THE LANCE
LITERARY MAGAZINE
The Lance
2024
Mercy High School
Baltimore, Maryland
The Lance
Editors:
Taylor Alston ‘24
Maddie Armstrong ‘24
Mia Brown ‘24
Sophia Pulia ‘24
Syd Webb ‘24
Georgia Hanna-Leverett ‘25
Erin Moran ‘25
Moderator:
Ms. Renee Newberry
Front Cover:
Evy Brink ‘27
Inside Art:
Mia Brown ‘24, CodiMari Manning ’27, Victoria Kurzatkowski ‘27
The Lance would like to thank our artists, writers, and staff for their generous contributions to this year’s issue. Thank you!
How to See Beauty
by Georgia Hanna-Leverett ‘25
I cannot tell you the definition of beauty; the set of words that define it in the dictionary, decided by people who think in analytics, rather than those who find meaning, and beauty, in other ways. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but I can tell you how to feel it, and where to look for it.
The answer, simply, lies in ordinary things. The answer is right in front of you.
Beauty can be seen when you make someone you love smile, when you make them laugh; that bright, bubbly sound that rises from deep within them, and you feel as though you matter to someone, that you are worth something more than you’d thought.
See beauty when you pour your coffee into your favorite mug in the morning, before stopping to glance outside at the rising sun, and at the golden beams of daylight that seep into the room from the ever-changing world outside.
Find it when you come home to your forever-loyal dog that greets you with happiness and love every time you return and set foot in the house.
1 The Lance Georgia Hanna-Leverett
Notice...no. Cherish the beauty in hugging those that give you a place to call home in their warm embrace.
Look for beauty on that walk that you take by yourself around the neighborhood. Listen to the sounds of the air around you, to the birds calling out to each other in song as you stroll.
Feel the beauty of that moment when you are driving alone with the windows down, and as you turn a curve the best part of your favorite song hits a crescendo, and the noise fills your ears.
Be present when you are with your family, and you all laugh before the story is even finished, being retold about something your little brother did when he was seven, or was it eight?
Take in the beauty of the idea of the future, when you think about all the places you want to go, that you will go. Find it when you think about the impossible number of possibilities for your tomorrow. Instead of anxiety, you’re filled with wonder, excitement, and most of all, hope.
I do know what beauty is: love.
Beauty is love, and love is all around us, if you just look.
My Curls
by Jordin Helmick ‘26
The good hair and the bad
The relaxers and the perms
The smell of burnt hair
And fried curls
Aligning with the rest of the dead strands
That lie on her naive head
Frizz Kinks Naps
It's always the bad adjectives describing what I have And I may only be half
But I still argue on behalf
Of the curls of the brown
And now
I'm afraid I'll drown
In a pool of white lies
Told by brown girls
With hidden curls
Will It Hurt?
by Maria Chalkia ‘27
I am six years old
Dad just left my mom and I I just scraped my knee after falling off My pink princess bike.
“Its okay, you can hold my hand,” says my mother while she puts a Barbie band-aid on my wound. I reach for her hand with sparkly blue painted nails
Like the ocean.
“Will it hurt much longer?”
I am 12 years old and I am laying in a heap on my bed
The cramps are so bad I can barely move
“Only for a little, you're a woman now! But you can still hold my hand,” says my mother I squeeze the hand of my mother
“Will it hurt?”
I am 16 and staring at a breakup text from my first serious boyfriend.
“You will grow and move past it, my beautiful girl,”
she says, a tear running down her cheek.
I lean into my mother's embrace while waterfalls pour from my eyes.
Her gentle hands stroke my hair.
"Will it hurt?"
I am 18
I am graduating from high school today.
Staring at the freshly pressed cap and gown on my bed.
My mother's work no doubt.
"You will have such a bright future my love, I'm so proud of you”
She holds my hand, and we listen to our favorite songs on the way to the school
As I walk across the stage,
I see my mother in the audience In the front row.
"Will it hurt?"
I am 25
I am about to give birth to my first child, A girl.
My mother is by my side the whole time.
“It will, but the reward is worth more than you’ll ever know”
I grab my mother's hand so tight that she can give me some of her incredible strength.
Until I heard my daughter’s cry for the first time. She was right.
"Will it hurt watching her leave?"
I am 29
“She will do great things.” My mother stands next to me
My daughter’s first day of school
I watch her walk toward the school with her little backpack
“You can always hold my hand,” she says looking at me with her kind eyes and a gentle smile
We both wave goodbye
To my little girl
"Will it hurt her?"
I am 50
My daughter is all grown up now, I sit next to my mother in the hospital
She has cancer and the doctors told us
“She doesn't have much time left”
A tear glides down my cheek.
I think about all the times she's held my hand
All the times I've felt her gentle embrace
All my successes she's been there, front row
Her face is wrinkled from her kind smiles and words
I hold her hand
Her nails are still sparkly blue.
"It's okay, Mom, you can hold my hand now.”
Codimari Manning ‘27
My Orange Childhood
by Madeleine Armstrong ‘24
It is the color of my mother’s mixing spoon,
The plastic at the end, outstretched to me as She allows me to sample what she’s baking.
The color of the toy chopsticks
My brothers and I would fight over when She decided to concoct sushi for me because I liked it so much.
The vision of my father’s warm fire crackling at night,
Light reflecting on wintry pines, Sparks flying out when I drop in a pinecone
And blackening the tip of my worn shoes.
My nose intoxicated with smoke
He chastises me and makes sure I’m okay.
The marshmallow that I’ve put too close to the flame
Just as it sets ablaze
And one moment before I complain and blow it out.
I always preferred mine golden-brown.
The little flowers that are potted all around the neighborhood
In assorted pots, petals pungent with their vibrance
In late spring, early summer
As the robins hop about the field
And their offspring have just hatched.
Honey from the Vermont produce market
So sweet and rich a spoonful
Would make your mouth pucker.
The scent of a citrus freshly peeled, You break its skin and it tastes like heaven.
The honey sits on the shelf at home
Sugared and crusted from when my brothers
Left the bottle open those few years ago.
The time for summer fruit was months ago.
It is the hues of the sun
That I have seen far too many times
With my family under that sitting tree, Picnic blanket spread but pine needles were still in my shoes;
The view I see from my window
In my room as I glance from the sight
To the papers piled before me, black and blue and white, Orange and pink, then black and blue and white. The hues of the sun and the sky
As it is crushed under its own weight And takes its last breath.
Mia Brown ‘24
[Today I am hurting]
by Jacqueline Kehoe ‘25
Today I am hurting
Tomorrow I dig wells
I water the roots
That quench the sweet swells
Right now brings hope
That tomorrow remembers I unlock a passage
That only time can surrender. I am living and learning
Until the day comes When I pack up my bags
And head for the sun
Even if she may blind me
And cast shadows on my back
She sets still to remind me
To forgive the things I lack.
Cowardice
by Ali Epstein ‘24
As a human person, I am made up more of guilt than integrity. I’ve gotten the two confused for too long. It made me wonder why this integrity, that was supposed to be so concretely rooted in me by my upbringing and schooling, seemed to fizzle out at inopportune times. The week of the school carnival I’d decided to swipe two candy bars from the desk of my physics teacher, Mrs. Linder. I was caught. It was much easier to steal then; people were more trusting than they are now, but still, I was caught. I’d never done a thing like that in my life. I didn’t really know how it was done. “You’d better have a darn good explanation,” I was told. “A model student, a senior. What were you thinking?”
I didn’t have anything to satiate them. In truth, I was just very hungry. I’d forgotten my lunch, the room was open, and the candy bars were so seductively placed upon an open textbook. My brain snapped shut like the lens of a camera and I took them. I was suspended for three days and barred from the school carnival. I’d never felt so humiliated. It taught me, not integrity, but another schema for my guilt, what I now knew had a strange
The Lance Ali Epstein
ability to falter and fail me seemingly at random. I had hoped, rather ineffectually, I’d never do anything like it again.
Tomorrow at 6 a.m., I am scheduled to be shot for cowardice, a crime even more humiliating than thievery. It’s almost made me wish I’d been shot dead that day in the school hallway, thief stamped plainly across my otherwise unmarked grave in the schoolyard, my parents too ashamed to visit me with flowers and tears. At least they’d be nearby. I don’t even know where I am. Somewhere in France. Somewhere in 1945. I’ve been moved around a good deal.
“A model solider. Nearly a specialist. You’d better have a darn good explanation.”
There really was no explanation, except that I was scared and cold and my camera lens had once again clicked and shuttered closed. My brain wobbled around in my head like a hardboiled egg, and I found it strange I should be treated so similarly as a coward as I was a thief. Cowardice is an act merely of survival.
Then again, I was very hungry that day in physics. In my cell is a small cot, a pot for excrement, and a cheap bible. I’ve started ripping up the pages of it, placing the little paper bits on my tongue, and
13 The Lance Ali Epstein
letting them melt. The paper is so thin it melts like communion wafers. It tastes a bit like communion wafers. I wonder if everything religious is made out of Jesus. It makes me miss my mother. When the soldiers come for me in the morning, I shall be bustled along by big guns and steel-toed boots and mean faces. I’ve decided, that when the time comes, and I am to be shot, I will think of Cape Cod. Of a summer house my family had there when I was a boy and where I’d spend summers with a friend I’d had since grade school and hadn’t seen since I’d been drafted. We’d spend a lot of time out in the ocean, big salt flakes sticking to our skin, or racing along the beach tripping over the rocks that formed themselves into clusters around the shoreline. It’s the only very clear memory I can muster that doesn’t revolve around one humiliation or another. When it’s time I’ll have my eyes closed, not squeezed, but relaxed. I’ll try very hard to drown out the sound of the pistol cocking or the sergeant yelling “fire.” I’ll attempt not to think about pain or about death. I’ll wait patiently on the deck of my summer home, and pray that when things do go dark, and I am met with what I hope will be heaven, God will not ask me with a hardened scowl for a darn good explanation.
The Lance Ali Epstein
[gray Rock, Gray Feathers]
by Mia Brown ‘24
Gray Rock, Gray Feathers
Orange as passionate rage, blinded be by my eye.
White as wind and gust; motion be by my arm.
Blue as the bleeding of one’s eyes, soft blood, salty blood.
Black as the ash of scrape, cold, dry, yet warm, wet.
Red Rock, Red Feathers
Explanation of Surreal Poetry
by Ms. Coburn’s Freshman Intro to Art Class
Have you ever dreamt of a clock melting on a tree branch, or a typewriter spewing out butterflies?
Surrealist poetry takes the familiar and twists it into something strange and wonderful, just like dreams!
Surrealism, an artistic movement that began in the early 1900’s after WWI, aimed to unlock the power of the unconscious mind. Surrealist poets used unexpected imagery, metaphors, and free association to create dreamlike poems that challenged traditional logic and meaning.
This semester, our three freshman visual arts classes explored the world of surrealism! At the end of the unit they collaborated on poems based on random word lists and placement. They hopefully captured surrealism.
Their surrealist creations will have you questioning reality, embracing the unexpected, and maybe even dreaming a little brighter tonight!
Here is an example of an existing surrealist poem by a surrealist poet, André Breton, who is credited with coining the name of the movement Surrealism:
Free Speech
A forest grows on the piano.
A violinist’s bow caresses the horizon.
A red fish sings in my ear.
The shadows lengthen on the turned-up pages of a book about the sea.
Surreal Poem by Intro to Art pattern H
An enigma of my effervescent life
Experiencing serendipity: ephemeral yet everlasting
The nostalgia of the euphonious giggles of childhood, dreams flashing by like constellations
A whimsical ephemeral garden
It shines with luminescence covering the sun’s scintillating light. The sun beams incandescently
In the heart of a gossamer labyrinth
The tapestries of your mind, hung up so serene and divine
A silhouette in the dark
The symphony of the grand piano was mellifluous to the ear, anyone could agree. You cocoon to reemerge anew
Surreal Poem
by Intro to Art Pattern G
I daydream multiple stories, the stories are full of glory
The lighthouse whispers like the treasured misters
Whimsical amusement park was under a rainbow and a girl there with a backpack full of gold
The daffodil and evergreen symphony
With storytelling curiosity of the blue dinosaur. The beautiful butterfly sang a wonderful melody on a sunny day by the amusement park under a rainbow.
Shining seashells echoes the giggles in harmony
The puzzle like mussels, Sprinkle some joy. It is a beautiful harmony that makes our hearts twinkle.
Could not compare to the perfect constellation.
Who Am I?
by Jordin Helmick ‘26
Sometimes when I look in that mirror
All I see is a stranger
Blankly staring back at me
Mouthing the words I once spoke
Shedding the tears I once cried
Sometimes I wave my hand back and forth
Just to check if it's really me
I look the stranger
Up and down
And she does the same
Her empty eyes begin to fill with envy,
For she wishes
She was as happy as I seem
Pride,
For I am created
From her judgmental looks and disgusted glances
And relief,
As she finally realizes
That I can’t hide behind that fine layer
Of reflective glass
The way she does
A Harlem Party
by Syd Webb ‘24
Lavish, flamboyant, and overzealous; loud, overbearing brass instruments; cheap, hard liquor; and the finest coke in town had everyone’s spirits and fancy up to the hundreds. Yet it was all a sham, as always in this city.
The party was supposed to celebrate some star’s latest hit– some film about a scorned lover’s revenge plan– but everyone couldn’t care less about that. We were here to party, let loose, and forget about our wrongs and regrets, some more than others.
It was hard to move throughout the room, though ostentatious and spacious in nature. The mewling of bodies all over the house quickly overtook the live jazz band, becoming one unanimous sound. Adding to this disorientating feeling, the dancing caused one to feel as if they were bobbing in water, drowning yet free all at the same time.
Pushing through the crowd, I found a modicum of solace on a banister not too far from a landing packed with drinks and other fun treats. I grabbed myself a rum and coke.
“There she is,” some guy gasped in astonishment to the lady next to him.
And he was right. There she was in all her glory. Woman of the hour, socialite of the century, ruler of this city– Priscilla DuVal. Deep creamy long legs dressed in black stilettos, thick in all the right places, a face you could never forget, and by God, she knew it.
“Ugh, and there goes her entourage,” the lady replied with a distinct sneer in her voice.
Priscilla was followed by a cohort of men, young and old, all aspiring to be her escort for the night, a pleasure none of them would have. They shadowed her every move, prancing around her in a seemingly choreographed gesture– holding her drink, her coat, her cigarette. Constantly fluffing her hair, complimenting and swooning over her every chance they got.
Her presence dominated the party. The live band ceased all noise, a representation of everyone’s astute attention to her every move, her every glance, her every word. The ocean of bodies parted as if she was Moses leading this party, us lowly commoners, to salvation.
As she strutted across the floor, she blew kisses to every guy and winked at every gal she could. The
tension in the room was high, as if she wanted everyone to taste her, yet she made it known she was untouchable. She wrapped her silk scarf around this one tall fellow, bringing him a hair's breadth away from her lips, but before he could pucker his lips and close the gap, she pushed him away with a sultry hand. Finally, as she made her way to the center of the floor, one of her lackeys handed her a cigarette. As she took a hit, she slowly blew a puff of smoke into the face of this thin girl. Sighing, the girl fainted and fell into the understanding arms of the crowd behind her, leading to a ceremonious uproar as the party recommenced.
Leaning against the wall, I zoned out most of the night. One girl tried to talk me up, in hopes of finding a room, a bed, for the night. But she was too pale, too thin, and too small for me to care about what she had to say. She eventually gave up, annoyed by my one-worded answers– finally, leaving me to my own thoughts and whims. It was nearing 1 am, the halfway point of the night. Priscilla was being lifted in the air, some theatrics her lackeys wanted to pull off. Hands reached for her as she shined, her ethereal form lighting up the center like a disco ball.
All of a sudden, the lights crashed, and a screech sounded as the band ceased to play without assurance from their lust-filled audience. Excited yet confused murmurs sounded throughout the room, all hooked on what could possibly be happening now. Until… Bang.
A single gunshot reverberated within the space. Dead silence that felt as if it lasted forever. Then the unholy shrieks of confusion and fear from all over. I stalked my way up to the second floor, curious to see the chaos unfold below.
The ocean rattled and shook, each wave trampling over the other– one trying to find the lights and one the door. After what felt like five minutes, someone shouted, “Found ‘em!” and our sense of vision was regained—
“Body!!” A shriek pierced the comfort of light. “It’s Priscilla!” a voice confirmed.
I Want My Moon Back
by Izzy Mitchell ‘25
My Luna, my Luna, my Luna
Oh how I miss my Luna
Without you leaves my tide low and lifeless
Your reflection no longer shows on me
Forgive my angry words, for I drained you to a crescent
What’s left of you are your stars
Their want and need for you glisten onto me
The pain they endure does not need to reflect on me
You being gone is enough for every ounce of pain to rise above my waters
The war you endeavored is still being fought by me
My waters are no longer clear
There is a depth and a heavy layer that no one can see past
My happiness is buried under the rigid sand
Losing you meant losing all of me
My tide is low
My waves are gone
The once gentle sand buries my sorry beneath its coarse judgment
I am judged for letting you go
I judge my quiet waters with the loudest shame
I want my wild waves back, I want my moon back
Thalia
(A Forgotten Siren Song)
by Syd Webb ‘24
Her voice calls out to me, sings my name in tongues I do not know. I shouldn’t leave. I shouldn’t move. I shouldn’t stray from the group. Yet her voice beckons to me like a siren. The residuals of her voice drown my head, my thoughts in soft, loving whispers— caressing me like a lost dog finding a new home, a new owner.
Another season of martyred leaves fracture under my weight as I drift towards the sound where I believe she’s waiting for me. The woods shift into an indescribable void as the light of my friends leaves me. A cacophony of sounds floods my mind trying to deceive and steer me off course. The shadows, I fear I see in the distance, mock her, calling my name in her voice, her tone, yet it all sounds like the grating of forks on precious china. But they cannot take me away from her, a her I do not know. No matter my fear, I cannot simply turn and run. I cannot stop looking for her, searching for the one who utters my name like it’s home.
Drawing closer to the lake at the edge of the forest, I feel her near. I call out her name Thalia, a name I’ve never said before, yet it is familiar to my lips. By the water, I see a figure. It must be her, Thalia, my love. I cry out her name again and again, reciting it like a prayer, tripping over myself to reach her. As I cast my hand out to touch her, to hold her, the figure dissipates. She leaves me, once again. A hole sears a place into my heart. Yet as I fall to my knees and sob, I lose sight over who or what my heart aches for.
bodies
by Elizabeth Thompson ‘27
bodies bodies are sold, tortured, used, abused, and left to rot and die alone they ask why should we care we reply what if it were your mother what if it were your daughter sister cousin friend we reduce ourselves to relationships strip away our feelings and personality so that they understand so that they empathize so that they hear so that they hurt so that they help
The Lance Elizabeth Thompson
Simpler Times
by Amelia Broccolina ‘25
And now we go by his house
Like we have no relation to it Like it’s just another building
No connection No memories
Just like anyone else who would drive by.
I wonder if the house remembers us. The pitter-patter of our feet
The click of his cane
The loud laughter The games we used to play. We were all inseparable. Things were simple back then.
I wonder if they remember it too.
Mother Of Mine
by Mia Brown ‘24
Mother of mine, cry no more, for the ease of pain is slow.
Mother of mine, cry no more, for one less load of laundry is to be done.
Mother of mine, cry no more, for no more begging of cleaning your room is abound.
Mother of mine, cry no more, for happier days will come soon.
Mother of mine, cry no more, for my trinkets are all yours.
Mother of mine, hold me. Hold me once more, once more before I go.
Let your tears stain me, mark me. Mark me, mother of mine. Mother.
Let them trickle down your deep cheeks, let them fall onto my heart.
Expose yourself for who I know you as. Expose me for the love that we shared.
Hold my hand once more, squeeze it until my skin turns another color.
Smell me once more, your perfumes and the ones I bought with my own money. Hold me for a long time. Don’t let go.
Mother of mine, cry no more, as I will always be with you.
Mother of mine, cry no more, as my memory will always be with you.
Mother of mine, cry no more, as you will have mini me as I with mini you.
Mother of mine, smile, as that is when I know everything is okay.
Mother of mine. I love you, always and forever.
Mother of mine, never let me go.
Separated from Eden
(a continuation of "The Yellow Wallpaper," by
Charlotte PerkinsGilman)
by Madeleine Armstrong ‘24
Holy water runs down my face, falling like little rivulets. They feel like tears, so I touch them with my tongue to taste them. No, they are not tears, they taste like iron and they taste like blood, gleeful little blood rivulets merrily jumping and dripping down the cracks in my papery skin. When I touch them with my finger they come back clear and wet but I know that they are blood. God is bleeding on me and trying to change me. But He does not know how happy I am!
I had wanted to creep forever, but when John awoke a minute or so later his face was pallid and ashy and dusty and gray like the patches where the plaster was newer and not faded and old and yellow tinged like that moving paper that stained everything it touched and that I peeled to free the woman before the creeping and creeping and John interrupted and fainted rudely in the way, oh but he awoke and his face was grim and ashen and his
hands they shook like daffodils quivering under raindrops with sudden weight and shielding themselves with petals closed from further pain. Oh, I realized then, he thought I would hurt him. I laughed at him, that uptight man in fear before me before my realization (Eureka!) A revelation really of a new way of thinking I couldn’t believe I was free I was as fluttery as a bird though I kept myself to the ground free. He stumbled out tripping on the loose wallpaper panels that rolled like cigarettes and crumbled like them too, I wanted to set them alight and watch as they curled into ash, but as I was thinking this he slammed the door shut and locked it with the key, I remembered that sound of the rusty joints opening and closing and the gentle shutter ticking. At last! I thought to myself happily. Sanctuary at last! Here I could freely creep as I pleased. My hands were tinged yellow like saffron rice, no, like turmeric, some wonderful fermented spice. The room smelled of me, like I'd made my own musk, and it was a fog to sift through. I could see the dust in the corners coating the cracks, and I knew that were I ever to leave I would know that the memory of me would never quite disappear, as a room does when you’ve lived in it too long, yet this was more than a room it was my world and outside
was the room, it was here that I was in the open air, my open air, and everyone else was closed off with their doors shut and old keys clicking and locks shuttering closed and they would not let me in but they did not know that I did not want to be let in. It was not John who opened the door much later but some unknown man I did not recognize who wore black clothing with a white piece at his collar, the name of who he was escaped me it was from a different time before the room and the wallpaper and the rope and those faces too much like rotted garlic glaring at me. He entered with John at his heels and took command of the room like he was a Conquistador and I one of the Natives forced to be subject to their terror and he looked down on me with disdain and disgust, di, di, di, I tested that on my tongue too thinking about it and it only attracted more attention on my behalf. I looked out at the natural light behind them, I had covered my window in the wallpaper so that they could not take me away but it appeared that I was wrong, they had come to take me away because it was getting darker in their room but out in the open where I was the light never went out because it was all just right but I knew where they wanted to put me and I knew that because night was coming soon they wanted to put
me in the wallpaper so I quick jumped up and they both jerked away and I tore that wallpaper away from my window and I tore it into shreds so I would be safe. “You’re to put me back, aren’t you? I knew you would! But I will not go, I am free and I will not be put away again!” I looked at the paper still curling on the floor and not torn up and remembered how desperately I had wanted to set them alight and now wished that I had, I was afraid and there now they looked more like a serpent curling up and getting ready to rear its head in a fit of rage and hunger it was hungering for me and I had to run while I could back into the wall so I hoisted myself up on all four limbs and straggled to the corner and hissed, for a serpent would be well combated with another of its kind, I would pretend I was one as well and would cease creeping to slither for a while although my limbs made it especially difficult and I wondered would it be easier if I were without them. Then I remembered that John and the strange man in black were in the room and I hoped the wallpaper would go for them instead, perhaps they would be better off in the wallpaper than I, as one so experienced with its creeping and slithering ways.
I watched the man in black draping clothing tap his forehead then his collarbone then his left shoulder and right shoulder in a hurried motion as his face also went as ashen gray as John’s when he had seen me an hour ago. Why was John with this man? I had thought he did not care for faith or the metaphysical but it seemed like this man he understood me or it was the exact opposite of understanding, he understood but he was terrified of understanding. “My Lord and Savior protect us.” From whom? The wallpaper? No, the man in the black draped clothing took a step back and John stepped to the side of him with a grim face and the both of them trampled on the wallpaper and as they stepped on it I knew it made a mark on the wood floor beneath and the foe was vanquished and I felt my heart slowly crush and I was worried that since I had come from such a place I would also be crushed and now malformed and bent and curled like that paper. My hands were still yellow and my dress was coated in yellow and I knew that if I touched my face my face would have yellow And I had to stare at the fabric of my dress now too to make sure there were no bulb garlic heads or women behind bars creeping to get out and oh my God I had to get away from it I began to tear at the fabric of my dress but
then I remembered that the two were in the room and I remembered what the man in the draped clothing had said, asking to be protected, oh, protected from me, he and John had become one in the same. I wondered if the men were like we women, that they came from wallpaper as well, perhaps green, no, gray, because they both were gray and monochrome in their colorless clothing.
“Please help her, father,” John said and he was pallid like marble now with his veins gray and I thought this might be what he looked like dead oh but that was an awful thought despite its truth, I did not wish for John to die. Any-way the man was most certainly not John’s father they looked nothing alike and were similar in age I thought, but then like a flash of light through the trees, there all of a sudden and then gone, I remembered he was a priest, but the word sounded odd to me, pree- like preening, not quite like private but close enough. They stared at me and their eyes grew mouths and bit me on the cheeks, and I clapped my hands against them in horror, monsters!
The priest slowly put his book down–he was holding a book that blended into his clothing and so I could not see it until the object was separate, a black Bible, and from within the folds of this
encompassing fabric he took out a vial and I pressed myself further against the naked wall and now I wished that I had indeed folded myself back into the paper and crept behind bars for the night if only for this moment when they were endangering me I knew not what they had up their sleeves.
“O Eternal and Omnipotent God,” the priest began reading from that bible he had held it in his hands now “who mad'st Heaven and Earth and all that therein is, save and deliver this thy Servant from these Evil Spirits, and from all Diabolical Power, that all men may know, how great is thy mercy, and how infinite is thy power.”
They thought I was a demon?? How horrid of them, to think myself possessed! “Stop!” I exclaimed. “Stop at once!”
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, free this thy Servant from all her languishing, and from all the disturbances of Ghosts and Evil Spirits, through thy most holy compassion. The God Sabaoth, the God Emmanuel, the God Elohim,”
Stop! Stop it now! They are trying to cure me of something I have no part in!
“Visit, O Lord, we beseech thee, this Habitation and Creature of thine—”
No!
“And remove far away from him all the snares and assaults of the Devil. Let thy Angels, Michael, Raphael and Gabriel dwell therein—”
Enough!
“To preserve it in peace and from all unclean Spirits; and let thy blessing be always upon us.”
His hand is on my head it feels like some enormous spider, enormous smattering thing hot and heavy and sweaty and firmly holding onto my hair, my scalp
Now he dashes the vial on my head and lets it pour out onto me my hair is wet it has not been wet in quite some while and it is streaming down my face into my eyes coating my hair my ears and now it is dripping down my neck and passing down my body and very little absorbed by my clothing I am wet and unclean this is cold and I am repulsed
I see John watching me squirm in the corner as he looks over the priest’s shoulder [shoulder and corner quite rhyme it would seem as if I have begun a bit of a poem and so I shall continue] whose hand over my head is quite like a boulder and John’s expression is panicked and somber while the priest’s is impeccably sober and I feel myself growing older as the water gets colder like a plum pruning and a sore bruising and oozing and ooh
There is silence. Not in my head, of course, not in the chorus of the other women around creeping in the shadows, but from my husband and the priest. They wait. They watch me. I watch them. Have they become the yellow wallpaper with its watchful eyes or have I? They say nothing to give it away.
“We must take her out,” the priest says finally, “remove her from this space.”
I will not go. I know this already. “No!” I scream in terror. “You cannot remove me from this place! You cannot take me from my world into your dark little rooms! I am free I am free leave me be leave me be”
They are upon me in an instant like starving wolves upon a perfect prey. I scream and I kick my feet and I wail and they grab my arms and drag me away, away from the paper away from the women away from the world in which I have discovered and I need a landmark I need paper to keep me safe and I want to grab a piece as I am dragged by and it catches on my dress for a bit leaving yellow residue but I cannot grab it because they are holding my arms and I wail more and they ignore my cries (John is gone to me, what has he done to me???) and they drag me away from the world in which I have
discovered they drag me away dragging dragging dragging and my dress catches on the wood now and I worry for splinters but at least they would keep me rooted to this place, I am an old massive oak that has grown in this forest with roots ten feet deep and they are pulling me out they are digging out the soil in between and they are uprooting me as if I were a weed as if I were contaminating this place and I cannot, I cannot stand and their grips are hard on my arms and it hurts and I am unable to watch as I try to thrash more out of their grip but my feet cross through the doorway and the door miraculously shuts closed behind all of us and I can be a part of its world no longer I feel like Eve as she bit the forbidden fruit and was forced into exile from Eden that was my Eden and they–John and the priest–are Satan!
What Is Perfect?
by Peyton Yoder ‘27
When she was little, all she wanted to do was grow up
Be like the big kids
But now, as she lays in the darkness of her room, she is brought back to her First Day of Kindergarten
Holding up a sign reading First Day of School, big cheesy smile lighting up her face
Her mother takes pictures of her on the front steps of their house
Getting teary-eyed behind the camera lens, thinking where have all the days gone?
But now it isn’t the same, Now her mom can’t help but tear up as she looks at the rain cloud that stays hovering over her daughter's head
Her daughter stuck in a world
That whatever she seems to do there will always be consequences
As she wakes up each morning, she spends extra hours in front of her mirror
Making sure her makeup is spotless
Covering up any acne that appeared overnight
Because acne is apparently disgusting, and it won’t make her as pretty
She goes to leave for school
Her dad asks, “Hey, Hun, you want anything for breakfast?”
Nope she’s good
Because although she's starving,
She doesn’t need those extra carbs
She needs the perfect summer body
But now it's summer
She stands in her floor length mirror,
Looking at her body in the beautiful bikini she just bought
Wondering why she looks like that?
Why can she not look like those celebrities
She only sees through a tiny screen
She sits in class, receiving a test back from the teacher
Omg she got an A!
She’s thrilled as she goes to tell her friends
But they say “it's not that deep”
Deep Deep Deep
Deeper into her thoughts she goes, Why can’t she be smarter?
It comes so easy for her friend to get good grades, Why can’t she be more confident?
Her other friend doesn’t care what anyone thinks
Overthink
Overthink
Overthink
Is all she seems to do
She wishes everyday she was back on the front steps of her house
A big ray of sunshine, so excited for her First Day
Back when life was simpler
No overthinking, no worries
Because all society has taught her is to be perfect But what is perfect? Is she perfect? Are you perfect?
Victoria Kurzatkowski ‘27
Heartbreak
by Syd Webb ‘24
I carry my cold, unwanted heart to its grave, A desolate field that beckons for lost lovers. My first step is overcome with a pungent wave of sadness, Forcing my body to collapse over the frostbitten grass.
I hold on tightly to the withering organ, If I die here, I lose forever.
Inch by inch, I drag my forsaken frame towards the end. Seconds pool into minutes, Which pool into hours, Finally drowning in years.
My body is bitter and stiff, My heart aches in my chest But I have finally made it To the altar, to the grave.
An ornate pedestal sits in front of me, Waiting for my frigid heart. I know what must be done.
I grasp at my chest, Digging my fingers in to the center, Desperately clawing out my heart. It is disgusting. It is wet. And it hurts beyond words, The only sounds being the agonizing screams of waiting and rejection. Yet it is cathartic.
As my heart spills out of the cavity, The biting wind brushes back my tears. I gently scoop up my heart. Though it is still cold, It timidly beats awake.
Setting it upon the pedestal, I clear my mind and rise.
I walk past the grave, past this frigid wasteland.
From a Doom Town in Nevada
Inspired by the Ray Bradbury story “There
Will Come Soft Rains”
by Ali Epstein ‘24
His signal, ever flashing, had been ignored since he’d arrived. Ignored in Alabama, in Texas, in New Mexico, and in New York (he wasn’t exactly sure where old York was but figured it would’ve probably been ignored there, too). It was now ignored in Nevada, sixty-seven miles outside of Las Vegas. He’d heard rumors that there were creatures of his race in a government property called Area 15, and though he hadn’t a prayer of finding anything, he had very little else to do, and he supposed a goal would do him some good.
He landed on Earth in the year 3000, somewhere in what used to be Cheyanne. He’d heard unkind things about Wyoming, and supposed the way of things was merely a byproduct of the state, rather than what the whole planet had been so violently reduced to. From there he walked to California and expected to find it in much better condition. He’d heard it was the pinnacle of earthling representation, that all around the world people
would gather to watch video footage of the humans there. But he found it in the same sorry condition he’d found Wyoming. Blown out windows, bare frames of homes, heat baking off the jigsaw puzzle concrete. It was then that he began to panic. He hadn’t seen any life other than a few sickly-looking street animals and deer with too many eyes and gunk coming from their nostrils. The entire place gave him a very creepy feeling. Somewhere in the desert, he had begun to feel very ill. Though he’d had that queasy feeling that came with radiation poisoning almost since he’d first landed, it grew worse the farther he traveled into the arid land of Nevada. Somewhere in the last month he’d grown welts on his back and bled most days from his nose, a thing so uncommon on his planet he hadn’t been entirely convinced it was possible. His head grew weary, and his eyes leaked a yellowish sort of puss closely resembling human mucus. If he hadn’t been so bent on finding what didn’t exist, he may have realized just how awful he felt, but his mind was preoccupied, and the fever only heightened his determination. He had lost all ability to reason.
49 The Lance Ali Epstein
His search for Area 15 which, if he hadn’t transposed the numbers, and had been looking for the very real property Area 51, he would’ve found with a sizable alien population working on the technology needed to return to their home planets, was cut short by a coincidental stumble upon something surprising. A ghost town of about twelve family-style homes lined up out there in the middle of nowhere. Some were nearly destroyed, doors blown clean off their hinges, roofs caving into their upper floors like a sinkhole. Others, farther into the distance, were perfectly intact, cars parked in open garages, driveways clear of rubble. It was the first set of buildings Mort had seen that were so untouched.
A particularly bright building in the very center of the block caught Mort’s attention. It was a vivid blue, dusty now, like the fading memory of a cheap beachside motel. A cherry red convertible was parked in its driveway, and its door was lopsided on its hinges. He tried it, finding that the hinges nearly broke off completely at his touch.
Though all buildings he’d visited on earth had a feeling of abandonment, this house, this place, had the distinct quality of lifelessness. No used coffee cups lay molding in the kitchen sink. No papers
50 The Lance Ali Epstein
scattered themselves across the office floor. The bedrooms held no clothing, no perfumes, no dolls for a little girl, or records for a teenage boy. Nothing but the undented couch cushions and lightly drawn curtains bleached by the blazing desert sun suggested anyone had ever been there at all.
Just beyond the doorway was a living room fully furnished in a ‘60s mod style. The furniture was bright and angular, as if painted by a cubist. Dust settled deeply in its shag carpets, the air was clear but stale and mantlepiece knickknacks lay on the ground, swept clean off by some large rumbling force. Around the living room, and to Mort’s morbid fascination, resided a small family unit of mannequins, tossed about the furniture like rag dolls.
The first one he noticed was a little girl. A little girl without a teddy bear and messy braids melting into the plastic rubber bands that held them. The next was the mother, maybe a much older sister, with her arm clean out of its plastic socket, still smiling her Avon smile to a decapitated husband. All of it, the whole uncanny scene, made Mort very sad.
If only he could make it just a little nicer, a little tidier, add a little life, and then he could go, and
51 The Lance Ali Epstein
though he had his mission, he took each member of the family into his arms, dusted off the furniture, and placed them where he thought they fit best. The father in the armchair, the mother on the couch, and the little girl on the floor. He couldn’t find a teddy bear, so he set her up with a throw pillow to play with and hold close if she ever got scared. She wouldn’t though, her family was so nearby.
But the father still didn’t have a head. So, he searched the living room, and found it under the coffee table.
But the mother’s arm was still hanging, so he tied it in a sling with her paisley headscarf.
But the place was a mess, but the kitchen chairs were turned over, but the air was too stale, but the bedsheets were filthy.
Mort, without realizing it, began a new mission, a rescue mission, to make livable the space that had never been intended to hold any real life. He told himself each time that he’d leave after this one last task. He told himself that he had done enough already, that they’d be perfectly comfortable, and he hadn’t traveled all this way to play dolls, but as he began to re-braid the stringy, brittle hair of the little girl, he realized just how happy he was to do it.
The Lance Ali Epstein
His home planet, he recalled bitterly, had abandoned him. His signal, he knew, was dying. Area 15 was likely just as empty as every place he’d been to, and after the journey he’d been on, he knew he’d rather never find out. So, he tidied their hair, he shined their shoes, and as the sun went down, he put them to bed, tucking the bedsheets tightly around their shiny, unbending torsos. And then, with the satisfaction of a job well done and sicker than he’d ever felt before, he went to sleep, crawling into the bed of the parent mannequins like a scared child, feeling safer than he had in 15 years.
Photo in the Public Domain
A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing
by Angelica Jones ‘27
When growing up we always hear about the wolf in sheep’s clothing, but have you heard of the sheep in wolf’s clothing?
She lowers her tone, so she doesn't sound angry
She doesn't bare her teeth when she smiles, so she doesn’t look scary
Do you wonder if hunters think twice before they aim for the "beast"? Or is the fear in their chest that beats hard as a drum just the melody of justice the system sings softly to them
When growing up we hear about the deaths of our people like a familiar tune, but have you heard of who we're really losing
Like how Daunte Wright's mother lost a son in April 2021
Like how Eric Garner's kids lost a father in July 2014
Like how Fanta Bility's father lost a daughter in August 2021
We keep losing in a race we weren't even allowed to partake in
Do you think hunters feel guilt when they see that what they shot at was in fact not a beast but a sheep, or is it still just livestock?
At the end of the day, if you look hard enough, a sheep in wolf's clothing is still just a sheep
At the end of the day, if you look hard enough through my melanated skin, I'm still just a person
How to See Beauty
by Erin Moran ‘25
When it seems as though all flames have burnt out, open your eyes. Release what has made you feel like there is no beauty left in this eternal world. Your paper can wait and the post your “friend” made about you is unimportant. The man-made light you stare at for hours every day has no real importance in the grand scheme of things. Please remember that there are many beautiful things outside of your room.
Push open the door that you breeze past every morning and take a moment to simply breathe in the aroma of a warm spring night. Rather than cracking your knuckles and picking at your skin, let your muscles relax. Be present in the world around you. Take a step into the freshly cut grass and notice how your skin connecting with the earth is the most natural sensation you have felt in ages. The tulips that your mother planted just over a month ago are beginning to bloom. Though their buds are just beginning to show, they will soon burst with vibrant colors and cause the front of your house to look magnificent. Please remember, child, that you are still blooming. Your gorgeous colors are
beginning to show, but be patient, because your petals have yet to grow. Please remember to glance up at the never-ending horizon. Appreciate the colors blending to make one beautiful canvas. This alluring canvas goes on much farther than the eye can see. Child, please remember that your life will have all sorts of different colors, some beautiful, and some utterly dreadful. Though your sky may currently be filled with clouds, know that much farther in the horizon, there is a great sunset. Full of reds, pinks, oranges, and purples. Never forget that you are on this earth just a blink of time. Cherish the beauty around you. Take time to notice the changing seasons and how the tree you planted as a child ages with you. Pick flowers for your loved ones, go sledding with your sibling, swim with the fish, explore the forest. There is beauty in nature, Nature is life, which is preciously, incomprehensibly, beautiful.