Omnia 2021

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OMNIA2021

LI TE R A RY M AGA ZI N E MOSE S BROW N SCH O O L


OMNIA

SPRING 2021 EDITORS IN CHIEF

LAUREN METTERS '21 SAVA N N A R U S T ' 2 1

EDITORIAL TEAM MADELINE KLIPFEL '21 N A I L E O Z P O L AT ' 2 1 ELI REVILLE '21 MILES KAUFMAN '22 RHIANNON LANDRY '22 LOURDES NICOLLELA '22 F A C U LT Y A D V I S O R S KRISTIN S TREET W I L S O N TAY L O R

MOSES BROWN SCHOOL PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND 02906

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C O V E R ( F R O N T A N D B A C K ): LIGHTHOUSE V I B H A K A M AT H ' 2 1


F E AT U R I N G WORDS S Y D NE Y AT W O O D ' 2 1 JESS BEAULIEU '23 GABRIEL HARRIS '24 V I B H A K A M AT H ' 2 1 MILES KAUFMAN '22 K AV I M O N G I A - G A S P E R ' 2 2 LOURDES NICOLELLA '22 N A I L E O Z P O L AT ' 2 1 C EC E PA R A D I S ' 2 2 S O P H I E S C H M U LT S ' 2 3 G R E TA S H U S T E R ' 2 1 B E N N E T T VA N L I E W ' 2 1 Z O E YA Z W I N S K I ' 2 2 E M I LY Y O U N K I N ' 2 1

IMAGES S A LT E R A R M S ' 2 3 S Y D N E Y AT W O O D ' 2 2 BEN BAMFORD '23 E N Z O B AT TA G L I A ' 2 2 CELINE CHEN '21 LEVI GERWIZ '23 E L I Z A G R AY ' 2 4 CALLAN HARRIS '22 V I B H A K A M AT H ' 2 1 W I L L K E L LY ' 2 2 JULIA KERR '22 MADELINE KLIPFEL '21 OLIVIA KLIPFEL '21 RHIANNON LANDRY '22 GRACE LUDES '23 TUCKER MALLOY '22 E V E LY N M C A D A M ' 2 1 ELISE MILNER '21 REKA MOSCARELLI '21 LOURDES NICOLELLA '22 ELI REVILLE '21 HADLEY R-L '22 AIDAN SHINE '22 SOPHIA WANG '22 C E L I A YA N G ' 2 1 YUKI ZHANG '23

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RED HAIR ELISE MILNER '21


Introduction Lauren Metters '21 Editor in Chief

Ontology has long wrestled with the concurrent experiences of being and becoming. Especially as students, there is often immense pressure to become. For many, high school is a time to experiment with iterations and reiterations of self. This is, in many ways, an unavoidable phase of growth. Whether in a classroom, on a field or stage, or among friends, it is often tempting to be so steadfast in our pursuit of becoming that we forget to simply be. This past year, the world seemed to come to a standstill. There was chaos in the darkness, frenzy in the silence, and a numbness that came with the realization that many were without clear direction. There is helplessness in the experience of being — especially without certainty of what we will become.

But there is light. Light beacons us home, into our communities and into ourselves. Light is not only seen, but enables us to see. This year’s edition of Omnia illuminates and reflects such themes. My sincere hope is that the art contained within these pages can be a source of Light to those who seek it. I know that it has done so for me. Lauren Metters '21

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Looking Up Emily Younkin '21 What have we become? We floated silently across the center of a midnight lake once, darkness, enveloping, darkness, breathing us in, darkness, my elusive companion. These hands are writer’s hands, yet were they once? Dipping into the cold waters of darkness, slicing through, cutting through, like a dagger, like an embrace. Phone calls and voices, filling this house. There was silence on the lake. Only the distant glimmering lights of home, filled with stories, filled with the softness of childhood. My feet tell me to walk on my toes, for the heels ache with time. We could’ve lifted them to the sky, wheeling beneath the stars, weightless, buoyant. Stars–a shame it is we live under roofs. Within myself I am still frozen on an infinite northern lake, looking up. The universe is a kaleidoscope of light, like nothing my own jumbled neurons could ever replicate.

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No one looks up in the city. I once peered down from above as they passed, hundreds, dressed in black, but they never saw me. It is a wonder to look up. We will be trapped in cities, won’t we? City lights, flashing lights, neon and bright, yet I still see the golden glow across the lake, the golden glow of the brilliant stars, and I cannot look down.

SUMMER RAIN OLIVIA KLIPFEL '21

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Anxiety is Human Sydney Atwood '21 Anxiety comes in a lot of forms. It dresses itself in different clothes, hides behind makeup and phone screens. It’s both a victim and a bully. It tells me things I believe and makes me take those things out on myself. I like to think of it as a separate entity, but it isn’t. It’s like a friend to me. No, not a friend, a sibling. A person who will always be a part of my life, whether I like it or not. It looks like me, which is hard to believe. How can a feeling so ugly look so human? Anxiety is human, and I know that because it makes food look inedible, it makes every discussion slip out of reach. It makes you think about nothing and everything at once. Talk it out? You can, but it’ll argue in your head as you reason with your therapist. Run it off? It’ll stick to your skin, no matter how many calories you burn. Cry it away? Your tears will disappear, but your face will stay raw for the rest of the day. How do you get rid of a part of yourself? You can't, but that's ok. That's why anxiety is human: we are meant to feel those emotions. Without them, you wouldn't experience the comfort when a friend reaches out. You wouldn't experience the relief when you close your textbook and turn on the TV instead. It's ok to feel anxious, because anxiety comes in a lot of forms that don’t always make sense. I had to learn to accept it rather than antagonize it. You can talk it out, because you realize in the process that those thoughts are just thoughts, not real life. You can run it off, because exercise releases the negative emotions you hold inside all day. And you can cry it away, because it’s better to admit your feelings than neglect them. Anxiety is not a separate entity: it’s a part of being human.

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CORSET LOURDES NICOLELLA '22

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FEAR CELINE CHEN '21


the sixth sin Naile Ozpolat '21 it starts like this bruised hips, stinging eyes, toes hitting furniture, talc spines, pinned chests, hair sticking to glossy lips, indigo smudged across eyelids, bursting full stomachs, a joke whistling past the target. glass marbles knocking into one other, cracks fanning out through the intersections, molecules vibrating, flushing up your cheeks, and buzzing in your head as you turn, stinging as you scream, like cola bubbling over a tall glass onto the white tablecloth, like teeth ridges on pink flesh, like the shape of the distance your wings can no longer carry, the same as the ache you can foresee in your limbs, embossed through fingernails on bloody palms

COVID COLLAGE REKA MOSCARELLI '21

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GIRLS LOURDES NICOLELLA '22

EXPOSED GRACE LUDES '23

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we never made our way outside Cece Paradis '22 i have never known you outside of quarantine and i never will. i think that if we met today, our story would not be the same. i don’t think there would be a story to tell. a month into our relationship, the world locked itself indoors. you grew your hair out because the salons were closed. when you cut it, i cried. i hated it short. because, like a child with no concept of permanence i had never known you with hair like that. you shrugged it off, because you cut your hair every year; it had only grown a little longer this time. after we broke up, you grew your hair out again. and i thought i still loved you. it took until the first time i cut my hair to realize i did not.

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The Chilling Autumn's Rain Miles Kaufman '22

Weeping are the heavens, Her great legions in despair. Seeping forth as visions To torment this shattered air. Heir to nought is he, For his kingdom is forsaken— What of this reverie, To dwell upon that taken? Evermore is our world broken, The stigma of all made one. Yet this word is spoken, That the Word shall not us shun. As sparks within a cavern, Fragile stars alight on high, As marks the earth made auburn In the countenance of nigh! So are fires to consume me, My being begotten of light. As are all, and yet to be Anew is to darken the night.

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Turn not away from He Author of all, for three Charters of propriety Are manifest as all for thee. O, what of thou, being? So great a fount of life, From the Living Water seeing, I dwell not upon my strife. So proclaims one, then The ardor of beauty made known. Yet the heavens weep, for when Our persiflage was not our own. Therefore see not blindly, Bound by the infinite war Of darkness; light most kindly Should this err abhor. Such things have I created, Upon a drownèd autumn’s stage, Nor fate have I berated— For all is the peace of this age.


FA L L SOPHIA WANG '22

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Mestiza Lourdes Nicolella '22 when i was young my parents would bring me to Las Vegas. i do remember the dizzying lights that flooded through the streets and casino floors all the same. i do remember the low-hanging stench of cigarette smoke. it first muddled my head and made my nose crimp. but as i grew older, it began to take on a quality of comfortable rebellion. we went in november for Thanksgiving. always we had 3pm dinner in a casino buffet. we were not allowed to eat too much though. Lola Dori and Lolo Ben made lumpia, pancit, lechon, empanadas. they took the dishes out in huge containers wrapped in tinfoil that sparkled almost as vividly as the casino lights and the terra cotta house forever smelled of cooking rice. when i was young my parents would bring me to Vermont. the snow turning turning prowling over itself a magic and dizzy storm of cold and ice that flickered in between stringlights and fireplaces on the smooth like butter voices of Ol’Blue Eyes and Dino

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we went in december for Christmas It’s a Wonderful Life was a mandatory part of the holiday when Mr. Potter went on tirades about the “garlic eaters” my dad would look at me and shout “that’s us!” afterwards we ate caprese, melone e prosciutto, chicken parm, pasta, meatballs dessert was crumbly pizzelles, their flowers cracking as we split the designs with our teeth i am far from Las Vegas. also far from Vermont, but not nearly as. i live in a space between places where i go to see the radiant faces either in Lola Dori’s house, or in a snow drenched apartment. I belong to neither and both all and nothing i am all and nothing simultaneously constantly growing and shrinking opening and closing moving and being still still i take what my blood gives me sometimes i forget what is mine to take i feel i do not belong in communities to which Las Vegas and Vermont are short-hand. i feel as though the lines on my hands falter and do not lead anywhere. but they do. even on days i doubt it, my hands (the exterior expression of my heart) are perfect. it took much too long for me to know this. 17

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Mestiza (continued)

if i could tell young Lourdes Nicolella how beautiful it is to be a mutt, half-breed, mestiza, i would hope then she would see that the flamboyant vowels of her name were not gaudy and ugly. the dark hair that joined her eyebrows together like Frida was magic. i would hope that she would see that her nose, knit up in a Roman bump and wide bridge (that every morning in the mirror she convinced herself was wholly unpretty) was in fact a pridepoint. i understand my lines of lineage stretch far and in opposite directions. when the anxious outside or my own anxious brain tries to pull them away from me, i will keep them with me always. if i must claw into them with my fingernails and hold them strong between my teeth that is what i will do. for these lines are mine, and mine alone. my parents and their parents and the ones who came before entrusted me with them. stay steady, i’ll tell them. i will not falter

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SURROUNDED E V E LY N M C A D A M ' 2 1

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BEACH REKA MOSCARELLI '21


It Came to Me Lauren Metters' 21

I’d like to say It came to me on wingèd feet and whispered softly in my ear. It came to me just overnight and was so clean and clear. It came to me as I prepared to overcome all fear. It came to me and then I swore I would never interfere. It did not. Instead it kept me up at night, and would not disappear. Disavowed, it teased, it took, it tested, and toiled. Even so, I learned. Even so, I grew. Even so, I am.

UNTITLED V I B H A K A M AT H ' 2 1

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Icarus Greta Shuster '21

Seventy-one percent of the Earth is blue. Emotions that vary in shade like you, Whose flame burns so hot it turns A luxurious hue, rare like The undersides of those shells – we found two Running down the beach, just me and you Until wings were sprouted and off you flew Leaving me speechless and wondering who You really were. It’s a mysterious blue.

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DOWNTOWN OLIVIA KLIPFEL '21


Benighted Miles Kaufman '22

The golden sun has tumbled forth With scepter keeling, reeling crown, With olden joy, to seek remorse Amongst the huddled trees’ gray frown. Yet softly should he slumber here, With dimming eyes of bistre sheer As faltering, peeling stone wall’s fear. So briskly should dark Night appear. I know beyond these lighted doors Of paint, of glass, of air, The show of Night cold sleep assures With Stygian, drifting tare. Midnight is a lie, methinks— Beneath her, daylight peers. Beneath her gaze the watchman slinks, Too lost in dreams for fears.

UNTITLED BEN BAMFORD '23

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Food Labels Vibha Kamath '21 At the intersection of Main Street and Pleasant, the library stands straight ahead. Two roads diverged in a neighborhood, and I— I was looking for new stories, so I turned right. In the condiments aisle in the grocery store, Someone has misplaced sugar next to the salt. Absent minds, absently blinded— I hope they are baking for someone else, so if the pie is no good, at least the memory is. Bittersweet. I find clean sneakers with dirty laces, mismatched socks, Winter coats on business casual. I find polished shoes walking the same scuffed one-way lines searching for fish filets and a familiar face for pre-made pasta and a purpose. I hear a strained voice on the phone: ice cold, but we passed the frozen food a while ago. Cans of corn, cans of beans, cans of fruit— Almost everything on the list, but the can of worms is left for another day.

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I think I have everything I want, but the cash register click-clacks, yip-yaps at a mile a minute. Thank you for your visit! When she hands back my bag, It feels heavier. Is it? The parking lot is staring. I swear I— I’m normally a good driver. But that wasn’t a normal place for a shopping cart. Writers behind stories behind faces behind words behind whispers spelling out this moment. I— I can’t figure out my own seatbelt. and then it clicks.

A WANDERING ROBOT JULIA KERR '22

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IN PLAIN SIGHT CALLAN HARRIS '22


In the Kitchen Bennett Vanliew '21

Bread - simple right? Flour. Yeast. Salt. Water. That's what I suspected as I rummaged through my kitchen years ago in search of the ingredients to make what I was imagining would be the most delectable baguette. One with a perfectly crisped exterior, a light and airy center, and an unmistakable aroma like the bread my mom used to pick up from local bakeries. I had thrown all of the ingredients into my KitchenAid, mixed them for a few minutes, and then left the bread to rest for an hour or so; it was time to bake this highly anticipated loaf. Having followed all of the directions carefully, I was sure that I was bound for success. Twenty minutes later two pale, hard, and deflated looking loaves of bread were pulled from the oven. After tasting the supposed bread, I was disappointed and discouraged. I knew I had done something horribly wrong, and I wanted to fix it. There have since been countless flops, but each one was integral in perfecting my craft. The simplicity of the ingredients in bread is deceiving, I have come to learn that technique is key in making good bread. It’s not following the recipe, but taking the time to understand the method. Through my own research, I have found that there are different stages of fermentation, and processes of patting, stretching, and folding the dough that helps develop strength in the gluten. I’ve come to find shaping is the final and one of the most crucial steps in making bread, as it ensures the dough has a smooth, supple, and glossy exterior before baking. Then only nine hours later the bread is ready to bake. I don’t remember the supposed-to-be baguettes taking quite so long. This past spring, I began searching through different cookbooks I had received for Christmas by my favorite chef Thomas Keller. I had the opportunity to dive even deeper into my culinary endeavours. Reading through the books, I became entranced, stumbling upon timelines a week-long to make 27

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In the Kitchen (continued)

sourdough bread, duck recipes that would take 3 days, and detailed chapters dedicated to specific categories of food. The book stressed its long evaluations and detailed instructions, and emphasized the qualities crucial in finding success among these things. Patience and persistence are key qualities to have not only in the kitchen, but in life. It was Chef Thomas Keller’s words that made me realize this is what I love to do: “Why do cooks cook?” Chef Keller's Mentor asked him at a young age, to which he answered: “We cook to nurture people.” I realized that my love for cooking was far more than the act itself, not only the stress relief and pure joy it provided me, but the way that I could share it with others. I know now that it is not only the food that I provide to my family and friends that makes them happy, but the qualities that this passion has helped me to hone within myself. I have learned through not only bread, but many other failures too, that mistakes, while daunting, are elemental in finding success. The countless mishaps in the kitchen have only grown my knowledge and motivated me to try and counter mistakes effectively, using them as an example rather than remaining ignorant. Similarly to the kitchen, I have learned over the last few years to use mistakes as motivation, as a reason to try again, to think through situations more thoroughly, and to cherish second chances. Years of trial and error have revealed to me that it is not the tools that I use, but how I use them that defines who I am. Whether making decisions in the kitchen or in life, my experiences have driven me to become a person who thinks through situations completely, with far more consideration for not only myself but for those around me.

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UNTITLED ELISE MILNER '21

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M+O ELI REVILLE '21

MOCA REKA MOSCARELLI '21

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Ironic Sydney Atwood '21

It’s ironic how hell is warm but winter is cold. How snow is beautiful but ice is dangerous. How holidays are happy but I'm sad. Happy and sad are such simple words, just as simple as spring and fall. As summer and winter. As seasons themselves. Sometimes I walk down my street and think about seasons passing. About time in general. Time I've spent on people who have used their money for more important things. More important people. Time I've spent on thoughts that have never come true. I take the warm weather for granted, and then winter rolls around and I ask myself the same question: why do I keep doing this to myself? Why do I keep putting up with the cold? Why not spend my time more wisely? But I always remember how good it feels to walk out of school and feel a cool breeze instead of a harsh wind. To physically see nature come alive. Maybe some things in life are worth waiting for. I've waited for a lot of things. A lot of people. I've waited for approval, for acknowledgment. For them to say, “You were right! I’m sorry.” I thought there would be a big moment in my life where everything I've been working towards would pay off. But a moment like that is far too expensive to pay for alone. I've learned that little things add up in order to create worth. Maybe winter is beautiful, but not in the way I once thought. Maybe I need to know what taking something for granted feels like before I can appreciate it. Now that’s ironic.

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Behind a Mask Miles Kaufman '22

Behold, a sea of shadows, Of laughter long since echoed: Of newborn infants’ throes, Of limbs limp, with age speckled; Of islands bright with joy Upon a strange and distant shore, Of a blank, forsaken toy From a nameless child torn. Of loving hands’ fond embrace, Of chilling, twisted scorn— Of the halcyon sight of your face, From me these visions have been shorn. Shattered still are they, As ancient spirits still adrift— Each moment begins to fray, Each smile jagged that I lift. I drown within this darkened place, Forgotten by time and light. I live, as You, within the grace Of realms blinded by their sight. The mind is ever willing, The spirit dwindles, stilled, Of moments ever filling, Of chasms never filled, Of joy was I begotten, Of a mother’s wavering smile, You are not forgotten, In Whose presence I am vile. Behold, a sea of widows, Of children yet unborn, Of a flame within the shadows, For we are not forlorn. 32


PA M O N A RHIANNON LANDRY '22

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No Cast Zoe Yazwinski '22

I may not have a cast, Or a fever, There’s no need for surgery, But I swear I am in pain I puke, but not from a belly ache My chest hurts but my heart is beating great I can’t breath, but my lungs are clear You can’t see it, Neither can I, But trust me It is here. I wish i could let it heal like a broken bone, but I can’t wait this out I have to

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B E N E AT H T H E S N O W ELI REVILLE '21


Death of a Dying Star Sophie Schmults '23

We were dying stars Even at the end A harsh cacophony of a supernova You were reborn And I was shattered amongst the stars I healed with the sun Rested with the moon And appeared with a hypernova of force But even after all this time I’m still the fool Because half the songs I write still start out as duets And I’m not the one who needs to forgive Yet you seem to have forgotten

ZOE MADELINE KLIPFEL '21

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Sunday Morning Anonymous

She flies out in 20° weather Air still and frozen, suddenly alive as Icy wind chases her. She speeds around corners and maybe through a stop sign, Cars thunder past, confused, she turns her back to avoid their hulking mass and Continues on. She laughs at the broken ice on the sidewalk, like the tiny shattered bottles she swerves around As her fingers freeze through two pairs of gloves.

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ROPE DRAWING C E L I A YA N G ' 2 1


the everlasting effects of serious relationships at a young age Cece Paradis '22 do you know about those trees? the ones that can grow onto other ones? i think it’s called grafting. but i’m not sure. i think you and i are like those trees. at fifteen i was a growing tree, and you were a branch from a different tree. that soon became a limb on mine. i’m almost seventeen, and even now, after we’ve broken up, your branch is still on my tree.

UNTITLED YUKI ZHANG '23

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INTROSPECTION S Y D N E Y AT W O O D ' 2 2

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Crabs Greta Shuster '21

Stubby legs and summer dresses. Two little girls on the beach. The white blonde curls of a lion’s mane, And the little brown pigtails tied up in purple bows. There were shrieks and screams and sporadic sprinting, The fiddler crabs were so small but still we ran. A decade later the fiddler crabs still manage to pinch me, Longer legs and stronger muscles and yet I cannot outrun them. Silent screams not sonic shrieks, My breath was caught underwater. I could stomp on the crabs, A courageous david slaying goliath, But that would destroy the ecosystem. The fiddler crabs of my youth have migrated To the deepest inlets of my mind. To kill them would be to commit The greatest crime of all.

ODYSSEUS REKA MOSCARELLI '21

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Eternity Ephemeral Miles Kaufman '22

A babbling, blushing brook rushed by, In jollity met in full by a sky Dwelling blue with content sigh Of clouds anew, then forms as nigh. I paced within a cavern ‘till The sun arose in full; His rays had brushed my windowsill With pouring, lambent soul. I rose from darkened, markèd page, And rushed, blind, to the door. I tugged upon the handle sage— No hush would find that morn. The birds did sing with hymns so clear! Their notes clear as the trees without; For stripped was limb, and bare— not sere— Did elders assuage each young, green sprout. Legions felled of leaves had snapped To salute my every fatal step. All sons of an oak, each was lapped At by earth, by stream, by valley’s zep.

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UNTITLED OLIVIA KLIPFEL '21

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ON THE SHELF E L I Z A G R AY ' 2 4

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Eternity Ephemeral (continued)

Eternity ephemeral, how evanescent still You still should seem to me. For the clouds above had marched until Clear heavens I could see. The feline slink which silently Had followed crackling treads, Now purred gray beside gray me. Still the cat by my side spreads. Yet softened fur was roughened by The grain of roadsides past; I often watched the kitten spry, Yet now was beside the last. A child crouched along his way, His parents hurried on— Yet this was not his fatal day And so he rushed to dawn.

UNTITLED S A LT E R A R M S ' 2 3

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FAC E PA I N T V I B H A K A M AT H ' 2 1

SWIPE LEVI GERWIZ '23

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Smiles Gabriel Harris '24

i’m worried that i don’t know how to smile anymore. i mean, i know how to do it physically but a smile is more than a movement of the face. a real smile is the result of a feeling. a feeling that says, ‘LET ME SHOW THE WORLD MY EMOTION, BECAUSE I FEEL GREAT!’ but every single day now. i cover my smile, when i put my mask on. it not only covers the physical gesture of a smile, but it covers and dampens my emotions. it means that smiling isn’t worth it. now fake smiling has become routine. just crinkle the eyes and pretend you are happy. but the worst part is: people buy the fake smile most of the time i think it’s because they can’t see my real, full face. but when i smile into the mirror, when i see a photo of myself. i know that there’s a grimace hiding. i know that people don’t see it maybe because they don’t want to it’s like the story my friend Richard tells. when people asked how he was, in the way that we so often do, he answered honestly. soon, they all stopped asking. and so while my eyes look like they’re smiling the twinkle is gone. i am in pain. but not the harmful kind. 45

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Smiles (continued)

just the kind where i understand, that the world is a hard place. and that smiles don’t really matter. at least, i feel that until i see one of ‘my people’. the people who, no matter how miserable i feel, make me happy. it’s like my true smile is the dying embers of a fire, and without realizing it, ‘my people’ fan those embers. and remind me. what a real smile is. and so i realize. it’s not about the physical gesture, one that i so often fake. it’s about the warmth a true smile brings. it’s about the people who are so special, you can’t help but to smile. so when i realize that i'm forgetting how to smile. i lean on those people and they teach me. yes, they teach me how to smile again

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UNTITLED W I L L K E L LY ' 2 2

VA N LOURDES NICOLELLA '22

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The Crickets Kavi Mongia-Gasper '22 A man sits alone at the edge of a dock. He is motionless: if not for his breathing. Crickets are heard. A Stranger walks and stands next to him, staring out at the water. Both are too intertwined with their thoughts to notice each other. The Stranger rocks in their stance, creaking the wood and causing the man to notice the disturbance. Man

Hello?

The Stranger doesn’t hear the man. What do you want?

Man

The Stranger still doesn’t hear the man. I

Stranger

He notices the man. Oh my god, I’m so sorry.

Stranger

The Stranger prepares to leave. I hope I didn’t disturb you.

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Stranger


You are, yes. Disturbing me. Well I’m- I’m sorry…

Man Stranger

The Stranger starts to walk away. The man looks down, realizing his rudeness. Hey!

Man

The Stranger turns towards the man. Man I’m sorry… I really didn’t mean to be rude, I-... I’m sorry.

The Stranger walks back towards the man.

UNTITLED V I B H A K A M AT H ' 2 1

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UNTITLED HADLEY R-L '22


The Crickets (continued)

It’s just been… A little rough.

Man

The Stranger stands next to the man. The crickets continue. The man continues to stare out across the horizon. How do you mean?

Stranger

The man sighs. They sit in silence for a while. Finally the Stranger decides to break the silence. Stranger You know- today should be a great day for me. I should be happy, but… I don’t know… IWhat happened today?

Man

Stranger Today was my friend’s wedding. And I should have been happy or excited or something, but- I just couldn't feel. You couldn’t feel?

Man

Stranger Yeah. There was something that just wouldn’t let me be happy for her. And I don’t know if that was because of me or because of something else but I know that I should have enjoyed the experience or at least felt happy for her. That’s what they all expect, right? But, how can I have fun- like everyone wants me to- when I’m just so scared… 51

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The Crickets (continued)

Scared of what?

Man

They sit together in silence for a while. The crickets continue. The man then decides to break the silence. Man I remember my wedding like it was yesterday. Oh yeah?

Stranger

Man We didn’t have a party. No big celebrations. Neither of us wanted that, we just wanted to be married. She’s a sailor, you know, a huge sailor. Won so many competitions across the world, we had to buy huge shelves just to fit all her trophies. Some days, I’d go watch her and take photos. It’s funny, they’re so far out there, across the horizon, that you can barely see whose boat is whose. This one day you couldn’t even see the ships, but you still watched. You could feel the ships moving ­- there was no need to see them.

The crickets grow louder. And she’d beg me to go out with her on one of her sailing trips. She even once rented us a little boat for my birthday. She tried dragging me on a ship several times, but I’d scream and tear myself from her grips and run to shore. I tried to go, I really tried to go, but I just couldn’t. Oh it was fun. But soon she learned I never would want to go with her. That she could live her sailing adventures without me.

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TEXTILES AIDAN SHINE '22

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UNTITLED E N Z O B AT TA G L I A ' 2 2


The Crickets (continued)

Stranger Did you ever go out on the water?

There’s a silence. The crickets grow quieter but remain. Man Too scared. My whole life never went out. I could barely stand on this dock two months ago.

There’s another silence. I think I’m scared of marriage.

Stranger

The crickets continue. Stranger I mean… What’s the point of getting married? You’re together for, what, six months until you grow tired of each other. You have your sea adventures for a little while, but, what happens after? You should be with your wife now, shouldn’t you? You’re here, alone, on a Friday night, when you should be out on the boat with her, or swimming in the pond, or fishing on this dock together. But instead, you’re, away from each other, you’re each having different experiences, living different lives. I mean, where even is your wife now?

More silence. Man That’s why I’m here. Returning her back to her home.

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continued


The Crickets (continued)

The crickets intensify. Man Every day I wish I could go sailing with her.

Silence. The crickets are rhythmic pulses, echoing throughout the theatre. Stranger sits down next to the man. You hear them?

Stranger

Silence as they listen intently. Stranger They’re signs of good luck, you know?

The crickets intensify. I guess spring is finally here.

Stranger

The crickets hum until they overwhelm Stranger and man. Lights fade. End.

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WILL ELI REVILLE '21

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S TA C K LOURDES NICOLELLA '22 UNTITLED TUCKER MALLOY '23

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The Final Stretch Jess Beaulieu '23

we pulled the car up, Sand spinning under the tires, Shells cracking, under the pressure. My feet now buried, pebbles Wedged between my toes, Silently seeping back, into the ground beneath. An old wooden sign reading to me, Welcome to long lost beach, Relief, After many cold months had attempted, to smother me in grief. With its powerful grasp, Draining my warmth and making me weep. Marking my face With every cold hard sweep, Smothering my sunshine And arising good memories. I was here, at long last, relief. The wind, caressing my chin, The salty air, filling my lungs, The taste of freedom, which resonated with me, Had finally come, We pulled the car out. 59


OMNIA SPRING 2021

We will be trapped in cities, won’t we? City lights, flashing lights, neon and bright, yet I still see the golden glow across the lake, the golden glow of the brilliant stars, and I cannot look down. FROM "LOOKING UP" EMILY YOUNKIN '21

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COVER (FRONT AND BACK): LIGHTHOUSE VIBHA KAMATH '21