear, learning to breathe

digital photograph

Reese Udler | The Beauty of the Sea, stoneware

underwater. I had been the last to reach the bottom because I misunderstood how to deflate my own gear. I will never forget the humiliation of my dependence as I sank down to the rest of the group after the instructor came and did it for me, bubbles loudly leaving my shoulders. I had gone through all of these trials in the expectation of an otherworldly feeling found fifty feet below sea level, one like my dad had described from his Australian scuba adventures in his twenties. I have always loved water, so this desire drew me like a bird to flight — the most natural thing in the world.

It was mid-March. Spring Break had come, and my family arrived in St. Croix, a little island in the Caribbean Sea near St. John and the Dominican Republic. The only barrier remaining between my brother, me, and our scuba licenses was one final practice dive. While my mom drove to our dive site in our rented, sunshine-yellow Jeep, I anxiously flipped through the pages of my diving textbook. I tried to predict everything I might forget, memorizing the causes of decompression sickness and imagining the very professional scuba center that awaited. My dad was already there for a refresher dive course. Besides him, I was sure

we’d find a slew of marine biologists ready to test my knowledge, climate scientists using dive equipment to reverse bleaching of coral reefs, and, of course, seasoned scuba divers with their own ships, who would take one look at me and sense my novice status.

To my surprise, my mom dropped my brother and me off at a surf shop — filled with an assortment of tropical swimsuits and Billabong sundresses — in the middle of the main street. We walked to the back where we met an Australian man, who told us our dad was already in the water.

“What water?” I wondered aloud. He automatically pointed out the front door, to the other side of the street, by the old fishing dock. I could see just the edge of a shallow body of water: a little harbor and beach. Then he said we would have to wait two hours until our dad and his instructor returned because there was no extra gear for us to dive with.

As the day went on, a storm crept in. There was no cell service to call our mom to drive us home, so my brother and I sat at a park bench by the dock. We gazed off the edge, trying to see our dad submerged beneath. The water seemed shallow and deserted, and now, darkened by the ominous

sky. It began to rain, cold and refreshing at first but exhausting as it continued. The wild chickens scuttling around entertained us for a bit, and then they grew annoying as they tried to huddle under our shadows on the bench, seeking cover from the rain. At one point I got up and paced around the dock, looking off into the distance and replaying everything in my head. I was sure the storm would mean that after all this waiting, we wouldn’t dive today at all. Dad would be called to the seashore, and then we would all be sent home, drenched and unproductive.

But everything was calm underwater. Eventually, Dad came up, walking slowly as the water grew shallower towards the shore. And before we knew it, my brother and I were set — wetsuits on, air tank strapped, and all — and were taking slow strides crossing the street to the water. I felt like at any moment, any misstep or imbalance, I could fall from the sheer weight of the tank, and then it would crash and the compressed air would explode. But once we finally reached the sea, my worries washed away as the water lifted everything I held. The raindrops shuddering the ocean’s silvery blue surface were no longer provoking but beauti ful and gently rhythmic. As instructed, my brother and I bit our air tank’s mouthpieces and began to swim. I felt the taste of enhanced air, nitrogen, and metal fill my lungs. Around me the rain disappeared, our underwater world shielded from its torrents. As I floated, weightlessly suspended, I was absolutely present and yet felt half-conscious.

Almost instantly, my gaze met serene perfection; I felt like I was daydreaming. From a shipwreck decades ago, there was the old sunken deck, wooden beams stretching from the sand,

Elise Attiogbe | Under the Sea,

absolutely covered in vibrant coral. I watched in awe of the complete harmony of it all. The water, organic and flexible, gently weaving around the dock’s nails and edges. The way fish, with fins of royal blue, violet, and gold, swished around the coral, and mussels breathed with the wave currents. Shells and barnacles adhered to the aged wood. By the edges, solid rock had become intertwined with the beams, forming crevices and a cave, inside of which, our dive instructor pointed out, a sea turtle rested. Something man-made, through time and unspoken accord, had become something else entirely: a part of the sea.

While we swam on, time stood still as I made eye contact with manta rays, their wings gliding like butterflies through the waves, and felt the judgmental stare of an eel emerging from its cave. All along we were paddling, fins and all, fish on either side. My whole world was silent, except for the wind-like sound of waves pushing sand and the sound of my own breathing echoing as air moved through the tank. I looked up to the water’s still surface and knew the storm was gone. Beams of light streaked through from the sky like tiger stripes of pure gold.

Anarray of pins coats my bathroom countertop, along with hair bands, and anything else that can flatten my hair so it molds to the shape of my head, leaving a small neat bun in the back The smell of hairspray fills my nose, and I have to squint so I don’t get any in my eyes . I get some in my eyes anyway, and I cringe at the sting I let the bristles of my hairbrush guide my hair into an organized direction pointing to the back of my head The process hurts with each brush, and I try to hold back tears, frustrated with my hair for not complying with my hands . I tie my hair into a ponytail, and immediately after I stretch my hands to ease the soreness

Then I split my ponytail into two, reach my hands behind my head, and start twisting the two sides into a shape that looks like one of those flat, multicolored lollipops . I start pinning the bun into place, alternating which hand I use to pick up the bobby pins Soon I can see the white of my bathroom countertop again as most of its contents have made a temporary home in my hair . My toothbrush bounces a few times as I jump to test the durability of my bun, and I hear a loud clatter once, twice, three times . My toothbrush has survived the daily earthquake as I conclude that my bun has passed the test .

The scent of hairspray fades away as I walk farther from the bathroom After I’ve changed, the colors of my previous outfit are reduced to dark shades, and I feel like I am looking at a silhouette in the mirror A vague, tall body stands before me, one that

Barrett Poling | On Pointe, film photograph

will seamlessly blend in with the other vague, tall bodies in the dance studio I’m proud of the uniformity my reflection shows .

Next I go to pack my bag, and it begins to look more like a round pillow than a bag as I fill it with more and more items . I throw the bag up and over my head like a sack of Halloween candy and let it land on my back . I finally leave my room and head downstairs, making a knocking noise with each step I take as my pointe shoes collide with the wooden floor . I can feel a shift in weight on my right shoulder as I slide my water bottle into my bag Last, I slide into my moonwalker

shoes that surround my feet like two giant pillows . I begin to depart from my reflection in the floor length mirror, ready to say goodbye until about twenty minutes later when I’ll enter the dance studioand its mirrored walls Before I leave my house, though, I make a small jump on both feet . I feel more like an astronaut than a dancer . I check the time on my Fitbit and my stomach tightens . I’m not late yet, but I need to hurry down . The knocking of my pointe shoes, now dulled out by the shoe-pillows surrounding them, quickens and then comes to a stop as I enter the car .

- Mia Gyening

Barrett Poling| Ballet Slippers, film photograph

Kambi Ndu

| Girl in Pink Gown, oil on canvas

forever

Insufficient

Sweet submission

I yearn for The slow strokes

Of soft guitar

Everything is changing, In gaps and bounds

And leaps and Fragments

I want it to stop, I want it to freeze

In tiny pictograms

Fleeting moment, please come back

Youth delights, And age denies

The pleasure that comes With knowing the next day is a guarantee

Painting scenes With hollow words

I want to stand

On equal footing, finally

Nothing is ever good Enough

For the forces that bind

Love and life and life to earth

Passing by Cyclist on an empty road

Minute there, Minute gone

Empty laughter I hear it rotate

Over in my ears, Jingling and terrible and dropped

Feel it forwards, Feel it backwards

Empty longing

Sweet relinquish

Please come home tonight, And the next And the next

Avery Phillips

Barrett Poling | Grape Soda, digital photograph

The Origins of Chem Club

Izzy Perkins

Sitting next to Zara Shamim during Mr. Bryant’s U8 sophomore chemistry class changed the trajectory of my entire life. Mr. Bryant changed our seats after each unit, but towards the end of the year, he got lazy. Zara and I ended up sitting together for months on end. Over this time, we became friends and hardly ever got any work done. It wasn’t our fault — having class after lunch is impossible since everyone’s focus is gone, and we are just excited for the day to end. Attempting to make chemistry engaging enough for a U8 class, Mr. Bryant often resorted to the one thing that never failed: dad jokes.

Over the year he made enough puns to cement his role as the dad joke king and one of our favorite teachers. He would constantly say things like, “Don’t trust atoms. They make up everything.” Zara and I often stayed in the room long after class ended, joking and talking with him. One of those times, the two of us sat at our table as Mr. Bryant cleaned notes off the whiteboard.

I said, in jest, “We should start a chem club. Zara and I can be the presidents.” We laughed at the idea of it. We knew enough about chem to pass the class but certainly not enough to be presidents of an entire club.

Mr. Bryant gave us a quick look of confusion. “There already is a chemistry club,” he replied. Zara and I stared at each other. We had never heard of this chemistry club.

It seemed impossible not to know about a club at Holton — the clubs fair ensured that. For a whole week in September, it is impossible to walk to lunch without being yelled at and offered candy in exchange for your promise to join this or that club. And yet neither of us knew this club existed.

“If you want me to, I can add you to the email list,” Mr. Bryant said with a hopeful look.

“I mean, why not?” Zara replied.

“Great! The presidents are both seniors, so maybe you two can take over next year,” Mr. Bryant said as he pulled out his computer and added our names to the list. “Ok, done.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bryant,” Zara and I said as we walked out of the room.

After looking at the email list, Zara and I assumed we’d be the only people running for president. Unfortunately, to our surprise, a freshman ran against us.

“I don’t know why but I’m kind of nervous,” I said to Zara while we anxiously awaited the election results.

“Me too, I mean there’s no way she could beat us … right?”

“Let’s hope not. She hasn’t even taken chemistry!” Whether or not the freshman beat us will forever remain a mystery because the presidents that year never got around to actually sending us the election results. So like anyone who really wanted to be president of something, I decided we should just claim our presidency. Mr. Bryant didn’t seem to mind, and neither did the freshman.

We began completely rebranding this practically invisible, nearly abandoned club — starting with actually making it known that the club exists. We knew selling people on extra chemistry wouldn’t be easy, so I came up with an idea. I had practiced my pitch in my head but was unsure if Mr. Bryant would be okay with it, or even if this was something we were allowed to do at Holton.

Walking with Zara into the science office, I began,“I was wondering, well, really, I was thinking, and I mean, Zara and I talked about it,” I stumbled over my words for no reason. I looked to Zara desperate for help, but she was completely unable to read my look and just smiled widely. I had no choice but to continue. “What if we made a bet where if we got at least twenty people to one meeting, Zara and I would pull the chemistry shower on you?” Mr. Bryant laughed. I don’t know if it was at the prospect of getting twenty people to a meeting or the idea of us pulling the shower on him. “But if we can’t get twenty people there, you can pull the shower on us,” I quickly added.

“Hmmm. Yeah, sure. That sounds like a great idea,” he answered. I’m pretty sure that the bet alone enticed the majority of the people who originally signed up for the club that year.

Over the course of the year, we had a lot of meetings and did a lot of experiments, some of which, like our lava lamps, worked, but most of which did not, like our elephant toothpaste, our original batch of crystalized snowflakes, and our DIY bouncy balls. Did I mention we aren’t really chemists? Nevertheless, I always looked forward to planning and going to these meetings. The club exec and the club regulars had become pretty close over the course of the year, and as the year was ending, everyone was excited for the final meeting, the shower-pulling meeting. Zara and I sent out email after email encouraging people to come to the meeting, made an announcement at assembly, and reminded our friends at every opportunity of our need for at least twenty members to show up. 64

The night before the meeting, I texted Zara. “Should we bring a change of clothes in case we lose?” In all of the build-up to this final meeting, neither of us had ever considered that we might not win this bet.

“I mean, I am, just in case,” was her only response.

The day passed slowly as we waited for the last period of the day, the time set aside for clubs. We walked together into a completely empty chemistry room. I was shocked. Luckily, I had neglected to look at the time. It turned out we still had five minutes until U9 even started. We had food and played music, yet it felt like the people trickling in weren’t going to be enough. I had left my change of clothes downstairs, so I decided there was no way we could lose. I stalked through the third-floor hallway looking for anyone I recognized.

“You! Whatever you two are doing right now could not be more interesting than this,” I said, dragging reluctant freshmen from the nook back to the chem room. By the time I returned with my recruits, there were far more than twenty people in the room. A mixture of people from every grade sat at the neatly aligned tables or stood in the back of the room. Most people were talking, some sang along to whatever song was playing from our speaker, and others were signing their names into a beaker I drew on the board for the members to sign.

Looking out at the number of people in the room, I smiled over at Zara, and while they might not all have been there for chemistry, we still managed to get a much bigger crowd than ever before. I had spent countless classes looking at the shower lever,

wondering what it would feel like to pull, and now, I was finally about to find out. Mr. Bryant mandated no phones and pulled down all the blinds.

“If people had wanted to see it, then they should have shown up,” he said with a slight shrug. He quickly gave us instructions about how to work the shower as Zara and I reached up towards the lever.

“Three, two, one!” yelled the excited club members. Pulling the lever and watching the water flow out of the faucet was so satisfying, or it would have been, if the water pressure had been harder. Everyone in the club sat mesmerized at the shower and the drenched man underneath it. However, this excitement only lasted the couple of seconds that the shower was running. As the water flowed out, I slowly realized it was just like any other shower, except for the fact that most showers have functioning drains.

After the mass exodus from the chem room following our success, Zara and I were left with a soaking-wet floor to clean up. It became apparent the water wouldn’t drain by itself, and Zara and I finally understood why Ms. Reddinger, the other Chemistry teacher, had randomly left us a dustpan. Whoever designed the room neglected to make the floor slanted towards the drain so water could go in that direction. As Zara and I used the dustpan to scoop water towards the drain, we talked with the remaining members about our exciting plans for chem club next year. And even if we had a big clean-up job, this feat had made our first year as presidents totally worth it.

Peyton Fough

| Spray, digital photograph

The Perfectionist

Perfect.

The impeccable, exemplary, Model for life and living. Always striving for the best or even better.

Mastery of all forms. Never satisfied with one thing, Always working for something more.

Every test has a gold star, Placed next to the printed name. Every desk has trophies, Shining with regality.

On the outside, It looks faultless, flawless On the inside, Lies the weight of expectation.

Unreachable, unattainable Standards. Only set by oneself.

The fear of mistakes. Messing up, Slipping up, Misstepping.

But,

Mistakes are reality. And perfection, Remains an illusion.

Mistakes are messy. Mistakes are like drawing outside the lines, Missing that easy, game-winning shot, Or forgetting to study for a test.

But mistakes are what drive us. They add to our determination, Our grit.

Embrace the faults. Progress over perfection, Maturing past immaculateness, Developing versus perceived excellence.

To err is human. Because, We are all, beautifully, Imperfect.

Beatrice Burwell

The Fiber Arts Studio

Phoebe Cohen

Fromthe outside, the Fiber Arts Studio looked like a little house, complete with a black roof, white-trimmed windows on all sides, and French doors … almost fit for a corner on a walking street in Amsterdam instead of this mall. On the inside, it was my whole world.

Instead of somewhere in Western Europe amongst cafes and single-person cars, the Fiber Arts Studio was tucked away in a little promenade in Potomac, Maryland, between the post office and a kayak shop, out of sight of the nearby Starbucks and Potomac Pizza. Every time I pulled open the tinted doors to the mall and skipped up to the studio with my friends, Adriana and Liza, I felt I was a part of a most cherished secret. On Fridays after school in fifth grade, we took the bus to Adriana’s house and waited for her mom to drop us off at the studio. And every time we were greeted by the magic and goodwill that practically sparkled from the space, the creation of Anja Caldwell, our teacher. The double doors were always already open, and we would find her sitting, waiting for us at the large table that took up most of the room.

“Hi, girls!” Miss Anja would say, her voice as rich in benevolence as honeyed tea is streaked with sweetness. “What would you like to make today?”

It was an impossible question as I gazed awestruck around the room. There were shelves all around displaying wonderous crafted masterpieces: hats in all colors, beaded jewelry, tiny felted mice wearing patchwork dresses and sipping tiny mugs of tea. Endless opportunities for an afternoon well-spent. Miss Anja always helped us all pick out one project to focus on. She told stories of little girls who kept starting new projects all the time and never finishing

them. Her principles were always about recognizing peace in the present moment and the importance of patience in the presence of ambition. She taught us the Danish word hygge. She always reminded us, “There will be time.”

The hardest question of the day now answered with all of us having declared our intentions for the afternoon, Adriana, Liza, and I took seats around the table and began to tell Miss Anja about our days at school. She listened to every story with full care, and then she would tell us her own stories. Miss Anja’s daughter had just started college at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. I remember having difficulty even comprehending going to school so far away from my family and friends. How could eighteen be old enough for someone to live in another country? I expressed my shock, and she responded with a laugh and added the fun fact, “It’s the college where Prince William and Kate met!”

I looked up from the pom-pom I was making to see her face. She was so proud of her daughter for being so independent. I smiled because I loved seeing her so happy but also because I loved hearing about her life and her family. I held on to every detail she shared. I would tell my parents later that evening, “Miss Anja’s daughter goes to college in Scotland!”

“Phoebe!”

I looked back down at my loom to see a tinge of red on my yarn. I hadn’t noticed.

Anja always blamed the foaming soap at my elementary school for making my hands bleed. “See? You need to make a lather yourself. The foam dries out your skin,” she noted gently. “Now go wash your hands.”

Mary Claire Gilbert | Koré, mixed media

“Can someone come with me? Please?” I asked the room. The mall bathroom was absolutely terrifying. It had gloomy fluorescent lighting, a creaky door that was locked to the public, scratched mirrors, and the occasional spider — all factors that made its being haunted plausible.

“Guys?!” I begged.

Finally both Liza and Adriana agreed selflessly to join me. Taking the studio’s key, we went, my friends hanging out stiffly around me as I rushed to wash my hands as quickly as possible. I remember vaguely that Liza must have been leaning against the door by the light switch when suddenly the bathroom went dark.

I screamed. I heard the shouts of my friends around me too as I rushed in the direction of the door and frantically reached for the handle. Liza found it first and swung open the door. Light from outside flooded into the bathroom.

We all ran, past shops, past people strolling in the mall, past the confused families in the dentist’s waiting room next door, back to the studio to where it was safe. As soon as we were inside, I felt comfortable again. As we sat down at the table again, surrounded by the studio’s warmlit lamps adorned with lace and yarn, Liza already telling new jokes and Adriana’s laugh making me laugh, I couldn’t remember why we had left at all.

Hours passed us like minutes as we sat together, talking and crafting. Miss Anja’s emphasis and joy for passing down

her love for crafting to her students even more than her skill made me feel so at home with no pressure to perform. The classes were about learning new things, but even more so about being surrounded by one another. Our crafts were only the bonus. Eventually, the dinner hour would approach. Adriana’s mom would arrive to pick us up. Adriana, Liza, and I would say goodbye to Miss Anja, stopping at the grocery store for doughnuts before heading home to our families. None of us cared that the doughnuts were stale from sitting out all day; we were just so happy to enjoy them together. By that summer, our group would break up. Adriana’s dad was the Costa Rican ambassador, and his term in the U.S. having ended, they were returning home. Liza was going with her family to Ukraine. And I was coming to Holton. Our precious Friday routine was coming to an end. But I will always remember those afternoons at the Fiber Art Studio with Miss Anja, the woman who built the studio as a 50th birthday present to herself. I wonder if she ever could have imagined how much more of a gift it would be to everyone else.

The luminous glow

Shining, shimmering, dancing

Streaming through windows

Alisha Agha & Jacky Stanton

Haikus

The stars shine brightly

Even during the daytime

The sun keeps beaming Cindy Miao

Light blazes yellow

Illuminates the dark sky

That shadow over all

Alisha Agha & Jacky Stanton

Light in the morning

Burns too bright, hurting my eyes

Bring back shadows

Eliza Dorton

The stitching of suns

Wove into the blanket of

The speckled night sky

And when she was lost

Even the constellations

Dropped from their puppet

Enaya Mohsin

Leela Cohen | Light Wave, white earthenware

The future seems dark

How can we hope when we’re trapped

We’re our only hope

Laurie Kurtz

& Tankas

I adore the sun

With its warm golden rays

Don’t like the burns though

Astro Getahun

Turn the voltage up

Candle’s trembling flame, Paints the world gold in the night, Hope made of mere wax

Lightbulb wire burns brighter

Oops! It exploded .

Grace Ding

Rosie Lee

Across the ceiling

Lit with the flick of a switch

Making what is warm

Under its rays nothing grows

A sun that never rises

Astro Getahun

The sunshine comes in

I can hear the birds chirping

The morning has come

Lara Vinelli

Kamora Mack | Faith’s Window, dark brown earthenware

Title of Piece First para text

Angst of Regret

The

Ilsa Peterson

What’s your biggest fear? It’s a common enough icebreaker. Spiders, rats, heights, failure, death. All are explainable and deeply rooted in one’s soul. My fear is regret, the penetrating feeling of a missed opportunity — the smothering feeling of repentance, as if garotting my windpipes. Self-condemnation terrorizes my mind. I fear the whiplash of regret. I fear the moment’s choice that I’ll never be able to redo. Each decision, substantial or seemingly insignificant, torments me with possibility.

This fear was instilled in me at a young age with the cautionary words of my mother, disseminating in my brain pondering over her warnings, tiptoeing into decisions, and examining the forks in the road. I choose the path I’m not afraid to look back on. I’ve always been told that I can form my own opinion and decide my next course of action as long as it’s wise, not something I’ll “regret.”

The first time I remember the feeling of fearful apprehension toward decision-making was in Seattle over Thanksgiving in 2018. My family visited an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, its menu boasting delicate flavors like lavender and rose. My mother’s advice festers in my brain, urging me to select a flavor that embraces the moment. She stresses that this might be my only visit to this endearing parlor, where marine decor lined the footpaths and the breeze wafts the fading scent of summer pollen. The wooden walls, swollen from years of rain, exuded a timeless charm. Inside, the air is thick, the sweet perfume of vanilla and floral fragrance, wrapping around me like a memory I knew I’d savor or regret. Uneasily, I settled on the burnt honey lavender, the violaceous pigment alluring me, angst filling my being with wonder, my decision back to front. Will I like it? Will I remember it? Will I regret this choice? Once, as I held the cone in my hands, the lavender ice cream balled perfectly atop the over-baked waffle cone. Its floral aroma mixed with the warmth of the shop. I was free to overanalyze and determine my verdict. I sampled the treat, savoring the bitterness of the lavender, the moment holding more than a modicum of importance. Will I like it? Will I remember it? Will I regret this choice?

Maren Blalack | Juan, oil on canvas

Truthfully, I don’t remember if I liked the burnt honey lavender ice cream from the charming ice cream parlor, but I do remember the significance of the ice cream. I remember the oppressive feeling of anxiety as I scrutinized the menu, dwelling on the outcome. Although I fear the whiplash of regret, that fear does not make me cautious. I fear the negligible option, the moment becoming insignificant, ostensibly meaningless. When confronted with choices, I gravitate toward the unique, something that guarantees remembrance, my true fear, not regret but the fear of memory abandoning me, of forgetting the moments.

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I wandered slowly through herds of sheep

Kids with no innocence

Corrupted by the screen

O, what has the world come to

A world of one-minute videos

From dogs to models

Memes to political issues

Comments full of young kids Minds of play-doh

We all say, “I’m not addicted,” but can you find it in your heart to delete it?

Books collect dust in libraries, begging to be opened

Soccer balls and bicycles lose air

Dinner tables are empty except for lone plates and silverware, glittering with cleanliness

Humans are meant to be the most advanced creatures, yet Like flies, we swarm to the glow of the phone

Caroline Goldstein

The ocean is my mother, Gentle at times, sweet as a lullaby, Cleansing my body with her salts, Waves lapping around me with tender care, Bathing me

In love, in water .

The ocean is my mother, White foam curling around my ankles, Silent, yet I feel understood, Her quiet comfort is safety, Her stillness, peace .

The ocean is my mother, She can turn angry in an instant, Thundering, storming, Tossing sailors, turning tides —

But never, ever at me .

The ocean is my mother, The most beautiful in the world, Everything else pales beside her, With her dark hair and bright smile, Her kind gaze, her merciful face, Even when angered, she is still pretty .

The ocean is my mother, Slowly, quietly polluted, Bits of others’ trash Seeping into her life, Uninvited, unworthy, Turning her furious, dangerous .

The ocean is my mother, Her children are the animals, The seaweed, her loved ones, The geysers, her offspring, The moon, her cousin — And I, her daughter .

The ocean is my mother .

Claire Shannon

Drifting, digital photograph

Rosie Lee

Zoe Nash | Mourning, digital photograph

Is God Watching the World Burn?

I fear that He is testing my faith

By bringing me to burning pits of life.

But why, benevolent God?

Sample poem

Tell me, benevolent God, What on earth are you waiting for?

Your head in the clouds does not respond,

Is it you who witnesses the crumbling of cities,

text text

The fire enveloping in the sky, and watches?

I refuse to believe that you refuse to intervene,

text text. text text.

For I believe you are there —

But your alibi is unclear.

text text.

Oh, God, benevolent God,

text. text text. text. text text.

And I cry and curse the pearly gates.

As my faith leaves me,

As embers ignite the ground around me,

They ignite a revelation —

An invitation to understand and mature.

text

And I have the freedom to accept it

Does a world without struggle mean

Why must you grant your people the capacity for pain

If you love and cherish them so?

text text. text text.

text. text text

A world without choice?

text

Like creation and destruction, They cannot exist without one another.

I want to have faith in you,

text text..

And I want to believe,

But as my surroundings go up in flames,

text text.

As my happiness is stripped from me,

So too are my faith and my hope.

text

text text.

No, I understand now.

God cannot stop the world from all its problems, For that would strip us of our free will —

text text

The greatest gift of all.

author

Nyah Magsino

Hope is fleeting, yet Hope endures. It clings to the frayed sleeve of a child, whispers in the ears of the lost, rises with the banners of armies.

Hope lingers in the quiet spaces, but sometimes, it disappears — buried beneath the weight of the world, smothered, silenced.

Yet, like water through cracked stone, it finds a way back — to the dreamers, the fighters, the young who still believe.

Hope tastes of lemonade, warm and golden on a sweltering day sticky, sweet, unshaken. It fills the emptiness like dawn breaking night. But hope is also sharp, unsteady, a trembling hand grasping at promise. It carries the ache of longing, the fear of loss, the quiet betrayal of dreams left behind.

Hope

Hope smells like spring and gunpowder, like perfume and sweat, like home and hunger. It lingers in the aroma of bread, the scent of your mother’s embrace, in the breath of a battlefield.

Hope sounds like a newborn’s cry, a sigh of relief, wind dancing through trees on a stifling day. It is the roar of voices rising as one, the rhythm of feet pounding toward a better tomorrow. It is a battle cry, a toddler’s laugh, a song sung in the dark.

Hope is wild-haired She twirls with the wind, laughs as sunlight washes upon her face, but she will not hesitate to strike. She will fight for the weak, stand for the broken, shield the wounded with open arms.

Hope does not turn from hunger, from grief, from empty hands and hollow eyes. She sees beyond suffering, beyond the weight of the world — she sees the glimmer of summer’s joy, the echo of children’s laughter, the quiet peace within a heart that refuses to surrender.

Maren Blalack | Zephyrus, oil on canvas

Amelia Brooks

Years Ago

The netting keeps the mosquitoes out

But it keeps you in

I stand on the other side

Watching your sticky fingers

Prod their way through the holes

She says keep away from the led paint

On the windowsills

Talk on talk on

On your little palm the water floods

I can feel it now

The same as I felt it then

In your pupils lightning burns

Fear knocks you to the ground

To your ears the thunder is a bomb

Quick, hide from the sound

Roar on roar on

You’re focusing on the screen instead

Testing the dark clouds

Measuring the eager air

Anticipating the change

The crow watches the owl

And the owl eyes the cat, waiting

It’s your mind’s foul

Think on think on

I see her scoop you up in her arms

You smell that same scent

Her hair was longer back then

In that old musty blue chair

She has a book to read

Her voice, the steam from a cup of tea, Ignores the storm’s greed

Cecily Brooks

Sofia Aquino

Betty Rose Bean

Lucy Berry

Gabriella Burashe

Nell Choi

Leela Cohen

Phoebe Cohen

Vivienne Craig

Eliza Dorton

Peyton Fough

Maria Olympia Georgiou

Lily Hibey

Sophia Lekeufack

Enaya Mohsin

Charlotte Mount

Zoe Nash

Audrey O’Beirne

Lindy Phillips

Ella Ross

Hattie Sharp

Hunter Shanklin

Maggie Shelton

Raniya Syed

Naila Verma

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

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 2025 and produced this year in the Student Publications Room. If wishes were rainbows, we would ask Covid and Influenza A to leave the building during the final two weeks of production so that everyone on staff could actually be at school (including Ms. Salata), and that the ghost of Sophia Hall haunting that one computer would rest easy.