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www.maristmosaic.wordpress.com maristmosaic@gmail.com 3399 North Road Poughkeepsie, NY 12601 Cover Design by Marisa Brown, Anita Cazorla Interior Layout by Christina Brown, Angelina Ruiz Cover Image: Watercolor Skies; Marigot Bay, Saint Lucia; Cayleigh Goberman ’26 Opinions expressed in Mosaic do not necessarily reflect the views held by Mosaic staff, students, faculty, or the administration of Marist University. © Mosaic 2025 2

Mosaic Editorial Board Editor-In-Chief Abby Castonguay Assistant Editor-In-Chief Ryann Anderson Associate Editor Charlotte Del Vecchio Art Editor Kaitlin James Fiction Editor Cira Shaw Photography Editor Mary Kirk Poetry Editor Gabby Ganoe Nonfiction Editor Grace Naccarato Design Editors Christina Brown, Angelina Ruiz Cover Design Editors Marisa Brown, Anita Cazorla Social Media Committee Margaret Batta, Alexa Gallery, William Haydon, Karina Syrota Event Planning Committee Angela Buscemi, 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 2025 edition of Mosaic, a literary and arts magazine showcasing the remarkable work of Marist University students. Before publication, all Mosaic selections undergo a rigorous blind peer-review process in which student section editors evaluate and select submissions. Thank you to all of the students who submitted their work to the Mosaic this semester; I encourage each of you to submit again in the fall. Our magazine would not exist without your incredible talent and creativity. The Mosaic Editorial Board extends our sincere gratitude to Mr. Robert Lynch for his unwavering support of the Mosaic. We also thank Alex Podmaniczky and the entire Digital Publications Center for taking on the colossal task of printing all 375 copies of our magazine. Thank you to Dr. Joshua Kotzin, the English Chair, and the entire English Department for helping us spread the word to many of the accomplished students featured in this edition. I will always admire how this publication amplifies voices and brings students together through a shared love of the arts. I also want to extend a personal thank you to Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons for her constant support. It is a true pleasure to work with her, and I am so grateful for her kindness and advice. Under her guidance, I know the Mosaic will thrive for years to come. Thank you to Riley Mazzocco, the former Editor-in-Chief, for being a wonderful mentor. And thank you to Ryann Anderson for taking on the role of Assistant Editor-in-Chief with such enthusiasm and dedication. I cannot wait to see what she accomplishes next year; I know the Mosaic will be in capable hands. I also want to thank the entire Mosaic Editorial Board for their efforts this semester. Each individual’s passion and commitment is invaluable, and I am grateful for the opportunity to work with such a wonderful team. It was an honor to serve as the Editor-in-Chief this year. Although I will be graduating this May, the Mosaic will always hold a special place in my heart. And finally, thank you to the readers! This magazine continues to flourish because of the support and readership of Marist students, faculty, staff, families, and friends. I hope you enjoy the Spring 2025 edition of the Mosaic. Sincerely, Abby Castonguay 4

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Watercolor Skies Distant Memories Bologna Headlands ***How To Keep Your Seat At The Table *** Francis and The Last Man Ode to Oranges Breaching Whale ***sweat Great Spangled Fritillaries Desires and Dreams ***Enemy Soldiers Bleed Out Together;1916 My Desk ***Songs of Life Caligo ***An apology to my mom Ballad of My Nostalgia Put Away Your Toys The Dove of Mornings Blurred Memories Where Are You From? The Girl With The Sword The Twilight of All I Knew Firewatch ***When the Stars Weep Red Veiled in the Silence ***lord’s prayer Stained Glass Reflection at least we burned Woman with Flower Celestial Embrace In Your Eyes Under Divine Watch On my Mother’s Back Francesca The Soul Snatcher REM I: Interlude Teaching Fish How to Man

Cayleigh Goberman Angelina Ruiz Francesca DeRosa Liam Storey Gabriella Ganoe

Cover 8 9 12 13

Margaret Batta Kaelyn Schmidt Ashley Demino Anonymous Estrella Ruano Kiki Wiehe Anonymous

16 18 19 20 22 23 24

Alexa Gallery Emily Cavanna Julia Antonio Madelyn Thomsen Vania Omosemoje Angelina Ruiz Kaelyn Schmidt Andrew Chiafullo Abigail Collins Christina Brown Karissa Bishop Liam Storey Francesca DeRosa Sarah Gurskis Jenna K. Labadessa Mary Longueil Morgan Chambers Abigail Agostin Jaclyn Dobbs Abigail Agostin Sarah Zakian Owen Whelan Anonymous Luke X. Johnson Isabel Padilla Kimberly Rosner

25 26 29 30 33 34 35 36 37 39 40 41 42 44 45 46 47 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 56

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

***Aleatory Leake Street Graffiti Tunnel Abraham and Isaac The Faces of Feminism An Ode of a Brown Girl ***Strange ***hymn for broken glass X&Y ***Shadowboxer Filial Ephialtes Held Together Unseen How I’m feeling today Champagne Pop Hostile Bodies ***Aching Soul Fading Away ***Breaking With Water A [Normal] Still Life Psst...Pretty Girl. Patricia Time is Money, Money is Overrated Different Dynamics Scrolling My Brilliant Friend Marist Football Trading Card Tuesday Afternoon, Florence How May I Direct Your Call? Marina di Pisticci Sheep Between Time 2 Weeks Since Landing Seaside Arch Seal Shells Fingerprints Cleansing Spirits Uffizi Walkthrough Oppenheimer oats and honey Holy Cow The Knife The Highlands 6

Stella Q. Mary Longueil Juliann Bianco Lindsay Holbrook Sara T. Anonymous Jenna K. Labadessa Brady Menapace Margaret Batta Sara T. Christina Brown Liam Storey Kaitlin James Ava Kaloz Luke X. Johnson Sajal Ranjha Melissa Hering Bridget McGuire Ava Kaloz Lauren Meier Mariana Paradise Kyle Esoian Andrew Chiafullo Adam Freda Alexa Gallery Victoria Tate Lauren Lagasse Andrew Chiafullo Francesca DeRosa Emma Bradford Dennehy Liv Myers Kiki Wiehe Alexa Gallery Cayleigh Goberman Kiki Wiehe Taormina Amelio Sofia Milojevic Victoria Tate Jennifer Cabrera M. Wood Lauren Lagasse Maya Perera

57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 78 79 81 82 84 85 86 87 88 90 91 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 104

Spring is Coming Soon The Threadbare Dancer Tradition Twin Peaks ***The Fig Tree of Reflection on Luke 13:6-9 Bench Mother Nature’s Anecdote Golden Hour Ascent ***A Romantic at the Club The Friends We Meet Along the Way Home to Many Nature’s Viewfinder ***Scrapmaster Rebirth I did not take your peach Dumbo

M. Wood Aidan Parascando Maya Perera Andrew Chiafullo Leonardo Carini

105 106 107 108 109

Emma Bradford Dennehy Jaclyn Dobbs M. Wood Liam Storey Avery Van Damme Ava Kaloz

110 111 112 113 114 116

Aidan Parascando Hannah Sung Tom Quinones Ashley Laub Via Sargente Bella Loiacono

117 118 119 122 123 124

The Winners Distant Memories

Ballpoint Pen and Marker Angelina Ruiz ’27 First Place, Art

Bologna

Francesca DeRosa ’27 First Place, Nonfiction When I think of my childhood, the most prominent memories are the ones of me in timeout. Bored out of my mind, I pretended to run an office, cook, and make snow angels on my carpet. I was straight out of a nightmare when I would sit in front of my French doors, smack my cheek, leave hand prints, and tap on the glass, yelling, screaming, trying to get a peek at the outside world. I was contained but on display. Even from closed quarters, I managed to rile my little brother up into a hysteria if he happened to linger too long. Being younger, my brother Joe was weaker, smaller, and a notorious cryer. The worst thing Joe ever did was refuse to eat his dinner, he would sit stubbornly at the kitchen table for hours. Sometimes, my mom would shut the lights in the kitchen just to prove a point. But Joe would persevere, stuck in his chair, buzzed fuzzy head down in defiance. But there came a time when my childish antics wore away and Joe grew nine inches in one year. Then suddenly, nothing ever made him cry. Joe’s heart would stop 16 times an hour, every night he slept. His body would be lethargic, his mind couldn’t process information. He would wake up bitter and annoyed, gaining no rest. Surgery and sleep studies did nothing. This went on for years until he was given a CPAP machine which only enhanced his condition not solving it. Another year passed and he was diagnosed with Idiopathic Hypersomnia, a sleep disorder characterized by excessive daytime sleepiness despite getting a full night’s sleep. For those who are wondering, “Idiopathic,” means its cause and cure are unknown. Joe was given unapproved drugs made for adults to keep him awake. Through this frustration, still, to this day, I have not seen him shed a single tear. Joe doesn’t wish for anything. Every year, I ask him what he wants for his birthday or Christmas, and he laughs, “I want to sleep.” I would still get on his nerves, finding ways to rile or entertain him. I wanted to see him smile. Nothing made him laugh anymore

either. I am much more immature compared to him, everyone always assumes that he is older. I am the joker, the one who will antagonize until laughter is heard. One time, I manipulated my brother into yawning 30 times in less than an hour. Another time, I sipped Rosé and made him believe that I was drunk out of my mind. I made him think that I thought ducks could get pregnant. I often wonder how does he not rip off this illusion and just break down. How can someone not cry about something that is ruining their life? Nowadays, I fear for the day that he cries. What will it be that makes him snap? Before, I wanted to see him without this illusion. Now, I want to prevent it, this anticipation, this eventual break. I take my immaturity and my brattiness to good use, to make him laugh whenever I can...wherever I can. We were in Bologna, Italy. The experience was eye-opening, finally, there was a destination where we had a crummy, rotten time. The smell of Bologna was deplorable with smoke, urine, and all types of unknown odors. We were in the midst of a heat wave, the air was so humid that it felt as if my throat and lungs were coated in the dirt that covered the streets. Bologna was a system of vandalized alleys, full of colorful vulgar art and words. We passed individuals sleeping in crevices in buildings and even encountered a drug deal of sorts. The streets were narrow with alleyways that allowed easy escape in case of a burglary. It was not enjoyable to walk, to take in the “scenery.” I had an immense fear of pickpocketing. Our surrounding area had proven to me that we were lost tourists waiting to be taken advantage of. Italians ate late at night and after a fantastic dinner of tortellini in lab ragu, we had to creep all the way back to the hotel in the pitch black. Those alleys were itching for us to get lost and robbed, I remember the specific anxious alertness that coursed through me. “If we are going into the darkness, we are going to need a weapon,” I said to Joe dramatically, looking around for danger. He looked at me bored and annoyed. My eyes caught on to the enormous Acqua Panna glass water bottle we paid for because Europeans don’t believe in free drinking water. I grabbed it by the neck and lugged it over my shoulder like a bat. “What the heck are you–” Joe started but I shushed him. 10

“Don’t worry, I will protect us.” I marched in front of my family and navigated the way back with my water bottle bludgeon. I crept through the streets in flip-flops and a white dress, a makeshift bat on my shoulder. I was genuinely serious, genuinely afraid. My sweaty hands clutched that bottle as we walked, my heart beating so fast I could hear it in my ears. But I joked and swung the bottle around. Finally, we made it to Torre dell’Orologio. An emblem of history and elegance that stands tall in the heart of Piazza Maggiore. This iconic clock tower was a beacon of light, blocking the stars and ridding the darkness. “See?” I swung the clear bottle off my shoulder, “We survived Baloney without getting robbed. You’re welcome.” I called Bologna that to raise amusement from my brother. I looked at him and to my surprise, a smile bloomed on his face. Joe’s laugh was loud, long, and genuine. Happiness was an emotion that scarcely crossed my brother’s face, I missed the boy he was. The illusion and the exhaustion had weathered down the kind, ridiculous, funny, annoying person he was. The defiant boy who refused to shed a single tear at the dinner table. Briefly, I saw my best friend, content and unburdened. The glow from the Torre dell’Orologio radiated his face and even the echoing bustle of the piazza could not silence his laughter.

Headlands Marin Headlands, CA Liam Storey ’28

First Place, Photography

How To Keep Your Seat At The Table Gabriella Ganoe ’26 First Place, Fiction

What is comfort? Patches sits with her hands in her lap as she waits for the last child to arrive. The man has always underlined the importance of good manners at The Table, and so she makes an effort to keep her napkin folded and her posture straight. It makes her feel proper, like a real lady; one with lavish hats and lace dresses, who sits in her parlor and drinks tea every morning. As the remaining child—a boy they all call Freckles because of the countless dots peppering his face—approaches The Table, Patches avoids looking at the man. He’s never liked it when any of them are late, and she doesn’t want to see his face abandon its pleasant calmness for the dark shadow of disdain. A disappointed silence blankets the air as Freckles settles into his seat. Now that we’re all here, the man says slowly. He unsheaths a record from its cover and lays it on the player next to his place at the end of the table. It begins to sputter and scratch, before leveling into a soft classical melody; Patches appreciates as the notes wash over her like the Sun. The man sways his head lightly to the music, then grabs his cup and saucer, and raises it in front of him. All the children do the same. You may begin, he says. Quiet conversation is allowed during their gatherings, and they always attempt it at first. But soon it dissolves into the whimper of violin notes and the clink of ceramic saucers, and the children sip on silence. Why do we miss things so terribly? At the time of their next meeting, one of the chairs is noticeably empty. The children all exchange glances, and repeatedly look to the man to see his displeasure in being dishonored twice in a row. But he wears nothing but his usual contentedness, smiling as he dips his fork into a corner of tea cake. Where do you think Freckles is? Patches leans over and whispers to Red, the person next to her. They don’t get the chance to have actual names at The Table, so they all stick to calling each other something based on the way they look. Patches because of the numerous patches adorning her skirt, and Red because of their burning red hair. I don’t know. And why isn’t he angry? Red whispers back. They both turn their heads back to the end of The Table, freezing as the man suddenly looks up and meets their gaze. He takes a moment to swallow and then sets down his fork. I see you’re all wondering where our dear friend is, he says, but he will no longer be joining 13

us. They all look at each other, and then back to the man. He has moved on. And that’s okay. Pause, and then, we all will someday. The children look as if they have something to say, but the man gestures them back to their meals. Distantly, a raindrop falls to the surface of the earth, slipping from the sky like a single tear. What are you most afraid of? Dark clouds have come to rest over The Table, casting it in a net of shadow. Patches would have thought it was nighttime— except she looked for stars and couldn’t find any. The man nods at her as she sits down, and then follows the movement of Red as they hurriedly rush to their chair and take a seat. There are no other children at The Table. Patches look over at Red, but they stare intently at the man. Where is everyone? They ask. The man takes a drink of tea. They moved on, he says, haven’t I already told you that? Silence. And then, stop thinking about them. Drink. It should have ended there. They should have gone about their routine and finished the meal as normal. But Red, older than Patches, and infinitely bolder, suddenly says, what do you mean by ‘moved on?’ You keep saying that, but you haven’t explained what that means. The man looks up at her and stares, as a gust of wind rushes at The Table. The tablecloth kicks and squirms wildly, and a standing display for some of the finger food falls over with a thud. The man rises from his chair and walks over to stand behind where Freckles used to sit. He grabs his teacup and saucer and throws them down on top of The Table. They shatter with a noise that sounds like someone screaming. He walks back to his place, sits down, and urges Patches and Red to eat their food. Patches looks over at broken porcelain pieces and feels the strain of tears form at the back of her throat. She takes a drink. Why do we cause destruction? The sky is crying; fat, ugly tears that fall to Patches’ cheeks and numb her face with their chill. She feels herself washing out of her body with each raindrop and sinks into her chair as her shoulders sag. All the other seats are empty, their plates and teacups shattered and cast to the floor. All seats, except for the one at the head of The Table. The man smiles at her, his teeth disturbingly perfect, his grin a crescent moon in the nighttime. A fire rages behind him and silhouettes his rigid posture like a shadow puppet. Patches hears the flames sizzle and pop underneath the rain, but their momentum is not stopped as they continue to crisp the green grass to an ashy black. She doesn’t know who started the fire, but she weeps at the site of it burning through the perfection of everything she’s known. The man does not seem concerned. Patches turns to talk to Red but stops when 14

she sees their chair unoccupied and tucked under The Table. For the first time, Patches considers leaving; pushing out her chair and rushing off into the sky. But just as the thought comes to her, so does the crushing loss of comfort. She can’t leave the only place she knows. Patches looks back towards the man, and he’s still staring at her. His pupils look like pinpricks. You may begin, he says, though he doesn’t make an effort to take a drink himself. Patches raises her teacup to her lips and gazes out at the horizon. The mountains meet the sky in a way that looks like the world is splitting in two. How do you teach yourself to say goodbye? She can’t stop herself from coming back. There’s no more tea, no more neatly folded napkins, no more music playing softly from the record player. No more children. No more man. But it feels wrong not to be here like her life isn’t her life without her visits to The Table, so she gently pulls her chair out and sits down. Her teacup rests on top of its saucer, just like she left it. She sips from it, imagining the air tastes like the bitter, earthy flavor she remembers. Out of habit, she reaches for a slice of teacake and pictures herself raising a fork to her mouth and biting into its deep sweetness. She looks around at all the empty seats, but still speaks to them in hushed tones like they all would at the start of the meal. She leans over and whispers to Red—where Red would be, anyway—and asks how happy they are that everything is okay again. Red doesn’t respond, but Patches knows they’re smiling. Patches is smiling too, as she sinks back into the comfort of normality, and wallows in the feeling of things being back in their place. You’re still here, a voice suddenly says, and Patches instinctively looks towards the head of The Table. But the man isn’t there. He says again, you know it’s time, don’t you? Patches shakes her head. Come on, dear girl, you’re ready to move on. She drinks from her teacup, then plugs her fingers into her ears. You must leave this place. You must. Patches remembers the classical melodies, the chatter of clinking saucers, and composes them together into a cacophony. She sits—properly, her back straight and her legs crossed— as it becomes loud enough to make it all go away.

Francis and The Last Man Margaret Batta ’27 First Place, Poetry

History ended when the sun came up And I spent my days laying about, Eating strawberries from the vine And scraping my face raw. Back when cherries looked like blood undone by a beast and swallowed whole by a man, who dies too soon without goodbyes. My car is warm like a motherboard and I’ve saved a seat just for you. Pop the trunk, spattered with ink and wet leaves. I’ll lay beside you when the phantom hour comes and the killer stalks through low-hanging clouds. We’ll be safe there, where eyes can’t pry with broken lashes, and fractured wrists.

Take the 1-4-5 down to my hometown and find that a potter’s field is the best place to be when you’re born at the end of history. So save up the quarters for frostbitten days when spiny bugs with the hands of a friend look for a reason to claw you open and burn you alive like the red hot blades of closing your eyes to find lipstick on your mouth

and bite marks on your broken knees. Ask me out with poinsettias and I’ll spend the meal looking down through the floor because I see the world through paper maps and blue eyes unbecoming. I learned to read looks like a farmgirl, old and dirty, through tangled arms and fairy charms and salty summer days; I can smell love like a storm, Yellowstone and world-ending, and I’ll hold you close till it clears. I never liked oranges. Just the smell and the taste Like a fire, like a dog. Just to feel, never touch. But you shoved the peel down my throat as you sang “dreadful sorry” and I thank you for the bruises; they’re proof you put your hands on me.

Ode to Oranges Kaelyn Schmidt ’28 Second Place, Poetry

The fleshy fruit bleeds Citrus across my palms. I do not like the mess. My peels are gentle, Stripping away the skin layer by layer To reveal the prize within. This process I find tedious. Still, I love oranges. I do not eat them for my own enjoyment, And the taste is something I only partially care for. I eat them because I know my friends will laugh As I struggle to peel. I eat them because I can hear their laughter as The table becomes a graveyard of bright flesh and citrus puddles. I eat them because I see their eyes alight When I offer them a piece. For what other way is there to enjoy a fruit, One that has been so perfectly sculpted to share? (Through it all, the fresh scent will linger on my palms, I see them smile in my dreams.)

Breaching Whale Ink; Printmade Ashley Demino ’26 Second Place, Art

sweat

Anonymous ’27

Second Place, Fiction The air conditioning has not worked for three hours, but its slow hum haunts the air. Unmoving, still, but present. The window is cracked open. It does not help. I watch her roll a second joint through heavy eyes and inverted colors. I don’t want it, but I will take it from her after I hear the choke of her laughter. Her shorts are rolled up, sweat soaks through her tank top. She smells like smoke. “I don’t think I like men,” she concludes, tasting the salt on her upper lip. “I don’t think I like anyone.” She met a guy last weekend. He walked up to her, like everyone does, and touched her waist the way intoxication allows. Her eyes were glossed over. He didn’t look at me once. He asked her to come home with him. She smiled. Only if I could come, too. I smile. Hers grows wider. A pendulum swings behind my eyelids. I feel the burning. Inside, outside. I lay on her pillow, watching her move. That is all I do. They started to kiss, and she couldn’t stop laughing. She said all she could think was hair, over and over again like a stern reminder. She laughed so much he told her to leave. She did, stumbling over to me as I sat criss-cross in the bathtub like a child, eyes trained on the holes in the drain. She leaned into me all the way home, and I could smell the vodka on her breath every time she laughed. Fingers pressing into the folds of my jacket, of my skin, of my brain. “Why do men have so much hair?” She said as I passed the joint back to her shaking fingers. I told her I don’t know, blowing out a huff and tripping over a choke. “It’s dumb that we feel like we have to like them,” she traces a vein on her arm with a bitten-down nail. Chipped olive green polish. “Girls are so 20

smooth.” Through the blanket of warmth soaking on my face, a jolt of panic shakes me. But I just keep watching her, because that is all I do. She looks up at me, and all I can see is eyes through a keyhole. My mouth twitches. I hear a soft whirr that could have been miles away. Cold air hits my skin, blows through her hair, dries down the sweat on my cheeks. She smiles. “Thank God.” Eyes through a keyhole, detached motions. I am pressed under plastic film and shoved under the microscope of his burning eyes. The air is biting me now, winter jolting me awake at odd hours with her voice thrashing around in my ears like a cymbal. I have not slept recently. I sink to the floor, he lights the bong. I feel sick. I do not want another hit, but I will take it. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, sweat soaks through his shirt despite the cold. He smells like smoke. It fills me with disgust. “I don’t think I like men,” I conclude as he lowers the mouth to my lips. He doesn’t respond. He tells me to inhale, I do. He tells me to stop, I do. I choke until I cough up spit, and he laughs. He asks me why, and I shake my head, an effigy. “I don’t think I like anyone.” He laughs again. I am stupid to him. I take his hand, and he leads me up the stairs, puts his hand under my shirt, touches my cheek. I smile because I cannot feel it. The door slams shut. I close my eyes, still smiling. Hers grows wider. I watch her. That is all I do.

Great Spangled Fritillaries Millbrook, NY Estrella Ruano ’28

Second Place, Photography

Desires and Dreams Kiki Wiehe ’26

Second Place, Nonfiction I have dreams, childlike dreams that I catch myself whispering in confession, doubt often sealing my lips completely. “I want to be an author.” A simple task really. My dream isn’t to be famous or successful, (though I wouldn’t object) It is simply to write 100 pages that I am truly proud of. Yet I don’t have a genre in mind, I don’t have a way to answer the question “So what’s it about?” I just have a desire. Desire that floods my body and drags my footsteps. Every step towards accomplishment is sopping, messy, and spilling. I catch myself lying about how many pages I have written– hoping others’ expectations will be enough to form a sentence. I write, sure, and kind of a lot for an average person, but then I think of the night in London, of the girl I met briefly, and only once. In a dimly lit pub, she said she enters writing contests, said these contests were paying for her college. I nodded– doubt averting my gaze, and said sure I submitted to some– I might have even told her I won a few. When she was gone, I called a few of my friends and declared I was applying to a couple of contests that night, but I never did. I am plagued by this dream, this substanceless desire. I continuously express it in conversation, I pine for it when I open my journal. Then I sit at my laptop at 2:00 in the morning wondering why the words won’t come out right, why they glare at me after I type them. When I read them back, my words plead and ache and dream. Only for me to shut my laptop and do the same.

Enemy Soldiers Bleed Out Together; 1916 Anonymous ’28 Third Place, Poetry

Crawling through the trench, soaked and colored red, grey button-down uniform and ripped brown boots. You’ve abandoned your trusty rifle and traitorously drag your way to me: also left in the mud, also red, also soaked. In the cold, in the dust and the ruin, I think we both want the same thing. You’re cold. Do you want warmth? I’ll lend you mine, even though you shot me, or maybe I shot you. I don’t remember. But at least you made it, and you cling to me, curl into my wounds, head heavy with blood. Maybe I could close my eyes and pretend you are my missus back home. “How was your day, honey?” Well it was good. My day was just fine.

My Desk

Oil Paint Alexa Gallery ’27 Third Place, Art

Songs of Life

Emily Cavanna ’26 Third Place, Fiction

There’s a woman pushing a cart around ShopRite. She’s in the baking aisle. She is making a cake later for her fiancé’s birthday. Just a boxed cake, nothing special. Her grocery list calls for cake mix, vegetable oil, frosting, and eggs. The woman meanders down the aisle when she hears a song play from the speakers. Even though she doesn’t know the words or the title, she freezes. Instantly she’s transported back to college. It’s ten years ago, she’s a sophomore with her first boyfriend at the Halloween party, where this song is blaring on the speakers inside. She watches her boyfriend take his ninth shot and she’s telling him to slow down and he says “Babe fuck off it’s not that deep.” She tells him not to talk to her like that and he reassures her and says “you know I love you” but he doesn’t say sorry. Instead, he takes another shot, grabs a beer and her hand and pulls her up the stairs into someone’s vacant room. She remembers wishing that this person, whoever it was, locked the door from the outside. She remembers her boyfriend locking the door from the inside. She remembers her head spinning from one too many drinks and her confusion when her boyfriend started hiking up her skirt. “Stop,” she says. He doesn’t. She remembers leaving the room once it was over and telling him that she had to go to the bathroom. She called her friend crying and the two walked home together, trying not to be seen. She then remembers that she’s in the store. She remembers to breathe, to slow her thundering pulse, to step forward. She makes a beeline for the eggs. *** I’ve been thinking about my daughter’s wedding since the day she came home with David. I knew the instant he shook my hand with an earnest, firm grip that he was a good man. I had never seen Gracie look like that before. She was glowing. My stomach filled with a ball of light. I turned to Susan once they left and all I said was, “he’s the one.” We spent the rest of the night gushing over the two of them. Things only got better from there. One Wednesday, a car pulled up next to our house and the doorbell rang. We opened the door and there stood David, looking sheepish and holding a bouquet of tulips. As he sat on the couch and started rambling, my body was buzzing. I lost focus until I heard him say, “I wanted to ask for your blessings to marry your daughter.” Instantly I snapped back to reality and was overcome with every emotion at once. “Absolutely,” we said. “We’ve been waiting for this for so long,” we said. We laughed and cried. We did the same when the two came over for the 26

next Sunday dinner and our little girl had a ring on her finger. Immediately, they hopped into wedding planning mode. One day, Gracie was on the couch and asked me what song I wanted to use for our dance. “Whatever you want,” I said. Her answer nearly brought me to tears. The ceremony was beautiful, and it went off without a hitch. I have not had as much fun as I did at that reception. Let me tell you, my family knows how to party. And so does David’s! It was perfect. Then, it was dance time. Gracie announced me out, and I foolishly strutted onto the dance floor. The crowd hushed before the music began. “My Girl” by The Temptations played throughout the reception hall, and immediately I remembered my little girl dancing on my feet twenty years ago. I thought of the day she was born, how that was the happiest, most pivotal moment of my life. I thought of her first dance recital, the first time she brought a cheap recorder home to play for us. I remembered saying goodbye to her when she left for college, how it felt like part of my heart was torn out. I remembered the emptiness of the house when she was away and the vibrance of it when she returned. I remembered the laughter, the tears, the screaming between her and her brother, the music she played. I was so lost in my head as I watched her effortlessly swirl around me that I almost didn’t realize when she stepped onto my feet. I felt a jolt of pressure and some pain due to my plantar fasciitis, but it didn’t matter. For a moment, even though it was twenty years later, she was five years old and I was...twenty years younger, and we were twirling around the living room to the same song. Just me and my girl. *** Since his wife died, Ernie has not listened to music. He pays Tommy from across the street to go to the grocery store for him because the store plays music on the speakers. He doesn’t leave to go into town so he doesn’t have to hear the ambient music in all the restaurants. The records in his house collect dust on the shelves and the record player becomes a relic with each passing day. “Why don’t you sell them all?” they ask him. Ernie can’t do that. Not having them would be more painful than seeing them every day, in some twisted way. And he tells them this when they ask their stupid questions. Ernie wakes up as the sun rises and sleeps as it sets. The soundtrack of his day would consist of nothing but chirping birds and car engines, but he closes his windows to block the noise. The only music he makes is the percussive shuffling of his slippers across he aged wooden floor and the slow sliding of silverware across a plate. If the had it his way he would not make any sound at all. With each sound he makes he remembers Edie, so full of life, of laughter, of music, of sound. How they used to dance in the kitchen, Benny Goodman blaring out of the record player. The parties they used to throw, the restaurants they used to frequent. Their first dance at their wedding. The music they used to play for their kids. How they laughed, how he smiled. 27

If Ernie could soundproof his entire house, he would in an instant. *** Yelena Popov was a highly-lauded ballerina seventy-five years ago. She was one of the best, if not the best, dancers of the century, so all the critics claimed. The way she moved was that of water; her body turned like reeds in the wind. She was the blueprint of ballet for decades after her retirement. Currently she sits in a hospital bed in an assisted living facility in California. As her brain has deteriorated, she has lost her ability to dance, to stand, to speak, to move. She is ninety-one and feels like a husk of a person most days. Except when the music therapists come in. They outfit her ears with headphones, and they play the songs from Swan Lake and the Nutcracker, her two most famous dances. In these moments onlookers see something reminiscent of the reanimation of a corpse. Her once sallow and sunken face lights up with a haunting yet hopeful melancholy. She begins to lift her arms and extend them outward from her body with the smoothness of a ballerina in their prime. Like molasses, her arms flow above her and to the sides of her. She becomes a performer again; ballerinas never die, as her instructor once said. She becomes twenty-one, in the prime of her life and career. She is performing at sold-out theatres worldwide, moving audiences to tears night after night. The staff cannot help but be moved by this display. The therapists come back when she is about to die. Yelena has lost too much of herself; her organs are shutting down and it’s unclear how much longer she has left. The staff felt it would be a kind gesture to send her off with the music from her glory days. They light candles, they hold her hand. Yelena is laying down now; she cannot sit up without assistance anymore. Her eyes dart to everyone around her and in her head, somewhere buried, perhaps, she understands that these are her last moments. She must let go. But ballerinas never die. She will never truly be gone. When someone listens to Swan Lake they will think of her, of the rigidity yet fluidity that she was able to master. The powerful delicacy of her arms with the turn of her wrist, the definition of her legs, her haunted expressions. Instead of besetting her with headphones, the staff plays the music for the whole room to hear. They watch and listen as Yelena Popov, legendary ballerina, dances gracefully and powerfully out of this life and into the next.

Caligo

Yellowstone National Park, WY Julia Antonio ’28 Third Place, Photography

An apology to my mom Madelyn Thomsen ’28 Third Place, Nonfiction My aunt likes to dye her hair a dark cherry red. I don’t remember her much before her hair had the reminiscent glow of the sour cherry balls my dad would place on the keys of the piano as I practiced, the vague clicking that grew with each vibration of a chord motivating me as the amount of sugary red sweetness ahead increased in both volume and quantity. She likes to layer her clothes, an exhausting mess of zippers and buttons to undo every night, prepared for a winter storm in August. She keeps a collection of shiny confetti scraps in any shape imaginable, all sprinkled like a pinch of pixie dust in each envelope she seals; I wonder if she ever heard talk that even licking an envelope seal has calories, that the sticky glue whose burnt taste stains your tongue is now an option in the calorie tracking apps she didn’t have as a teenager. My aunt, the woman whose presence I’ve grown to dread, the woman whose need for control makes her company draining, the woman who I now see reflected in my mother’s eyes when they lie on mine. I had no worry that I would ever break the promise to my mom. That I would never get carried away by nutrition labels and scales. I felt that there was no chance in the world I would ever be able to give up the meals my mom cooked, the smells filling our home, foreshadowing the delicious dinner I knew would be coming, or the personalized cakes she would make on everyone’s birthday according to what they loved that year. The taste of thick chocolate pudding draining slowly from the cleaned-out dump truck and now matching on all of our faces as we uncovered sour gummy worms and Oreo crumbles, all for the daycare kid that was turning four. In fact, I never understood how people developed those thoughts, how they could say, “No, thank you,” when offered a chocolate chip cookie, or turn down the opportunity to hang out with all their friends just because a dinner reservation had been made. I didn’t feel those thoughts were possible for me personally; that is, until it was much too late; they seemed to have magically appeared, stuck in habit, still there. I didn’t realize until the mindset and the rules were already stealing the good away, until they had been creeping in for years. Until one day, familiar faces looked at me as if I was stuck, hovering two inches above cold pavement after dropping from a ten-floor building. I didn’t mean to melt into the mattress in my dark room during family dinners, the exhaustion and thought of eating all too heavy to carry down one flight of stairs. I didn’t feel the pain until I could no longer find the throbbing ache 30

that had become as familiar and exhausting as the sliver of light that somehow always sneaks in. I didn’t trust the scale that flashed dangerously low numbers each day because the mirror didn’t match. I didn’t find it strange that I couldn’t remember how it felt to be warm, didn’t believe I was small even when it became a chore to hold my pants up as I walked; I didn’t worry about the “irreversible side effects” when each pull of the plastic hairbrush through my tangled copper hair wrapped more and more hair around its handle, the whisper of my childhood braids resounding in my brain, my mother praising “the thick hair you’ll be grateful to have later in life.” The hair that she had to watch diminish, the hair that tangles itself around anything it can reach, as if trying to escape the body and mind that destroyed it. They always did say to leave behind what isn’t benefiting you in life. I can’t blame my hair for trying, for succeeding; I’m glad my heart never did seem to learn that lesson. I prided myself on my independence, never wanting to see the look of betrayal painted across the same face that I promised I never would. Telling myself that I could hide it, the pain, the food, and the fear. I didn’t think you knew that anyone knew, but eventually the “how are you’s” started sounding too sincere, and the echoing “take care of yourself” came from faces pinched with concern. I wish instead of hopelessly trying to protect you, I let you protect me. So, to my mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve been stuck dealing with the same worries since adolescence. I’m sorry that in a house full of vegetarians you lost someone to share your favorite fried chicken with. I’m sorry that I was too preoccupied with what others thought of me and not with how you worried for me. I’m sorry for all of the reminders I left in my absence. The flakes of lilac rubber that dot the hardwood floors after being stuck to my reddened palms during every morning workout I endured on the old, disintegrating yoga mat. The scale tucked in my closet that I couldn’t bear to give away gathering dust. My favorite clothes are now left in a donation bag, too big for a second chance, and the memories that now haunt both of the houses you’ve called home. I’m sorry that the colors that appear in your favorite season, the oranges and reds heating your back as the sun sets in summer, are now colors that appear in your memory splayed over the sterile pillow in a hospital while the doctor announces, “Your sister will not die today, but she wouldn’t have made it to the holidays if you hadn’t made her come in,” or in the orange hairs stuck to the fabric of your gray cardigan after I sobbed into your shoulder when I lost two years of hard work because I wouldn’t eat before my IB exams; reminders of what I lost, the daughter you could’ve lost, and 31

the sister you are visiting in the hospital as I write this. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise. I hope one day soon red will once again sound like the laughs as you pushed me on the Clifford swing in our backyard, orange will taste of the tart fruit smoothies that would quench our thirst on 90-degree days, and copper will smell like the rusted lucky pennies I would run to show you. I hope that the thought of me won’t cause you endless headaches whose incessant pounding is expected, and you won’t question that you did everything you could. I hope that one day you will be able to live for yourself, and not as the savior for those of us who get stuck in this frigid reality where you seem to be the strongest source of warmth. I’m sorry. The words that appear eleven times in this. The words I can’t seem to utter when I imagine them causing you to sink even shorter than five foot three; our increasing height difference a “constant reminder of my growing up.” The genuine mother you are, so clear in the pure serenity of your blue eyes. The pale, icy blue of a frozen waterfall that I fear to thaw with those words. I wish I could go back to when we folded together in the tiny white twin bed, me refusing to let you leave at night. Imagining the dreams that pounded against your eyelids as I refused to give in to sleep— waiting to intervene in your attempt at escape with one last hug. An expected routine for us every night, the comforting warmth of the kitchen rug I would curl up on to wait for you, imprinting patterns across my cheeks. I can’t imagine giving up the comfort of my own mattress for that of a thin Dora comforter, something you did for me every night. An easy request for someone who’s already used to being needed, a break from the responsibilities that your kindness created. A caretaker that I should have accepted the care of—we all should’ve. My mom has my sister dye her hair a dark brown, an attempt at recovering her past. The brown of the bark on your favorite weeping willow tree. A dark brown, like the color of my father’s eyes when he would answer my tears with, “You aren’t Cinderella, you have a good life.” Dark brown, like the only shade of eyeshadow able to make me embody an archaeologist, discovering the black of the palette after favored use, the memory of you dragged across my waterline every day. My mom, the one whose warmth feels like the first sip of hot cocoa that doesn’t burn when it slides down your throat. The one who smells like pine after the first snowstorm. The one who feels like the color maroon during fall. The one who I wish I could give my all to—I’m sorry. 32

Ballad of My Nostalgia Vania Omosemoje ’28 Poetry

The land I am slowly losing where a piece of my heart rests under rolling hills that guarded my innocence And roams between nations, skirting the foamy waters of many shores My nostalgia that easily forgets silently endured anguish Instead basks in the blessings Resounding songs moved towards heavy clouds That lavished blessings on my skin Now marred and pierced by the sun Memories wane to unreachable places Planted in my blood, inscribed under my eyelids, Residing where I am not It flies over lush green shamrock meadows On cold winds, through skies like murky waters and drifts to places unknown. I am left with a lingering desire.

Put Away Your Toys

Pencil, Colored Pencil, Marker Angelina Ruiz ’27 Art

The Dove of Mornings Kaelyn Schmidt ’28 Poetry I can still hear the song of the Mourning Dove, A beckoning outside my window. Wake. It sings. Wake and listen. And I do. With their feathery callings I find myself In the bedroom I grew up in. And for a brief moment– I feel as if nothing has changed. My sister would be outside the door, My parents would be drinking coffee, The house would smell of pancakes. Yet why do I still hear the Mourning Dove sing? Only, when the minty gum I chew while studying Begins to taste like the toothpaste I had when I was five– When the spring air tastes like sweet laughter In an endless afternoon– Or when the gold jewelry I wear starts to feel like The ones I once crafted of bead and string– Did I realize how fleeting it all was. I am reminded of the distance, I remember the closeness. 35

Wake and listen, hear the song you once knew by heart. I whisper my love, and outside my window, Somewhere, somehow, a Mourning Dove will sing.

Blurred Memories Florence, Italy Andrew Chiafullo ’26 Photography

Where Are You From? Abigail Collins ’28 Nonfiction During the first week of college, you get asked three questions: What’s your name? What’s your major? Where are you from? The first two are simple. I know those like I know the back of my hand. My name has followed me through every house, school, and state. My name is constant. My major is the one I picked myself. But, where am I from? I usually say the town where my family lives. It’s where all the clothes I didn’t bring to school sit unworn. It’s where my mom’s black Jeep is parked, where my two dogs sleep all day, and where my sisters go after school. It’s also where I lived for only a year. Before that, a triplex apartment home, narrow but tall. Before that? A worn down home with white siding and a bright red door. Then the one before that and before that til we start in a house I can barely remember. Eight times in eighteen years. That’s how many times I’ve moved. Sometimes, if I feel like dropping a fun fact, I’ll say: “Well, I grew up in California,”. Which is true! I did. I grew up in the Bay area but also on different Long Island beaches, on a muddy lake in New Jersey, and in a small village surrounded by farmland in land-locked New York. However, too many assumptions are made when I say I’m from one place or another. I get a lot of questions like: “Where in California?” “Is that near LA?” “Have you ever met a celebrity?” “Are you a vegan?” “It must be so weird not to have seasons.” I’m not vegan, my dad wants to own a barbeque restaurant. I’ve seen more celebrities in New York than in California because, no, the San Francisco Bay Area is not near LA. The idea of a childhood home is foreign to me. I’ve searched the towns I used to live in on Google Maps, only to find faint memories and unclear pictures. Photographs of my first house on the screen barely match the ones carefully placed on my mantel. The lintel looks craftily carved on Halloween in 2008, compared to the rotten wood 37

that seemingly took its place. My mom’s pruned bushes, lightly dusted in snow in my memories, are now gnarly and overgrown. The size of our second home seems to have doubled. Outside are tall, jet-black pillars. Inside, white marble floors coat the bottom floor, according to Zillow. My vibrant pink bedroom, covered in drawings and stickers, transformed into a slate grey with no fun or reminders of the three little girls who all shared that one room. Sometimes, I envy those with a straight answer. People with bedrooms that grew up with them, where, under layers of paint, the pastel of their nursery stays frozen. Where, under their carpet, is the wood floor they took their first steps on. Picture frames line their hallways with family photos taken on the front stoop. Coming home after every single school day through the same door, into the same kitchen, familiarity and safety fuelling comfort. I’ve never been soothed by walls and a roof, because we move on too quickly. After moving a few times, I know which items to unpack, and which can stay in a box. Getting settled into one place means packing for another. That’s all they are, places. My “home” isn’t a place, it’s people and things. It’s my mom, her hugs and compliments. It’s her happy tears and the clothes she’s made that I wear to sleep every night. It’s my dad, his cooking, and his love for the Eagles. It’s his victory cry or his frustrated sigh during game night. It’s my sisters, their laughs and screams at video games. It’s their sing-song chants and infectious energy. It’s my boyfriend, my friends, and the time we spend together. It’s hard to explain to people where I’m from when I wasn’t shaped by a place but by people and experiences. Sometimes I want to respond with “everywhere,”. That’s how it feels. I am a collection of every place I’ve lived. I don’t think I’m from one place in particular. Maybe I’ll just respond with “It’s complicated,” and leave them guessing.

The Girl With The Sword Digital Art Painting; Procreate Christina Brown ’27 Art

The Twilight of All I Knew Karissa Bishop ’28 Poetry The dark blue sky of the evening foretold A starless night And the burnished heat of the late spring Fell upon me Heavy and wanting The trees towered All hard oak and sanctimony Stubbornly refusing to provide The reprieve of a kind breeze The sounds of crickets The smell of blossoms and rain and longing Rose up in the air A symphony that sweetened The notes of sadness That were ever present In the once-golden World that was my childhood Small town Americana Quivered in suspense Of the scorching months ahead Green grass and thick pavement Ready to fall before the sun And even I In my dim, humid bedroom Resigned myself 40

To a summer of sweat and tears Warmth and laughter Of bitter reminiscence and soft memories Joy and heartbreak Of a torrid, sweltering existence Amidst the inexplicable ache Of the last summer of my youth

Firewatch

Mt. Tamalpais Summit, CA Liam Storey ’28 Photography

When the Stars Weep Red Francesca DeRosa ’27 Fiction Once a year in the crystalline Kingdom of Vesperis, the gleaming night stars turn blood red. All children ask the same question on that fateful day when they look up into the sky and see bleeding rubies streak through the endless dark sky like lightning. They ask, “Why are the stars red? Will you tell me the story?” And mothers oblige, stroking their child’s hair as they tuck them into their beds. A long long time ago, Versperis was a kingdom that seemed straight from a dream. Mansions were sculpted from diamonds and the townhouses scattered down the white hills were etched from opal. The sky always reflected the aquamarine sea, tinted with violet and rose-colored clouds. Legend said that the royal palace was nothing but sand and ash till the godsburned it into magnificent glass towers with arches, pikes, and statues–with fountains that gushed golden glittering ambrosia. Versperis was a beautiful place until the selfless and compassionate Emperor lost his wife. The Empress was benevolent with her people, she was chosen by the gods, her skin darkly shimmering like a thousand diamonds, her eyes reflecting the stars, and everyone loved her. But the Emperor loved her the most, he loved everything that she did, especially when she would sing. The Empress’s most powerful aria was “The Gilded,” which represented the delicate nature of a golden songbird that was really a beast. The Empress’ voice would carry out throughout the whole crystal kingdom, bouncing from glass pane to pane. Singing was her only peace. The Emperor was incredibly distraught by her sudden death, he became violent with grief, desperate to get his wife back. His once good heart died like a flower in November, without his Empress, he no longer cared for the welfare of his people. The Emperor soured and withered with cruelty, like an addict without a drug, he grew desperate to hear his wife’s music. He deprived his people of enough food, taxed them without mercy, and ordered them to become hunting dogs. The tyrant decreed through the land that if Versperis wished to be prosperous once more, they must bring him the best musician to perform. The Pianist had always been unlucky, however, the gods did bless her once. They gave her the gift of musical talent. The Pianist was not 42

very well known, she spent most of her days playing for a family. The fortunate family told her that they loved and cherished her—well, how much can you love a person if you sell them and their talents to the mad Emperor? The Pianist was carted off in golden cuffs and led to the throne room. The walls of the magnificent glass castle were shattering, splintering like millions of cobwebs, all over it felt as if one wrong step would cause the palace to collapse. And in the very center of this fragility was a piano...and the Emperor, his skin was ashen gray, his eyes devoid of any life or color. He was as haunting as the rumors as he raised his skeleton finger and pointed to the crystal piano, and all he said was one word: “Play.” The Pianist nervously bowed her head and decided to avoid beating around the bush, she played “The Gilded” for his majesty. Time passed and she finished, looking at the Emperor for a smile, clap, or some sort of satisfaction. “Again.” He said The Pianist had gritted her teeth, so this was her fate. Again, the Pianist played, her fingers dashing from the white to the blacks of the keys. Her foot stepping on the pedals, never did she miss a note, never did she ask for sheet music. The Pianist watched the guards at the end of the hall, their faces blurred with content from the music, but the Emperor did not flinch. “Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.” The Emperor commanded. She could not refuse for the Pianist feared for her head. Her fingers began trembling, herleg aching, her heart pounding with anxious fear. She did not slip. Over and over and over again and again and again. The Pianist’s perfect fingers began to wear and tear and crack. Blood smeared and seeped into the keys. She yelled out through the pain, looking menacingly at the Emperor. She begged but he would not let her stop. There she sat for how long she did not know, hours maybe days. She cursed him and with the Pianist’s curse, she began to bleed more. It spilled from her fingertips like red wine spills from a glass and soon, her blood began to rise. Now, she could not stop, would not stop as the Emperor shouted at the nightmarish scene. This is what he wanted, so this he must get, thought the Pianist. Her blood, she answered curse perhaps granted by the gods, shimmered, reflected from the glittering glass. The bleeding did not stop. The Pianist’s fingers burned like hot iron, she played so loudly, so 43

perfectly, that the glass crackled like an open flame...the palace shattered and her blood flooded the kingdom. Gone were the diamonds, opals, sapphires, and emeralds. Gone were the ornate and crystal buildings. Millions of glass shards colored in scarlet flooded down the white rolling hills of Verspires. The Emperor screamed, color flooding his face, he grabbed at his throat as he sunk into the red abyss. The Pianist was thrown from her instrument and swept out to sea, the last thing she saw were the stars and she reached for them but missed, sinking all the way down into the bloodied water. Tainted was the ocean, bleeding, so red, so much so that even the stars were scared, reflecting the color of the poor Pianist’s blood...each year on this day...for eternity.

Veiled in the Silence

Venice, Italy Sarah Gurskis ’26 Photography

lord’s prayer

Jenna K. Labadessa ’28 Poetry night comes fast now and when i sleep i don’t dream, except of this: i used to think you had carved the inside of my brain with a butcher knife, scraping the skull all red-white, making a permanent place for yourself. but now I know you wouldn’t have even bothered to cut that deep; your hands would have stopped an inch into flesh, eyes wild, mouth open, screaming how can this be? and now i know that the only time you think of me is when you’ve got nothing better to do, on those days where you’re lonely and you need someone else to kick around. it must’ve felt good, digging your heel into my ribs––that must’ve been the closest you’ve ever felt to being god. well, no God has ever heard a prayer as loud as mine except you––love me and i will be yours love me and i will be

Stained Glass Reflection Brussels, Belgium Mary Longueil ’26 Photography

at least we burned Morgan Chambers ’25 Nonfiction I guess fast friends burn out quickly. The last embers of a fire that never really had enough time to glow. That instant, perfect click when you meet someone who just gets you. It’s too sudden. Not enough caution, not enough care. But I did. I did care. I cared when she fell asleep on my shoulder on the plane ride home. I cared when I shared every secret I’d never told anyone else before. I cared when she laid in my lap, telling me how lucky she was to have me. I cared when I cried, begging her not to hurt herself again. I cared even when she hated me—when her words cut like a knife, and I prayed she didn’t mean them. I’ve never laughed more with anyone. Late-night talks in a shared hotel room. Drinking from the same bottle of Smirnoff. Running through the streets of London at midnight. Reading together on the train. She was everything, and I was nothing. Not enough. Never enough. I would always be one step behind. She would always have other friends, friends who didn’t know the darkness she carried, and maybe, in a way, that made them easier to be around. They didn’t push, they didn’t ask. They didn’t care to. I don’t know if she ever really wanted someone to ask, anyway. I showed her my world and she showed me hers. Two sides of the same coin. So alike, but so vastly different. She was always running. Running from her own thoughts, from her pain, from people who loved her too much. Maybe I did too. Maybe that’s why we fell apart. Maybe that was the way she needed it. I pictured her as a bridesmaid at my wedding. A forever friend. I suppose not all things last. Friendships end, as everything does. I think this one hit harder than most. I wasn’t expecting it. Everything so sudden. Her love turned to hate. Her friends shot me looks of loathing. I couldn’t understand why. I had tried so hard. It hurt. The slow, steady crumbling of something I thought was unbreakable. One day, we were laughing over drinks, making plans for the future, and the next... it was like I’d never mattered. Like I’d somehow crossed an invisible line and was now a stranger to her. I replayed every conversation in my mind, every moment we’d spent together, trying to pinpoint where I went wrong. But there was no clear 47

answer, just a void. A silence that screamed louder than any words she’d ever spoken. Her anger was sudden. I remember the first time I saw it—her cold eyes, the tightness in her jaw as she avoided looking at me. A night out gone badly. I always tried to do the right thing, but maybe this time I was wrong. I tried to reach out, but she shut me down, her words dripping with venom I never thought I’d hear from her. I wanted to fight for it, to fix what was broken, but I couldn’t. She wouldn’t let me. And maybe that’s what stung the most—that I couldn’t fix it. I thought it was worth it, but I guess it was one-sided. In the end, what was the point in trying? You can’t mend something that someone doesn’t want to fix. I couldn’t glue the pieces back together if she wouldn’t hold them in place. Nothing breaks a heart like the end. In seconds it goes from everything to nothing. I still think of the time when we were friends. They were some of the best moments of my life. Dancing in the bar like no one was watching. Walking side by side along the Thames. Gossiping over expensive meals we probably shouldn’t have splurged on. I try not to be bitter about how it ended. I try not to think about the sharp sting of her words, the way they sliced so cleanly through everything we’d shared. But it’s hard. It’s hard to let go of something that once felt like it would last forever. I wish it hadn’t blown up over something so stupid. That’s the worst part. A misstep. A misunderstanding. Something small that got blown out of proportion, and suddenly everything was on fire. I’ve always believed that people are in our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. I thought she’d be with me until the end. I thought we were a lifetime kind of friendship. The kind that would survive anything—distance, time, even mistakes. But sometimes, people outgrow each other. Sometimes, you get to the end of the road, and you realize you were never meant to walk that far together. I wish that weren’t the case. But if it is, I’m still grateful. Grateful for the laughter, for the moments that felt like they would last forever, for the way we once fit together like two puzzle pieces, even if that picture no longer exists. It may not have been a lifetime, but it was something I’ll never forget. One I’ll always carry with me, even if she’s gone from my life. Maybe we burned out, a finite flame. But at least we burned.

Woman with Flower Oil Paint on Canvas Abigail Agostin ’25 Art

Celestial Embrace Jaclyn Dobbs ’28 Poetry

Amidst the twilight’s gentle hue, Whispers dance where shadows play, Moonlight weaves a silver clue, Soft serenade in night’s ballet. Stars in cosmic waltz align, A celestial symphony, Ethereal dreams, a realm divine, In stardust tales, where wishes flee. Beneath the canvas of the sky, Love’s brushstrokes paint a cosmic sea, Infinity unfolds, an eternal sigh, Boundless echoes of eternity. In whispers shared, the night is spun, Sonnet’s embrace, when day is done.

In Your Eyes

Oil Paint on Canvas Abigail Agostin ’25 Art

Under Divine Watch Dolomites, Italy Sarah Zakian ’25 Photography

On my Mother’s Back Owen Whelan ’27 Poetry

There was this one time my mother said She wanted to write poetry but never had the time It makes me sad I stay up at night thinking of the poetry she would make of the jobs she would have if life was fairer of the things I would give her if I wasn’t so me of the money she deserves of the people she should know On my mother’s back I have so much I like to imagine I’m her poetry Every squeeze of my hand or drive to school was a word Stanzas in the margins of her life I feel her blood running down my neck From the sacrifices she made My mom might never know that I feel like art Sculpted in her design Every step I take and every choice I do And so art I shall be

Francesca

Anonymous ’25 Poetry

You are a fantastic combination of beauty and wit, cleverness and grace. You have more talent than you would ever admit. You surround yourself with hardened exterior to protect the soft and beautiful interior of your soul. Whenever I peek inside, I’m blinded by the sublime beauty within. You may have your way with words, but your body language sings in an ancient divine language. A language lost to my ears that each time you swing your hips, I remember a word, then a phrase, a verse. All until I’m singing along like a Greek chorus, narrating my own divine comedy. Oh, to be a boy in love with you. It makes my heart feel pure and true. When the angels beckon from heaven, I reply that I feel luckier than the number seven. The beauty of the rivers’ shimmering flow is no match for your skin’s unearthly glow. How am I ever to show, the way you make time feel so perfectly slow. Oh, to be a boy in love with you Feels as natural as the sky is blue. When life sinks me into despair, I know that I can close my eyes and focus on your visage to rise me from the depths. Your image is hopeful like a beaming ray of warm sunshine piercing through the cold and gray shadow of winter. Like golden ring buried in the beach sand I will dig through all the sharp glassy sands of my flaws 54

Suffering all the pain to wrap your smooth warmth around my finger. And like a treasure once lost, I crave for you to find your way back to me. For without you in my heart it feels like I am as lost as a soul in the river Sytx. Now you are that lost treasure, found. I will cherish the time I have in your love For as long as long as the fickle lords of time will allow.

The Soul Snatcher Graphite and Ink Pen Luke X. Johnson ’25 Art

REM I: Interlude Isabel Padilla ’27

Poetry My body is made of artificial light, Like the soft glow of a television screen. I am light pollution, In the form of forgetting. Memories shrink away from me, Like flowers sleeping under snow. I find myself in pieces of the past, Buried under rubble and thick evening air. Stars blink down at me in pity, Watching me dig up fossils of the forgotten. I stare back, Watching the holes of the moon grow larger. Its craters too, represent what has been lost.

Teaching Fish How to Man Digital Collage (Photoshop) Kimberly Rosner ’25 Photography

Aleatory

Stella Q. ’28 Poetry

I am a 7 legged spider. My mother died 2 days ago. I see a great sky above me. I see a log below. I want to climb into that sky & build a web above. Inside I’ll catch 4 collie birds & 2 turtle doves. I am a bombyx mori. I was born in boiling water. I will build a thicker cocoon To spare my future daughters. I’ll build a shell so thick and tough, Believe you me, I’ll do it. A wall of safety from the world, Such that I cannot burst through it. I am a 1 winged butterfly. I dreamed I was a guy. A completely normal human. Who still couldn’t fly. All my human friends perched down From their fun inside the air. I burdened all my buddies, As I do everywhere. 57

I am a 5 legged ant. I sit inside my grave. My body says that I am dead. We listen and behave. The other dead don’t move like me So I tell them to try it! But the other dead don’t talk, It’s more kind to stay quiet.

Leake Street Graffiti Tunnel London, England Mary Longueil ’26 Photography

Abraham and Isaac Juliann Bianco ’25 Poetry A voice asks for what the man is holding. He has only ever known how to listen. He is walking to the top of a mountain The stones are becoming warm with the dawn, His feet grow tired and his arms grow weary from what he carries I see him struggle, from where the trees still grow And there is still life And the birds witness what he carries And turn away because they know, They understand what has been asked of him, And they understand that he will listen. He has only ever known how to listen. I see a man walking to the top of a mountain, His mind made up since before The sun heated the stones on the path, He has known all along what he will do He was so quick to listen, so willing to give it away It was never his to give away, but he will try, he will try, And the books will say he was redeemed because he failed, Because the voice changed its mind, because they say it was a test, but I saw him try, I saw him try, But in the end he did not give it away. And the dawn arrived with no light, and yet the stones are hot, and the voice changed its mind, But I saw him try, I saw him try, I saw him try, I see a man reach the top of a mountain, Carrying a child.

The Faces of Feminism

Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop Lindsay Holbrook ’27 Art

An Ode of a Brown Girl Sara T. ’27 Poetry

Perhaps the way that I have always shaved down the hairs that protect my eyes shows a flaw in the lens of my sight. I never considered how I showed my internal racism on my face. Cutting down my course, dark, eyebrows so that I may appear lighter or more similar to the people I walk next to everyday. The people I didn’t choose, but have to live with, the people I have to encounter every second I breathe, the people whose eyes always see the color of my skin before my face, before the look in my own eyes. 61

Is it simply a reflection of myself when their eyes drop down my body and their mouths twist in disgust?

Strange

Mixed (Acrylic Paint, Colored Pencil, Pen) Anonymous ’26 Art

hymn for broken glass Jenna K. Labadessa ’28 Poetry

i am afraid and i don’t want you to know it, so i sit down and show you the words inside my head, written plainly in black ink on paper the color of my skull. i watch you and in this moment i am unmoored––those words, this paper, bits of my brain sing out in the form of a poem. poetry is the bloody knife lodged, the paper cut, the bruised knee, all hurt and flesh and embarrassment. i watch and i listen as you say, “good,” and when you smile i am smiling. poetry is the whisper and the scream, it’s the broken glass, the tire tracks. i hear it when i look at you.

X&Y

Digital Art Brady Menapace ’25 Art

Shadowboxer

Margaret Batta ’27 Poetry

Bite bite bite all the frills and agony. I am made of lace because it can be easily undone with fractured nails and shaky breaths. Did you know that when you fall asleep the rings that you wear dissolve into elogies of unrequited love and unmarked graves? Piecing the jewels back together used to be an easy task, but my fingers have grown. Corset straps stay tight like barbed wire when the angels take their leave and all that’s left is mortal invention. Revolutionaries weep in the arms of each other, because satisfaction is the end of the never ending. Because humans will always be morphing and changing and breaking and shaping and everything will be nothing you’ve ever seen. And the movie stars will say, “no matter how much this world changes, my love for you will stay the same,” And the poets will say, “the buds of May have come and gone, but thy beauty remains unyielding,” And I will get on my knees 65

and let the rocks dig in and pretend I am on the beach with a great ticking clock and a sun growing red and swollen. And I will look to every wave and every streak of light and want much more. And you’ll be there, so stark on your towel with shades and doll teeth and a body that never errs and you’ll look at me with a hope so grating, it becomes the thread in which every image is woven. You’ve never been hungry before, never been starved to the point of scars and cries and ripped fabric on the ground. and you’ll never be hungry again. I see you like the leaf lit up with the hues of my humors. Please don’t fall, please don’t place your broken body upon another because it’s in my nightmares when your face drains of light, when your body warps and crumbles and you look too much like me, too scared to go into the kitchen because you feel the blades already within you. The angels won’t help one of their own who’s more human than divine because faith sticks like crusted caramel in my mouth from candy apples eaten alone under my bed in the hours heavy and brooding. I called you on the phone once I learned how to box 66

but all I got was static on the other line. Smash your answering machine when you think of me, let that rage be my love letter to a head clouded with paradise. Laying in the rose bushes and dancing to the waltz feels easy knowing summer hasn’t ended— and every petal exists for every tooth you show when you smile. You can’t cool the Earth, you can’t calm the beaches, you can’t stop what men want, you can’t save me. You’re perfect like the stars and the vacuums and the black splotches left in my eyes from thinking too hard and too dark. Become interstellar and paint the universe with better creatures. just never tell them the secret of us and how I learned to stop worrying and swallow the planet whole all for you.

Filial Ephialtes Sara T. ’27 Poetry

Your voice was soft in my dream. No, not soft. Muted, heavy. What if the weight in my mind were to focus on what binds rather than what appeases; I’ll never know if what was is worth returning to. Neither kept nor cursed; stuck, forced to revolve: infinite and plaintive, covert and fraught. A magnet that is either yanked forward or shoved back. Perhaps it was only whiplash that left a gash. Not a loss, an absence; or are both equal if they haunt me the same?

Held Together

Graphite on Paper Christina Brown ’27 Art

Unseen

China Camp State Park, CA Liam Storey ’28 Photography

How I’m feeling today Kaitlin James ’27 Poetry

Rescindent (adj.): rescinded, recessed I think I made up the word rescindent, but that’s how I’m feeling today. I’ve been shoved so far up my thoughts it’s hard to stay tied down. Like I can’t take being around things that bore the shit out of me. Physically? My shoulders are tense (I lean too much); my left eye is blurry (it’s not the glasses—I checked); & my lip is split like it’s been flapping (it hasn’t). Mentally? Talk has been boring holes in me; I assume so Thoughts can fill them up It feels like middle school all over Maybe (re)finding myself is at the expense of everyone else If you sum up the hours—statistically—there’s balance between us hours and me hours but Emotionally? (i.e. irrationally) When I’m without, I want someone in the corner of my vision Stay right there. In the corner, because when I’m with, the recesses bulge and drag and tuck me away & rescind that half-witted want so damn quick it’s no wonder my lip is split and my eye shot.

Champagne Pop Goshen, NY Ava Kaloz ’25 Photography

Hostile Bodies

Luke X. Johnson ’25 Poetry They are wanting They watch They look They do not see We are encased in something sacred With so much room to hunger We don’t feel it to satisfy We feel it for the sake of wanting something we can understand Even if it is the diet of a carnivore I am made so sick by wanting And hungering And watching and looking I hear a melody when I am not overcome by these things But hearing is not wanting I fear I too want that wanting, more than I want that melody Because I am bloated by the comfort of desire And music is so beautiful But I cannot see it I cannot taste it I cannot devour it and make it me It is free and my it slips through my flesh But I will hear that music When I am ready to reach past my body And know that just because it is not me Does not mean it will hurt me

Aching Soul

Sajal Ranjha ’28 Poetry

We sit and talk about our sins But you have that lust in your eyes Your unwanted fingers graze my skin My body aches to be baptized I beg for God to save me I’m helpless like a child But I am not Moses at the Red Sea My aching soul is defiled

The stars silently watch and weep As you crucify my heart This cruel punishment I’m forced to reap You have torn me apart Maybe if I’d been an obedient angel in life The opposite of Lucifer’s deadly sin all those years of praying to the light Could’ve saved me from the wrath of Him The stars silently watch and weep As you crucify my heart This cruel punishment I’m forced to reap You have torn me apart Pleasure crashes over my unwilling insides Like a ferocious wave at sea But you forced this unwanted high tide This sensuality I never prayed for has destroyed My sacred chastity In six days, the world was created The seventh was the day of rest In seven years my cells will be regenerated But my mind will never have the grace to forget 74

The stars silently watch and weep As you crucify my heart This cruel punishment I’m forced to reap You have torn me apart Psalm 145:19 “He will fulfill the desire of those who fear Him; He will also hear their cry and save them” I suppose he didn’t hear mine.

Fading Away

Oil Paint Melissa Hering ’25 Art

Breaking With Water Bridget McGuire ’26 Poetry The process is simple enough, this is more than known to be true. Hours of delicate wish and hope, only the worry of tired eyes and upturned noses, That keeps a true commitment from such a process. Such minute fear and such useless shame. For what is shame? Hiding the ugly thoughts from the light. What shame is there here? What putrid act has been committed? What retribution must be paid? The thought of a thought it hardly an excuse, But hardly the choice. The inability to choose the proper emotion. It may rush between the ribs of a chest, A fluttering, sputtering flurry of blushing intrigue. The pages of papercuts and hours of watching the ceiling. Colors flood one’s eyes in the dark, Ideas of future memories gracing themselves into dreams. And now, what are these dreams? A timid excuse to be sure, One that is really nothing but a passing thought to some. Those poised hopes standing with their toes on a precipice. The words then crash below, Rocks slipping and tumbling with feet tangled in them. A freeing fall to the point where no one returns. It is the softest chair one could sit in, Feeling the white foam drowning any prickles in the stomach. The sting of something unfamiliar against the skin. If one was allowed to open their eyes, they would burn, But it’s almost soothing, in a way. The wash of choices draining down your hair. 76

The touch of deep night and the touch of the high noon Are so small when hidden away. The both pool out of the eyes, Mixing with salt and foam and the depths of black. Gentle hands guide the nearly trembling fingers away, Grazing them against something, yes, rough and soft. It pulls the water from the cheeks, So patiently, slowly drying the face As a heat bakes away the biting cold. The dripping sheet recedes, Pulling itself to where it can from. If one’s eyes could open, they would shudder from the light. The sands stretch out before you, So still and so quiet as the ocean churns behind you. Such wonderful light playing along glistening skin. The rough waters catch the back of a weaker throat. A cobalt drape for the royal body. While periwinkle flows down the back, Mist kisses the far away eyes. The pink-touched sea seems so truly gentle now. The one who appears wizened, who could have brought you to drown, Lets you walk away before the black may seem preferable.

A [Normal] Still Life Oil Paint on Canvas Ava Kaloz ’25 Art

Psst...Pretty Girl. Lauren Meier ’28

Hey. Pretty girl. Yes, honey! You.

Poetry

The one with uneven skin, Unbalanced eyes Crooked teeth, Dimples, not just by the mouth, Stretch marks, Messy hair, A lifting lash, Chipped nail polish, Skin folds. You! When you walked past that mirror That mirror Did you say it like that? That? Was it dreaded? Inspirational? Scary? Enlightening? Avoided entirely? See, Pretty girl, A mirror reflects what is seen. But that mirror, That mirror, Reflects only what 79

You See. Have you ever stopped And considered Why you think your friend is perfect And yet she is so down? Did you ever consider That your friend, The down one, Sees you as the Perfect one. Pretty girl. Pretty girls. Pretty girls and yet Not a single one thinks they’re Quite pretty at all. I have a challenge for you, Pretty girl. You, yes, you. Pretty girl! Go back to that mirror. Go back and stare Into your eyes. The eyes that Never shine brighter Then when that smile is on your lips. See the body that never looks better Then when it dances After having been fed what it truly craves, Not what it’s told to want. 80

See the gorgeous, unruly hair, Tossed by wind and rain, Because you went out into it blissfully. Even your imperfections, “Imperfections”, Carry the handprint of your mother. Pretty girl, Self love looks good on you! Give some to your sister for me, Would you? Never forget: Every girl is a pretty girl. And that means you, too, Pretty girl.

Patricia

Colored Pencil Mariana Paradise ’28 Art

Time is Money, Money is Overrated Kyle Esoian ’25 Poetry My life is broken up into periods of twenty minutes. I’ll sit down to watch a movie, Watching in intervals of twenty minutes at a time. I’ll go do a workout, And I’m doing each exercise for twenty minutes. When I’m hungry, I make nothing that takes longer than twenty minutes to cook or eat. This can cause dietary restrictions. Fair warning. My life is broken up into periods of twenty hours. If I receive an important email, I have no more than twenty hours to respond. If I think of a great point that I didn’t raise in an argument, I only have a twenty-hour period afterwards to think about it in the shower, before moving on. I was at a bar, and a scuzzy, foul-mouthed old fart asked If I wanted to hear a joke. I said sure and he says “so René Descartes walks into a bar and orders a drink. When he finishes his drink, the bartender asks him if he would like another. Descartes replies, ‘No, I think not,’ and poof! He disappears.” I gave a fake belly laugh, and woke up incredibly hungover. I told myself that I have no longer than twenty hours to feel better. Then I googled René Descartes. My life is broken up into periods of twenty days. Let’s say I’m at a hot dog stand in New York City. Let’s say there’s a long line, And an incognizant guy cuts in front of me. Let’s say I confront him, and he confronts me back. And let’s say this back and forth ends in him punching me in the face and breaking my nose. It needs to be healed, in some capacity, in twenty days.

My life is broken up into periods of twenty years. If I commit a violent crime and go to prison, In twenty years, I could become a completely different person. If I’m a homeless beggar now, I could be a CEO in twenty years. If I suddenly lose a part of myself that has always been there, twenty years

will be catastrophically worse than whatever the Merriam-Webster definition of existence is. If I work in a cubicle, In twenty years, I’ll still be working in a cubicle. If I’m 30 now, I’ll be 50 soon. My life isn’t broken up into periods of anything. I waste my short life by always wasting my time thinking about life being short. So I shut the hell up about mortality. One night, during this mercurial odyssey in London, I met the love of my life on the tube, Sitting tense, uneasy. She was being harassed by two jumper-wearing chavs. Suddenly rail staff comes over the speaker, and somewhat flatly recites, “See it. Say it. Sorted.” I listened, and I’ve never let her go. If all I’m doing is constantly drowning, and little victories in my day keep my head above water, I can never live in anything but the present. If seconds turn into minutes turn into hours into days and years, decades, centuries, How is it that I’ve missed everything? If finally, one second turns into two then three and four then five, and hopefully six, I can open my blacked-out eyes and look up into the overt fake blue of the sky and say, “I’m broke. I have a make-or-break job interview in an hour. But it will never matter as much as this.”

Different Dynamics Manhattan, NY Andrew Chiafullo ’26 Photography

Scrolling

Adam Freda ’26 Fiction Most of his days he lived in a white box. The box had two carvings on opposite sides. One of these carvings was an old, fabricated wooden door. The door remained closed most days. The entrance to the outside world was locked off. The second carving only showed the outside world through glass and nothing more. The window would remain open for months on end. He liked the feeling of the cold breeze of the night. The breeze reminded him of when he was younger when he would spend most days outdoors in flourishing woods behind his beautiful, suburban cottage. Now he remains on his rectangular bed for hours on end. Between his classes, he would rush back to his box and silently lay in his bed. The definition of discomfort fits the bed perfectly. The bed was a simple wooden cot, no more than four feet off the ground. He laid on top of unwashed, green sheets. The sheets often told him they needed to be baptized in the washing machine. He would reply that he would sleep on top of them until he could schedule a time for them to be cleansed. He never scheduled a time. On top of the sheets, the lone visitor of the box remained. He stared at a rectangular, flat box in his hand. This box was different. This box held all knowledge and wisdom in the known world. Entire lives would be wasted to create this box. It is more than a technological marble. It is technology. It is the advancement to defeat all other advancements for decades. His white finger would touch the screen with no regard for delicacy. He swiped at the screen every second like a bug kept landing on it. Opportunities were all around him even in this box and even with the flat box. He just used the box to scroll through simulations. He spent hours scrolling. He spent hours meeting people for milliseconds in fake worlds with bright colors. These people never met him. They were like performers to him. He knew this but he didn’t care. Soon the performers became hostile. The performers ridiculed him for wasting his time. He shouldn’t be watching such a stupid, foolish production. He didn’t care. He would just scroll to the next performer. He spent hours scrolling. Like any good audience member, he was not always fully engaged in the material. Matter of fact, he was rarely engaged in the show, he knew it was horrible. 85

He didn’t care. It was real enough to him. Real enough to waste time. Real enough to waste his existence. His eyes would blink against the luminous pixels. Every time they did he wondered if that would be the last time he would ever blink. He was scared that he would spend his last moments scrolling. He scrolled for hours. By nightfall, the breeze that made everything seem real came in harshly. His phone died and now he stared at a glossy, black mirror. His face was all he saw. All he could think was how people were not made for this. He got out of his horrible bed and he never went back in his box. He left his room and has yet to look back.

My Brilliant Friend Oil Paint Alexa Gallery ’27 Art

Marist Football Trading Card Colored Pencil and Charcoal Pencil Victoria Tate ’27 Art

Tuesday Afternoon, Florence Lauren Lagasse ’25 Fiction

I’ve started to notice things about Florence that I haven’t before. Small charms of the city. A lot of this was because of my art history class; once Brunelleschi’s arches were pointed out, it was impossible not to notice them everywhere. The structured and almost utilitarian designs of the Renaissance with the excess of the Baroque period, or what the Florentines deemed excessive anyway. So many buildings look the exact same, until you noticed the tiny details that tell the story. Like a piece of stone on a window that looked like it was functional, but wasn’t. They were extravagant back then, weren’t they. On Tuesday the art history class took a field trip to the Boboli Gardens. Speaking of excess. The professor’s lecture was lost to the wind on the way over, so he let us figure it out for ourselves. We spoke briefly in the interior courtyard of the Pitti Palace about the grotta, and the Medicis, of course, and how Pitti Palace was, in a way, the first-ever Instagram feed. The reigning Medici at the time thought, wouldn’t it be nice to display my artwork depending on what looks nice together, instead of by artist? And museum curation was born. Or so Francesco claims. Next week, we would return to the interior of the Palace, but the rest of the period was ours to explore. I hadn’t been to the gardens yet. I think everyone else had, probably when they were still green and beautiful, because the moment Francesco left everyone took the opportunity to sneak out early. What a shame. The gardens unfurled out from the palace and wove in circles up the hill and back down again, winding around white marble statues of horses and gods and half-naked women, leading up and up and up to a squat little watchtower. It was meant to be viewed from the palace window; beautifully arranged from above, but flat when you’re in it. The landscaping on the southern side was more engulfing. Cypresses stretched high, high up and bent back down at the top, coaxed by Italian architects when the palace was being built. The wind whistled with no birdsong. The path rolled down the hill and back up again, fading into the cypress canopy like some pathway to above that I’m lucky enough to see. I could only imagine how beautiful everything is when it’s alive. I wrapped my coat a little tighter. I stayed in the cradle of the cypress88

es until my hands turn red. In the furthest corner of the garden was a pomegranate tree, with only a few rain-rotted ones left. I’d never seen a pomegranate tree. It was shorter than I thought it would be, just taller than me, and the branches turned at ninety degree angles, shaped by the weight of its fruit. The biggest one was split down the middle, and when I touched it, something inside it shifted and its sticky juice flowed down my hand. I shook it off. I didn’t want it to get on my boots. I bought the boots a week or so ago at a shop tucked around a corner from Via Calimali, nestled between a bar I never went to and a lingerie store. I passed it on my way to Italian class. They were perched high on a shelf, waxed and shining, a rich brown that matches the leather handles of my tote bag. They were two hundred and fifty dollars. I didn’t even blink when the guy selling them to me said that. Of course they were. If I wanted cheap boots I would have gone to Bata or H&M or any other place selling plastic to tourists. I was finding it hard to say no to myself those days. The last thing the garden presents to me is a huge grotta, the interior of which is locked away behind a gate. I didn’t love the exterior. It was tall and impressive but made mostly out of rough stone. I peered through the bars like I was looking at some caged beast and not an old fountain. The lack of sunlight made it nearly impossible to see anything. I wished the pomegranates were the last thing I saw. The garden spat me out towards the southern gate of the city. I got a cappuccino on the way home, my second of the day, and drained it. The streets were sparse. My favorite hobby was standing on the street and staring straight into people’s windows, trying to gleam intimate little details of their life from the snippets of conversations floating down and the laundry swaying in the wind. Nothing interesting was happening today. The city died when the cold set in. The sky was purple. Our window was banging in the wind when I got home so I closed it. From the right angle, we could see the Duomo, framed between flat rooftops and open sky. I love the Italian windows. High, dark wood, open to the street. The first night we got drunk, Jen and I leaned over the balcony, holding each other back, laughing and waving to the tourists and locals passing below. Bongiorno! Bongiorno! until one man told us that it was night time, we say buonanotte, so we started screaming that instead. Very kind, the Italians. It poured all night. There were flood warnings for the next day; 89

the Arno could overflow. I didn’t have much faith in the structural integrity of our building. We were seven stories up, at least I thought, because the stairs wove and turned and narrowed seemingly at random. Our apartment was the highest in the building. If the roof caved in, we would have been the first to know. “It’s loud,” Jen murmured and wrapped herself tighter in the blanket from her bed. We were storm watching; a candle that Courtney bought on one of our trips provided our only light. The apartment smelled like spiced vanilla and ozone. Melissa’s phone cast her face in blue. A crack of lightning exploded across the pitch-dark clouds and seconds later thunder clapped, drowning out whatever else Jen had tried to say. I poured myself another glass. I understood why the Romans believed in a god of thunder. Four hundred years ago, lightning struck the top of the Duomo and the golden sphere at the very top fell off, hurtling into the piazza below and cracking the stone where it fell. I half felt that in the morning, we would wake up to the screams and gasps of people discovering the ball, again, embedded in the piazza, shining brilliantly in the morning light.

How May I Direct Your Call? Athens, Greece Andrew Chiafullo ’26

Photography

Marina di Pisticci Francesca DeRosa ’27 Nonfiction Ever since I could remember people have told me that I have an excellent memory and I have proven it to be true. I remember Atlantic City when I was two, reaching for a Lindt chocolate when the nurse snapped my dislocated elbow back into place after my father swung me around too hard. I remember that on my third birthday, I was gifted a miniature Little Mermaid doll which then started my absurdly large collection. A former student of my father jokingly told me he was going to marry my mother, I was five, I took it to heart, and to this day, I hate him with every fiber of my being. I remember remembering Third Street when my parents asked me where the nice street with all of the Christmas lights was. Places, objects, restaurants, songs, meals, sayings, and people. I am the person you ask if they want to recall a funny anecdote or memory. I am the type of person who is sentimental about every little object, decoration, movie, place, or memory. I am a girl who cannot remember her own grandfather. I was eight when he passed, too young to realize what “I’m sorry for your loss” truly meant. Suddenly he wasn’t there and in his place, this solemn nothingness. It wasn’t till much later in my life did I realized that my PopPop’s ancestors also hailed from Bari like my father’s side. I never knew this when at the age of 12, I had my pink bucket hat on exploring the beaches and fried polenta sticks of Puglia. In the summer of 2016, my family went to Italy for the very first time. We saw Rome, Positano, and Bari. My father’s second cousin Alberto and his wife Luci welcomed us into their home for a long hot week. Bari was toured within four days, the rest of our time would be spent in Marina di Pisticci. Marina di Pisticci was a coastal village, untouched by tourists. This beautiful and sunkissed beach was lined with colorful shacks. Vacation shacks that held a maximum of three and there were eight of us. Alberto, Luci, and their kids, Gabriel and Roberta, had no problem with this concept but we Americans, deprived of AC and personal space, did. The first night, the four of us were crammed into a bedroom, my parents teasing my brother and me because we had to sleep on cots on the floor. The window was open, and only heat and mosquitos entered the room, along with the buzzing of dragonflies. I was littered 91

with mosquito bites, all up my legs and arms. I trapped myself in my thin sheet, damp from sweat, but adamant not to let another bug leave its mark on me. By the third night, my parents slept on the floor because it was cooler, still teasing as they subjected me to one of the worst nights of sleep ever. The itchiness of my skin remained for days, only soothed by the saltwater of the ocean. “Cugini, come on!” Gabriel, my older cousin called us to the beach, the waves looked violent and cold. I had gingerly put a foot into the water and looked up at him reluctantly. “Look, look, this is how you enter the ocean.” Gabriel had backtracked up the sand and then sprinted down the shore, plunging into the waves. He didn’t do a slow crawl into the water, adjusting and wincing like everyone did. He attacked the waves and when Gabriel came up for air, he whipped his hair out of his face and laughed loudly. Excited, culturally unaware, and eager to please, I followed suit. Nowadays, I am the one coercing people to join me in bone-chilling waters. That night, we sang songs, American and Italian. We tried to talk about the entirety of our lives and ate an enormous amount of food. Luci showed us how to make linguine with shrimp and clams. I remember her peeling the shrimp and sticking it in my face as I cowered at the fishy smell. The back doors of the cabin were thrown open, tables and mismatched chairs were mashed together, and large bulbs hung across the room, illuminating the pitch-black sky. The Italian’s mouths dropped when they heard the list of my brother’s allergies and how his favorite food was Chicken Parm. The Americans feasted on plum jelly, biscotti, and homemade gelato. We complained, screamed, and reveled at the fact that this vacation home cost less than a month’s worth of groceries. Gabriel had thrown my young brother across his shoulders and back as if he weighed nothing. Roberta had asked me if I had gone out clubbing yet and I responded, saying I was going into sixth grade. There were evident cultural differences. But we were family. My father and Alberto cherished each other more than life itself and they met five days ago. This was a new feeling, a new bond: the discovery of new relationships, of family. My mind never wrapped around the concept of new family, I had always assumed that Long Island and Florida was how far my family line would stretch. Marina di Pisticci was filled with new ideas, memories, and loved ones. My eyes were open, family was everywhere. 92

All of my life, when people asked me what region of Italy my family came from, I would say, “Bari. My dad’s side is from Bari.” I had marked this wonderful memory, this beautiful area as the part of me that is part of my dad. But PopPop’s family belonged here too, he was supposed to be here too. If I had known, I would have asked questions and wanted more. I would go back. I would have pushed myself to remember every single detail. Marina di Pisticci changed my family’s perspective on family, am I being selfish for wishing it changed me more? Could there have been a moment where I recognized that my PopPop was there–in the ocean waves, the fried food, the wind, the laughter, or love?

Sheep

Oil Paint Emma Bradford Dennehy ’25 Art 93

Between Time

Letchworth State Park, NY Liv Myers ’25 Photography

2 Weeks Since Landing Kiki Wiehe ’26 Nonfiction Going to new places is great, travel is really everything people make it out to be. I’m not talking about the luxurious travel that includes itineraries and hotels, I mean the kind that’s last minute and messy. To know what I mean, the most alive I have ever felt since arriving in Florence, well maybe even in my whole life, was during fall break when we had 10 days off of class, and we managed to see 5 different countries. This trip is all I wish to write about, but instead, as the music drowns out this city, and I step on the cobblestone sidewalks, all I can think about is home. I want to go home. Truthfully, I know I’ll be home for a couple days and wish to be back here. A serious case of rose colored lenses every time I look back on the past. What if what I have now will never be as good as when I don’t have it? What if my life before was only unsatisfying because it was my life then, and it was always meant to be better as a memory, something out of reach? I wonder how I can be this way. Someone who thrives with change but can hardly stand leaving things behind. Theres never enough fast cars in Florence, they all drive so slow that if I wasn’t paying attention and one nearly hit me, it would always be nearly. When I was 17, a lot of really awful things happened in my lifeand ever since then my happiness has been sacred and fleeting. Oftentimes people compare this feeling to running from the past, but there are a couple problems with that metaphor for my case. I am in no rush to leave that time in my life completely behind, I am certain some of the wreckage was necessary to find all the pieces of who I am now. Except ever since then I think my happiness can be measured by how different my life feels from that time. I mean I left for college a mere 3 months after the fallout- it wasn’t running though, it had to be that way. The happiest I have been in my entire life is in this city, across the sea from everything I have ever known. Sure, traveling is great– as I’ve said before- but what was really great about this new life is it feels like all the internal growth I have gone through finally metabolized around me. I have felt different for years, but nothing about my life really was– in this city everything felt so far behind me like I was snug in the deepest pocket of happiness my future has ever offered. How odd it is now. Standing in my backyard, that’s lightly covered 95

in snow. I mean not even a full 2 inches, just enough to hold everything in place and hide the fact that it’s all the same. I’ve been home for about 2 weeks and it wasn’t until this moment that it all caught up to me. My life went from new and exciting and hopeful to the same as it has always been, my life. Was my time in Florence even real? Or was it just a reminder that even across an ocean, your life is still your own. There’s a quote, “wherever you go, there you are,” or something like that, and there I was, in the same yard that had seen 17, 16, all the way back to 12 and even 6. My life in Florence nothing more than a fun fact- a conversation starter that will always end sooner than I want it to. Speaking of my time there feels like a plea– like in the few moments the person I am talking to actually cares about what I am saying is when I can feel some of that life around me again– then it’s gone.

Seaside Arch Oil Paint Alexa Gallery ’27

Art

Seal Shells

Seashells Cayleigh Goberman ’26 Art

Fingerprints Kiki Wiehe ’26 Nonfiction

With the Limencello glass empty, and our faces nearly down in our plates, the waiter finally approached our silent group. He cleared the table and allowed us to pay, releasing us from a superb yet utterly exhausting dinner. I parted ways with my group of jet-lagged zombies and began to slug my way back to my own apartment. It had been less than 48 hours I had been in Florence, and I had spent every moment of it so far feeling like a tourist. I snapped photos of nearly every street I came across, I strained my neck to stare at the Duomo and bumped into people in the process. It wasn’t until then, the very first time I was alone with my thoughts since I landed that I began to feel like I was something more. As the dimly lit streets cleared up and the saxophone players’ serenade meshed with the chatter coming from the open restaurants, I began to sort out what identity I truly aligned with in this foreign city. “Tourist” wasn’t quite right since I would be here for nearly 4 months, and I was sure my photo snapping and Duomo staring would fade. Maybe “student” was more accurate but it seemed to dumb down my purpose. My reason for boarding that 8-hour flight and leaving everything I knew behind was not just because I am a student, after all not all students study abroad. So why was really I here? What drew me to this city? My thought process was interrupted as I laid my eyes on a woman not much older than me, sitting with her legs crossed holding a cigarette and a notebook the size of a wallet. Her long dark hair fell in her face as she scrawled away at the pages and repeatedly brought her cigarette to her red-painted lips. She looked up at me for just a moment, and it hit me. I am here because I am a writer. When faced with a new experience, a new life, this trait of mine becomes the most prominent part of who I am. It is through written words that you can see the ever-changing shape of my soul, and hold my heart in your hands. The introspection that accompanies the writing process is, without a doubt, what led me to the city streets I currently walk, following the footsteps of countless poets, authors, and creatives. Just on that short walk home, I had seen an unfathomable amount of imaginativeness. By the time I was unlocking the door to my apartment, I had become convinced Florence was glued together by art and song. Between every beige building was a stanza, and be98

hind every mint green shutter was a painting. I was certain that every word ever written about this city floated in its wind and swam in its river. I decided that in this place, creativity is bound to be drawn out of anyone who stops and stares for too long. I couldn’t help but smile at the idea that Florence has me in the palm of its hand, each new experience molding me like clay, pressing its fingerprints deep into my soul.

Cleansing Spirits Tokyo, Japan Taormina Amelio ’27 Photography

Uffizi Walkthrough Florence, Italy Sofia Milojevic ’26 Photography

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Oppenheimer

Colored Pencil and Charcoal Pencil Victoria Tate ’27 Art

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oats and honey

Jennifer Cabrera ’26 Poetry

i realized one day, with golden rays beaming, i awoke from my sleep, yet i was still dreaming for being awake i was no longer mourningthe meaning of life exists in a morning leave troubles in bed for nighttime to still; today is my own, i’ve a belly to fill! once empty and hungry in more ways than one, but time is too precious to ignore the sun now dancing with light, swirling coffee cup steam, it dawned like the morn to live is the dream pour extra brown sugar and spoonfuls of honey in a bowl of warm oats soul smiling and sunny may i exist forever in simple completeness. don’t we all deserve a little sweetness? 102

Holy Cow

Hudson Falls, NY M. Wood ’25 Photography

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The Knife

Lauren Lagasse ’25 Poetry I bought a pomegranate in November and spent an hour cracking it open in the kitchen– cochineal blood spraying on plaster walls, drying deep purple Now I’m paying for it. The fruits of home are dull, shriveled, wan next to yours— dense on the branch, crown jewels of Boboli— here the grass is dry and it is cold. This morning, I almost bought another, but it sat dead in my hands.

The Highlands

Altnafeadh, Scotland Maya Perera ’27 104

Photography

Spring is Coming Soon Colored Pencil M. Wood ’25 Art

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The Threadbare Dancer Aidan Parascando ’26 Poetry This is not my body It dances to a strangers symphony I spin and spin and spin The audience cheers I whirl even faster Finger brushes of hidden utopias Each promises to be mine Yet the legs I try to move Have locked from dancing And I lose control Crashing and tumbling Pieces of not-myself Scatter across the floor Someone moves to collect them Nobody moves to collect me Stygian tears fall freely Eyes pouring an endless decanter Viscous ichor that stains skin Soaks into someones clothing Forms a murky lake on the floor It licks at the untouched ground A ravenous beast spread thin Consolidating around me Moving over me like a thin film Filling my ears and nose and lungs I wonder if I can drown in it Or if it might swallow me whole Two hands start to claw at it Peel away the veil over my face And reveal another that’s not mine But my hands keep going 106

Past another and another layer Skipping songs and dances Prying them free like loose scabs Until I reach what’s at the bottom There is no gasp and no applause No spotlight to expose me My trembling form and jagged edges My palpitating heartbeat Pounding an improvised rhythm At some point I start spinning again The music is wild and raw A dance nostalgic yet unfamiliar Movements shaky and uncertain But the only one watching is me

Tradition

Syracuse, NY Maya Perera ’27 Photography

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Twin Peaks

Zermatt, Switzerland Andrew Chiafullo ’26 Photography

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The Fig Tree or Reflection on Luke 13:6-9 Leonardo Carini ’25 Poetry A certain man had a fig tree and planted it in his vineyard Oh Lord, recall to me that advent night years ago Dark winds moaned outside your golden hall Living waters fell and drenched my dry bones I was a starved creature then, in flesh and in spirit From You poured beauty, goodness, and truth And with these You sewed muscle into my frame Life began anew, Your bread was sweet to my tongue And he came seeking fruit theron, and found none. The sun sticks sweat to these once white rags And so I hide in Your halls once more But now they are cool to the touch and dim I am caught unprepared, like in all my dreams My hands are empty of the gifts You once gave Those three years stand and accuse me And he said to the vine-dresser, “Behold for three years now I have come seeking fruit of this fig tree, and I find none. Do not force back the cup of my last autumn Those nights float above, mockery in the wind When this throat burned with a heady poison When my tongue was stained by strange lips I awoke far too late, already paid in full Cut it down, therefore, why does it still encumber the ground?” Stay Your hand! Leave the ax from my root For though dead, I still know to ask for life Blasted, burnt, choked, strangled, stolen away Call me what you may, I still know to run the race But he answered him and said, “Sir, let it alone this year too, till I dig around it and manure it. I will melt back into Your garden, into the tree I will give up the flesh for the wood 109

Then what will three years be to Your mercy Perhaps it may bear fruit; Oh to bear fruit... Oh to bear fruit... But if not, then afterwards thou shalt cut it down.” Let me die and so bear fruit

Bench

Oil Paint Emma Bradford Dennehy ’25 Art 110

Mother Nature’s Anecdote Jaclyn Dobbs ’28 Poetry Amidst the whispers of the willow, Earth’s heartbeat pulses slow. Rivers weave tales of time untold, Mountains stand as stoic guardians. Leaves, like dancers, twirl and sway, In the ancient rhythm of existence. Beneath the emerald canopy, Secrets lie in mossy realms. Roots burrow deep, entwined and strong, Life’s tapestry woven in quiet soil. Winds converse with leaves aloft, A language written in rustling scripts. Clouds, nomads of the boundless sky, Tell stories as they drift by. Raindrops, nature’s tender kisses, Bathe the world in liquid grace. Thunder roars, a primal voice, Echoes of forces beyond our human grasp. In the twilight’s soft embrace, Fireflies dance, stars on Earth. Moonlight weaves dreams anew, Night, a blanket stitched with silver thread. Nature’s verses etched in stone and stream, A timeless tale, an evergreen dream. Symbols painted on the canvas of creation, Where Earth’s punctuation is the breath of inspiration. 111

Golden Hour Hudson Falls, NY M. Wood ’25 Photography

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Ascent

China Camp State Park, CA Liam Storey ’28 Photography

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A Romantic at the Club Avery Van Damme ’28 Fiction It was the bass she felt first. It pounded on her feet, loud and blaring; each blow was another punch to her chest. The sound lived under everything, festering and blistering until it burst into the screams and yells of meshing bodies on the dancefloor. Limbs were flung about, slapping and blubbering; people calling it dancing. Everyone was close to one another. So close. Close enough their breaths kissed each other in the air. Heat tore at everyone’s clothes, letting their sleeves fall to show off speckled shoulders or skirts rip so their thighs gleamed with sweat in the rainbow lights. Drinks flew and fell. Colors splashed themselves across the ceiling, flashing and fluttering along the figures of crazed night-goers. For a moment, it was like they were dancing in front of a fire, drinking in the smoke around them and moving to please the gods. But the facade dropped when the music swelled and they squawked as the new tune began to play. They flapped forward, closing in closer and closer on the DJ. She almost thought they were going to peck out his eyes if he chose the wrong song to play. Virgil grabbed her arm and dragged her into the swarm. Shrieks in her ear. Flesh on her skin. Bodies everywhere. Heart pounding in her chest, Deborah held her breath, an aching growing in her joints. She already knew she wanted to leave. But she couldn’t. No, she couldn’t. The beat was growing, replacing the thump of her heart. He stopped in a group of girls, each cawing into the sky and scratching at the fabric of their clothes. When they saw her, their eyes bulged wide and mouths pulled open. “You came?” Lilith shouted at her, surprised. “Yeah,” Was all she could muster in response, the sound of the room swallowing her words. “What?” Dolores brought her face closer. “Yeah,” Deborah replied louder. With a howl, everyone flung their heads high and jumped, the music taking hold of their bodies. They pounded their feet into the ground, just on the edge of breaking. She didn’t recognize the song. 114

But they were all dancing. So she had to dance. Yes, she had to dance. But she didn’t know how. She didn’t. But she had to try. Her friends’ arms were in the air so she let her’s rise, hanging as if by strings from the ceiling. Their shoulders’ moved from left to right, so her’s did, too. Their lips moved to the melody, the dirtied room too loud to recognize a single voice. She followed but it wasn’t right. They could have been faking but she wouldn’t have known. She knew she was. If she closed her eyes, she could picture her room. The way her fan whirred into the bed, constantly leaving the fur of her stuffed teddy bear matted and frayed. The way her paper’s scattered on the desk, pens and pencils poking from nooks and crannies under textbooks. The way everything smelled sweetly of vanilla and hints of cedar. She wanted to fall onto her bed, breathe into her pillow, and slip away into a dream of a dark haired boy in a meadow. But no. No, no, no. No, she was here, at the club. It was then that she felt rage bubble in her gut, writhing and hissing in the depths of her soul. She hated this place. Hated it. She hated the way people moved, the sound of joyous pain ringing in her ears, the harsh, stinging smell of weed and alcohol. Most of all, she hated the beat. She would tear the feeling out of her, screaming as she gouged it from every vein. She would scratch and slice at the speakers, her nails becoming talons and teeth becoming fangs. She’d let herself claw at every record, distorting every tune. The lights would snap under her palm and the bottles would shatter against the walls. The people would run from her, silently cowering back into the night that they claimed was their own. And she would be alone. All alone. She would lie on the ground, glass and blood haloing her silhouette, and she would breathe. Finally breathe. Her heart becoming her own again, no longer forced to dance. But she was still in the crowded room with lights flashing and noise blaring. So she played along. She kept the smile on her face all night, laughing as though she didn’t know she was losing herself in the heat of the room.

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The Friends We Meet Along the Way Lake Minnewaska, NY Ava Kaloz ’25 Photography

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Home to Many

Aidan Parascando ’26 Poetry There would be enough space in there, it thinks, to house a family of mice. Four small windows, calcium-rich flooring, and a grimacing open doorway flanked by a molar fence. It does not recall when scurrying paws prove the thought true. Nor when the soil whispers, reminds it, once home to one now again home to many. When crisp autumnal air beckons change, the grasses part for a serpent. Vermin flee before the winter herald, come lone keeper of their marrow labyrinth. A custodian shedding skin in solidarity with that which has forgot, and that which has been forgotten. Voiceless secrets are shared in an echo chamber, ignorant paradigm reborn in sleeping brood. Emerald eyes from empty sockets hold vigil till the last of rime tributes impermanence. Vacant by spring, the bone knows— no mourning. Moss reclaims bare surfaces, insulation for the next. Atop sprouts a fungal crown, flowers and weeds fill every hollow— a contradiction sunken on the forest floor, unable to answer. King of rot and king of life, fecund rule promised eternal. Such is the home to many.

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Nature’s Viewfinder Palace of Versailles, France Hannah Sung ’28 Photography

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Scrapmaster

Tom Quinones ’28 Fiction

Victoria Creek has been dead for one year. Or at least, it certainly seems that way. She knows, of course, that she is alive. That she drinks and breathes and eats like any other human does, that she is conscious and has thoughts and has—or used to have—dreams. But her thoughts constantly circle back to one particular idea. Not in the way that an artist ponders their magnum opus, or an inventor like herself wonders about something that can change the world, but rather like a pacing mind. A pacing mind that constantly echoes a two-word lie: what if. This is what makes Victoria think that she is actually dead. Of all the approximately eight thousand hours that made up the past year, five thousand of those were spent either locked away in her office, busy with old textbooks and her notebooks and the leftover writings of her father, or withering away in her lab, working until her arms ached and fingers bled, all in the vain hope that she could bring that idea to life and her head would finally shut up about what if. The nights trudge by with clicks of metal upon metal, the harsh pull of a lever, the crackle of electricity and lightning. Occasionally broken up by a brief retreat upstairs for coffee and to look at the papers again. At the end of it all, pure frustration. A feeling that’s not exactly soothed by sleep deprivation and a thin veil of caffeine. “Why?” Victoria asks, leaning forward on her workbench. Sometimes she asks this to herself, other times to her father (who has been long dead for fifteen years), and most of the time to the universe. “Why what, Vic?” another voice says. Hallie Clerval—her best friend, had insisted on helping with this. Victoria jumps at the answer, having completely forgotten Hallie was also in the lab. “Why this won’t work,” Victoria sighed. “Why the world doesn’t seem to want me to create it.” “Maybe some things can’t be created.” “That’s a nauseating way to think about things.” Hallie scoffs. “Nauseating, really? That there are things out of our control?” “The only thing that’s out of anyone’s control is that humans can’t be controlled.” Victoria stretched her back. “You’re going to say, ‘That’s hypocritical,’ or ‘Then what is this?’ so I will tell you now: it’s the greatest thing humans could create.” “You’re trying to recreate something. You’re trying to invent the impossible.” “A little over a hundred years ago, we thought it’d be impossible to fly. A little over fifty, we thought it’d be impossible to land on the moon. There is no such thing as impossible, Hallie, because the thing that humans do best is proving ourselves wrong.” Victoria pushes herself off the workbench, pacing around the room. “This is no different. I just have to think.” Victoria stops in her stride and looks to Hallie. “You don’t have to strain yourself by doing this,” Hallie said. “There’s easier ways to—” “ ‘There’s easier ways to deal with this,’ I know, Hallie, I know. I have every reason in the world to choose this way, though. You know that.” Hallie looked down at her feet. “Yeah, I do,” she murmured. 119

“Go to my office, get the book on my desk.” “Am I suddenly your assistant?” Victoria narrowed her eyes. “Please.” Hallie clenched her jaw, nodded, and left the lab. In all truth, Victoria did not need the book. She had dedicated the entire thing to memory: each and every page, every word, every footnote, even every crease in the paper created by the pressure of her fingertips. What she really wanted was a few minutes time to herself— that brief conversation was more than enough to muddle her mind. But now Victoria had to consider what Hallie had said. She looks upon the abstract mechanism on the workbench, and Hallie’s voice joins her head along with the idea that won’t seem to die. There’s easier ways to deal with this. What a sick joke. Hallie knows why Victoria is doing this. She knows what this invention is for, what void it’s supposed to fill, what purpose it serves. The purpose it serves is completion, happiness, fulfillment. Victoria sits down by the workbench, pulls her goggles over her face, and looks at the mechanism on the workbench. At the moment, it’s a barely discernible mass of steel and iron rebars, tangled wires, and tarnished gears and joints. In Victoria’s eyes, though, she could see it now, constructing itself from invisible lines and threads and coming alive, presenting itself to Victoria in its finalized glory like an old friend saying hello. Unfortunately for her, that was a mere two-second fantasy. It was still little more than a skeleton. So, she got to work, forgetting Hallie and the book she told her to get entirely. Victoria meticulously wired the components together, making it look less messy, and continued to fidget with the bolts. In her heart, Victoria knew she didn’t need to be so precise, but the simple act of perfection soothed her mind. Told her that this would go right this time. Occasionally, Victoria would lean back and look at the mechanism. There were three voices that would echo between her ears in these moments. There’s easier ways to deal with this. Hallie. The thing that humans do best is proving ourselves wrong. Herself. Victoria? “Victoria,” Hallie said, having entered back into the lab, a book tucked under her armpit, breaking Victoria out of her trance. “I got the book, but I’m guessing you don’t actually need it.” “Well, don’t you know me well,” Victoria stood up, stepping to the side of the workbench. “I think I might just have figured this one out. Partially, at least.” “I’m ready,” Hallie said. She picked up a pair of goggles from a shelf and stood back from the workbench. Victoria nodded, and took hold of a large industrial lever on the wall. She pulled it down, the metal slam echoing through the room, followed by crackling. Red electricity sparked through the room, crawling across the support beams of the lab, snaking its way to the mechanism on the workbench. Static and a droning buzz filled the air. Hallie had to lean against the wall to keep herself up, her head aching from the constant sound. Something else filled the air, too: a scent of charred flesh. But Victoria and Hallie were safe; the scent was not coming from them. The scent came from the mechanism. The red electricity flowed through the rebars, charged the metal, invigorated the wires with unnatural energy. Hallie could not see it entirely, but Victoria was close 120

enough. She could see with her own eyes that the wires began to bleed, the machine began to breathe, and steel was growing skin. Victoria flipped the switch. The air calmed and the droning ceased, and the red electricity fizzled out. Victoria approached the workbench first, followed by Hallie. What lies before them now: a man. Victoria felt her heart sinking as she looked at him. The man turned his head to Victoria first, a grinding sound emanating from his neck as the metal joints moved. His eyes had electric blue streaks across them. “Victoria?” the man croaked. “Hello, Ellis,” Victoria said, her voice choking up. “It’s been some time.” “Where are we?” “We’re at my house, Ellis. Do you remember? My house?” “Somewhat.” “What do you remember?” “I... I do not know.” “Something, Ellis, come on,” Victoria’s eyebrows furrowed. Her throat felt constricted. “I remember you.” Victoria sighed, stepping away from the workbench and to a control panel on the wall. “That’s not enough.” Hallie stepped forward. “Victoria, what are you doing?” “Why am I on this table, Victoria?” Ellis said. Victoria looked back at Ellis, into his eyes. Her gaze quickly fell apart, though. She brought her hand to the control panel, reaching for a button— “The wedding.” Victoria stopped. She looked at Ellis, then to Hallie, mouth agape with the same shock. She looked back at Ellis again. “What’s that?” “The wedding, Vic. When is the wedding?” “It was—” her voice broke. “A very, very long time ago.” “Did I miss it?” “You did.” “What happened?” “You died a year ago.” Before Ellis could speak again, Victoria slammed the button on the control panel. Electricity sparked out again— normal electricity, not red but pale blue. It shot through Ellis’s body, burning away his hair, his eyes, his skin, until he was little more than a skeleton of metal once more. “Why did— why did you do that?” Hallie asked. “It’s not close enough,” Victoria kept her head turned away from Hallie. “But he looked— he sounded—” “Not close enough, Hallie.” “Will he ever be perfect, Vic?” Victoria didn’t know.

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Rebirth

Procreate Ashley Laub ’27 Art

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I did not take your peach Via Sargente ’25 Poetry

Beneath the boughs, the peach did hang, A fruit both cherished and desired. Yet those aloft, with hands held high, Claimed it theirs for acquisition, not allocation. They seized the peach, so ripe and sweet, Leaving only rot for those below. Unaware, I thought it mine to assume— Gifted, not stolen. Blind to the toil of diligent hands, The labor that birthed each tender fruit, I reveled in my plenty, juices sweet, Unmindful of the sourness endured. Still, in this orchard’s unequal yield, Calls rise for redress and equity— Not solely for me, the favored one, But for those deprived, their hunger unmet. Pilfered seeds and pilfered fruit, Reparations sought— A plea that echoes through the vineyard. Yet I fail to grasp the depths of need. A divide so stark, laid bare to see— Abundance and want. I assert innocence, yet partake From what is denied to others’ reach. 123

Let empathy guide this orchard’s fate, Acknowledging a truth long unspoken. It remains an unripe fruit Until each hand may pluck from the branch.

Dumbo

Dumbo, NYC Bella Loiacono ’27 Photography

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