In a Grove 2024

A Celebration of Writing and Art

Writing

Creative Non-Fiction

1st Snigdha Garikaparthi ’24, From Chaos

to Clarity ............................................ 4-8

Ivy Morgan ’24, Girlhood ............... 12-14

Uma Freeland-Nardone ’24, Love is a Battlefield ....................................... 16-19

Fiction

1st Uma Freeland-Nardone ’24, An Apple A Day Keeps the Doctor Away ....... 23-24

Ivy Morgan ’24, When they Fall From their Beds 30-31

Poetry

Alden Desy ’24, Childhood

Unravelled .................................... 36-37

Emma Brock ’26, #1 ...........................42

Charlotte Coates ’24, When We Were

Younger ............................................... 64

Ivy Morgan ’24, Just the Right Red 48-49

Morgan LaChance ’25, The Wrath of the

Lamb ................................................... 53

Tessa Murray ’24, Surgery Scars 58

Logan Snopek ’24, If you, the one who loves us 70

Artwork

Abby Lush ’24 ..................................... 43

Abby Robertson ’24 ............................. 41

Aidan Sumner ’25 65

Aiden McKImon ’25 47, 72

Alexandra Abell ’24 67

Angel Xu ’27 ................................... 5, 34

Anna Gruodis ’24 .......................... 32, 71

Anna McRonald ’24 ............................ 50

Axel Zeitliger Fontana ’26 ................... 39

Blake Dobson ’26 ................................ 57

Bridget Choi ’25 46

Chloe Vuong ’27 34

Cyrus Chen ’24 35

Daisy Zhong ’25 52

Dawn Liu ’26 .................................. 9, 45

Drawing & Painting Co-Curricular ....... 74

Edna Sung ’25 ............................... 46, 73

Ella Pollitt ’24 ...................................... 75

Fiona Zhou ’26 .................................... 19

Gabi Brown ’24 51

Grayden Clark ’25 61

Isla Russell-Howes ’27 39

Jason Huang ’24 .................................. 66

Jenna Quinn ’26 and Isabelle

Kerbler ’26 .......................................... 77

Joseph Ji ’27 ........................................ 59

Kassia Didyk ’24 20

Leo Fa ’26 22, 44

Lilian Wang ’25 63

Lily Wilkinson ’26 66

Livi Ambler ’25 .............................. 24, 62

Maria Sobrino Rubio ’25 ..................... 60

Martha Schwarzkopf ’26...................... 40

Matthew Zhang ............................. cover

Miley Garbutt ’27 28

Nabeeha Khan ’26 27, 38

Natalia Bordaty Reinisch ’26 40

Nicole Huang ’24 .................................. 6

Nora Reise-Ward ’26 ..................... 25, 56

Olivia Desy ’26 ........................... 15, 44

Raashi Kansara ’27 .............................. 29

Raquel Ardila ’25 ..................................2

Ruby Sun ’24 67

Sam Eisen Webne ’24 11

Skye Harris Stoertz ’26 33, 38

Sofi Mendez ’27 .................................. 10

Sofia Contro Vega ’26 .......................... 26

Sophie Haber ’25 ................................ 54

Suri Ngo ’25 ........................................ 69

Trinity Cooligan ’25 ....................... 25, 62

Victoria Luke ’25 ................................. 68

Willow Roberts ’24 20

Willis Meng ’25 55

Yukun Xie ’25 21

Inside—Raquel Ardila ’25

Cover—Matthew Zhang ’25

Photography—Simon Spivey

From Chaos To Clarity

The zombie apocalypse was all-consuming; the world was on the brink of destruction, and it was up to me to find a solution. My mission was to defeat all those mindless zombies trying to get to me. I spent weeks hunched over my iPad, researching survival strategies; YouTube research history, reading “How to Prepare for the Apocalypse,” and dedicating my efforts to training my dog to protect and attack when necessary.

I succeeded in almost anything I put my mind to: reading, drawing, painting, sculpting, and duolingo. Until I step foot into a dim-lit classroom. My brain goes elsewhere—something I call autopilot.

When in Autopilot, my brain spent time counting ceiling tiles, drawing airplanes on assignment paper, figuring out how many times I could relace my shoes, and noticing the kid in the corner picking their nose in a not-so-stealthy way. Words coming out of the teacher’s mouth were always distorted, in one ear and out the other, “womp womp womp,” a Charlie Brown Special.

My childhood bedroom was a vortex where things would go missing; the floor hadn’t seen the light of day. Abandoned assignments or my mother and I scraping words together last minute, giving up at sports when I wasn’t doing well, loud noises enraged something in me, and direct eye contact in a conversation spun me back to Autopilot.

I grew up a quiet kid, but my brain spun mind-numbing nonsense.

I was aloof. A bona fide ditz. Navigating through my innerworld was a maze, forever disappointing not just myself, but for those around me. My brain was a thunderstorm; arguments about why I wasn’t doing enough, inferior to my

relatives or peers. Unbidden tears flowed like a river breaching its banks. It was out of my control

Every obligation drove me insane. Most kids kicked, fought, and screamed: I was worse. The thoughts in my head are distorted, blurry, and so loud that clasping my hands to my ears felt useless. I find myself halted, with no foreseeable conclusion in sight, pervading every aspect of my being. My heart drops, there is a stone in my throat, and my stomach starts eating itself.

It’s too big, so I give up.

The worst part was the embarrassment—for my parents and from my peers— of the stupid Indian stereotype I couldn’t be a part of. I wanted to do it all. I wanted to be a gifted kid, smart, talented, sporty, and well-rounded. I was just disappointing.

I wasn’t stupid; books were my friends before anybody else. I spent my time traveling to Mordor, training for the Hunger Games, practicing Defense Against the Dark Arts at Pops Shoppe, and growing up with Michelle Obama.

However, my behavior exacerbated my interests.

High school came around, and I was awestruck. Unsure of how I got here, postpandemic socializing, everyone was better than me. I had to try—not Snigdha try, but really try.

Nicole Huang ’24

I spent class reciting the words the teacher had spoken, sitting in front of class, staring at the board, asking one too many questions, and immediately marching back to the manufactured place I called home to finish the task at hand. Endless lists so I didn’t forget things. Staying rigidly organized because if I didn’t, it would explode into chaos.The harder I tried, the more I isolated myself. I hated myself. The strain I put on myself to be average would have led to the next person winning a Nobel Peace Prize.

“You’re showing strong signs of ADHD,” my therapist had said confidently, like it was obvious.

What? No, I didn’t. I’ve seen many boys with ADHD exhibit frequent bursts of energy, interrupting in class, ignoring their work, and being more interested in recess than paying attention. These were the children who were given a diagnosis. I never seemed like that; I was just a faulty kid who preferred the stories in my head to the ones on the syllabus.

She’d explained how ADHD looks very different in women and how teachers don’t notice those signs because boys disrupt their classrooms.

The only ones disrupted by women are themselves.

Those who go unnoticed are the people pleasers, struggling internally while attempting to maintain order, staying perfect to live up to external expectations.

There wasn’t a glitch in the system.

The cycle of chaos I could never get a handle on started to all fall into place.

The challenges I’ve faced weren’t character flaws; my brain is just wired differently.

I almost feel robbed. This is how a neurotypical brain is supposed to work. I’m not flawed; I’m just wired differently, and it took years of struggling to finally get me here. Life seemed almost too easy; I did not have to constantly wing it, leading chapters of my life blindly.

Getting ready each morning, assignments, classes, and my room all started coming together.

As I sit here and type, my attention to detail and unwavering focus feel mindboggling.

I can hardly believe how much more efficient and productive I’ve become. My thoughts are no longer scattered in a million different directions, making it easier for me to organize my tasks and prioritize my responsibilities.

A whole new world has opened up before me, where I can fully utilize my unique strengths and abilities. I am finally experiencing the true potential of my differently wired brain, and it’s nothing short of liberating.

Dawn Liu ’26

Sofi Mendez ’27

Sam Eisen Webne ’24

Girlhood

She was wearing a Halloween costume. In an itchy purple dress with a hat that had a brim two times the size of her head and a cheap pointy top that flopped over to the left was a four year old.

She stood in front of a door as her mother took out a camera to capture the moment. She is a sad excuse for a witch but she is a young girl so happy all five of her teeth were on display.

I have seen the picture of that girl so many times, but this one was different. I recognize a smile untouched by the world. Each time a little girl grows up it gets lost. Whether it be a rude comment from a boy in her class or a TV show character that changed the way she thought about herself, something in that smile dies. It doesn’t come back; even if you try.

Pastel pink sketchers create four year old earthquakes on the asphalt of her suburban road. Her hand grips onto her fathers pointer finger. Chipped hot pink nail polish accessorizes her girlhood.

Focusing on how quickly her legs have to walk. Three steps for her every time he takes one. Her father was so tall. What’s it like up there?

Soft skin turned to sandpaper. Tantrums turned to a shaken coke bottle. Red ringlets turned to faded February fields. Placing the brown cardboard boxes that hold my 5th grade talent show and middle school graduation proved harder than I thought. As I put those dresses too small for me into bright green donation bins I watch versions of myself dim. Certain lights go out and new ones are installed. But I miss the newness of life and the excuse to scream and the orange curls that framed my freckled face.

He put his hands under her arms and lifted her into the air and onto his shoulders. She could touch the clouds. The felt brim of his hat; a handle. She dared to let go. The autumn breeze whipped through her fingers as if she stuck a hand out of an airplane. She could not wait to grow tall and strong just like her father so she could fly everyday.

12 year old me googled ways to stay shorter. Boys don’t like tall girls. 14 year old me learned to do makeup to cover up my sandpaper skin. I wanted to feel pretty but I hated lying. I see pictures of a girl I do not recognize. A girl who let the world tell her she isn’t enough. A girl who believed it. Hot air blows 16 year old hair into a shape I wish it was. When strangers tell me they like my hair I wish I could tell them that it’s fake. I still hate lying.

Six doors down was her Granny’s house. When she finally landed at her destination her father put her back on the ground. He told her she’s “getting big for that”. Those words felt like a quiet success. She walked through the maroon door and was greeted by a curly white dog. The fur ran through her fingers as she smiled. She was not tall enough to touch the clouds quite yet but she remembered that they were just like this: soft, white, airy. The warm smell of her grandparents home wrapped her in a blanket of safety as her life held the ends together so it wouldn’t fall.

The hard concrete pole almost collided with my car when I swerved onto the sidewalk and into someone’s lawn. Just missing a childrens sand pit that could have been broken in seconds; all my fault. Air flowed through my lungs in harsh, shallow breaths. Hands shaking in all directions. I can’t talk. Who let me drive a car alone? I’m still just a kid. I want to be care-free again, with my biggest problem being how knotty my hair is. I wish I was four.

She can’t wait to be 16. She ponders being anything other than a child. Tiny feet dangle off the bed she has to jump to get on. Her eyes locked on her mother applying makeup in the mirror.

Leaned in so close her nose almost collided with her own reflection; fine details, she noted in her mind for later when she might need it. One day she will be old enough to wear lipstick. Eyes fixed on the reds applied to the cheeks and the brown to the eyes. Painting her face and enhancing her beauty with her delicate artistry. Her hands shake, excitement puts rose coloured lenses in front of her eyes with the thought of being her own artist each morning.

I’m wearing a Halloween costume. It’s cheap material scratches against my torso. The sequin shaped stamps along my stomach show all my hard work at being someone I’m not. I do not like parties. I do not want to feel like I cannot control myself. I do not have a choice. This is girlhood.

I can feel the layer hastily blotted on pretend that mask my face as I cover up who I am. Mountains dig into my heels as I wait on the flat pavement, surrounded by suburbia.

I am a sad excuse for a woman but I am a young girl so happy both versions of me are on display.

Ivy Morgan ’24

Olivia Desy ’26

Love is a Battlefield

The world spins on a cyclical axis. Turning through time in a constant loop where evolution and regression take turns at human ploys. The recurring nature of our collective history can be seen as an atrophy. Repetition only allows for regular pain and suffering, slowly yielding itself to new demographics with the turn of each century. Though this is true, there is much comfort in our repeated mistakes, our recurring deficiency is the most human thing about us. James Baldwin wrote in his 1962 work The Creative Process; “You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, who had ever been alive.” His words still ring true today, outlined in the global connection provided by our mistakes. It’s not that we’ve learned nothing from history out of ignorance but quite the opposite. As a collective we are acutely aware of all the mistakes we continuously make and in flurries of haste and fear reach the same pitfalls of our historical peers. As Baldwin outlines, solace can be found in the ruins of time. In art, music, novels and poetry, we find ourselves embedded in fallen kingdoms and artifacts alike. The continuous experience of feeling is seen throughout our history and the greatest testament to our hearts.

Currently the world is taking the utmost breadth. Genocide, war and revolutions are thick in the air. The global stage seems crowded with awareness, from all sides of conflicts people have used the past as ammunition for a cause. There is danger in these moments, where context as well as perspective become lost and incoherent.

As a Canadian who spent much of their childhood in the Northwest Territories – majoritively living off the land and in indigenous communities – I have seen the clear consequences of colonialism, of settler narratives imposed upon a culture and people. This is not an unveiled Canadian history but one that has

been surging through our cities, policies and lives forever. It’s one that has been ignored and subjugated to justice for scarce seconds of the dominant narrative.

Being witness to the reality of Canadian history has helped me understand the dilemmas that weigh on our world. Disparities that inflict themselves on even the simplest forms of life, from the water we drink to the air we breath. As the current war in Gaza reaches past the brink of one hundred days, we are collectively bearing witness to a genocide. A conflict of ethnic and religious tensions that choke out life before our eyes. It mirrors a synergic history with other colonial powers such as ourselves. It’s the past, replaying its script, one that we have seen over and over and over again. Where children are separated from their families. Where water becomes a commodity. Where one of the few slivers of hope is possible empathy found in artistic voices who breathe life into the most dire situations. Just as I’ve seen families ruined in the collateral of residential schools and segregated opportunities in Canada, similar stories are unfolding in the occupied territories of Gaza. The few and far between solutions feel insoluble or even impossible, but just as Baldwin witnessed himself in the writingings of the world, I believe the use of art to situate feeling and care during global crises is of the utmost importance.

In the wake of this conflict in occupied Palestine and reflection on our country’s own history, I’ve turned to the works of Mahmoud Darwish and Baldwin alike due to their crass empathy. Both writers have the ability to harvest love in the darkest of times, using words and their barest emotions to draw attention to the wrongs of the world. In Darwish’s publication Unfortunately It Was Paradise: Selected Poems he wrote “ We are captives, even if our wheat grows over the fences/ and swallows rise from our broken chains / We are captives of what we love, what we desire, and what we are.” This reflection on both life in occupied

territories married with the naturality of all encompassing love is so essential to the human spirit and showcased relentlessly in Drawish’s works. Similarly Darwish wrote about and documented correspondence with his Israeli lover under a synonym. Resulting in one of his most celebrated works Rita and the Rifle, which opposes expressions of romance and youth with the waging war and considerate violence. These words must be drawn to people’s attention in light of these global massacres due their reoccurrence in history. The consistency of love in face of opposition, the necessity of humility for the sake of humanity is a history that can never be forgotten.

Often political works in the arts are the most charged, but this is all but necessary as quite often these spaces are disregarded or less silenced. The resistance and fragility of lives is protected in words hidden in pages. James Baldwin once said “ The role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see” and this act of making the unseen seen is more powerful than any history book one could provide.

Our world is smaller than we think, a constant conversations of texts and experiences, exchanging truths and answers to our calamities. Where Darwish can express a love in the vein of Romeo and Juliette, Shakespeare’s words tie a bright red string to the life he lived and propels the past into the future. A man from occupied Palestine in love with an Israeli woman, warring factions leading to death and destruction, love lost between the two and dirtied with blood, it all bares a similar outline.

From Canadien’s digging up mass graves of indigenous children to Palestinians facing apartheid mirroring South Africa, these nations all are intertwined with that same red string, blazing narratives that unfold colonial histories and prove them wrong. When I hear Darwish’s cries to enter a homeland stolen in verse, it’s the same sound as Inuit throat singers voices echoing down parliament hill. It’s a call to arms, to resistance and most importantly, love. To show the world that the history book may have forgotten, that people may have forgotten, but you haven’t. That the beating heart of a lost nation or people can be found in vocal chords, the spines of novels, olive trees on descreated hills, mothers’ lullabies and most importantly in feeling, a collective feeling, perhaps forgotten but never lost.

Fiona

Uma Freeland-Nardone ’24

Zhou ’26

Kassia Didyk ’24

Willow Roberts ’24

Yukun Xie ’25

An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

I’ve started using whitening strips, my teeth are becoming yellow. I tell myself it’s only coffee, cigarettes and the occasional disease. The morning after, a crow flew in through the window. It struck me with a force, lingering steadfast ever since — a harbinger, I solemnly declare.

Another weekend passes by, face pushed up against a pillow in the most earnest way. It looks as though I’m clamoring for what my life used to look like. Spirals from lowlight and no air-conditioning turn the ballroom into a kaleidoscope. Everyone looks old. I can feel the growing worries pressing into our backs as we get drunker than usual. Our attire has become more nonchalant. With fewer people to impress, our once virtuous revels of joy are a distant memory.

Looking into the mirror, I see years slip by. My hair was wasted on box dyes and ultra-high-tech curling irons. Blowouts and blow used to feel like a reward; now, these young men want full cheeks and natural hips. Shaking my body and its appendages feels unnecessary. The cold used to make my arm hair stand tall; now, it’s numb to the outside world. No shock, no excitement hidden in the halls, no debaucheresque fight in the name of my beauty. All that youth, where love weds mania and boundless potential, has ventured far and lingers hesitantly in the prospect of return.

Injections give me hope. The full plump provided by my ozempic cocktail is enthralling enough, sweet and full of life as I used to be. My gauntness rarely seeps into my reflection; the mirror spins stories that make my skin fresh and new. The whitening strips do their job, reflective as a full moon. It’s the color that slips off me; nothing seems to stick to my skin. Rosy cheeks, bright eyes, gray hairs by the millions. It’s all part of my de-saturation process.

Days draw out in a predicted fashion. I pretend not to hear the court whisper. The children play, sing songs, and games at my behest. The forest calls my name, the tremble of my voice out past the palace gates. These forces do not mock me. Blind to the lines drawn into my bones and notches on a post from years on my knees. A welcoming word to the ghastly and disgusting, wrapping its arms around my sunken shoulders. No sobriquet of Granny Smith can find me now, only Queen.

Uma Freeland-Nardone ’24

Livi Ambler ’25

Trinity Cooligan ’25

Sofia Contro Vega ’26

Nabeeha Khan ’26

Miley Garbutt ’27

Raashi Kansara ’27

When They Fall From Their Beds

Jack drifts in and out of worlds as his father flips pages. Soft cotton pillowcases feel like clouds as Peter and the Darling siblings fly over Neverland. The London Skyline is only a distant memory to the kids when an enchanted island is beneath them. From one leap to the next; air ripples through their clothes, whipping the thin cotton nightgowns left and right, up and down.

The smell of adventure fills Jack’s chest as the children’s feet land on the wooden boards of the pirate ship. A fearless fall takes Peter from the top of the billowing sail to the main deck--a face off between him and Captain Hook. Suddenly, the silver sword is in Jack’s hand. Somehow, he feels at home as the weapons slash and clang and crash. Alligators and walking planks taunt him with the possibility of a tragic ending. But in no time he has won the fight. Taking each of the Darling children’s hands, Jack confidently pushes off into the sky, and back to the safety of his family of rough-housing boys. He is victorious in his youth. Wendy smiles sweetly, the lost boys cheer, the delicate and slipping life of being a child makes Jack pray that he’ll never grow up.

Maggie’s mothers voice sounds like honey as it coats her ears in comforting sweetness. The words once upon a time lull her into rest. Her eyelids hang heavily with the weight of the day when she falls from her bed. Completely suspended in the air, it’s like she’ll never feel the ground again. When the surprise wore off, she became accustomed to the cushion of nothingness. She is falling for what feels like forever. In a moment of true peace it comes to a halt. Her tailbone collides with the ground beneath her. Acutely aware of how far away she is from home. She dares to open her eyes. A rabbit with a watch stands directly in front of her. The animal quickly started to run, screaming that he’s late! It might be the most peculiar thing she has ever seen. As her feet hastily followed the creature, she came to realize that that animal might be the most normal thing in Wonderland. Magical cookies, an army of playing cards, an ocean of her own tears, and a teleporting cat with a beguiling smile are just some of the normalities in this ridiculously wonderful world. When her alarm chimes she sighs, wishing that she didn’t have to wake up.

Lily decided that tonight was the night that she would tell her father that she was too old for bedtime stories. But when her father is holding up the familiar beaten cover of her favourite tale, she can’t say no. Even as the story begins she resists the urge to be taken to a made up place. But when the world around her dissolves the whimsy rushes back. Two harmless children and the woods never ends well. A field of goosebumps rose along her skin when Hansel and Gretel leave the tiny crumbs of their existence on the forest floor. She knew where this was going. Suspense is what she hates but she can’t stop listening. She made it all the way to the witch’s house before she too knocks on the door. The wart that lives on the left side of the witch’s beaten face never fails to bring Lily’s gut all the way down to her feet. Her evil smile—so wide—reminds her of the cat in the story she read the night before. The oven in the corner roars at a degree she can’t comprehend. But she knows what to do. She wastes no time. With a familiar push, the witch is consumed by the heat and left to bake in the oven. Sleep comes quickly once she conquers that day.

Jack’s alarm knocks him out of sleep and into a bright Monday morning.

Maggie makes her way to the bus stop; her mother kisses her forehead and wishes her well.

Lily feels the sticky grey vinyl beneath her legs as she is taken to another day of school.

They mourn the lives they lived last night. The feeling hangs low in the air in a suffocating smog. Grieving whimsical worlds as they sit quietly during silent reading time. No story will compare to the ones they were submerged in mere hours ago. The three kids sit around wooden desks. Looking up from their storybooks, another classmate leans into the kids and says, “I had the best dream last night...”

Each of their eyes shot up in equal glisten when reminded of the child they were the night before.

Anna Gruodis ’24

Chloe Vuong ’27

Angel Xu ’25

Cyrus Chen ’24

Childhood Unraveled

I used to believe in magic in forest fairies hiding in the trees, and mystical lands of long lost princesses, In mermaid’s voices heard on the ocean breeze, in magic tricks, and pirates ships, and backyard buried treasure.

I used to believe in wishes, spent on shooting stars, and the shiny little pennies tossed into fountain ponds.

I used to believe in the monsters who hid beneath my bed, in the nightmares that woke me up and filled my heart with dread.

I used to believe in luck, in four leaf clovers found in an empty field, in acorns, and ladybugs, and horseshoes facing up. They captured the light of the world, and dispelled the shadows from within.

I used to believe in superstitions, illusionary forces. Things the world taught me to fear. Avoid black cats, and sidewalk cracks, and broken bathroom mirrors.

I used to believe that good things happen to good people. that what goes around comes around.

I used to believe in karma, in doing what is right.

I used to believe in dreamcatchers, to protect me on sleepless nights, in counting sheep, in singing songs, in night-lights that brighten the world.

I used to believe in the sand and the stars, in sunsets, and snowflakes, and summer days. In sappy songs, and small smooth stones, that I could hold in the palm of my hand.

Now I believe in trusting myself, in hiding my pain,

Now I believe in science, and silence, and sleep, in being myself, in one day at a time, in learning to read what’s between the lines.

The worlds get darker through an adult’s eyes.

As those rose coloured memories begin to fade, from the tapestry of thoughts within my brain.

I used to believe in everything. I used to believe. I used to be.

Desy ’24 in taking each word with a grain of salt, and learning to accept that the world has its faults.

Nabeeha Khan ’26

Skye Harris-Stoertz ’26

Axel Zeitlinger Fontana ’26

Natalia Bordaty Reinisch ’26

Martha Schwarzkopf ’26

Jenna Quinn ’26 and Isabelle Kerbler ’26

Abby Robertson ’24

I am sorry,

I am drowning at sea, and instead of taking your hand and pulling myself up

I am pulling you down with me by the ankles

And I’m sorry I’ve convinced you that’s what you deserve

There’s so much I want to say and there’s so much I don’t

Everything that comes out of my mouth becomes an apology

I am sorry

You are the sun in the sky, and I am becoming marine snow

I am decaying, I am eroding

You do not deserve me, you deserve so much more

I will never be more. My rot is not enough to fill your stomach.

These bones are not worth the effort.

Emma Brock ’26

Abby Lush ’24

Leo Fa ’26

Olivia Desy ’26

Dawn Liu ’26

Bridget Choi ’25

Edna Sung ’25

Just the Right Red

She sits in front of her mirror with powder lining her vanity. Falsehood patted onto her face.

With evil eyes closed, she imagines a potion trickling down her throat. Eternal youth tastes just as good as she thought it would when it hits her bloodstream, flowing through the canals of her body turning to tight wrinkles, bright eyes, white skin.

She picks her skin like a woodpecker and an oak tree; the bark works against her until she bleeds sap. She prays each night. Preys on porcelain skin, preys on round cheeks and pomegranate meat. Stickiness pours out her eyes--those sapphire mines glow against redness: the sadness that frames them. She looks out the window.

The delicate dropping of snow, so white it burns her eyes with its purity. Blinding and bragging as it taunts her with intensity.

What could cut the colour in half? the blood of the fairest, spilled on the sheet of idyllic

It takes only minutes for reality to snap back into her focus. To be youthful, To be as pretty as a princess is entirely impossible when she is as gaunt as a queen. Lines of life create caverns beneath her eyes and craters in her cheekbones. A flush rushes to her face, tears to her eyes, and malice to her mind when she yearns to look like newness.

powder. Though, a queen with blood on her hands never did much good, an apple might be just the right red to put the snow’s beauty to bed.

Oh, to kill the one who’s happiness lasts evermore, to be magnificent, to be beauty.

A hollow queen paints red on her cheeks and black on her eyes and agony in her mind —for even if it is a mask, it hides reality.

A mirror is no magic when she begs to see the fairest of them all. Though maybe it is... As her reflection sits in front of her.

Tears and all.

Ivy Morgan

Anna McRonald ’24

Gabi Brown ’24

Daisy Zhong ’25

The Wrath of the Lamb

The lamb amongst a sea of wolves no longer felt the humiliating reward of staying quiet, it fought back against the slobbering brutes and killed. Hooves shattering filthy teeth into meat-stained pieces, littering the ground with their broken control. An herbivore’s teeth can damage as well as a carnivore’s can, and the shallow cavities of their polite molars house blood more comfortably. The lamb was silent as it did what the wolves did so loudly, not a sound as it crushed the predators until their bones mixed with their insides and turned them as incomprehensible as they had always made the creature feel as punishment for its docility. The lamb’s kindness stayed with it as its hooves carried warm blood and the remnants of a vein for miles as it walked. She, the lamb, walked until the hot sun scorched her wool and set her to fire, and she wanted nothing more but to burn for her rebellion against the wolves. She was a lamb until the end, and her good deed crystallized inside her foot in the form of bloodless nerves won at her limit.

Sophie Haber ’25

Willis Meng ’25

Nora Reise-Ward ’26

Surgery scars

I am cold inside and I can’t be bothered.

I am hot but I take an even hotter shower

The food is gross and so is my favorite show.

I don’t care who texted me. I can’t do my chores.

I haven’t showered in a while, what’s one more day

The weather is warm and comforting but so is the stale darkness in my room

Essays and sonnets to be analyzed

But I haven’t been at school for a week, so does it even matter?

No pile of dirty clothes as I haven changed since I can last remember

Collar bones and thin arms in my mirror

A slimmed and miserable face looks back at you

The body of a runway model the torment of those without

Results of a repulsive appetite

Headaches and chest pain

Sore limbs and bruises

Eye bags and a hospital light colored skin tone

The doctor doesnt know whats wrong

And neither does your mother because you haven’t told her

But you brother has a hunch

Your friends are worried about you but you smile anyway

As you watch them eat while you are full with regret

Is this terminal or something that will pass

Does suffrage like this do more damage than war?

Will it leave surgery scars or be unknown to those who meet you after

Will I even survive

Should I bother trying.

Heartbroken

Tessa Murray ’24

Joseph

Maria Sobrino Rubio ’25

Grayden Clark ’25

Trinity Cooligan ’25

Livi Ambler ’25

Lilian Wang ’25

When We Were Younger

When we were younger

We dreamt of growing up

Of getting taller and smarter

Being able to make our own choices

Our own bedtimes

Now we are teenagers

Some of us even adults

On the verge of graduating high school

Of having to pay bills and do our jobs

We used to hate going to school

We hated playing with toys and friends

Taking naps

Now our days are limited

And all I want is to be a kid again

I want to go back to kindergarten

Where all that was expected of me was to play with blocks

I want to go back to my elementary school,

And sit in tiny chairs that I used to fit in

Back to a time when I wasn’t scared of the future

But that isn’t how time works

I must graduate,

Get older,

Get a job.

And soon I will look back and wish that that I could come back to high school.

Aidan Sumner ’25

Lily Wilkinson ’26

Jason Huang ’24

Alexandra Abell ’24

Ruby Sun ’24

Victoria Luke ’25

Suri Ngo ’25

If you, the one who loves us

If you, the one who loves us

If you, the one who loves us, why all the agony and malice,

We go about our days as if our world isn’t broken,

And if you, the one who saves us, lets us do this to ourselves,

You say: “Love one another. As I have loved you” but we do not listen,

With our division and hate we bring ourselves to our knees,

If we replace hate with compassion, unseen with seen, a walk-on-by with a friendly hello,

Would our world be free of sin?

Not,

But would it be a place worth saving?

It always was,

You see the lesson is not to hate the hateful, and shame the shameful; it is to save the unsave-able, love the unlove-able, and forgive the unforgive-able, because for you, the one who loves us, we try to let you into our hearts, and for that we are saved.

Logan Snopek

Anna Gruodis ’24

Aiden McKImon ’25

Edna Sun ’25

Drawing and Painting Co-Curricular

Ella Pollitt ’24