Fall Issue
My Naked Crown
I stand before these peaks of gold,
Searching for such feats to behold.
Though through my sweat, which once flow’d,
Now in my skin, frosty cold,
I scale this cavern underneath.
Through and through, I dodge the dragon’s teeth.
Free from ashy haze, which from a singed maw it does wreak edI search for that diamond clear,
So that my crown, which I hold dear,
Will no longer hold that hollow sound to hear.
Suvir Khanna ‘27 -
, y
But the turn turns away and leaves me alone
A visage, a ruse, something I didn't see?
For the garden I guard has relinquished me
I ask passing roses where I must go
But blood in thorn is all they know
My pleading for passage is picked up by wind
And now all the forest knows where I am pinned
I await rapture from my mortal being
But all I receive is a woodland agreeing
ost pathetic of them all the gates of Eden with such gall er pastures from passing preaches rights to all good creatures
r my dominion stands ll out with my very hands
o me by the one that is grand ost by simple venture of land” , ing did not stop
e wrought I yet to attend death is but common trend was no fit for this end h God for the chance to ascend
et with was shaking of earth ore me gave way for great birth w image of my chance of redemption e a path no matter the emotion
and read this cue: y woe, a path is true strive with hearts aligned d burdens, grants souls refined and serve with grace
s, find your place y sight reveal
That knowledge craved is shared, not sealed”
And as the dust covers sun, the reaper draws near I sit in dark, yet I gather no fear
For I’ll have known a glory here
Upon the rock I write, and where my cabin lay
For life’s true light comes from the Son’s ray
Hugh Ballantine - '25
Quietly
What does my heart mean to me
I haven’t heard it for so long
Please tell me what it means to me
I’ve been so lost without it’s song
Well;
It’s a dancing soul without a beat
It’s silent words I can’t repeat
Though I never really tried
I know I’d fly if I could speak
It’s fiery love that just won’t burn
A teenager turned taciturn
It’s dreams I had that flew away
Beyond all inkling of concern
It’s a painting no one thought to buy
A young boy no one taught to cry
It’s the song of one I knew so well
Whose heart now beats without reply
She used to look at me and sing
And sweetness flooded everything
She filled my head with memory
The loss of which is deafening
While once I heard her all around Echo after echo drowned
When silence came on suddenly
My heart ceased to make a sound
Alas;
Although my heart won’t beat for me
I smile when she’s near
She’s nothing but a melody
I’d give my life to hear
Compared to my peers, I stand no chance. I really don’t. I lack the diversity they celebrate, though my grades are great. I’m focused and driven, yet somehow, I feel disconnected, as if I’m not enough. Melodic ambrosia echoes around me, but as it collapses, so does the illusion, and reality sets in. The way I see myself falls short of the image the world demands.
The weight doubles down as time passes, compounding with every moment. It settles on your neck, pulling you toward the ground, beckoning your knee to bend beneath it. The counterweight of your JanSport backpack offers no relief; instead, it drags you further down, like an anchor to your collapse. You simply can’t bear the burden any longer it gnaws at you, like a cancer, relentless and consuming.
My life, much like pickles, is a ferment caught between states, never quite where I should be. Does the grass grow tall when it hears the mower’s lament? No, it doesn’t. It is cut down by the machine, over and over, without mercy. And I am no different. My dreams of academic excellence, too, are pruned, reshaped into something smaller, something less real They become fantasy, unattainable.
Mother tells you to dream big, so you do. You day-walk through visions of a future where you succeed, where you matter But the next morning, you return to reality, ambition drained robbed by the system, by the weight of expectations, by you.
You crumble and crash, feeling the slow, inevitable descent toward an end you can’t quite name. You wait for May, for the relief of it, but May feels impossibly far away. It won't come fast enough if this keeps up. Your motivation flickers, a dying ember that desperately needs rekindling. The fire inside you, once burning bright, needs to be stoked again, or else it will extinguish.
You’ll die out there in the cold, not from frost or ice, but from the freezing emptiness of lost ambition If you don’t find warmth again something to spark that drive you won’t make it through.
Matthew Sasso '25
Chapter 7: Isolation and Adaptation
t morning began like every other, with the harsh blare of a bugle that shattered the fragile f dawn. The notes cut through the still air, pulling us from sleep with a force that felt almost Each day at Missouri Military Academy began this way, with a jolt to the senses, as if to us that comfort was a luxury we could no longer afford The cold air bit at my skin as I ed out of bed, muscles aching from the previous day's physical exertion The regimented life at beginning to settle into my bones, but it didn't make the early wake-ups any easier It was as routine was slowly eroding the softness of my previous life, replacing it with something harder, silient
he usual grueling morning physical training and a quick, tasteless breakfast, our platoon ched to the parade grounds for another round of marching drills The expanse of grass t stretched out before us, a field of potential mistakes waiting to be made I could feel the in the air, as palpable as the frost that clung to the ground, as the sergeants lined us up asn’t just about marching; it was about mastering the art of moving as one entity, each step a ion of discipline and unity
cing through the air like the crack of a whip deep lines around his mouth evidence of a yielding, swept over us, making sure we re going to learn how to march like soldiers e whole platoon pays ” The weight of his ening I could feel the collective anxiety of e to slip up Will stood beside me, his n in his eyes This was our first real test of platoon failed
. The rhythm of the march was drilled into us, the called out by Sergeant Cooper in a monotone that matched the dullness of the overcast first, it seemed simple enough just walk in time with everyone else. But as the drill ed, the subtle complexities began to reveal themselves. Keeping the correct posture, g our arms swing just right, and most importantly, keeping our steps in perfect nization any deviation was met with a sharp rebuke. I stumbled once, my foot catching tch of uneven ground, and immediately felt the weight of a hundred eyes on me. Sergeant s gaze locked onto mine, his eyes like twin daggers. For a moment, I was certain he would call me out, make an example of me in front of everyone. But instead, he simply barked, “Focus!” and continued the drill. The message was clear: there was no room for error here.
