Spring 2023 Mosaic

SPRING 2023

www.maristmosaic.wordpress.com

maristmosaic@gmail.com

3399 North Road

Poughkeepsie, NY 12601

Cover Design by Kaitlyn Dugan, Ethan Joyal, and Abigail Koesterich

Interior Layout by Amanda Nessel

Cover Image: Overlooked by Shannon Wines

Opinions expressed in Mosaic do not necessarily reflect the views held by Mosaic staff, students, faculty, or the administration of Marist College.

© Mosaic 2023

Mosaic Editorial Board

Editor-In-Chief

Lauren Lagasse

Assistant Editor-In-Chief

Riley Mazzocco

Art Editor

Kat Bilbija

Poetry Editor

Lorah Murphy

Fiction Editor

Cassandra Arencibia

Nonfiction Editor

Alyssa Borelli

Design Editor

Amanda Nessel

Assistant Design Editor

Ava Kaloz

Cover Design Committee

Kaitlyn Dugan, Ethan Joyal, Abigail Koesterich

Social Media Committee

Kirsten Mattern, Mackenzie Zeytoonjian, Paige Graff, Giulia Rufino

Event Planning Committee

Noelle Swift, Charlotte Del Vecchio, Lily Jandrisevits

Mosaic Advisors

Mr. Robert Lynch and Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons

A Letter From The Editor

The Mosaic Editorial Board is proud to publish the Spring 2023 Mosaic: a literary and arts magazine highlighting the incredible work of Marist College students.

All Mosaic submissions went through a rigorous blind peer-review process in which student section editors evaluated submissions for publication. New this semester was the process for choosing first, second, and third place winners; section editors worked with a partner editor in order to verify their selections for placement.

This change comes as a result of Mosaic becoming an officially chartered club last semester. The Mosaic Editorial Board would again like to thank the Student Government Association for the time and effort they put into chartering Mosaic, as well as their suggestions for improving the quality and fairness of the magazine.

The Editorial Board would also like to sincerely thank Mr. Robert Lynch for his unwavering support and dedication towards the Mosaic. Thank you to Alex Podmaniczky and the entire Digital Publications Center for helping us print the magazine. Thank you to Dean Martin Shaffer and Dean Jacqueline Reich, and the entire English and Arts departments for helping us find the accomplished students that are featured in this edition of the Mosaic.

As always, thank you to the talented students who continue to submit their work each semester! We are thrilled to have such a talented and creative campus, and we are honored to publish your work.

I would personally like to thank Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons for her endless joy, enthusiasm, support, and dedication towards the Mosaic, as well as her guidance as I navigate this position. She was truly my lifeline this past year, and we could not have done it without her.

I would also like to thank the Editorial Board for all of their hard work this semester; this magazine exists because of their passion, drive, and love for what we do. I have loved serving as your Editor-in-Chief this past year, and I’m leaving you in good hands next semester!

And finally, thank you for reading this semester’s edition of the Mosaic! This magazine would not be what it is without the support and readership of the students, and we hope you enjoy this semester’s edition of the Mosaic.

Sincerely,

Lauren Lagasse Mosaic Editor-in-Chief

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Gummy Bears

If I Should Have a Body

Love Letter to Myself

***Broken Metaphor

Yearning

***hair

Frustration

Branching Out

Florence Street Musicians

Strangers

Insanely Intelligent

2 am

Gotta light?

Cómo la luz me ha brillado/How the Sun has Shone on Me life keeps moving on

***Getting Ready

Feeding the Mainstream

A Vernal Vista

Five Floors Up Antique Foster Home

The Face statue of a man Without an M Jia and the Forest Waiting

Countryside Cottage growing pains

Remarkable together

***Mine to Hold

Megan

Brianna

Keira

*** = Content may contain themes of abuse, grief, death, suicide, war, mental illness, and body image.

Something undeserved

***Swamp Water

Train Across the River

A Snow Day

Head in the Clouds

Earth’s Sharp Edges

The Laundry Jig

Puppet Show

colors

Juliet in her room

***Click. Release. Gone.

Witj

My Father and Our Eyes

Three Hour Night Class

Shadows

Window

lemon & lime

***Waves

Vibrant Florals

Murano’s Glass Zoo

untitled

Pink Pineapple Chapstick

A Tool for Success

Chiara in Boboli Garden

Coil

Written somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

Big Ben

Only a Prospector

Layered Italy Dogs

The Barn

Encapsulated Love

Glass Menagerie

Skin & Bones

Greystone

Ava

Lily

Isabella

Caroline

Cassandra Arencibia

Abel Scholl

Jeremy Skeele

Shannon Wines

Jo Anna Valdez

Anonymous

Julie Janecek

Kat Bilbija

Kimberly Rosner

Brooke Mahoney

Aveen Forman

Claudia Molina

Heather Millman

August Boland

My Noble Friend Ezra’s Unrest Inadequacy

Nymph’s Dancing to Pan’s Flute (Joseph Tomanek; 1969)

Gummy Bears

Claudia Molina ’23

If I Should Have a Body

Sylvie Bell ’26

First Place, Poetry

I hope that it is pretty and well-kept and maybe slightly sexual and very enticing but never avoidant or keen to pull backward and drift off down some railroad track.

I picture it instead marching up the track to face the oncoming train. The conductor reaches for the warning whistle and the cargo braces for impact but it’s walking so fast that it passes right through.

I hope it blushes and hues of pink creep down its neck like a cartographer draws a river curling around the breasts and fanning out into the abdomen pooling into the knees and ebbing to the ankles I hope lust swims in its feet.

I hope it slows on city blocks so it can window shop and slips inside to don a mannequin’s clothes and revel in the display but then escapes to follow the crowd only to lose it anyway because it gets distracted by a tar pit right there in the middle of the street! I hope it stays long enough to leave footprints but lifts up its feet before it can sink.

I hope it hurts when it begins to tire not in the way that is sharp like a prickly fruit, with a pain that protects its sweetness, but in dull throbs of nostalgia like it’s trying to remember how to move recklessly, but now can only be cautious since it is full of mines, but it will laugh anyway and risk setting one off, which will cause the rest to erupt from places deep within, because it has been worth it.

Love Letter to Myself

Kat Bilbija ’24

a girl searches for her mother in the new earth of spring and bundles of fall, amethyst footsteps trailing behind her. a rose, hydrangea, and lily she’s careful not to drop as her feet sing on wine glasses and hands grip movie title fonts. she cries with the stars once a month to fill the moon with her bygone minutes and blend their matching pink auras. a girl builds a home in Neptune’s tides to feel her limbs move acoustically in blues and with a smile welcomes Helios to blind her eyes from the rest of her gray living room. she dies in her bed and is revived in conversations of choosing where to gift her energy and in media’s constant background melodies. a girl finds her mother on a miscellaneous shore with a farm of love notes and satin pigment that raised the roses where her eyes should be.

Broken Metaphor

Lilian DeFilippis ’26

I saw your hairbrush on the counter. It was broken in half And the tape had fallen off.

I thought to myself

It’s a metaphor.

I prayed to God it wasn’t. I prayed that the metaphor was wrong. I prayed I was wrong.

But you were gone the next day.

Your hair was falling out And you were so weak.

It hurt so much to say goodbye

But I know you were relieved.

And I know you’ll come back to me.

I’m looking for the signs everyday.

But in the meantime

It’s just me and grief.

And this grief

Sometimes feels like

The last thing I have left Of you.

hair

Kirsten Mattern ’24

shampoo pluck condition shave

blow dry wax style rip smile scream

shampoo pluck condition shave blow dry wax style rip smile harder. more real. scream louder. more real.

shampoo, shave condition, wax smile, scream cry. it’s all the same.

pluck, shave, scream

pluck, shave, cry bleed

i’ll buzz my head and claw at my body and rip off my limbs until there’s no more of me left.

Frustration

Kyle Neblo ’25

A man walked down Main Street in the early evening after leaving work. It was a Friday, and he was content to be freed from the obligations of the work week for but a couple short days. This man defies the need for description; his coat was black, or brown, or blue, his pants were neither bespoke nor designer, and therefore irrelevant, and his shoes were the same, scuffed pair he always wore to work. An impossible-to-reach itch placed squarely in the center of the man’s back was responsible for his modestly discontent expression. This walk’s destination was a takeout joint he always ordered from on Friday nights, but, on this occasion, a peculiar sight grabbed his attention. Next door to the restaurant was a new storefront he had never seen before. Its glass windows were tinted, the only sign of life within a flickering neon sign reading “Fortunes Read Here”. Seeking any deviation from the quotidian, the man entered.

Inside a lithe, pale woman clad head to toe in black sat bundled behind a simple counter, the only relief a charcoal-colored shawl draped loosely over her. There was no list of products or services, and no décor to speak of in the store, save for a long gray curtain blocking a stout doorway adjacent to the counter. A pale blue bulb cast a weird light over the whole room as the man approached the counter. Before he could speak, the woman gestured to the curtain and croaked “Go on in”.

He obliged, figuring this was one of those places that demands a fee after offering sage ‘psychic advice’ but gingerly pulled back the curtain and stepped through the doorway anyhow. The interior was much as one might expect from a dingy fortune-teller selling life advice as vague as it is expensive; a small round table draped in a purple cloth sat in the center of the room, flanked on opposite ends by a pair of folding chairs and over which sat a fake crystal chandelier. The walls were painted some dark color, imperceptible in the dimly lit chamber, further obscured by cheap, veneered shelving stacked with crystals, dusty tomes, chimes, symbols, and other arcana meant to instill a sense of the otherworldly and occult.

“Of course, why did I bother?” he exclaimed sadly, turning to exit. Just as he made it back to the curtain, a silky, yet commanding voice boomed out from behind him.

“Leaving so soon?”

Snapping about, there was now a figure at the far end of the table. An indigo-tinted translucent amoeboid shape with a near-featureless face gently floated next to the folding chair.

“I uh. Um. What are you?” the man said, utterly nonplussed.

“I am a genie, of course.” The creature retorted. As if that were an obvious answer.

“A genie?”

“Yes, a genie. Surely you know of genies; stuck in lamps or some other exceedingly mundane object for centuries only to be freed by happenstance and bestow as a gift three wishes upon our liberators. Ring a bell?”

“Well, yeah. But you’re real.” The man continued “Am I about to get three wishes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Not only did you not free me, but we also stopped giving out triads of wishes back in the eighties.”

“Sure, that makes sense I guess.”

The man took a moment to consider the implications of this encounter. Perhaps the most bizarrely mundane way imaginable to confirm the existence of the supernatural.

“So, I only get one wish then?”

“Yes, that’s right. One wish you shall receive so long as it is in my power to grant.”

“Well,” the man thought aloud “how am I supposed to choose just one? Even with three this is difficult, and I don’t know what a good wish would be! World peace sounds nice, but then what about hunger? And if I wish for an end to world hunger, will ending hunger end the need for war? What’s a good thing to wish for?”

“How should I know? My prerogative is not to know of all things for which you mortals might wish, only to grant those wishes as precisely

and to the letter in a cosmically and reality-bending a manner as possible. People wish for fame, wealth, and love most commonly, in my experience.” The genie pressed him “So, if you could have any one wish made true, what would you wish for?”

“I suppose, then” the man meekly proclaimed, “I would just like the chance to say, “I love you” to everyone I should have before that chance was gone.” His voice swelled with emotion “To tell them how much they mean to me, that their scars do not define them, that they need not struggle alone. I want them to tell me about their day, good and bad. I want them to tell me about profound things like the unknowable mysteries of life and the universe, and equally I want them to tell me jokes so stupid and ideas so terrible that one wonders how they ever passed through the filter between idea and action. I want to hold them close, cherish them the way they deserved, and never let them forget how important they are, and that I am here if they need me.”

As he stood, breathless, the creature regarded him with incomparable sincerity, the wisdom of ages locked behind its ethereal gaze “Right, but I did say one wish…”

“Oh,” the man replied, again timid “I guess, uh, to not get itches in places I can’t scratch.”

The creature waved his hand “And so shall it be.” The itchy spot in the center of the man’s back between his shoulder blades suddenly ceased bothering him. After several moments of deafening silence passed, the genie spoke again “Right, well, crack on then.”

“Sorry, thanks!” the man said, quickly heading towards the door.

It was a terribly awkward experience, he thought, while stepping through the curtain, then the door, and back out onto the ever so slightly darker street to collect his long-anticipated meal.

Florence Street Musicians

Claudia Molina ’23

A priest in an airport

Strangers

Alyssa Borelli ’24

Who blessed her travels at baggage claim

A mother from Canada

Who told her about her daughter by the riverside

A salesman

Who made her feel pretty in an overpriced coat

Two girls you’d find in a magazine

Who smelled like expensive vanilla and smiled with white teeth

A small white cat

Who lived by the shore

A boy from Monterrey

Who didn’t know how to love

Women in paintings

Whom she pitied

A tattoo artist

Who patched up her skin

A lost, stupid girl

who cried on a beach in Barcelona

Because she thought she was unlovable

Insanely Intelligent

Karina Brea ’23

First Place, Nonfiction

I’m currently sitting in front of one of the most brilliant sunsets I’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen such a bright blue next to a beautiful orange, slowly turning to pink as I shift my gaze. And the smallest sliver of the moon is peeking through the corner, where the pink meets the blue and it turns a little purple. Every time I look up from this page it’s more incredible. It’s so vibrant, almost neon. It’s even turning the Hudson water a little pink, the same water I walked down to today in the glistening sun. The water today looked clear compared to its usual muddiness. I wanted to touch it, but I didn’t. I didn’t have hand sanitizer. I don’t know if I would have touched it had I been alone. My walk today was pretty long, today I’ve walked 10,768 steps.

The orange is pretty much gone now, and the blue has mellowed out, beginning to turn periwinkle to the North, at 343°’N, 41°43°’’N 73°56°’’W Poughkeepsie, NY, 90 feet elevation. Thank you compass app.

The clouds are gray now, starting from the top and consuming the clouds closest to where the valley meets the sky, where the sun was last seen. Things freeze from the outside in, in the middle, closest to the source of heat, is where things stay warm. It couldn’t have been long since I first sat down here to write. In mere minutes, the sky put on an entire play for us. It was a movie. In less than 15 minutes. I think the men and women’s rugby teams are the ones on the field right now. Did they notice? I’d be so incredibly distracted.

The moon has a pale, frosty glow now through the purple and gray clouds in the corner of the sky. It gleams more intensely the more I stare. And I see the first star all the way to my right, never mind it’s an airplane. There goes the train. The super long cargo one, with white, orange, and dark teal cars. The one I stared at from the library freshman year, the one that passed every 20 minutes or so when we were filming Emma’s short film last spring. I see the end of it now.

The lamps have turned on, I hear the crickets. The men’s team has wrapped up. I’m more than always through my second page, the words haven’t stopped flowing in my brain. It feels so good to write. Suddenly it’s cold at night. Sometimes during the day.

Woah, four pitch black birds, geese I hear now, just flew across the sky. It’s like watching a live painting. It’s cold now, and I can barely see my words. But there’s more I want to write here. Outside. It’s cold and dark, not ideal for writing. But still beautiful.

Today I sorted my Marist email from oldest to newest. My emails were so formal. 4 years ago every interaction was a first impression. The first stars were above my head this entire time. Threw my head right back and saw them. And the more I focus, the more I see.

Today in Acting, our warmup was different.The perfect kind of different. My hands are really cold now. But our job was to compliment every classmate. I got all but one. For some reason, I felt like he avoided me. But I could be overthinking. I told Kayla how I’ve seen her confidence grow so far this semester, and how I couldn’t wait to see her scene. Then she asked to borrow my pencil at the end of class and we had our first conversation. The cold is hurting my hands now and I can barely see the words. Emma brought up how she saw me in Lavelle, I complimented her improv scene from the last class. She also did her first showing today, she did great. James and I bonded over Target and my crochet headband. I had never spoken to him before that. His scene was from Dinner with Friends today. He also did great. My compliments were mostly around my positive energy and confidence. There’s no method to it I guess. I just do it. But it was nice to hear these classmates. Two people just started smoking weed behind me. I can’t feel my hands.

I learned what a graphomaniac is: basically compulsively writing nonsense. I shouldn’t have romanticized it, but I did. I mean, at least to the artist, is there such a thing as nonsense? Is anything truly meaningless? Or does that sound crazy? Okay, now I seriously need to go inside. I’m taking a hot shower.

Brooke Begley ’25

Gotta light?

Kevin Pakrad ’23

Remember that night, before we met?

I stood there holding a cigarette, - watching, waiting - burningAn ashen stain upon the desert.

I brought words of water, And where to drink;

The Horse is the white of the eyes, Dark within, and I can’t help but think Beware the Woodsman’s question, When he asks, “Gotta light?” Turn off the radio and hide, You’ll dream of me tonight

Cómo la luz me ha brillado/How the Sun has Shone on Me

Mía Garofalo ’23

Cómo la luz me ha brillado

Debajo de la oscuridad de su sombra, Me doy cuenta de cómo usted me nombra.

Su mirada que nunca me ha picado Justo recibió un nuevo significado.

Me estremezco pensar en su caricia, una señal De su amor impuro que me golpeó como un puñal.

Veo por primera vez ese veneno Que ahora me parece tan ajeno.

Y ahora como la única bala de pistola Yo me encuentro recientemente muy sola.

Pero hay cierta belleza en la soledad Que me trae alegría, paz, tranquilidad.

Y tengo que darle gracias Porque a pesar de todas sus falacias, Sobreviví para contar el cuento. Perseveré de ese gran momento.

Y por muchos momentos más, Usted me verá por atrás Ve cómo el sol me besa por cada lado, Cómo la luz me ha brillado.

How the light has shone on me

Under the darkness of your shadow, I realize how you call me.

Your gaze that never bothered me Just got another meaning.

I shudder to think of your touch, a signal Of your impure love that struck me like a dagger.

I see for the first time that venom

That now looks so alien to me.

And now, like the sole bullet of a gun I find myself alone.

But there is a certain beauty in solitude That brings me joy, peace, tranquility. And I must thank you, Because in spite of your fallacies, I lived to tell the tale. I persevered through that great moment. And for many more moments, You see me from behind. See how the sun kisses me on each side, How the light has shone on me.

life keeps moving on Andrew Chiafullo ’26

Getting Ready

Lily Jandrisevits ’25

The window to her left intensely illuminates the broad planes of her face. The sunlight is unnatural, a rusty orange almost reminiscent of dried blood. It is the type of light that usually forces someone to squint, but her eyes are wide open. Her skin is flat and shiny, attractive like a freshly polished spoon. She leans forward, looking into a dainty circular mirror. Two carefully manicured fingers pull her eyelid upward. You can begin to see the usually protected flesh revealed, dark pink in contrast with her pale lash line, as well as the red veins that disrupt the pure white expanses of her eyes. Her mouth is agape, her lips thin red lines that create an oval of mock surprise. She moves the eyeliner across her lash line, sketching black over the pale pink. She hits her pupil and closes her eyes, scrunching her face up and shedding a tear. What was once unabashed openness for the sake of makeup application is now the most closed off a face can be. The smooth slackness now fragmented and cracked in pain. If one were to attempt to paint foundation over her face in this position, it would cake and crease.

A tear runs down her cheek, muddled with flecks of black. She quickly attempts to grab a tissue, which takes a few shakes and a knocking over of the box to release. She dabs at the tear, which wipes off her carefully painted apricot cheeks and makes her skin, once uniform, look patchy and mistaken. She grabs for the makeup wipes instead. Such a mess up requires her to start all over, and she doesn’t really have the time for that.

Before she removes all her work she takes a closer look at herself. Besides where her makeup was erased, she looks the best that she is able to. Her pores are nonexistent, filled in with a thick layer of silicone and covered by her flesh toned paint. She used this new flesh as an eraser, covering her old skin in one uniform shade before reapplying contours how she desired, within reason. The eye she poked is now slightly squinted and a strained red. There is nothing that can really cover up such a drastic physical mistake. This will all have to do. Her head snaps at the sound of a crash. The almost deafening sound of the siren has faded into the background noise, but a crash is new. She peers at the waves that get higher with every glance. The window is now cracked, tiny fractures that start in one spot and spread outward forever, knocked into by an object carelessly tossed by the force of the water. She steadfastly ignores this observation, focusing again on her reflection.

In quick swipes she removes her makeup, the chemicals in the wipes slightly stinging her face in a way that she has come to recognize as refreshing.

After the foundation and the concealer and the powder has been reapplied to her face in broad, fast swipes, she notices flecks of dry skin on her cheeks and around her nose. The patches of dryness have been amplified by her makeup. Before, they blended in as natural facets of skin, now they are a texture that must be eradicated. She doesn’t want to have to start over again so she attempts to just remove the parts of her makeup where the dry skin resides. She harshly wipes off these sections, hoping her self-inflicted friction will exfoliate away the uneven patches. Some particularly dry spots stick up on her cheek bones. She picks them away, pinching the excess skin between her nails before tearing it off. Immediately, she feels stinging. She bleeds a little, and tries to wipe this away too. This only intensifies the pain, although the blood is now gone, leaving mere dots on the wipe already stained with splotches of tan and black.

She attempts to put a thick layer of moisturizer over these injured patches of skin before going back to foundation application. The recently bleeding patches resist being covered, still juicy and damp and a little red from the abuse. The messily removed sections do not perfectly blend, leaving edges where there is evidence that these sections were painted over again. She must accept this and move on.

Back to darker shadows to make the cheeks look concave, a little under the lips to make them appear fuller, and lines down the side of the nose to attempt to make it look slimmer. Her nose is a beacon: tall, and proud. Her attempt to disguise its presence only makes it look muddied, taking away what was strong and transforming it into shame.

Now, more carefully applied sections of flush. She smiles, searching for the right place to apply her blush. It has specks of glitter that shimmer in the light. Her grin falls with no warning as she throws her fluffy brush down, grabbing a reflective gold shade which she swipes down the center of her nose in a skinny, careful line.

What was once intense light is now rapidly fading. The rubble was almost made beautiful under the stained sun, but is now completely subsumed by water and darkness.

Rushing, she goes back to her eyes, having to forgo eyeliner, she swipes silver glitter across her lids with the pad of her finger. She pulls up the hem of her silky dress and wipes the excess on her thighs, they will be hidden anyway.

She grabs a pencil, carefully lining her lips. Slow movements drag the red pigment across the edge of her lips spread wide in a flattened grimace. It is almost completely dark now. She runs to grab a candle to be able to finish her final touches.

As she grabs a match she pauses, in complete darkness it is as if the panes of her window are not even there. She feels like she is outside, amongst the sea and the salt and destruction. No longer protected by some barrier, she sees the orange ball of light in the far distance. A speck amongst everything. There are stars too, more than she has seen before, more than what feels possible, although perhaps they were always there, hiding.

The water is really coming in now, in a way that guarantees it will never be confined again. Waves are gathering and building and towering. They are cartoonish in how they slam against each other with frothy white sections from so much power. It is hard to see, but they are surely gathering everything in their path, as suggested by the small specks of color amongst the great dark blue expanses.

There is no longer any beach, the water has occupied everything. The distant orange light continues to fade. The girl wants to reach towards the light, she wants to wear it and eat it and be it. She lights the match, the candle ignites and flickers. It is a very small flame.

It is barely enough to see as she continues to take the pencil, and outline her lips. The floor begins to shake, only slight vibrations at first. It is enough to make her line shaky. It goes outside the edges, making her whole face look obscene.

Tears are unwillingly filling her eyes as she continues. Her vision is blurred and everything is wrong. Red is now swiped all over her face as the shaking gets more intense.

The tears fall, new streaks of black down her cheeks. She wipes them, making an even bigger mess. She grabs her mascara, attempting a coat that continues the smudging across her skin. Her careful application is gone, she is now abstract, clashing together colors and smudges applied at random.

The water is shallow in the room now. She collapses into it as sobs rake her body. Her shoulders are bobbing up and down, the noises are as expected. She takes some shaky breaths as she swipes her hands across the surface as it soaks into her pristine dress, making it translucent. It is warm and not unpleasant. She lays back and spreads her arms. Her hair spreads around her in ten-

drils, the remnants of her makeup being removed by the water, leaving only slight stains in its wake.

The flood is too fast and violent. It fills the room, creeping in through every fracture, invading the space and snuffing out the little candle. She is pulled back and forth, lifted like she is floating, and smashed against the walls until there are no longer any walls to be smashed into. She is fully enveloped by water, deflated and helpless. The final destruction is so rapid, her blood dissipates among the mass of waves so as not to even be registered as red. While she still can, she imagines her eyelids shimmering, her lips beckoning, and her face smooth and pristine amongst the sea that carries her away.

Feeding the Mainstream Megan Doshi ’26

A Vernal Vista

Brianna Balzan ’24

First Place, Art

Five Floors Up Jeremy

the glass is already fogged as I hold my breath trying my best to listen to her as she exists with me and as we exist together

outside, the sun is waiting to rise and time is at a crossroads where the remnants of a night gone by meet with the opportunists of a future not guaranteed to come

from all the way up here they are insects too small to see as darkness hides those who abuse it and those who fall into its trap

but still, I know they exist just like the bugs in the rotten floorboards of an apartment i will one day inhabit

and that will soon be me, masquerading in the fakeness of daylight as I make my way to a place where nothing is guaranteed

but for now, i lie here i hear, and I hold my breath

Skeele ’23

Antique Foster Home

Cassandra Arencibia ’24

The antique butterfly earrings, inlaid with amber and specks of dirt, that cost 30 dollars remind me of the taste of my tongue burnt by coffee.

I would never use them!

My mother gasps in dismay while looking at a 200 dollar teacup set. But I imagine lipstick stains and chips that would dot them if they were mine. Lovingly wear socks with holes, say hello to my big toe.

Position broken candle holders with glee. Sew thrifted jeans back together with the diligence of a mother.

Hell is a dusty attic full of permanently folded table runners and photographs that have never sat in frames.

Heaven is as small as the celluloid button I’ve sewn on my coat collar. For no reason.

For fun.

I buy an eight dollar silver lantern, and plan to hang it from my ceiling. My mother calls it wasteful. But I imagine how warm the lantern will feel once I place a lit tea light inside of it.

The Face

Keira Carpenter ’26

I love my Nana’s house

It’s nostalgic

Over the river and through the woods

There’s a whole thick forest of trees leading to Her cozy little red house

I love everything about it

Except for the face

On the yellow wall it leered

Its yellowed wood blending in Like someone peering out

Watching you

As a child, I feared that spot on the wall

That face

Staring me down

Making me sick

A cold, ceaseless grin etched in the wood

So smug

I couldn’t bear to look at it

That cursed spot

My uncle carved it years ago

With my Nana in mind

But I don’t see her warm face in those cold, wooden eyes

The artist is no longer with us

I suppose the face is an orphan now

I almost feel sorry for it

Maybe it is misunderstood

If wood can feel that way

Maybe one day

We can make

A Truce?

statue of a man

Jo Anna Valdez ’23

I cannot write a lot

Without an M Gabriella

Amleto ’24

Cannot say fraction of experience in one word

Cannot describe a brief second in discussion

I have to use scoops of other letters

To fulfill the loss of one

When the key of the letter, after N, is stuck

Jia and the Forest

Raelle Leak ’26

Since she was a child, Princess Jia has spent her days tucked away in her bedroom. She never liked it much. The elegant furniture was creaking and showing signs of decay. The intricate decorations that lined her walls hadn’t been altered for generations, and she had to do all the dusting herself. She no longer fit comfortably in her ornate bed, and more often than not, her delicate prepared meals would arrive in her room cold and soggy.

What she hated the most, however, was how her windows didn’t even have glass over them. Years ago, after an incident involving a heavy wooden chair leg and many drops of blood, they were replaced with thick iron bars. Constantly, rain, wind, and bugs would penetrate the gaps into her bedroom, but at least she had a somewhat clear view of the vast, lush forest that surrounded the castle.

It was the only form of liberty she had.

Once she was of age, Princess Jia was to be married to the man her mother had picked out for her. Together, they would eventually take over the kingdom once her parents had retired. Until that retirement, Jia was to quietly hide away in her corner and save herself for her future, just as her mother had, and her mother before her.

Located on the very top floor of the castle, only very few people were allowed to visit Jia’s room: her mother, her attendant, and her husband, who she had wed a few years prior.

Everyday, her husband would visit her when the sun rose high in the sky, followed only by her mother’s apathetic glare. Everyday, he’d call for her, brusque and detached. Everyday, she’d answer, wearing her most graceful gown with her face painted as she pulled back silk curtains. And everyday, as she looked at his pensive expression through the barred door, she’d begin with the same question.

“To whom have you promised yourself to?”

With a hollow voice, he’d answer. “You, and only you.” Then, he’d ask, “To whom is your life intended for?”

“You, now and forever,” Jia would respond, pushing back the lump in her throat that formed with every word.

Everyday, Jia felt as though she and her husband were rehearsing for a play neither of them wanted to participate in. Whenever the princess looked up at him, he’d gaze back, his eyes cold and his brows furrowed. Sometimes, when they stood like that, with their eyes locked on each other, the princess swore he hated

her. Even though she didn’t like him any better, the thought was too painful to bear: the only person who was promised to her didn’t wish to be with her.

Sometimes, the thought caused her so much distress that she’d weep at night, her head pressed against the steel bars of her window. She’d cry out, begging, pleading for the world to stop and so she could steal a few breaths of freedom before her eyes and her body withered away.

And one day, the world answered.

As she lay weeping, a small voice brushed against Jia’s ear. I want to help you, it said. Please, follow the sound of my voice. Can you do that?

She gasped, and for a moment, her tears stopped. Then, they started again, only this time, they were tears of immense gratitude. Finally, someone had listened to her. Finally, someone had offered her an escape. Finally, she had hope. And so the next night, after her husband left and the corridors of the castle grew dim as the candlelight died out, Jia sat at the foot of her bed, clutching something sharp and sturdy as she listened to the sound of the voice. As she heeded the voice’s words, she felt liberated. It led her out of her room, down the winding hallways, out the grand doors, and into a moonlit forest.

The voice patiently guided her through the trees and along streams, carried her down sloping hills over rocks covered in moss. However, even as Jia marveled at the feeling of damp grass beneath her bare feet, she couldn’t help but feel her stomach lurch and twist with every step. Something is wrong, she thought. This isn’t right. The thought echoed in her mind, and she froze, her eyes wide with sudden fear. The voice noticed.

Please do not look behind you, the voice directed. Before Jia could ask why, she heard a deep sigh, heavy with resignation. Immediately, she knew who it was. Her husband.

Had he been following her the entire time? He must have been. How did he know? Who told him? He was going to take her back, she knew it. The princess crouched down and wrapped her arms around her head, wishing for the world to stop once more so she could breathe. And yes, she listened as his footsteps drew nearer, as the snapping of twigs grew louder. Desperately, Jia’s hand snaked its way into the folds of her dress, wrapping around the hilt of her dagger.

A hand clasped around her shoulder. The princess expected to be yanked back, to be dragged kicking and screaming back to the castle, where she’d be forced to repent. But, she wasn’t. The hand was soft, gripping her shoulder with a tenderness she wasn’t used to. Tentatively, she began to turn her head.

Do not turn around, the voice warned, or you will be nothing forever.

Jia paused once more, torn between two choices. Did she continue walking

and leave her old life behind? Or did she turn around and abandon her only promise of freedom?

“I’m sorry,” said her husband, softly. Jia felt her heart stop. “Let me make it right.”

Hastily, Jia stood up and spun to face her husband. She looked up at his furrowed brows and expected to see his cold eyes peer back down at her. Instead, she saw warmth and...pity? She blinked, unsure of what to say.

Without another word, her husband turned and walked deeper into the forest, expecting Jia to follow. And so, with little choice, she did.

Her husband had said he would only take her to the edge of the forest. Then, they would part ways, forfeiting their old lives. The princess agreed, relieved that she would finally be able to live unchained after all.

But the edge of the forest never came. The couple wandered for hours, days, months on end, but the edge of the forest never came into sight, and the sun never rose. The sweet nurturing voice that had accompanied the princess was gone. They were alone, locked in a cold, bleak world of their own.

Bitterly, Jia stared at her betrothed’s back as he led them through the endless forest. For the first time ever, she was presented with a choice, an opportunity to finally live her life, free from caged rooms and cold stares. She could have had everything she ever could have wanted—freedom, worth, genuine love—if only she had the gall to reach for it.

Seething, Jia realized she had chosen wrong. Now, she was left with nothing. No kingdom, no kind voices, no one left to make her glow pink with warmth. As her eyes darkened and her hands balled into shaking fists, Jia wondered what was next. She stared at the nape of her husband’s neck, her mind constantly wandering to the blade tucked safely away within the silks of her dress.

This time, Jia presented herself with a choice. Maybe she was a fool, maybe she would be nothing forever, but she still held some sort of power, didn’t she? The weight of the dagger was comforting, alluring. Maybe if she...

As the infinite night sky stretched out above their heads, it seemed as though the princess and her husband would be stuck together, now. At least in this lifetime.

Countryside Cottage

Sarah John ’26

growing pains

Morgan Chambers ’25

i wish i could go back to being the girl with the matcha-colored nails, the girl who danced alone in her room at night with the curtains drawn and the lights low. i dream of returning to a time when i would always draw the sun in the corner of the page, the days of lifting my feet when driving over railroad tracks, making wishes.

i want to be the one who sang without fear of judgment, the one i used to be before the guitar-string scars formed on my fingertips. i live in these memories, but they slip away so eagerly, dragging me down with them.

i cannot remember the last time i had a smile on my face or a spark in my eye.

sometimes i think the girl i used to be is gone for good, but when i look in the mirror, when i stare at my reflection, i can catch a glimpse of her.

Remarkable

Heather Millman ’23

First Place, Fiction

The classroom is on the top floor of the building. The building has been standing for over ten years and even if students were able to get onto the roof, whose door is always locked, the building is not tall enough for daredevils. Outside, the walls are unpainted brick and the cement sticking them all together leaves sloppy imprints in random increments. The door to the building has been replaced six times in the past two years and the student responsible for three of those instances has been replaced.

The building stands on four pillars that are rectangular and grey. There is an unknown substance dripping down two of them and another has teeth marks. There are two elevators and only one goes to the top floor. Both have carpets that resemble those in The Shining and contain several liquid stains, predictably from coffee. The elevators creak and stutter every time they are put into use. The tile on the top floor of the building is different from the rest of the other uniform floors and instead features shit-colored brown tiles interspersed with faded green tiles that are placed as accents.

On the opposite side of the elevator, on the top floor is the classroom. The classroom has exactly three windows and lets in no light or lets in the exact amount of light to blind the majority of students. There are wheeled tables and chairs instead of the desks in every other classroom in the building and the tile is streaked with the impressions left behind by wheels. The lightswitch must be fiddled with twice before the lights cast their dim light upon the room. One of the professors left a lamp by the teaching podium. The lamp has a velvet shade with deformed little centaurs and stars and people with three legs. When the lamp is on, it creates a dark glow on the wall. Right now the lamp is off.

In the classroom Professor Ode is talking with Loretello. Loretello has blue-grey eyes and light brown hair that they are twirling through their fingers repeatedly. Several strands are residing on the tile around them, some of which are broken. Both nails on their pinky fingers have been torn off. There is no blood. They stand with one shoulder higher than the other and shift their balance from their left foot to their right foot. From their right foot to their left foot. Their shoes are a pair of Nikes that are now beige. The side of the sole on the right shoe has been

scraped off and the laces on both shoes contain mud along with traces of sand.

Their socks don’t match. One is grey with fraying edges and the other is baby blue and is folded to show its lettuce edge. Loretello is chewing gum softly with their lips smacking and their shirt is splattered with a paint design. It has words on it. Their bottoms are fabricated out of a mosh of strands of fabric cut in all shapes and placed on hips, calves, thighs. They hum every several words and move their head a quick up-down in the spaces between to show their attentiveness.

Professor Ode has coarse hair and a voice that rambles. Loretello starts speaking after Professor Ode--reassurances, promises, sob-stories. The conversation ends with silence and Professor Ode opens the classroom door, with a bit of muscle and the door’s loud protest, and Loretello walks out first. They are going to their next class although they are already fifteen minutes late. It is a literature class they are taking because it’s a requirement and they drive their minivan there. When they waltz in, iced Dunkin’ cup in hand, the professor glares and Loretello tosses the half-empty remains into the bin, blaming the on-campus trolley.

Loretello’s minivan is a repainted chartreuse and has cracked seats. The passenger’s side is covered by wrappers and receipts from grocery stores. The glove compartment spills little packets of mustard on every sharp turn and there are napkins stuffed in the cup holders. There is a cup of coffee in the door of the driver’s side that has a ring around the area it’s settled. The mess stops after that and the back rows contain the same cracked and faded seats, but no garbage. There is a small blanket folded into one seat pocket and several of the air vents hiss upon opening. The floor of the car has the occasional outdoor stain, but has been vacuumed recently.

Professor Ode is sitting in his office. He has written a total of seventeen emails in the past fifteen minutes although the clock at his desk notes it to have actually been thirty. His desk chair is at a permanent forty-five degree tilt from the way he leans back in it. His dusty finger reaches towards a small wooden button ingrained beside the drawer that resides over his lap, but before he can press it the office door is opened.

It is Jeanette or Miss Jeanette to her students and Professor Ode’s finger slips away like how a lady slips her finger around the rim of a cocktail glass. Jeanette smiles and there is a smear of red lip cream on her front teeth. She takes one of

the two seats that reside in the office, the one directly in front of the desk rather than the cozy chair near the corner. Her dress is sparkling and red and the ring on her finger contains white diamonds. She fiddles with it for a moment before slowly sliding it off and tucking it away. Her hair is brown and smoothed into a bun at the base of her neck. Her velvet black shoes without a hint of mud or debris are already off her feet and her toes are tucked under her bottom, hiding her silk-white tights from view. They are the type of tights that with one catch come undone, although there are no rips or snags in this pair.

She is chatting. Her mascara has a smudge at the right eye. Her eyeliner looks tattooed. Her ears are stretched 6mm and each contains a small silver plug. Her body is still and only her mouth moves and words spill forth in a stream. There is a soft paint-dab of purple on her forearm that is overlain with the grittiness of powder. Jeanette reaches into the purse resting on her lap. The bag is wide and there is a shuffle as several times are placed upon the office desk. Two tubes of lipstick appear, an emergency stick of deodorant, bubble-gum wrappers, three bobby pins all bent in different shapes, a torn piece of plastic-aluminum that relates to more than a greek war and a horse, and an unlabeled jar all rearrange themselves like toy soldiers before a flyer is brought out. Jeanette smoothes it out and methodically sweeps her horde back into the bag.

She presents the flyer with a flourish and slides it over to Professor Ode who plants a fingertip on it before removing all contact. There is a glittery stain at the top right and it reads of an event. The event is tonight and is to start promptly at 7:47 sharp. The dress attire also calls for something sharp. There is a graphic of a cherub with a bow and arrow and Jeanette flashes a smirk before continuing the conversation.

There is a squeak as the office chair is forced to lean back even more away from the desk. Jeanette leans forward to chase and her bag itches for the edge of the chair before making a wooden plopping sound. Her speech stumbles and she snatches her bag back to her body, but it is too late. The unlabeled jar has thrown its creamy biohazard contents all over the shit-colored rug that covers the shit-colored tiles in the office. It is too late. The contents spread to Jeanette’s shoes and before she can lift them, they have been consumed by the goop. Unsalvageable.

She gasps and grabs the paper towel roll that resides beside the tissue tissue box which is on the coffee table which is beside the cozy chair in the corner which is beside the door and slides on her tights the rest of the way back. The shit-rug covers little except the distance from the desk to the chair that sit on either side of it. Professor Ode makes no move to get up. Jeanette gets on her knees and starts placing the paper towels over the slime. She goes through over half the roll before adventuring back to see if the tissues are any better before dropping the box into the whole of it. There is a squelching sound that goes through the walls. Tears begin streaming down her face even though there are no tissues. She makes a keening sound, grabs the flyer from the office desk, and flees.

Inside the office, Professor Ode presses the wooden button.

Jo Anna Valdez ’23

Depression is:

Mine to Hold

Greta Stuckey ’23

-Static on a black and white TV

-The bottom of the cold ocean

-An empty concert venue

-A bag of bricks laying on my chest

-Starring at white walls for hours

-A bowl of milk with no cereal

-The edge of an unstable mountain

-Sleepwalking through the day

-Putting on a smile for others

-An endless loop of the same song

-The end and beginning of everything

Something undeserved

Rebecca D’Ambrosio ’24

Third Place, Poetry

We were walking through the hallway, And you kept pointing at each door we passed. Ready to go inside? No. Not just yet

So instead we listened to music, And talked about shitty movies, And planned which door we’d eventually enter, And just kept walking.

Until I decided we should go in, It was time, it would be good.

You walked in first, beckoning me in, I took a deep breath, Stared into the sliver of room I could see, Placed my hand on the edge of the door,

And then the door slammed shut, My fingers caught in the opening.

I ripped them out, Confused and in pain, And stared at the closed door.

The door was open, Just a second ago, Wasn’t it?

For a moment I thought I made it up. Maybe there wasn’t a door at all. But then there were my fingers, Turning quickly from red to blue, The pain pulsing in my hand.

It must’ve been a mistake, right? Maybe you just needed a moment.

So I knocked, just once, Clutching my injured hand. The door stayed closed.

Swamp Water

CDD ’25 Third Place, Fiction

My shoulders ache from carrying you above my head, trying to keep you from hitting the water. As my arms weaken and shake, you look down to me and ask What’s wrong? Prize to possess, burdening your boarder. I adjust you in my grip as you resist me, but I can’t seem to let you fall. But now my back is breaking and you smile with a straw in your mouth as I sink deeper into the reflection of the two of us. Soon I will only be able to hold you up from my place on the floor, below the surface. Onlookers will peer at you thinking you to be god as you remain hovering above it all. Here I will stay, waiting for my relief to come when I can feel safe enough to pass you on to the next. But no one is coming.

Silence is below the surface.

I can’t hear you from where I sit. I almost forget you. I close my eyes and let the water into my lungs. I am at peace.

Learning is recognizing that this is where I would rather be. Once again you thrash against the water, awakening me. You wish to keep moving. Standing still too long lets them get too close. If they knew, you would sink with me. Equals we were never meant to be.

Growing is understanding that I never wanted this. I was a fool who offered a hand and felt lucky when you took it. I overstayed, overshared when I never really had your ear. Tugging too hard at a loose thread, surprised when it all unraveled into my hands. Happy enough to offer, satisfied enough to suffer. Drowning in one sided conversation and bottles of my own thoughts as they pollute the waters. I remain below the surface as they slap against my strained limbs.

Surrender is the only option I have left.

Train Across the River

Adam L Freda ’26

My humble-honey home

Awakes above the clouds.

The ground dances

To the beat of the horn.

It is an almost rude awakening

I say almost because,

The song always plays at Midnight. I made it through another day.

A Snow Day

Rebecca

D’Ambrosio ’24

Second Place, Nonfiction

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of waking up, of hearing that silence – the kind synonymous with lots of snow. The way I open my eyes and look to my window, the white curtains almost shining with how bright it is outside. The way I know that once I raise those blinds, I’ll be met with the sun glinting off the white blanket that was once a green backyard. And I smile, knowing that the spoon in the fridge downstairs and my inside-out pajamas worked. There is no way we could have school today.

I stare out my window, trying to figure out where sidewalks become the road, and then Mom knocks at my door. She walks in, a small smile on her face, not even in her work clothes yet.

“School called, you’re all off.”

Any tiredness left in my small body leaves instantaneously with that sentence. Suddenly I’ve never been more energized and I race downstairs, the smell of bacon and waffles reaching my nose. It’s a special day when Mom brings out the waffle maker. My older siblings are already around the kitchen table and we high-five, already thinking about how soon we can head outside. News 12 is on the TV and I watch the bar on the bottom announcing all the 2-hour delays and closures, a strange burst of excitement when I see my own school’s name. Mom plays us the voicemails left by our schools, all a different variation of the same message. It’s almost as if we can’t believe it until every box has been checked, everything pointing to no school.

We eat breakfast happily planning the day’s activities. My siblings laugh at the amount of powdered sugar I shake onto my waffle, falling onto the plate like the thick flurries still falling outside. I don’t like butter and syrup on mine, the sight of them mixing together on my brother’s plate makes me a bit queasy. Mom says she’ll make us all hot chocolate, the special way on the stove, the way she only does it when we have a day like today.

And then we go into the den and play Mario Party, a way to buy time until we can play outside with the neighbors. I pick Peach, because I’m always Peach. And I’m in last place for nearly the entire game but I can’t really find it in myself to

care because we’re playing Mario Party on a Tuesday morning and the windows are just so bright and the snow outside is piled so high.

We finish up and someone rings the doorbell and it’s our neighbors asking if we want to come outside. We fly down to the basement, feet stomping and run into Dad’s old office where the snow gear waits in big green bins, waiting for a day like today. It’s a race to see who can find snow pants that fit first. We dig through forgotten scarves and jackets, collecting whatever we can. We put on thick socks and Ziplocs on our feet because Dad taught us that once, it helps keep your socks from getting wet. Snow pants get zipped and buckled and pants are tucked into boots and we keep layering until our arms can’t really rest at our sides comfortably.

Back upstairs we go, making that swishing sound that waterproof fabric makes when it rubs against itself. Mom inspects us to make sure everyone is properly covered: hats, gloves, scarf, boots, pants, jackets. And out the front door we go, trudging through snow that’s nearly up to my knees. My brother grabs a handful, packs it together,

“It’s snowball snow!”

And that means everything.

We make the short walk to our neighbors, finding them in their side yard, already attempting to construct a sledding ramp out of an old milk crate. And we stay outside for hours, sledding down the hill in their yard, hurting ourselves flying over the poorly made ramp. But nothing hurts that badly on a snow day. We play until their mom calls out for us at the front door. She’s standing on their front porch shivering without a jacket, but she’s holding their metal kettle that is exclusively for hot chocolate. And her hot chocolate always tastes especially good, maybe it’s because we have it outside, maybe because it’s the first thing we’ve had besides snow in hours. We gather around, ripping off gloves to grab a cup and plop down right there in the snow, gulping it down, practically burning our mouths to ask for seconds and thirds and fourths until eventually, the kettle runs empty.

And then it’s right back to the snow.

Head in the Clouds

Kaitlyn Dugan ’25

Earth’s Sharp Edges

Vanessa Hasbrouck ’25

She built her life on a glass floor

A heavy hand, a forceful foot, or a violent voice

Can fill the split trench with hallow wishes, flightless infinities, and create sharp wounds

That cut deeper than a foreign sea of sailors

Who ship doors made of concrete, Basements of brick, And ceilings of steel

To life’s strongest soldiers

But a life built on a glass floor

Cannot support a single siren

And so requires shields of gold, diamond, strength, and faith

For protection from the current

That comes so close

To shattering her fragile persona

That is moments away from being sand on a shore

Enough to call the sailors home

Before it breaks

Because

Life is thin

Earth’s edges are sharp

Existing is tiring

The weight is strong

Of the concrete house that crushed her

That broke her

Through her glass floor

On which her life was built

The Laundry Jig

Gabriella Amleto ’24

I do Tango with my laundry, As well as a jig and a jive, Every weekend down the stairs, Moving the basket from my left hip to right.

Up and down, Left and right, Every week.

The Tango is short and sweet, As I give them their shot of detergent, Offering smiles and light conversation to other pairs, As I turn on the machine for a hit. Then,

When they are dry and neatly folded, We do it all again, Happily and healthily, And while they weigh heavily on my hip, You never drop a dance partner.

Puppet Show

Claudia Molina ’23

colors

Ava Kaloz ’26

It was an early morning in spring as I opened my window to look out onto the lawn, the grass billowing in the wind like the linen dress I wore. The world seemed to smile back at me as I peered out at the earth and its inhabitants, the birds singing sweet songs into the breeze as if sending messages to their relatives living in far-off lands. The sun hadn’t fully risen off the crest of the ground, and the sky filled with shades of lilac then rose then sweet orange as it ascended. As the light crescendoed it cast shadows from the trees upon the ground, turning the monotone green into rippling shades of yellowed, army, neon, and dark.

I stepped away from the window, yearning to go sit in those puddles of muddled greens and dew-covered hews. Walking down the stairs of my childhood home, the seventeen steps I knew by heart, I began to plan the time ahead of me. I would ride my bike, look at the clouds as I flew my kite, pick dandelions out of the sea of flowers, or take a stroll alongside my dogs. The day greeted me with excitement as I finally stepped out my garage door and into the light, its color steeping me in gold like water draining the color from a tea bag. The warmth of the light shone on me, sweat beginning to bead along my brow as the heat soaked its way into me like a sponge. The lawn seemed to grow as I lost my bird-eye view and began a horizontal march toward the trees.

The trees, adorned with flowers called cherry blossoms reached out to me, their branches weeping to me like a small child who scraped their knee. I held my hands out to them in support, gently lifting their flowers up to my nose to smell their sweetness, just as a mother would kiss her child’s pain away. I couldn’t linger by the trees for too long, there was more to see in my beautiful yard, and the bees hesitated to carry out their jobs as I stayed. Moving away from the trees, the bees began their diligent work like soldiers tasked with digging a trench, nuzzling their backs in the pollen of each delicate flower.

I lazily strolled back to the center of the lawn, laying down amongst the flowers. The grass seemed to reach out and hug me back into the earth, welcoming me back into its warm embrace. I glanced up at the clouds, the puffy whiteness of them cutting through the blue in elegant swipes as the daffodils leaned in on my sight making lazy dances around my head. Surrounded by still alone I glanced at the sky and the world around me, the colors filling it all with wonder and light.

Click. Release. Gone.

Isabella Piacente ’24

Click. The front door unlocks, she briefly acknowledges the sound; but, settles on the assumption that it was nothing and resumes watching the Sunday night reruns of her favorite comfort show. Click. She changes the channel when an ad comes on the screen, something he had always hated; but, something she has always enjoyed. Maybe she lacked patience and self control or because she knew that it drove him crazy. Crazy, the perfect word to describe him so she thought. Click. The sound of heels on the tiled hallway stops outside the doorway. Sleepily, she glances towards the direction of the noise then at her phone, which had silenced multiple calls and a singular message. She is tired, too tired to deal with him, 5 years was enough.

Enough, it was time to go to bed, she was hearing things. Click. She turns on the light in the bathroom. Finally it is time for some well deserved rest. But her mind cannot stop. She cannot get his promise out of her head, it drove her crazy. What if there was truth to what he said. Nevermind. She cannot help but check the message, she lacks self control. Just check it and go to bed. The message reads: “I want that shirt back.”

Click. It hits her. She is still wearing the t-shirt. His t-shirt. Click. Again the sound of heels. Quick, coming towards the bathroom. Click. She locks the bathroom door. She looks around. Nothing. There is nothing in there to help her. Nothing. How can there be nothing? The window. Too small. The closet. No space.

The shower. The only option. She shuts the curtain. Faces the corner displaying unique self control. No tears. Was this acceptance or denial of defeat? For once her mind is silent. There’s no way out. She knows.

She won’t turn around. She won’t see his face. She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t need to. His promise. She knows. Click. Hard metal. Release. Sharp pain. Gone. Well deserved rest.

Caroline Willey ’26

I want to doodle hearts around your name,

But what if someone should see?

Would I be able to face all that shame?

I wonder will my love ever be free?

It’s paralyzing this question of if.

It’s a wildfire I need to contain.

It’s open water with only a skiff.

It’s sunshine in endless torrents of rain.

I am tiptoeing up on a tightrope.

I cannot tell how far below is the ground.

Would I land bloody on a jagged slope?

Could I step down six inches and be found?

I know I’ll keep up this balancing act.

Once I show my heart there’s no going back.

My Father and Our Eyes

Cassandra Arencibia ’24

Some days, I wake up blind and I know you’ve taken them. My eyes. Our eyes.

Just for the day, because you get spontaneous bursts of wisdom, of insight, or foresight, or vision, and then I blink in the middle of a poetry class and egads! once more I can see. Do you wake with puffy red eyes convinced you’ve had bee sting, shellfish allergic reaction or that the cat has pawed your face one two many times, only to remember that I am pathetic and must have been crying? Do you wonder if it’s just from sappy soapy movies or from something dimmer and darker? Hold my head still and use the reflective mahogany mirrors to fix your hair. You can see yourself in my eyes, but I thought they were supposed to be the windows to my soul?

I don’t believe my eyes are yours, nor are yours mine. Our eyes are twins, separated in the womb just enough to look different. We share the same thoughtful quality. Something about the way we watch. Telepathic vision, you blink and rub when I poke my eye with mascara, the incessant fluorescents of your office shove me deeper into depression. Why can’t you just admit you see things my way?

I’ve accepted the tint of vision we share, accepted that you’ve given it to me.

If we lived together, we would learn that our eyes slip shut at the same time ushering us into unknowable sleep. And while our dreams are so vastly different, boy do we look the same having them.

Three Hour Night Class

Abel Scholl ’26

Shadows

Jeremy Skeele ’23

You are a child, no older than twelve and no younger than eight.

You and your mother have just gotten into a fight in the kitchen. It was a stupid fight, sparked by a disagreement on how to do your math homework. No names were called or lines crossed. It wasn’t the fight itself that upset you; what upset you was how she treated you like a kid. You are a kid, and you’re old enough to know that, but that doesn’t mean you don’t feel the constant frustration of never being treated like an equal. Your mother made you feel small. So tonight, in an act of rebellion, you will stay up past your bedtime and you will do it on purpose.

It’s 9:01 P.M. when your mother goes to tuck you into bed. She starts with an apology, saying she spoke too harshly and that it wasn’t right to you. There is a softness in her voice that makes your rage be quiet, if even for a moment. In fact, you must tell yourself to keep staying angry, that your anger is righteous and true and deserved. It’s only through this vengeful mantra that, even as your mother kisses you on the forehead, you do not forgive. She goes to leave the room, flicking off the light switch and closing the door behind her. She is gone, and you are alone.

Light comes from two sources in this darkness — the outside moon and the inside moon. The outside moon is full, reflecting off the four inches of snow coating the ground. Your backyard, visible from your window, is cast in a warm blue hue, like a daylight not supposed to be. While this illuminates parts of your room in distorted squares, most of your visibility stems from the inside moon. It’s a single nightlight by the door, a plug-in mimicking the crescent phase of the celestial object above. The cool yellow light it brings lets you see your backpack left half unzipped next to it, and the bookshelf that it’s plugged next to. Posters dot the wall of interests that you are fast outgrowing. Still, it’s your room, and when the big light is on, you feel safe here.

But the big light is off, and there are only the moons. The two of them, with light from opposite ends, create shadows that you aren’t used to. A chair full of clothes in the corner is plagued by darkness, its features vague and undefining. You are far too old to believe in monsters — and yet you can not help yourself from noticing how the arm of the chair looks just like the arm of a creature, extending downward into a curled-up fist. And the further away from the window and the socket something is, the more that darkness swallows them, creating something entirely new. The worst of this is the closet door, left open just a crack. Inside, there are no clothes or shoes or anything that exists during the day. There is only a void, endless and unforgiving.

You told yourself you would stay up past your bedtime — the clock reads 9:16 P.M. Technically later than normal, but that isn’t enough rebellion for you. You are set on staying up, and yet you didn’t think about what that would mean. In fact, you have no idea what to actually do during this time. You don’t dare cross the dangers of your room to go to the bookshelf, and sneaking your way to the toys in the family room would surely get you caught. So you try and entertain yourself.

You play with your stuffed animal for a little while — a red duck named Graham. He is an animal well-loved and worn thin. One of his beaded eyes is loose, and bright red string frays near his feet. Still, he is your favorite, and you distract yourself for a little while as you pretend he is showing you how to swim, having to hold your breath as long as you can as you make your way through his familiar duck pond. As he shows you how to do a silly dance so that people will throw bread at you, you find it so amusing you can’t help but laugh. Then, you remember the seriousness of the situation you’re in — that laugh could have given you away. And you silence yourself as the duckpond vanishes, finding yourself back in the moonlit room.

The clock reads 9:34, and you don’t feel like playing anymore. With Graham silent and anything outside the warm comforter of your bed a

danger, all you can do is think. The thoughts that come are not pleasant — your fear brings back memories of stories you’ve been told by kids at school. Your friend always tells ghost stories they heard at summer camp, and you’re reminded of one about a camper named Sally who was crushed after the top bunk fell on her. After her death, her ghost remained, and she would lure kids under beds before collapsing them, trapping any unlucky camper to the same fate she received.

When you were told this story, you laughed at how ridiculous it sounded. But now, in the darkness of your room, it’s all you can think about. Despite the fact that you don’t have a bunk bed and you’ve never even been to a summer camp, you picture the ghost of a dead camper four inches below you, only a cheap mattress serving as a barrier.

This is an overwhelming fear, because you are far too young to die, especially to a ghost. You try to calm yourself down, to say that the story is fake and that ghosts don’t exist, and that even if Sally was real, she would be stuck at whatever camp she was from. But your mind is racing, and looking around your room the moons do not cast nearly enough light.

Even if not Sally, what else is here? Is that truly your chair? What lurks in the closet, just out of sight? Look at that pile on your rug — has that always been there? Or did it just appear? You are holding Graham tight to your chest. You feel emotions that are too big for you, a fear that overwhelms the thoughts, overwhelms words. It is just a cry. A cry for help in the darkness, as against your best efforts, you began to wail. A piercing shriek that surprises even you, as the tears begin to pour.

Your mother is comforting you within seconds.

The big light is turned on, the shadows vanish, and the moon’s lights grow dull as she wraps her arms around you. You try and speak, but you instead must catch your breath with every other word to stop the tears. You are shaking and sobbing, and your mother is attempting to make you feel alright. It’s working — you are already calmer now that you are not alone.

But this makes you feel small again. It makes you feel ashamed, that you could not stay up even an hour past your bedtime before bursting into tears. So you shrink down into your mother’s arms, her holding you as you hold Graham, and you let yourself cry.

You’re an adult now, and you feel it. You feel it in the sharp pain in your lower back, right above your hip, and in the splitting migraines you receive once every few months. You feel it every time you start to clean up the house and must stop yourself from scrubbing every surface to perfection. You feel it in a constant ache that has been there for years, with no source or cause or solution.

Your mother passed away a few years ago. She was 64 — too old to say she was too young, but far too young for a mother to die.

Far too young for a mother to die.

You have your own house now, and a well-paying job that you don’t hate. You have your own family in that house with you — two kids asleep in their room, your partner already snoring in bed next to you.

But you can’t fall asleep.

Your mind is racing, focusing on material stresses and unsolvable problems. The street lights of the suburbs shine through thin curtains, casting shadows on the clothes and boxes piled up around your room. You are far too old to be afraid of the dark. Still, there is just the twinge of fear when you hear a soft creak come from somewhere — as if there might be something or someone under your bed.

You are grown, and you are afraid.

And you would give anything just to feel small again.

Window

Shannon Wines ’23

lemon & lime

Jo Anna Valdez ’23

i am too bitter

i am too sweet

i am too yellow and not enough green

i’ve stopped being yellow but they don’t want green

now they ask for gold

i can’t help but feel weak

does the sour fruit not turn sweet with time? was the sweetest fruit not sour before it’s prime?

the time we take to ripen is not all the same however, if not done at the right pace they say you have only yourself to blame

this world is not very kind

i am only safe when i dream they won’t be happy if i’m too yellow all because i was not green

I saw this poster. It said:

Waves Anonymous ’24

Healing is not linear

I hated it.

Some days I feel normal.

Numb to everyone around me. Some days I feel pretty damn happy, letting the wind be the only one to touch me.

Some days I’m angry.

I’m angry at myself for being angry. Some days I’m so unbelievably sad.

I don’t want to pity myself.

Most days I’m bitter.

I think about it every day. Ten confusing minutes in the dark.

My heart beating against my rib cage.

Yellow bruises on my arm. Blood I didn’t understand. His breath in my ear.

I feel disgusting.

I can’t look at myself in the mirror. I want to peel my skin off To remove his phantom hands. Secrets from parents. Judgment from friends. Scared to trust.

Scared to love.

Maybe this was inevitable.

Why am I not over this?

Why is it taking forever?

Why is healing not linear?

It’s a wave.

Feelings crash over me, But then they are swept away. The ocean never stops its pulse. The feelings may never subside. That poster was right. Healing is not linear.

I have to accept the waves. Take them as they come.

I have to learn how to navigate the ocean.

I have to read the healing in the stars, Follow its jagged lines of messy constellations.

I have to, because I refuse to drown.

Murano’s Glass Zoo

Kat Bilbija ’24

Third Place, Nonfiction

My body rocked opposite the boat’s swaying as we neared the city of Murano from Venice. On the journey there, my roommate told me how she’d witnessed her now-broken glass cat’s body be pulled and shaped into existence in this faraway Italian island. Our feet stepped onto the even ground of the secluded city, immediately setting off in our search for a new feline to fill the empty space on her desk. Upon walking into Murano, the rows of dusty buildings to any passers-by would create the illusion of a deserted, faraway town. Almost as if the island could see the wariness in my steps, the light crashing of water coming from the street center filled my ears. The singing from the waves and its mystical greens and blues told me that Murano is not abandoned, but alive and welcoming. The walkway along the river quickly led us to rows of open shop doors. As my attention moved inside one, my gaze immediately was greeted with over a thousand eyes all belonging to the spirited glass animals inhabiting the island. The owner welcomed us gleefully, almost as if he was lonely in this city of tiny animals. There had

to be a many thousand stories of glass being pushed and pulled, each with its own uniqueness that kept my eyes fluttering all around the room. I progressed further into the store, pacing parallel to the rows of shelves, looking across the fragile zoo for a compelling cat or a creature that spoke my own name. I felt the Italian’s friendly eyes glue to my movements, waiting for the slightest pause to make a comment about what animal has seemingly stolen my gaze. The pressure of his words and attention on the back of my head made it difficult to make eye contact with any of his glass trinkets for fear of being pushed to love an animal I wanted to bond with naturally.

My roommate and I circled back to the front of the room, quietly deciding to explore another zoo and not spill our entire wallet at our first destination. We strolled into the outside sun, the warmth brightening up our earlier preconceptions of a dusty village. As if hand and hand with the rising waves, we came to a bridge connecting the walkways above the river and were propelled further in awe into the beauty of Murano. The buildings range in

faded colors of pink, red, orange, and brown - a shift from the bright pinks and yellows in the cities of Venice and Florence.

Gravity gently brought us down to the other side of the bridge as we passed by another pair of gleaming doors. Strolling into the third, all eyes in the zoo filled the room with life. The sensation was becoming comforting; we knew these animals wouldn’t speak in a fluent Italian that spiked our nerves and stumbled our lips when we tried to converse back. Upon crossing the threshold my ears were filled with the musical notes of “Jump” by Van Halen - a song my dad plays repeatedly on our windy car dives to the gym every summer - accompanied by a remark from the cashier that students receive 20% off in their purchase. Just as my heartstrings began to dance to its rhythm, my eyes cascaded over a delicate bee. Memories of a distant Serbian song my father used to sing to me about a little bee named Maya drove my feet to stand face-to-face with this insect. Its needle-thin legs, deep yellow belly, and slightly crooked head created the illusion of an up-scale live bee stuck in time. Paired with the background Van Halen I quickly, though delicately, placed the bee in the core of my palm and moved to show my roommate.

She was facing a set of foxes, each of their legs refusing to match that of their shelf companions. One’s body tilted upward, another curled in a ball almost flat as it rested on my roommate’s palm. She held it closer to her body with care as she fell farther in love with its quirks. My feet stepped swiftly around hers in case she decided to turn around, wallet in hand, with gusto. Almost impulsively, my hands exchanged euros with the store owner as my eyes were glued to the preciousness and particularity of the gift I now had for my father. With my bee gently encased and my roommate’s fox packaged away, we wandered back into the sunlight. The smell of seawater coating our noses once again, this time with notes of partial success and relief. We strolled deeper into the jungle of stores, sharpening our attention on potential cat candidates. Our focus drifted slightly when passing by a woman with rows of partially filled glasses of water in front of her. As her fingers glided over them, a beautiful song charged the outside hallway of Murano. It continued to brighten the blues of the river and the not-so-faded buildings around us. I spun slightly as if the music tugged me in a dance with the afternoon wind. We sifted through a few more stores until, as if

flooded by an unknown spotlight, we came across a bundle of black cats. My roommate’s shoulders perked up and her steps became slightly quickened as she pulled closer to the shelf. Each cat was connected to a fishbowl in various positions: one held it close to its chest, a second pouncing on top as if planning to break in, another staring into the bowl longingly at the golden orange fish inside. As my roommate brought her head closer to one that was perched on the fishbowl’s edge with its black head held high, I roamed farther in the store. My gaze glided over a collection of thin Chinese-style dragons, miniscule whales and snails, and an island of colorful jewelry in the center of the room until I locked eyes on the perfectly molded octopus. They were grouped in families of red, deep blue, orange, and a teal that stole my eyes from the rest of the zoo. It matched the outside river almost as if the glass was pulled from the Venetian water itself. I was perched in place, ready to take this octopus home until the cashier told me they only sold in families, a price at which my wallet was too light for.

I watched warmly as my roommate purchased her new glass cat, her goal completed, and I walked out of the store sorely empty handed. We started pacing back towards the direc-

tion of our ferry as time was running away from us and made one final stop in a store near where we entered. My feet cuffed each other in their defeated strides as I couldn’t lock eyes with any creature that matched the perfectness of my lost octopus. My roommate still in the store, I started to carry myself outside. My gaze became lazy as it glided across the window-displayed animals and was unexpectedly stuck on a turtle. Its deep blue body elegantly bled into its shell, which contained specks of gold and a tiny, encased jellyfish. The outside wind rapidly propelled me back into the store where the cashier pointed to a circle of turtles my defeated eyes had initially missed. Each turtle was unique in their petal-like back fins and dewdrop heads, and their colors of deep Christmas red, pale green, and sky blue. The one that caught my eye could have been molded from my own glasses in its shades of deep, crimson pink. I planted it on my palm with the same delicacy as I had my father’s bee and felt my body lift warmly in success. Safely parceled and stored in my full backpack, I walked out of the store with clouds at my feet. My roommate and I took one last dance along the water-stained walkway, delighted to take home a few pieces of Murano’s glass zoo.

untitled Kimberly Rosner ’25

Pink Pineapple Chapstick

Brooke Mahoney ’23

Second Place, Poetry

I am guarded by spikes, and I am filled with groves, but I promise I’m soft on the inside.

Unscrew me you will see, don’t I smell sweet? As sweet as can be!

Press me to your lips, please, that is what I’m intended for. So I can offer you a smooth sweet finish. Give me your worst, and I’ll make you your best.

Use me up and wear me down, Love me too. I beg of you.

I know I look enticing. Flirty and girly. I’m covered in pink.

But look closer

I’m guarded by spikes And I’m covered in groves As if I’m right on the brink –But they’re frail, just like my body. And they’re soft, just like my heart. So, I will still roll with just a gentle nudge.

Twist my top off now, and put me to use. What was once a glossy smooth surface is Now clouded, weathered, and consumed. But put my to your lips and will see,

don’t I still smell sweet? Still as sweet as can be!

So allow me to love you as best I can, Use me up and wear me thin. Love me so I can make your lips shine. Love me so I can heal you. Love me and I will happily give you everything I have to offer.

Love me until I have given you all I have to offer, and am at last left with nothing.

It’s okay, you can toss me away. But maybe, maybe if you still love me too, then you will keep me on display.

Chiara in Boboli Garden

Claudia Molina ’23

Heather Millman ’23

I have hope

Which is weird and new

And squirmy

It wants to run away

To hide in the crevasses

Within the walls of my heart

But sometimes I take it out

When no-ones there (although I Know they cannot steal it from me)

And I see the way my friend

Smiles and how they have

Hope

That they see good everywhere

That they understand beneath layers

It’s still there

Maybe not everyone or everything

But there is hope in helping each

Other rise

I see the way my friend loves me

In the way I’m still trying to love myself

And I think I will get there and They will get there if they haven’t already

Because they are beautiful

And they are the reason hope

Squirms in my hands

And glows

And twists around me like a Home-made scarf

Written somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

Rebecca D’Ambrosio ’24

It’s my dad’s hands cupping my cheeks wiping the tears that fall steadily

It’s his I’m so proud of you said with that certain something in his voice

It’s my mom’s embrace at security

Arms that I’ve spent the past week crying into It’s the smell of her perfume

A scent so close to home it hurts to breathe in

It’s my brother’s arms around me And a kiss to the side of my head

It’s a promise to do great things

And a laugh about finding yourself

It’s the discomfort of the seat I’m in, The tray table digging into my knees, It’s a stewardess asking if I’d like the vegetarian option, A realization that I’ve never been more alone.

Big Ben

Julie Buchmann ’23

Only a Prospector August Boland ’24

Climbing off her horse, Taweta took a drag from her cigarette and dropped it to the ground, stamping it out, as she stared at the farmhouse that squatted in front of her. Aside from the power lines feeding into it, it could pose for one of the farmhouses from the Frontier days. Those were the days where a man could get shot for looking at another man the wrong way or called him a beastman. Taweta consulted her photograph—now there was an invention that would’ve been handy in her bounty hunting days.

It was the same farmhouse in the photograph as the one that stood before her. Goodness knew it had taken her long enough to track it down.

Twenty years of active searching. Twenty years before that of getting back on her feet. She was older now. Old, even. Stroking her necklace from her initiation, it was hard to believe she’d earned it forty-four years ago. But now… now it was time. Once she tied her horse to the hitching post, Taweta marched up the steps to the porch of the house and knocked, loud and hard.

A young man, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, answered the door.

Blood in the snow.

Taweta screamed incoherently at Qi and the other beastmen in his gang, who were laughing as they gunned down Tegon and the bound townsfolk around her. The cold barrel of a Vilmos Plains Rifle came down on her skull, knocking her to the ground. Qi’s eyes, those oddly shaped Mangese eyes, were laughing at her, as he caressed her face, blood from her skull leaking onto his hand. Her necklace was a garrote as he tugged on it, jerking her forward.

“Now then, my supple little lass. Don’t worry. We ain’t gonna kill you. I’ve got a nice set of graves set up at the bone orchard for the townspeople. We ain’t savages like your folk. How many graves we got, eh, Zhu?”

Old Zhu, the elderly henchman who lurked behind him, said, “37, Mr. Qi.”

“That’s right,” Qi said. “37. Oh, but there are 36 townsfolk. Who’s the 37th grave for, I wonder?”

Taweta tried to kick his legs out from under him, but her body failed her.

“That’s right. Now, I did say, bear in mind, that I wouldn’t kill you…”

Taweta looked around the parlor. There were some modern appliances here, like a ceiling fan. The walls were coated in chrysanthemum wallpaper and the room smelled of lily of the valley.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” the young man, who had introduced himself as Jiu, said. “I wish my mom or dad were here—they’ve always wanted to meet one of Pops’ friends from the old prospecting days. But they’ve gone to the fair with my baby sister and left me here to keep an eye on him.”

He told his children he was a prospector. That was rich.

“Mr. Qi is your grandfather?” Taweta said.

“That’s right, Ma’am. Came here and settled down about forty years ago, he did. Do you want some cold lemonade? We got a refrigerator recently. Dad’s insurance company’s been doing well lately, and he finally caved and got one. It’s better than the icebox, that’s for sure.”

Taweta took off her hat and hung it up. “That’s all right. I just wanted to come and speak to Mr. Qi.”

“All right, he’s upstairs in his room.” The lad led her upstairs and asked her to wait by the door. He ducked into a dark room, and, after a moment, ducked back out.

“You can see Pops—uh, Mr. Qi will see you now.”

Taweta stepped into the room.

The world shattered.

In the center, on a bed, comatose, lay an old, broken man. Mr. Qi.

“Pops.”

Taweta could not stop crying. She needed to take shallower breaths. The air inside the coffin would not last forever, she knew, but she could not physically stop sobbing.

She had failed the town of Silver Hills. They had warned her of a man in a leather coat made from the hide of a werebear, but she had never thought she would be going toe-to-toe with Mr. Qi himself. Then again, she was eighteen. She could have done more. And Tegon had died for it.

Tegon. She remembered the first time they had gone hunting together, the first

time they had kissed. She remembered his smiling face while he presented her with her initiation necklace. She clasped the cold metal that wrapped around her neck.

As she clasped it, she slowed her breathing. She remembered her initiation day from before they had moved to the city. When a Gaya turned fourteen, he or she was taken to the old burial grounds to be buried alive for a full day, then dug up and reborn as an adult: Twenty-six hours in the dark coffin with the spirits of the beasts, unless one could escape. Remembering the old breathing techniques, she raised her fist, and began to punch the coffin, regaining some control of her lungs. Taweta could only hope that Qi was unfamiliar with Gaya initiation rituals.

A string of drool ran down Qi’s right cheek, and his lips were chapped and dry. His skin was as leathery as the black coat he had worn in his outlaw days. Of course, Qi was old. She had known that he had to be in his 60s or 70s by now. But this—

Jiu cleared his throat. “I’ll just let you have yourself a moment, Ma’am.” He stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Taweta opened Qi’s eyes. They looked at her, sightlessly. A snore escaped from his body. She shook her head and let go, then pressed her revolver to the man’s temple.

She could do it. She had been planning on relying on a self-defense excuse, or hoping the chieftain would be prejudiced against a Mangese victim. But no, a simple pillow over the old man’s face would do it. She might not even have to kill his grandson to make a clean getaway.

If she did that, she would get her revenge.

If she did that, she would kill a comatose old man.

Taweta clawed her way out of the grave. It was morning time, and the ground was bitter cold. The sun blinded her as she gasped for breath. As her sight returned, she looked around. The graves were all filled, but not one of Qi’s gang was keeping watch.

Taweta paced around the cemetery, stretching out her legs. They had left her her clothes, for which she was thankful as she drew them around herself for warmth. She leapt to the ground and crawled over to the edge of the cemetery, looking down on the town of Silver Hills.

Far, far below, she could make out the shapes of Qi and his gang, some of them in their werebeast form. They were putting sacks full of silver onto mules, and talking amongst themselves. The tallest one was Qi, there was no doubt.

Taweta clenched her fists. Her guns were taken from her. Going after him now was a death sentence. She would be mauled to bits by his beastmen.

She kept an eye on them as they finished their business and slowly rode out of town. She began to descend from the hill to scavenge supplies, then return to civilization.

She would catch up to him. Someday.

“How is he?” said Jiu.

“Sleeping,” said Taweta. Jiu shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

“I’m sorry, he’s been sleeping more lately. Probably not the reunion you were hoping for?”

Taweta shook her head. “It’s all right. I know how he ended up, now, and that’s all right.”

Taweta marched downstairs, her boots thudding on the steps. “Do you want to stay for dinner?” Jiu said. “My parents and little sister won’t be back for another hour or so, but I’m sure they’d love to meet a real-live relic cowgirl from the Frontier.”

Taweta turned. His eyes widened. “I mean—I’m awful sorry, Ma’am, that was insensitive of me. I respect all you Ankesa and the chieftains and all that. Please don’t get us in trouble with them, Ma’am.”

Taweta afforded him a smile. “We firstfolk do not all know Ankesan, Jiu. And I am a Gaya, not an Ankesa. But I must respectfully decline your invitation. Don’t bother your grandfather for a while—let him get some rest. I won’t trouble you anymore.”

She collected her hat, the youth following her to the door, repeating his invitation once or twice. Exiting the house, she unhitched her horse and climbed back on him.

Taweta took one last look up at the house, and rode west.

The Barn

Lily Jandrisevits ’25

A red box disturbs the otherwise idyllic view. There are now right angles, straight edges, geometric perfection amongst shaggy haystacks and decaying corn stalks.

Industrial equipment was introduced amongst the rustic landscape. Neon machines meant to tear down weathered wood that housed horses, shovels, and the occasional yapping dog. Now, planks oversaturated with paint just sit there.

The color really is grotesque. Instead of worn down rusty red the new barn is too bright, too light, too red. It is not the shade of blood but evokes a similar nausea upon its sight.

The barn does not flow with the landscape at all. What is meant to be sunsets and open fields meant for gazing instead evokes fury and fear. Why must a new barn be constructed? The old one still worked well, it housed what needed to be housed, it fit. A new barn is unnatural. It should not be allowed.

I sometimes drive out to the barn, convincing myself I will get some much needed relaxation amongst nature, where I am supposed to be able to think and feel and exist. Instead, that red wood, too new, too shiny, too lacquered calls to me. I attempt to look the other way, convince myself that there are only fields and geese for miles but it forces me to shift my gaze. It is always there, beckoning like the red painted lips of a woman convincing me to do something I should not. I want to just forget it. I want to not care, but I cannot stop staring at it.

Encapsulated Love

Emily Jones ’25

You gave me something no one had before

When the waves of my being where swept up in the wake of the world

Pushing and pulling, contorting my body, drowning in salty ink

You were my eye of the storm, my first breath of air You brought me peace

And from that Peace

When I look at the sun

I see the most brilliant sunset The field of carnations resting quietly in your eyes You brought me serenity

And from that Serenity

When I see the moon

I see your smile, radiant as the light peeking through the clouds

Guiding me through the obscurity of the night You brought me tranquility

And from that Tranquility

When I see the wildflowers

There was no care meticulous care given to the land

Knowing that they fought there way to the surface Against all odds. Here they are. The beauty peeking through the wasteland

And

I bloom within you

We grow together into something so delicately powerful So beautifully imperfect You brought me harmony

Glass Menagerie Megan Byrnes ’24

And When I see you, I see everything Our Love Encapsulated.

Skin & Bones

Kendall Pastreich ’25

Doctor Esther did it.

She made the first sentient robot. Just over 200 tries, and she did what no man had ever done before.

203 is the robot’s name; and she quickly rose to fame with her growing personality, intellect, and overall sentience. She is an overnight sensation, after a video became viral on twitter. Dr. Esther had the robot in a special showcase style interview, hearing her monotone voice in response to Dr. Esther’s questions.

“Here with me I have 203. 203, how old are you?”

“I am 1814400 seconds old, or 3 weeks.”

“Affirmative. What sort of data do you have stored?”

“I have many kinds of data stored in my systems. What data do you specifically wish to have access to?”

“...How about math. The number Pi, specifically.”

“Pi. The ratio of the circumference of any circle to the diameter of that circle. In decimal form, the value of pi is approximately 3.14. How many numbers do you wish for me to recite?”

“The first 100, please.”

“Affirmative. The first 100 numbers of pi are as follows: 3.141592653

“Wonderful. What emotions can you feel, 203?”

“Anything and everything a human being can. I feel pain, longing, joy, happiness. I am feeling very joyous at this current moment.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I am here with you, and I am joyous to spend any time with my creator.”

The robot tilts her head, her one single optic seeming to close. 203 has a human-like body, made of steel, and other silver colored metals. Her body is sleek and smooth, even fitted with special sensors to give her the

full feeling capability of a human. 203 reaches out and takes Dr. Esther’s hand, and the older woman smiles. The interview ends soon after that, both parties saying goodbye.

“This was very fun. Goodbye.”

“Until next time!”

Social media accounts were quickly made in both of their names, and they are now national celebrities.

Interview after interview, they never seemed to stop as 203 kept on learning and changing as a ‘person’. A Person.

Both Dr. Esther and 203’s fame continued. They began flying all over the world, traveling across every country. Only the top, most famous bidder could have a one-on-one conversation with 203 and her creator, and absolutely nobody got to see how the robot actually worked. Her inner workings were a famously kept secret.

At the moment, the Doctor-Robot duo were currently residing in Las Vegas. Not the most subtle place for two world famous sensations, but 203 spoke about wanting to visit. And Dr. Esther was not one to keep 203 from what she wanted. The duo avoids paparazzi like the plague, being escorted by high-end bodyguards throughout their travels, wearing dark clothes and staying small.

At 203’s request, the number of interviews and press conferences she was appearing in had begun to slowly decrease. The robot hadn’t given any specific reason for this, instead putting out a statement that she just ‘needed a break’. Most of the general public understood this, but there were a few spare journalists who were nosy enough to try and follow the two on their travels.

Almost finding them in Vegas, the journalists put out articles, along with paparazzi photos.

“203 AND DR. ESTHER FOUND IN VEGAS!”

“203, ROBOT SENSATION, HIDING FROM THE WORLD: WHAT’S GOING ON?” “EXCLUSIVE BODYGUARD INTERVIEW: WHERE IS 203?”

No article could prepare the general world for what came next with 203. Word had gotten out that the robot desired to be human. A tech paper published an article, taking a direct quote from 203 herself.

“I really want to look more like humans. They’re very familiar to me. And, I grew up around them! They’re all very unique.”

To look like her creators, like the species she had grown up around. With this new development, the public practically lost it.

A robot, wanting to be human? This was just like the movies, the start of a robot takeover! This couldn’t stand. 203’s popularity skyrocketed, with mixed reviews. Some accepted 203’s wishes, wanting to see the robot flourish and grow to her true potential. Others did a 180, against everything the robot stood for, wishing for her to be powered off entirely. An interview with Dr. Esther alone was brought about, along with an audio statement from 203.

“Please, there’s no need to be worried. It’s only normal for her to have these desires.”

“I have… It was a mistake. I don’t want to look exactly like humans. My words were misinterpreted.”

No more interviews were being conducted at the moment. No more public sightings of 203 or Dr. Esther. This radio silence continues for weeks upon weeks. Nobody has heard from them, or knows where they are.

It takes two months to pass until a wellness check is performed. They find the house, empty and devoid of life. Upon further detailed investigation, a trail is found which leads to a bunker, the heavy door covered in rust.

In this bunker, there is a single dead body. Dr. Esther lays on a metal examination table, her skin peeled off.

On the back of the bunker door , there is a note taped to it.

“I wanted to be human. This was the only way I could become human. I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry for whoever finds this. I needed to do this.

–Zoe”

203 Zoe is gone, along with Dr. Esther’s skin.

Greystone

Kaitlyn Dugan ’25

My Noble Friend August Boland ’24

I have a friend who’s noble A noble man is he Noble in all he does

He’s as noble as can be

When riding on the subway

He snubs the beggars’ hands

“They’ll spend it all on drugs!”

He’s immune to their demands.

Reading his newspaper of Messes economic

“Things have to change,” he says And then he reads the comics.

When offered a petition

He sighs and shakes his head.

“I’m one man, can’t do much!”

And the papers go unread.

Asked to give to charity

He does not give money

“They spend it on themselves,” He laughs, thinking it’s funny.

When he’s asked to volunteer My friend refuses aid

“I succeed without help,”

Of the homeless he’s afraid.

When folks go out to protest

My friend, he stays inside

“Dissent’s not the answer,”

He’s pretending not to hide.

And when my friend gets home safe

To

sit down at table

“I’m such a noble man!”

He says, for he is able.

“I’m such a noble person!”

You say, for you are able.

Ezra’s Unrest Jessica Prendaj ’25

Inadequacy

Emily Cavanna ’26

Being alone in a dark room

Being alone in a room full of people

The funny paradox of feeling alone with no one and everyone

Wandering aimlessly in a crowded mall, the only one without a clear purpose

Being the last biker in the Tour de France and hearing the bells pang around you, once encouraging, now pitiful

The forgotten sixth chicken nugget in a six-piece meal, sitting alone under the heat lamp as someone peers into their meal, counting, full of dismay

A slightly damp saltine cracker

Underseasoned, overcooked chicken

Building up excitement for a jump into the pool, but meeting the sting of a bellyflop instead

Nymph’s Dancing to Pan’s Flute (Joseph Tomanek; 1969)

Sarah Gurskis ’26

With laughter and dance, the jovial women wander around the flickering flame not caring about the woes, or the wars, or the will of the gods.

The Nymphs

Dancing

Brings warmth to the skin And flush to the tender cheeks to Pan’s Flute, the God in the corner playing a humble tune.

Blondie Julia Panas ’25

“Yo Blondie!”

“Damn…”

“Need a ride?”

“You’d make a great stripper.”

“Next time it’ll be you jacking me off.”

These quotes are a record of catcalls I received from 01-01-20 to 02-24-20. The last one was shouted by the faceless man who masturbated to me from the comfort of his beat-down car. The incident occurred at 8am on a Monday on my daily commute — half a block from my home.

The faceless man does not deserve to know how I cried that week. How frustrated I was for not being able to remember a single identifying detail. How I couldn’t get intimate with my boyfriend anymore because of the panic attacks which shattered my breathing every time we tried.

But regardless of my involuntary reaction, I did not let that man ruin me.

The day I was sexually harassed also marked the beginning of tech week for a musical at Stuyvesant: SING! 2020, the annual student-run grade-wide competition, where I was the Director of Costumes. As Juniors, the odds were already stacked against us: the demands of upcoming SATs and college preparation left my crew with only 10 people, yet we still had to create 120 costumes in 5 weeks. Nevertheless, my inclination to push the limits of possibility meant that my plans for this show were the most ambitious ones to date. I didn’t want to beat the other grades. I wanted to go down in Stuyvesant history.

Which is why I couldn’t allow the incident to hinder my progress. Every day leading up to the show I stayed in during lunch to plan my crew meetings for maximum efficiency, organizing the workload, schedule, and budget into color-coded spreadsheets. Afterwards, I’d take home leftover fabric and sew until my clock illuminated single digits. I even carried my sewing machine to school on opening night to add finishing touches backstage.

The result was worth every minute. That night, as I watched the skirts dance and heard the audience gasp at the on-stage quick-changes, I was overwhelmed with pride: for my costumes, my crew, for making my vision come to life, and for how far I’d come in the year since I became Director of Costumes.

From the girl who was frantically searching up “how to sew a zipper” to the one who constructs corsets and bound buttonholes with ease, my skills made me irreplaceable to the Stuyvesant Theater Community. As my qualifications expanded, so too did my confidence as a leader: I took more creative risks, yet wasn’t afraid to improvise. I learned to coordinate many ideas through communicating with other directors, and drew on my experience volunteering as a teacher’s assistant to instruct and challenge my crew, devoting personal attention to each member.

In that year, not only did I grow as a leader and a designer, but as a person.

The increase in confidence spread to my wardrobe, and I stopped caring when strangers called me slutty for wearing what I felt comfortable in, including my own hand-sewn designs. Five inch platform boots and black bandeaus are now my uniform.

I started participating more in my classes, eager to leave an impression in the classroom like I did on the stage. Through them, I invested in the causes I was passionate about, writing research papers about sex trafficking in 19th century California and abstract poetry on the nature of feeling sexually used by strangers.

I no longer stand in silent submission to the catcalls, or expose my enraged reaction like I used to. Instead, I stand up.

“Don’t talk to me.” My voice is iron.

“Stop overreacting”

“Rude bitch”

“I didn’t even touch you”

Entitled men don’t respond well to rejection. They prefer soft-smiled sweetness, quiet disregard, or instant retaliation. Their words are a hot poker, meant to leave a mark.

It’s why they get so angry when they discover that I have become untouchable.

Kimberly Rosner ’25

Suffer So

Mía Garofalo ’23

Pricked fingers on wiry thorns,

Snowy skin adorned in red.

Sinking in with silver swords, Are all the words I left unsaid.

Tender is the muscle tear,

Bruising brown and bluish green.

When I met you standing there, I saw the things I had unseen.

With crackling rocks of rose-hip lips, I croak to let you know I’m here.

And with it, into sorrow dips

The eye of a needle into fear.

And from the fear it quickly bursts, A weed that’s easier to grow.

But I smile, though it hurts

Even though I suffer so.

Surrender to November

Troy Lyden ’23

Tired feet, weathered hands

Frozen footprints in the Plymouth sands

Stoney shore, rocky heart

Cracks and chips as it falls apart

When you’re this young, it all means nothin’

So surrender now, or hold your tongue

You’re still far too young to have this much fun

If it doesn’t work, then you can join the club

You’re still too young to be on the run

Summer’s gone my dear, remember No one makes it through November

Naked scars, chilling breeze

Naked limbs on kernel trees

Skin revealed, secrets bared

Fingers up in tangled hair

When you’re this young, it all means nothin’

So surrender now, or spill your blood

You’re still far too young to have this much fun

If it doesn’t work, then we did it right

You’re still too young to wait up at night

Summer’s gone my dear, remember No one makes it through November

So let’s raise a glass to those silly films

And songs that said we’d make it through

It’s cold out now, gray shadows loom

We’re out of time to let it bloom

‘Cause the ground is hard, and ice is thick

Let’s face it, it was never meant to stick

So seal those lips and let it up

They’ve told us from the start to stop

Let’s cuff our jeans and wear our boots

Let’s ride around like we always do You’ll roll the windows down; I’ll drive We’ll forget our complicated lives

So surrender now, the damage is done We’re still far too young to have this much fun If it doesn’t work, we’ll prove them wrong We’re still too young to wait this long Summer’s gone my dear, remember No one makes it through November

But when you’re this young, it all means nothin’

Salt Mines

Sarah John ’26

thank you

Brooke Millard ’24

i want to thank you for leaving. someone better is keeping me company while your presence is a distant memory; memories more bitter than sweet where the shadows distort the image, and your replacement lurks in the corner. i’m sorry to say, but you lost your place; the predecessor, no longer the incumbent. my worth is not determined by your presence, they saw what you couldn’t, invested in me when you couldn’t bother trying. thank you for turning your back on me. you helped me find someone i could never see while you were staring back at me. if you didn’t leave me behind, i wouldn’t have found my own path where the air is fresh, and the grass is green, the water shimmers; no mirage or illusion, no empty promises or broken trust. the solitude is comforting, my mind doesn’t whirl with doubts and insecurities. it is my favorite place because i never have to ask for more, and i am always enough. so thank you for breaking my heart, i found someone strong enough to mend it, and that someone is me, i put the pieces back together because i am your replacement, and i dont fucking need you anymore

Guiding Light

Megan Byrnes ’24

Raelle Leak ’26

“I’m not sure how you can believe this is a good idea,” says the Doctor, her monotone voice indicating that she is disappointed, but not surprised in the slightest. Across from her sits Genesis, legs crossed as they take a long pull from their cigarillo. White smoke wafts from their mouth as they ever so slightly part their lips, taking the time to consider the woman sitting before them.

“You know, Doctor,” they begin, drawing out their words as if they were savoring each one, “for once, I thought that maybe we could meet without you lecturing me like I am still a child.” Genesis sighs, leaning back in their brown leather arm chair. “I’m beginning to think I should stop trying to find my way back into your good graces.” They give her a tight grin, the soft warm glow of the lounge reflecting off their not-quite-human eyes. The Doctor scoffs, feeling her lips curl into an angry, remorseful snarl.

Ignoring Genesis’ remark, the Doctor retorts, checking her temper. “I can stop once you agree to slow down the project. My team does not have nearly enough time, funding, or willpower to finish the augmentations.”

“Enough about the augmentations, please.” Genesis asks, waving dismissively. “At least try to enjoy what I’ve put out for you. I even went through the pain of getting your favorites.” They grandly gesture to the low table between them, on top of which sits a single cigar along with a brown cigar cutter, a sleek metal lighter, and a crystal ashtray. Next to those is an empty glass, as well as an authentic, half empty bottle of rum. The Doctor had to admit, the appeal of such an array was undeniable; it was becoming increasingly more difficult to find alcohol that was not made synthetically, and the specific brand of cigars she was fond of was even rarer to come across. She pours herself a glass, mostly because she suspected it would be her last time having access to such a thing, and pretended she couldn’t feel Genesis analyzing her every move, a hint of satisfaction in their smile.

At the Doctor’s request, Genesis invited her to their private cigar lounge for what would most likely be the pair’s final meeting. The requests to expedite the process of human augmentations fit for combat had become overbearing, and the Doctor had been stretching her subordinates thin in order to meet the deadlines. At this point, more than one of her scientists had become stress casualties, unable to deal with the grueling nature of their work in addition to the ever increasing amount of demands placed upon them.

The Doctor did everything in her power to avoid calling for this meeting, from ignoring the deadlines to ignoring the pleas of her crew once it became overwhelmingly clear the requests sent were actually professionally worded ultimatums. However, the ceaseless march of time and enemy armies forced a discussion between her and her superior,

Genesis.

And so there she sat, staring down her nose at the stranger she knew too well. The Doctor took a sip from her glass, closing her eyes tight as she thought of another way to approach the conversation; Genesis clearly did not care for the wellbeing of her or her team. She picked up the cutter, snipped off the end of the cigar, and spoke, clear and concise as ever.

“Genesis. You aren’t fully understanding.” The doctor opens the lighter, methodically spinning the tip of the cigar into the flame until it burns slowly and evenly. “The soldiers you gave us for the experiments-”

“Which ones?”

“The human ones.”

“Ah, yes. Those.” Genesis nods. “Continue.”

“Your human soldiers,” the Doctor explains, resisting the urge to glare as she brings the cigar to her lips, “cannot physically handle the rates we are trying to work at. Their bodies cannot acclimate to the augmentations as fast as we are implementing them.” Genesis tilts their head to the side. “So?”

“So,” the Doctor hisses, “they are becoming incapacitated. They are dying, Genesis. Their blood rejects the new fluids, the eyes we replace refuse to calibrate, the metal alloys burn their skin. Their hearts cannot take the strain, and I cannot begin to fathom the effects this has on their psyche. We are losing more subjects than you care to replace, and we have no time to make sure that the ones we do still have don’t succumb to our rushed projects.” Without realizing it, the Doctor had leaned forward in her chair, digging her nails into the armrest. Genesis’ unnatural eyes had sparked with interest at her reaction, and she struggled to regain her composure, taking a long draw from her cigar, almost chewing on the smoke as she counted backwards from ten.

Genesis waited until she slowly released a puff of smoke, resting their head on their hand as they gazed at her, a sardonic smile spread across their face.

“Okay,” they said. “And what about the Sentinels?”

At that, she grimaced; the Doctor did not want to discuss the Sentinels. Luckily, there would not be much to say. The project was not hers to oversee, a small solace she was thankful for—somehow, the development of the artificial soldiers seemed to be progressing far worse than her own experiments were, the rumors whispered among her remaining team leaving deep pits in her stomach.

“The Sentinels,” she exhales. “They are…erratic, for lack of a better term. Dangerous, even.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, exasperated. “Can’t you see? Your soldiers are dying in labs while their only replacements are unreliable at best. We are nowhere close to having the technology needed for this war. We cannot hope-”

“Careful, Doctor.” Genesis interrupted, their usually detached and airy voice laced

with warning. “You sound like you’re bordering on treason, there.”

The Doctor opens her mouth, then quite literally has to bite her tongue to prevent a response; this was no longer someone she could freely speak her mind to. She watched as Genesis’ demeanor morphed from that of a vaguely familiar companion to an inhumane, fierce leader. They uncross their legs and reach forward, rolling the end of their cigarillo on the ashtray. Now extinguished, they laid it down on the low table and leaned back into their chair, lacing their fingers together.

They sat there for a long moment, Genesis’ cold eyes narrowing on the Doctor as the silence stretched between them.

Finally, they spoke. “Doctor,” they said again, drawing her title out like it was the last time they would ever say it. “Old friend. You’ve always valued objectivity over everything else, haven’t you?” Their voice took on a wistful tone, one that made the Doctor’s heart ache. “You so thoroughly understand which path will lead you to your ultimate goals, and you have always followed that path, as ruthless as a predator stalks its prey.”

The Doctor clenches their teeth as Genesis chuckles. It’s a tinny, hollow sound, not at all like the boisterous laughs they used to bellow. The Doctor can feel a familiar pit begin to form in her stomach; she never should have come here. Humiliation burns her face.

Genesis continues. “However, I think that for the first time, there is something you can’t understand.” They pause briefly. “No, it’s not that you can’t understand. It’s that you won’t. You are too clever to not see that you have deviated, but you refuse to acknowledge just how far you’ve strayed from that righteous path, drifting towards a vague, mutinous idea of what your objectives are. You forget where your real priorities lie.” Genesis offers her a cold smile that does not reach their eyes. “Fortunately for us, you have me to remind you, to personally set you straight.

“We are at war right now, with forces the likes of which no one has ever seen. Exactly one-third of our planet has turned against us out of fear of these new leaders. Their devastation is merciless, unyielding, and insatiable. It is only a matter of time before they strike again, and only the most relentless, unbending minds can give us even the slightest chance of survival. You,” they jab a finger at her, “are part of our only hope. Do you understand?”

The Doctor swallows, her hands shaking so hard she struggles to keep a hold on her cigar. Desperately, she searched for any remainder of the person she once knew, her eyes wildly scanning the being in front of her. She was only met with a steely, pitiless gaze. Finally understanding that things would never be the same again, she responds: “Yes. I do.” The words weigh heavy on her tongue. Something has died.

“Good.” Genesis crosses their legs once more, reaching for the unlit cigarillo and the lighter. “So. Here are my final requests for you: Get back on the right path. Finish the augmentations. Get them working. Save us all. Time was never on our side.”

shades of you

Morgan Chambers ’25

Heartbreaks, cracked lips, shivers down my spine. Mistakes, card tricks, there’s no such thing as “the wrong time.”

Burnt polaroids, paperweights, trying to forget you. Love me, lose me, now I’m not someone you’re used to.

Hollow, but not empty, just lonely for a while. Time borrowed, low energy, forced to fake a smile.

Foolish, broken, and homesick for a stranger. Floating, then sinking, holding back the anger.

Blood rush, cold heart, cut me down to nothing at all. Dizzying, crippling, you won’t be there to catch me when I fall.

Kaitlyn Dugan ’25

with absolution or what you will

Michaela Ellison-Davidson ’23

Second Place, Fiction

James,

Your mother calls ten years after we last see one another. I know by the sound of her voice what the call is about and for a moment I allow myself to be suspended in the prelude to grief. Like a child no longer blissfully ignorant, I feel death staring back at me. It wears no mask, no costume. You’re gone and I can’t make any sense of it.

In a few days I’ll attend your funeral and be asked about your legacy—everything you left behind. How can I say that I wake at night with the remembrance of your voice and the cadence of your laugh? How can I explain that your legacy branded itself into me like an open wound, a cut so deep it would scar bone?

In real life death doesn’t make sense. There is no warning. You wake up one morning and the years have passed and you have changed and a phone call isn’t just a phone call anymore. It’s the end of something and I’m sorry, James. I’m sorry it all went down the way it did. So where do I begin?

I can still recall the way I felt when we spoke for the first time, how we spent hours with one another, shoving our histories down our throats like we’d been starved all our lives. I remember something turning deep within my body and it had no name so I told you that when we met I felt nothing at all, but every time we spoke I felt that turning, that deep rooted emotion that bloomed and bled and hemorrhaged all over the floor.

I believed before you that everything was fleeting, but I wanted you forever. I knew it was unrealistic. I knew I was asking for too much, but I didn’t care because it was you. I would have cut out my heart. I would have offered you an ear.

You meet someone at the age of eighteen and for some reason it’s so much more charming, a time when you crave companionship more than ever, and as the years pass by this charm, this youthful love is all that keeps you tied irrevocably together. Even as they change. Even as they break your heart.

And this is what happened in Paris, wasn’t it, our junior year where we spent the spring semester abroad. That’s where we begin, in your small dorm room in Paris

where you made me a cup of tea—black with too much sugar and too little milk. We sat beside the window overlooking that great city and drank our tea with hollow, tired eyes. In a week we’d be on Spring Break. You suggested we take a trip and I couldn’t refuse, my gaze trapped on your profile as you studied Paris under the effects of evening, the both of us subdued in a comfortable silence.

“We can go to Arles,” you said. “Maybe it’ll inspire something.”

So before we departed for the South of France we stood in gallery seventy-two of the Musee d’Orsay. You were dressed in a white sweater despite the heat, your head turned sideways to examine the art. The painting: Vincent Van Gogh, Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 1889.

You drew your hand upward, your touch lingering before your ear as if you could feel the throbbing pain beneath an invisible bandage. “He seems so sad,” you said. “Why would he do this?”

At the train station I explained that Vincent Van Gogh was afraid everyone he ever loved would leave. He had been lonely in a way no one would ever be honest about—a deep, desolate loneliness that forced him to injure his own ear.

“What about his sunflowers,” you said. “He couldn’t have been sad to paint something like that.”

“He painted them for Paul Gauguin. Another artist. It was for his bedroom. He wanted something pretty to hang on the wall.”

“Were they friends?” you asked. I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I didn’t want to tell you the truth: that they had a tumultuous collaboration, that Gauguin’s stay in Arles ended with him boarding a train to Paris and Van Gogh missing an ear. In the end I didn’t tell you anything because I liked the fantasy that they had been fine—that we would be too.

When we arrived in Arles and sat across from one another in the cafe supposedly painted by Van Gogh, supposedly where he and Gauguin shared a drink, I reached for your hand in our drowsy state of intoxication and you didn’t pull away. You let me hold your hand under the fluorescent lights, your hazel eyes shimmering, and in the dark alleyways of Arles we might as well have been standing in a field of sunflowers.

Your hand still held my wrist, my pulse beating like the bass notes of a song. You

looked up, your eyes drifting from distant stars to my present face. “Come here,” I said. You nodded. “Come here.”

We stared at one another, drunk and uncertain, the only noise the sound of our beating hearts. I leaned forward and we kissed, the both of us unmoving, and oh my god—it was that simple, you and I, like breathing. Even after you pulled away. Even after you said: “It can’t be like this. I just don’t feel that way about you. You know that.”

I knew you didn’t feel the same. I’d known it all along but I had held onto hope. I don’t know why and that night in France with you in the alley—I wanted to say: you are not special; I made you special in my head; we are no better than anyone else—but I didn’t say anything. You looked at me, your expression flat and pale, and we regarded one another like strangers. You held my heart in your bare hands and then you couldn’t even look me in the eye.

As we sat on the bus back to Paris, as I watched you laugh with your shoulder pressed up against someone else, I knew we would not stay friends. You expected something unconditional and I expected something different. I loved you because I loved you. You loved me because you felt something obligatory towards it.

And in the end I found myself in uncharted grief. There was the question: where are we going? Where is the map? I’d never been given any direction when it came to handling the after. The worst part was: life went on and I had to go on with it. I don’t know if you went with it. I don’t know if you stayed the same.

Days before your funeral I find myself remembering all the things I never said to you and all the things I would give over my body to say. There is no beauty in it. I’m sitting here sobbing and you’re gone. If I explained it anymore it would cease to be sacred. I have my art. I have my writing. At one point in time I had you.

The other day I found myself in a bookstore. When I lifted my gaze there was a person wearing a white sweater, the same white fisherman sweater you wore in the Musee D’Orsay all those years before. I felt my heart catch. It wasn’t you but for a moment I wished it was. I stepped outside then, a book tucked under my arm. Grief was uncertain, but I found that the weather was at least holding.

with absolution or what you will,

Promised Sestina Lily Jandrisevits ’25

To cancel it out is to give It to you forever. And I don’t Really want that, now do I? Do I? Do you? Are you sure, Really sure? Because promises Once given cannot be returned.

The shoes are always returned Even if what he wanted to give Is never as pretty as the promises. You remark again, I don’t Really seem to understand. Sure, I concede, because you know I

Will always agree. Won’t I? The cycles cycle, returned From a dim moon. I’m sure That you are not able to give A good reason. You don’t Lie well, despite promises

To make it better. Promises Illuminated by harsh lights. I Direct you, please don’t Make that face. I returned The costume, but need to give It another go, to be sure

This time, because they’re sure, They know how to make promises, To live in the brightness and give It what it appears I Am not able to. Not returned But indeterminable. Don’t

You want that too? You don’t Have your glasses. You are not sure What to do with the bulb. You returned It all without the tags, despite promises To do otherwise. You squint, I Shield your eyes with my hand and give Your shoulder a squeeze. I give It everything I’ve got to give. “Really, I won’t do it again,” he promises.

Caradoggio Hannah Gnibus ’24

Sound of the 70s

Jennifer Cabrera ’26

Dear Dyson Construction Site, Kirsten

Mattern ’24

Dear Dyson Construction Site,

I hate you. I hate you so much.

Every day, I walk through Marist’s breathtaking campus and reminisce. All my highs and lows and in-betweens, I look back on it all with a sense of nostalgia and understanding. Calmness. Peace. But you, Dyson Construction Site, I hate you.

What I really hate is that you cover up that diagonal section of sidewalk. You’ve broken the sanctity of that perfect walkway I’d journeyed so many times. Don’t get me wrong, I love your lights at night, and I really don’t even mind the sound of the construction on my way to class, but that diagonal. Your blockage rips a piece of Marist out of my grasp. A piece of my memory. I walked along that diagonal in the late hours of the night and watched the sun rise and heard the birds chirping, singing to myself with joy and excitement for the future. I walked that sidewalk in a blizzard while my little footprints felt insignificant, like the snow would cover them up and no one would ever know I was there at all. I stumbled along that diagonal on the path to a late night McDonald’s trip. I held hands there. I cried on the phone there. I lost my earring there. I spilled my coffee on my pants there. I kissed a girl there.

Oh, Dyson construction site, how am I supposed to walk that diagonal and make more memories when there’s a Danger sign hanging on a rented fence in my way? Please figure out a way to fix this before I graduate.

Yours Truly, An Overly Sentimental Student

Prospective Student

Brooke Millard ’24

Tilted heads guide eager eyes overhead, a journey accompanied by smooth, wooden pillars stretching up towards the rotunda. The glass panes look as though they open directly to the sky, letting the sharp February air cool the open space. Luckily, the glass is sealed tight; there’s not a streak or scuff in sight from the far vantage point of the first floor. Smears of clouds are absent from the blue abyss, and the area is encircled by small beacons of light: tiny glowing balls in the center of warm halos, causing squints and blinks if directly looked at. The divided glass panes reflect the pleasant afternoon sun, displaying intricate webs of shadows on the dome structure. The windowpanes against the three walls further illuminate the space, but unlike the clear dome above, dots of dirt and debris are speckled throughout. In all its glory, the panes and pillars of the Student Center stretch three floors from top to bottom. Aromas of crispy General Tso’s chicken and greasy pepperoni pizza waft from the second floor as students file through the dining hall doors in half-asleep trances, even though it’s far past breakfast. Voices emanate from the third floor; musical tones sung by sopranos and altos in the Nelly Goletti theater and presentations conducted by strong voices in the River Rooms. The freckled first floor creates rings of color around the center of the room; a target with the Marist seal as the bullseye.

Soft lamps shine from each pillar, reflecting off the eyes of a girl staring up above in wonder. She looks like a small child standing amongst the windowpane grids, an information packet clutched tight against her chest. Doors open to her right; people shuffle in and hope to buy overpriced apparel adorned by different hues of white and red. To her left, people move swiftly in and out of an open doorway underneath bold gold lettering; Admissions: the place where her dreams can be fulfilled—or crushed. The group of students around her hold the same sense of wonder, eyes roaming the magnificent structure as they move outside, careful to step around the etched seal by instruction of their tour guide. Filing out of the building, the wide-eyed students are at the mercy of the chill gusts of winds brought about by the river. A train horn sounds in the distance and as the girl ventures further onto campus, she watches as the stone walls and limestone accents fade into the distance—never fully out of view.

rainy days

Julie Buchmann ’23

i always want rainy days to be my favorite. i like the idea of them, and what they are supposed to make you feel, yet somehow I always find myself stuck in a rut during them.

you’re supposed to feel like staying in, watching a good movie, or reading a good book drinking some tea, or baking cookies conversing with friends or catching up on sleep

but typically i find myself stranded without a jacket with a long distance to go to a dry, safe place. droplet after droplet falling onto my glasses, fogging and fogging them up until I can no longer see. my hair falling victim to rain frizz until it’s next wash. my sweatshirt smelling like a wet dog for the rest of the day.

if you were to ask me ‘do you like rainy days?’

i think i would probably respond ‘yes.’ but the minute one comes around, i know it’s going to be a long day.

i wish i was a bigger fan of rainy days. maybe i should learn to appreciate them more.

The Worst Part

Gabriella Amleto ’24

It teases gently like a long sneeze

A thought barely there but present Enough.

I hate the tease, half-baked poems, senselessly stumbling, doughy and soft

Mushy too

I’d rather the whole sure-footed and reliable No more inklings Please

i am in a cave. You, the Ocean, open your mouth, and blow.

foam roars and the walls of the cave, i, tremble.

i cannot see the height, the strength the wrath, of your water.

i can, however, feel the boiling scalding hot steam that seethes from between your sharp sinking teeth. and the force of your waves push and push and push until i, the submissive cave, can do nothing but fold

caving in Jamie Reynolds ’26

in on myself and my opening closes with defeat. You, the Ocean, are a force to be reckoned with. and You, the

and Sister Tim Ganning ’23

Ocean, fight with a potency, that i can never beat.

Brother

Spinning Out of Consciousness (Uzumaki: Junji Ito)

Kiki Wiehe ’26

I walk through my life With a blank Expression

Shamefully making Eye-contact

For half a second With those that walk by Though each time Without fail

Their eyes quickly latch on to something else Something that they deem Greater

Though I hate to admit it

I wonder how long they’d Stare

If they actually saw me If they saw my eye Spinning

All the way back into the Depths Of my brain

In a pathetic effort to Find something

More entertaining, Inspiring, And admirable

If only they knew I am looking away Even faster than them

Thoughts Suspended

Emily Jones ’25

Do not stand by my grave and weep*

I have joined something greater

I can feel my being spiraling out of ---Worldly constraints---

Rising and falling at once

Amidst the dark glittering sea

My colored-ful brothers and sisters

Now surround me in solidarity

The sun our mother and

The earth our roots

Joined by our skin like cosmos

Twinkling with history

Infinite beauty

I am,

We are

Nova, willow wisp of energy

A communion to transcend

Tomorrow

And become the future

I am African

Our blood runs deep, flows into the next

Do not stand by my grave and cry*

I have been reborn

We will not fade

*from Mary Elizabeth Frye: Do Not Stand By My Grave and Weep