Perceptions 2024-2025

SAINT JOHN’S SCHOOL 2024-2025

PERCEPTIONS Non-Fiction

Poetry

Short Stories

FROM THE EDITOR

Dearest Readers, Here we are again! I hope that you enjoy this new edition of the Perceptions magazine, including all secondary level grades! In these pages, you will find texts that define the human condition in all of its varied states of emotion & connection. When placed together, these works are a collective response to the world that we live in! You will find texts about love, friendship, deception, family, passing of loved ones, and even comedic pieces about our favorite culinary tools in the kitchen!

It really brings me great pleasure to be able to provide you all with this work of art. If there is one thing that I ask of you, dear reader, it is that you take your time with these texts — read them with your family members, with your children, and share the creative talent that Saint John’s School has with those that you know. Accompany this literary guide with a nice cup of tea, a nice view, and an open heart.

I look forward to being able to bring you many more editions of such a beautiful masterpiece. May we always remember the empowering feeling that literature brings!

Jacqueline Jiang, M.A. Perceptions Advisor

cover photo by Zoraiz Akram

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CO-EDITORS & CONTRIBUTORS Gabriella Maldonado Working with Perceptions gives the members and writers a space to express ourselves creatively. I had an amazing time collaborating with my peers while sharing our work and working to complete this magazine. I hope that you readers can enjoy all the stories, poems, and essays we've worked on, and know that the door is always open if any of you want to embark in this writing journey with us.

Gustavo Alonso I joined Perceptions looking for a safe place to write freely about my opinions, beliefs, and emotions - and that’s exactly what I found. Surrounded by a group of incredible and welcoming writers who are all passionate about literature, I felt encouraged to stay true to what runs through my mind and try to put it on paper, which can sometimes be a difficult task. In these pages, you will find my poems, which discuss different ethnocultural and social justice issues that I believe must be addressed. However, Perceptions is much more than our individual contributions; rather, it is the final goal we pursued this year in exploring, producing, and sharing our work with other students, each with their own perspectives, who want to leave a mark on their community.

Mariola Lugo While her blurb may be silent, her literary power is definitely loud!

A Special Shoutout!

None of this would be possible without the help of Ms. Ilanit Edry & her students! Thank you for making this edition extra special!

Many of these texts were submitted through the Creative Writing Contest this year! I am grateful to Zoraima Figueroa, Laurie García, Racheliz Medina, Laura Molina, Sixto Ortiz, Paola Quirós, and Fernando Román for being judges for this contest! ¡Gracias!

One last thing – All unnamed images included in this magazine are from Canva, with the exception of Adelaida Siaca Ortiz's essay, which includes AI produced images!

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7TH-9TH GRADE WORKS

art by Cristine Tacher

“THE WORLD ON PAPER” ANONYMOUS

Great literature often acts like a mirror of the life we live, reflecting the accomplishments, failure, hope, and struggles.

It displays what life was like in the moment, showing a glimpse of the past. As society continues to evolve, literature does too. Our world as we know it today inevitably leaves a mark on the literature made. As I reflect on my life, I realize that the stories I tell and the words I write are all affected by the current events and people around me.

Within recent years, the world has experienced events that changed everyone’s perspective of life. For instance, the COVID-19 pandemic has made everyone appreciate the privilege of having in-person school, family time, and just being able to go outside. This worldwide lockdown has changed every individual’s perspective on life in some way, whether that means they’ve learned that washing hands is important or that virtual school is a better fit for them.

However, this event didn’t just change their perspective, it changed the way they write. Writing involves emotions, understanding, and passion. Your emotions change with you when you go through something, affecting the way you write.

As John Lennon once said, “Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans,” This quote not only highlights how you should enjoy the journey, but also how unexpected events can shape our experiences. Many pieces of literature talk about the experiences the author has gone through and how it has changed them. Thus, the life we live and the events we go through affect us and what we write in at least some sort of way.

Essays

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photo by Alyana Bernardo

Effects of Globalization and the Importance of Raising Awareness of its Impact Anonymous

Globalization is a process of increased connection and interdependence among regions and countries which has especially become evident and a defining feature of the 21st century. As technologies of communication have advanced and the world has become more integrated, both positive and negative effects on economies, cultures, and environments have presented themselves throughout the world. It is important to raise awareness about the effects of globalization so that societies can take full benefit of this increased interconnectedness while addressing its challenges that are posed by greedy companies and peoples looking to cut down costs on the products they intend to profit from. Awareness initiatives can help individuals and communities better understand the complexities of globalization and advocate more responsible decision-making that takes into account human rights and safety and not solely costs of production.

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Globalization helped grow the economy by expanding markets, creating job opportunities, and improving living standards of many and it is those countries that embrace globalization that have the ability to access new markets for goods and services, leading to greater competition, innovation, and efficiency. Consumers often have a wider variety of products at lower prices thanks to this market expansion and availability of products from all over. Yet the benefits of globalization aren’t seen everywhere leaving many communities to receive the “bad end of the deal”. While global companies succeed and grow and prosper, many small businesses and workers in some regions are exploited and lose jobs due to outsourcing and automation. Because of this it is the consumers' job to advocate for a balanced approach to global economic policies that benefit companies, consumers, and most importantly those working hours on end with little to no pay and breaks to make the products we enjoy and use on a daily basis.

Cultural exchange is another aspect that globalization has facilitated and encouraged. The sharing of ideas, traditions, and practices across regions, countries, and continents has impacted and enhanced societies by promoting diversity and acceptance. For example, global platforms for entertainment like movies and music have allowed people to experience cultures and their unique aspects from around the world.

Though sadly, globalization has also led to homogenization in which cultures are blended and made uniform or similar, cutting down on the uniqueness of each culture and standardizing cultures thanks to dominant cultural forces. On the topic of dominant cultural forces, dominant global cultures overshadow local traditions and languages which is why it is extremely important to raise awareness of these cultural shifts so that we can help communities preserve their unique identities while also embracing positive aspects of global interconnectedness not allowing cultures to become part of a uniform standard of a culture preserving those deep cultural differences that makes each and every one of us unique and special.

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Globalization has also had its own impact on the environment. Because global trade and industrialization have been in an all-time high, carbon emissions, deforestation, and pollution have also increased which poses big threat on the dear Earth we all live in. The global supply chains that fuel trade often involve environmentally harmful practices, like extracting of resources in an excessive way that ends up harming the environment thanks to a few individuals deciding that “it's the best for the advancement of technology and modern society” and “our companies needs far outweigh the scars we leave on the world”. By raising awareness about the environmental consequences of unchecked globalization, the people and organizations can advocate for greener policies, such as the use of renewable energy and sustainable production methods which will combat the negative effects on the planet.

In conclusion, raising awareness of the effects of globalization is key for a more fair, sustainable, and culturally rich world. Even though globalization offers numerous opportunities of growth and development for society and humanity it also presents challenges that must be addressed. Through advocation of and the doing of well thought out decision-making and responsible policies we can aim to cancel out the challenges that globalization has caused. Means of education, advocacy, and cooperation, the world can aim for a future where the benefits of globalization are shared by all no matter your background and its negative effects are minimized for the well-being of all.

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What Makes a Great Teacher?

Anonymous

What makes a teacher great? Is it someone who is strict and up-tight, or someone who is lenient and easygoing? From the point of view of most students, it's someone who allows most things to slide, no homework, and A’s on every assignment. For the few students, it's someone who gives lots of work so that they can study and pass their tests. In the movie “Coach Carter” the basketball teams initially hated him. They hated the work ethic, the suits, and the grind. But at the end, many ended up in the Division on league, and the team was successful. So, is being a good teacher being a strict one?

For me, I believe that all teachers need to have an ability to captivate.

In any subject, whether art, math, history or science, we need to be enthralled in the subject. But to fully captivate a bunch of teenagers in physics or Shakespeare is not an easy task. From personal experience, my favorite teachers are the ones who understand. They don’t get mad when we draw on the dividers, or ask a stupid question, because they understand that we are just kids. They understand that we have things to do outside of school, that we get stressed, and sometimes, we get tired.

Think back to college, why were some of those teachers so great? Now, I haven’t been to a college lecture, but I know that those teachers want to teach and like what they teach. They are truly interested in what they have to say. For me, if a teacher is captivated in what they say, they can captivate others.

I believe that being a teacher is one of the most important jobs in the world. Why? Because you have the power to control the youth. Words come with a price. If you use them too much, they get cheap. So for teachers, make sure that what you say carries weight. If they carry weight, your students will learn. Teaching the younger generation is like writing out our future. If you teach them something, they will remember.

We must be educated, clever, and imaginative. We cannot live without imagination and want to learn more. So, for any teachers reading this, just remember, your job has the potential to be the most important one in the world. Don’t waste that potential.

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A Crisis in Creativity: A Call for Boredom

by Elsa Besser

Today, thanks to screens, no one has to be bored. While this development might seem fantastic, it has become a growing concern for our society.

Research has shown that in boredom, our minds become more creative.

Boredom promotes not only creativity but also problem-solving and critical thinking. Creativity is one of our most important life skills, and standardized creativity scores have been in freefall since 1990. As screen time rises and creativity scores crash, we must take action to save our world from a total creativity crisis.

When considering the causes of the creativity crisis, one of the most important factors is the growth of technology in our world. In 2013, the average screen time was six hours and nine minutes, which has grown to six hours and 40 minutes in just ten years. In 2010, approximately 35% of Americans had a cell phone. By 2024, 97% of American adults owned a cellphone. Now the average age that Americans get a cellphone is eleven years of age. Why would anyone in the United States need to be a creative problem solver when just about everyone owns a device with the solution to every problem they could think of?

With the rise of cell phones, creative test scores are dropping like lead balloons. The most respected standardized creativity test is the Torrance Tests of Creative Thinking (TTCT), a tool developed by Ellis Paul Torrance in 1966. A researcher at the University of William and Mary, Kyung-Hee Kim, studied more than 300,000 of these tests, comparing tests from the initial days of the TTCT. Her findings: a plummet in creativity starting in 1990, particularly in kindergarten through third grade. This coincides with the time when Nokia launched the first commercially available GSM mobile phone. This is significant, considering that the TTCT is a better predictor of success than any IQ test. In a survey conducted with more than 1,500 CEOs from 60 countries and 33 industries, creativity was by far the most important leadership quality they valued.

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How do we bring creativity back into our world? Besides limiting cellphone use, we must re-introduce boredom into our lives. One of our best thinkers, Albert Einstein, believed in the power of boredom, spending hours just floating on his sailboat or walking on the beach barefoot. Not only does boredom boost our creativity, but it also promotes our productivity by stimulating curiosity. According to futurist Dominic Price, when we allow ourselves to be bored, our brain's frontal cortex filters our thoughts less, generating more relaxed, creative thinking. It might feel counterintuitive, but being bored might be one of our best remedies for addressing the creativity crisis.

Now more than ever, at a time when our world's problems require creative problem-solving, we cannot let creativity die or even diminish.

Maybe we all need a day where we put our cellphones down and start talking to each other about rekindling creativity in both children and adults. We might find that life isn't as boring as we thought it would be without our cellphones.

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Poetry “A world on paper”

by Gabriela Amadeo A world on paper, bold and clear, Where mountains whisper, skies draw near.

Rivers twist, and forests sway, In ink, the night becomes the day.

Cities rise from dotted lines, Bound by dreams and tangled signs.

A place untouched by time or stone, Yet in its depths, I’m never alone.

Each stroke a pulse, each curve a song, A world that waits, a place to belong.

In the quiet fold, it breathes, it grows— A world on paper, where everything flows.

Magical Day’s Ahead

by Antonio Blanes How frost is your air, so bright and rare Snow is thrown without a care, It covers the ground, calm and fair, A peaceful sight beyond compare Snowflakes fall, the air turns chill, Christmas comes with joy and will.

Ornaments are bright in every space, Hearts are filled with joy and grace.

Skiing down hills so fast In December cold, a ride so vast January’s fire warms the night As snowflakes dance in winter's light.

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PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY

BY SALVADOR DALÍ

by Harper Piñeiro Time is an incredibly odd thing.

It warps our memory, slowly changing everything.

Melting clocks changing of perception of when it occurred, Setting grows hazy like a fog never to be seen again, Lack of color as the uniqueness creeps away.

After a long time, our memories grow surreal.

Random people replacing those we once knew.

I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal.

Shapes and colors everchanging.

Our memory slowly reflects itself, but not without new perspectives commenting.

So much symbolism in such a small thing.

Details of past, present and future, What a glorious thing.

Nothing is permanent, things change and decay.

The persistence of a memory is quite crazy, Almost everything goes away.

Nothing forever stays the same.

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The Ones Who Stay

by Ana Rivera Through every shared secret and each silly grin, Some friends are forever, like magic within.

Some friends go, and others stay, But true friends stick around like hairspray.

Through laughter and tears, they're always there, I don't know what I'd do without them, I swear.

Others are like shadows that fade and then quickly evade They pretend to care, but it's all a lie, So be grateful for the ones who pass the test of time, But those who matter, they're the ones who've stayed They see the best in you, come what may And help you shine in your own special way Some are miles away, but their hearts remain And with them, your bond will forever sustain Hold them close, cherish them with all your heart, They're the real deal and a true work of art.

Always choose the ones that stay, These are the best friends, in every way. artwork by Cristine Tacher

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Good Old Summer Days

by Isabella Blanes Oh how much I miss summer I was happy at every time of day All school does is make me feel dumber I just wish it was May I can't wait to wake up at ten in the morning I can't wait to feel relaxed I miss when life wasn't so boring I miss when the whole day i laughed When there is no homework im jolly There is no worries in the world All I am is playing volley It's already kinda warm There is only March, April and May Left

With my hair naturally curled I love the sound of the waves crashing I love feeling the sun on my skin I keep wondering how fast the days are passing No matter what, Summer still feels like a win People say third times the charm So good thing there is only three months left

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Volleyball by Didier Cherubin The one sport that i love most of all Its the amazing game of volleyball With every serve and each hit Is what makes the game so lit Even though the game is fun and fair There is a possibility you can feel despair Like losing a set in an intense game By thinking of all the mistakes you made But the point of the game is to have fun So if you make mistakes you move on Enjoy yourself with your teammates With all types of celebrations and handshakes This is why the one sport i love most of all Is the amazing game of volleyball

by Luca Molfino

A Shooting Star by Bastían Báez A shooting star can only go so far from where it is seen, a beautiful nature only most will know but only some will see, some will wait for days and months but yet have not seen a single one, some will give up while others try for the chance of seeing another one fly.

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POEM OF MY CHICKEN KEN

BY SANSAN WU

I walk into the bright, luminous store.

With the intent of buying more.

Who am I alluding to?

That, of course, is my boo.

White, orange, and yellow, Oh, the sight of you makes me mellow.

A fluffy body, so snug and neat.

Short round wings and a cute little beak.

For you, I have a big fat crush.

Everytime I see you, I swoon and gush.

There are many forms of thee, Watermelon, banana, and broccoli.

Oh Ken, oh ken, I rate you a ten.

Putting you in my shopping bag, Whilst my mother nags.

Clink, Clink, The coins in my purse tinks.

Panic clouded my brain.

Perhaps I do not have enough to pay?

I check my wallet again, Only to be faced with no gains.

Truly unfortunate, what a horrible day.

Looking at my mother, I pray, Hopefully she’s feeling generous today.

My mother sighed, Beep, the card reader chimed.

The sparkle in my eyes quickly returns.

Your fluffy body is now secured in my arms.

Never letting you go, my cute little charm.

Forever cherished, soft and true, Ken, my love—I will treasure you.

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A Night Under the Stars by Sofia Padró A night under the stars before I sink The sky had a thoughtful wink The night with my best friends etched in ink A fleeting spark gone in a blink Sushi in hand and hearts on the line Laughter like a lantern warm and divine Time slowed down if by design And in that moment, all felt fine We cheered through the game with windblown hair The world was still but we didn’t care The night was dressed in a flair A type of healing found me in the air To my girls who have always been there You are the reason life feels rare In every moment we share You remind me joy is everywhere Box of Crayons by Lorena Watlington How do you feel? Is a commonly asked question, but what if you respond like a color in a box of crayons. A color that nobody uses because you're not as bright as red,blue, yellow and more.

Nobody finds a reason to use you because you aren't as pretty or you just don't stand out as much. However, you didn't mind, you looked forward and found your worth even when others didn't. You realized you didn't have to be as pretty or as bright as the others to still be worthy.

You found a way to value yourself.

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Señor Woofers, the Noble Pup anonymous Señor Woofers, proud and grand, With wagging tail and paw to hand.

A dapper dog in fur so fine, His bark declares,This world is mine Through garden paths, he struts with pride, A noble heart, so full inside.

Chasing squirrels, oh, what a game!

Yet always comes when called by name.

A friend so true, so full of cheer, With floppy ears that hear so clear.

Oh, Señor Woofers, wise and bold, A pup with stories yet untold!

My Spatula by Mauricio Báez Oh, spatula, so flat and wide, You flip my pancakes with such pride.

You scrape the bowl, you stir with grace, A kitchen tool I can't replace.

Through sizzling pans and melted cheese, You help me cook with so much ease.

From eggs to cakes, you do it all, A trusty friend, both big and small.

So, here's to you, my plastic mate, Or metal, wood—you’re always great!

A humble tool, yet oh so grand, A helping hand at my command.

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WORLD PEACE anonymous

In the name of the Father, I stand tall, I live each day beneath a ghost’s cold hand.

It haunts my dreams, and shadows when I fall, I see it through blind, who don’t understand I hear the cries that deaf ears cannot hear, I shout the truth for all who still remain, Though silence grips, my voice will still be clear, Until my words break free from endless pain Feel a fire burning deep inside my heart, A hunger for a world that’s just and kind, Where differences can’t tear us apart, And all are treated equal, heart and mind.

So let us rise, and build a world of light, Where love and peace will always end the fight.

My precious Lena

by Adriana Figueroa My Lena, my precious dog, you fill me with joy every time I see you.

Every time I come home, you are there.

Your spiky brown fur attached to my hands, your small red nose I like to boop.

You are like a child to me, you fill me with pride and joy.

My precious Lena, my precious dog.

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Soccer

by Anonymous You treat me so well, every time I play soccer it brings me joy and the warmth of family.

Soccer is great as it is a healthy and fun sport that can make you a lot of friends.

The ball rolls gracefully against the grass to the beauties of the sunset.

Keeper dives, striker shoots and challenges are born.

All the fun memories made and held with electrifying pace and fascinating skill

The Heart of the Court

by Juliana Isabel Nieves When the ball goes up, we give our all, Jumping high, we can’t let it fall.

High sets, strong hits, a perfect play, God guides us every day.

We dive, we dig, we block, we fight!

Chasing dreams in stadium lights.

Win or lose, we play with heart, The love for the game sets us apart!

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LITTLE VERMIN

BY FEDERICO BETANCES

Deep within the windmill’s embrace, Past wooden beams in time’s slow trace, A little mouse calls gears his home, Where winds still whisper as they roam.

The mighty wheel turns night and day, Grinding grain in swirling sway, Yet in the cogs, so tight and small, He scurries light, unseen by all.

His world is brass and iron spun, A dance of gears, a race half-run.

The echoes hum, the pulleys chime, A clockwork song, a tune in time.

He darts between the spinning thread, A seed, a crumb, a feast ahead, And though alone, he does not mind— The mill and time are warm and kind.

And when the storm howls fierce outside, And mighty sails cut wind with pride, He curls up close, at peace, so still, A heartbeat in the breathing mill.

Through summers bright and winters deep, He thrives where gears and currents sweep, The mill’s soft rhythm, strong and true, A home where dreams and echoes grew.

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SOMETHING SO SWEET

by Mia Faigenblat Something so sweet can just be as bitter A high that leaves people craving for more A spoonful of you bursts just like glitter Too much, and the mouth will be left sore A pure joy substance turned into a purpose of crime History highlights the faults of your production Cruelty, Slavering, Laboring all at this time The world globalized your seduction Your presents tries to hide your past In stores you glow but in plantations you lack It's not easy to say your harm was not put at its last An obsession so vast it portrayed people as whack Sugar the way you globalized the universe For Better or worse The feelings upon you are mixed as you are a blessing and a curse

photo by Jasmine Jiang

The sweetness you obtain left these slaves adverse May everyone be affected of your impact As Sugar Change The World A story that is not just a fact But a truth unfurled

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Love is Perfect

by Isabela Caparrós Love is perfect Perfect in the way that its not Sometimes you feel it You often see it You see love everywhere You feel it when you eat your favorite food You feel it when you hang out with your friends and your family You feel it when you see that one special person That special person that brightens up your day That person that the second you see them you change You transform into a loving person You change into a caring and kind person when you're around them They make you a better person without knowing it You can go days trying to hide your love for them and they might never see it You can hide your love for that one special person But the second they feel the same way it won't be hidden They will start to notice the small things What type of jewelry you wear, The type of food that you eat, But most of all they will show that they care.

photo

by Zoraiz Akram

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Safe in the Sound

by Lia Nuñez When the world feels way too loud, I put my headphones on and drown it out.

Soft or loud, fast or slow, It’s the one thing that won’t let go.

Every note, every song, Tells me that I’m not alone.

Lyrics know just what to say, Like they take my pain away.

It catches me when I fall apart, Speaks the words stuck in my heart.

Every chorus, every tune, Fills the silence in my room.

It wraps around me, keeps me safe, Like a warm and quiet place.

No need to run, no need to hide, The music’s here, right by my side.

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MY TWIN

by Cecilia Rivera Dubón People see you as a ray of sun I see you as my number one We fight alot but your always there no matter what you always care Sometimes i wish i could return the favor But lifes always changing there's always a new flavor Sort of like ice cream our emotions come and go Melt away and your sometimes alone But not me i have you And i hope you know you have me to When something happens or something comes up Just know your that your a buttercup Yellow and bright like other people say a ray of sunlight the will never change And very short yes you can not change that And when when were older i can't wait to wear that graduation hat With you i will stand though that and though more Who know what life has in store And you will grow like a candle short at the end And i know that because that's the riddle that you will never understand Through thick and thin we will see it all but know matter what just know that your dabom And hold your horses people because that doesn't happen very often yes she's finally wrong About what you may ask well it's how much i love her and the answer is to infinity and beyond.

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My Angel, the Sun and the Moon

by Aiasofia La Verde My angel, the sun and the moon, who gone too soon, With a smile that lit up the blue.

A spark that made the world feel high.

She was kind, always full of cheer, Turning dark days bright when she was near.

Her laugh was music, pure and sweet, A sound that made everyone’s heart skip a beat.

Her heart was full of love and light, A friend like her was a shining light.

Cancer says he took her, but without Him knowing, he took me too.

Took all of us, piece by piece, Leaving us with pain that doesn’t end.

I miss her smile, her joyful ways, But I’ll remember her every day.

Though she’s gone, she’s still in my heart, Her love and light will never depart.

In every sunset, in every star, I feel her with me, near or far.

She was the sun, the moon, the sky, And though she’s gone, she’ll never say goodbye.

Her memory shines in everything I do, My angel, forever, in my heart so true.

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Food

by Roberto López Oh food you're so warm or cold so salty, sweet, sour, spicy, bitter, or savory.

Since I first tasted you I fell in love.

I have always loved food even when I was a toddler I knew I loved food.

I love food because it is salty, sweet, spicy, sour, crunchy, bitter, savory, and finally just delicious. It is the best I think I have ever tasted and will always be.

Jogo Bonito

by Jassem Pagán Jogo bonito, oh jogo bonito A dance of feet, a pursuit of a goal.

With every pass, with every sprint, I breath, and play The scream of the crowd when you shoot A perfect shot, a moment so rare.

Through rain or shine, on fields so wide The beauty of football we can't hide.

From the streets to stadium lights, Brazilian flair always there It makes up my heart A sport so simple, yet so emotional Where passion and glory are always found.

Poem about Formula 1

by Sam Faigenblat Formula 1, the highest class.

The speed of the cars is unsurpassed.

Cars so fast you can’t see them pass.

To travel with them, you’ll need a boarding pass.

10 teams and 20 divers make up the grid.

In Australia, everyone slid.

McLaren are on a win.

22 races still to go

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Working Day and Night anonymous I wake up early, and go to sleep late I go to school and learn until my brain is dead I go home and work even more, But I can’t rest, not yet, not anymore, I take a glance at my phone and I head out the door I go to practice until I can hear my thundering heartbeat through my ears I can’t stop, not yet, not this year.

I drive home and as soon as I walk through the door, I finish my exercise for the day I eat in one gulp, and I study until my eyes fail me Can I finally take a break?

Can I lay down and do absolutely nothing?

I hope I can, I hope I can, at least finish just today.

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For my Love

by Elena Zamot Love can be defined in many ways Affection, perfection, dedication, Happiness and connection But if I were to describe my love to you An eternity I would take to express it towards you When I look up at the clouds I see you As if your dancing and prancing Hiding between two The stars remind me of you Your shining personality and The bright smile you carried around with You And even though we cannot see you Your love is still around And to express the same to you I thank the clouds for seeing you As I recite my poem I hope you are thinking about Me too Remembering how my love for you Will go on Even if I never see you.

I dedicate this poem Or whatever they call this To my love And to the person who Taught me hope, Courage, and to Enjoy The small moments that endure

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Acrostic Poem of Football/Soccer JJ Fonalledas Football. The greatest sport of all history Opposing. Teams make the game of football all the more intense One. All you need is one good play to win you a game or a trophy The game. This game is irreplaceable with more than 1 billion people who watch and play it Ball. The ball gets kicked all around the pitch and without it this game wouldn't exist Assists. They say the game is all about scoring but without the assists the goals aren’t as good Lessons. Football teaches life lessons like winning requires teamwork or never give up Learn. Football is where you learn because you learn from the wins and the losses

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Summer

by Stella Marrero Summer, summer, Who wants it to end We spend all summer fun And when it's all done So is our fun You know it summer because of the summer breeze The hot sun The smell of sunblock The feel of the sand The bright sun Always shining always out But when the time comes it goes to sleep And so do we All day we are out We go to the pool And jump in We swim and swim Until we can't Then we go to sleep and repeat Our wet hair Our summer perfume Our bathing suits that we never take off Our flip flops that we forget by the beach That's what special about summer

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Sound

by Victoria Osorio Click, tap, there is noise The world, full of sound and glee A rush, everyday Crash into the trench Of finding precise tune My mistakes, bring light Always listening My music is my captor And yet my triumph

Tennis

by Tyler Sharpe Tennis Tennis Tennis most exciting sport How could I not love it It's so amazing Play with whomever you want So active and exciting Better than any other sport It's so lovely So good So amazing So brilliant There are two meany words to describe it Tennis Tennis Tennis Hit a ball with so much power And just enjoy every moment Tennis Tennis Tennis

BROKEN / / BALLET

by Naira Rivas 5678 BROKEN BALLET SUBPAR STEP SHATTERING SLIP UP JARRING JETÉ PI / ROU / ETTE PA / RI / AH LEAP → LEFT SOMETHING IS NOT ← RIGHT

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The Elite Swimmer’s Journey

by Colton Ambrecht Through dawn-lit pools and restless streams, They chase the echoes of their dreams.

With every stroke, with every glide, A nation's hope swells deep inside.

The water bends to will and might, A flair of power, fierce and bright.

Each breath is confidence, each turn is grace, A spark of belief sets the pace.

The clock ticks softly, the crowd roars, A fleeting race, yet years are vowed— Of sweat and toil, of loss and gain, Of silent wars fought in the lane.

Gold or silver, win or fall, The grit within us chases them all.

For champions rise beyond the prize, It's love for water that never dies.

So, in the depths, where silence calls, They carve their names on liquid walls.

A legacy in waves they weave, Elite in spirit—won’t retreat.

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The Women They Misunderstood

by Cristine Tacher They called her a queen of excess, told the world she drowned in silk, while outside, hunger clawed the gates, But Marie never said, Let them eat cake, she only became the feast.

They burned her at the stake, a girl who heard the voice of God, a soldier who stood where men would not.

Joan of Arc rose in fire and faith, and they feared a woman who did not flinch.

They whispered witch as she walked, Anne Boleyn, a girl who read too much, who refused to be a silent crown.

They took her head but not her story, for still, her shadow stains the throne.

She saw numbers as music, patterns in the air, while the world called Ada Lovelace a dreamer, Centuries later, her code still sings, though no one thought to listen then.

They called Sylvia Plath too muchtoo sad, too fierce, too full of words that cracked open the ribs of the world.

Her voice still echoes in margins and minds, no longer caged in an oven’s dark breath.

A beauty, they said, just a face on a screen, but Hedy Lamarr dreamed of frequencies, of secret codes, of the future humming in her mind.

The WiFi in our pockets whispers her name, even if history tried to forget.

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... continued...

A girl with a book was their greatest fear, so they tried to silence Malala with lead.

But knowledge is bulletproof, and now her words ring louder than any gunshot ever could.

They misunderstood them allnot because they were wrong, but because they refused to be small.

And still, they rise.

art by Cristine Tacher

Short Stories The Delphmbell Flower

by Kai Napoli

Ivy skipped next to James, as her basket swung back and forth in her hand. It was a partially cloudy day, and James and Ivy were heading to Ginger's house to drop off some fruit as a gift. When they got to Ginger's house, Ivy knocked on the door. Ginger opened the door. She was wearing her laboratory coat and she looked a bit tired. “Hey Ivy, James. what are you doing here?” Ginger asked. “Me and James came here to drop off some fruits for you!” Ivy replied with a big smile on her face. “Oh thank you. Please come in.” Ginger held open the door for Ivy and James. “Nah thanks I'm good I'll wait out here,” James said, standing a bit to the side behind Ivy. Ivy went into Ginger's home which was a mess with all research and experiments everywhere. James waited outside on the porch. Ginger tried to clean up some of her work so Ivy could put the fruits on the table.

“Hey Ivy, do you by any chance know where to find a Delphmbell flower? I need it for one of my experiments, and you're like the flower expert so...,” Ginger asked while she organized some of her papers. “Hm... I've never heard of those. But I can find it for you! Flowers are my specialty!,” Ivy replied joyfully. “Really? That would be a great help,” Ginger replied, seeming relieved. “Of course! You just get back to your studies,” Ivy said, as she set the fruit on the table and walked out with her basket. “See ya in a bit!,” Ivy said as she walked out the door. Ivy left Ginger’s house and grabbed James, and they head towards the town. In the middle of town, they walked past the supermarket stands and bumped into the fortune teller of the town, Granny Ann. Ivy fell down backwards when she bumped into Granny Ann. James helped up Ivy. “Oh, are you ok hun?,” says Granny Ann. “Don’t worry I’m fine!,” Ivy said as she brushed off the dirt from her light green dress. “Why are you two in such a rush?,” Granny Ann asks. “We’re looking for this Delphmbell flower for Ginger,” James said unenthusiastically. “Hm. Well you won't find that here but you know there's this secret garden in the woods past the forest kids hideout. Anything can grow in that garden. I’d try and look there if I were you two,” 37

... continued...

Granny Ann replied. “Oh, that sounds great! Thanks Granny Ann!,” Ivy replied, sounding very energetic and excited. “Of course, but be careful.

Some people who go to that part of the forest never return,” Granny Ann replied as Ivy and James started to walk off. As Ivy and James left, Ivy quickly replied to Granny Ann, shouting, “Don't worry we’ll be fine! Thanks again!” James mumbled, “Yeah thanks.” Ivy and James keep walking, getting deeper into the woods. The wind rustled the leaves on the trees and they could hear some small animals move around them. The dead leaves made crackling sounds under their feet as they walked. After a while of walking deeper and deeper into the woods, James asked impatiently, “Where is this pla-” but quickly was cut off. They fell down a hill hidden by some trees and leaves. The two screamed as they fell until they were at the bottom of the hill. Once they got up from the ground, Ivy noticed them in the garden Granny Ann had told them about. It was beautiful and vibrant with all sorts of plants and flowers everywhere.

“Ugh. My head,” James said, rubbing his head as he stood up, not immediately noticing where they were. Ivy looked up and quickly noticed the flower that Ginger needed. The Delphmbell was big with light blue petals shaped like a downward facing bell. “James, look!,” Ivy exclaimed.

James looked up to see the flower glistening in the sunlight. “Woah...”

James said, amazed. The two of them stared at it for a second in amazement before saying anything else. “I guess we should take it to Ginger,” Ivy said, staring at the flower. “Yeah, probably” James replied, as he walked over to it with Ivy. Ivy tugged at the Delphmbell and tried to pull it out of the ground. “A little help here please?,” Ivy said, turning to James.

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” James said walking to the flower as Ivy stepped to the side. James tried to pull the flower out of the ground, but as he pulled, they could hear a low growling sound. James looked up at the flower, and saw its sharp teeth hidden under the bell shaped petals. James moved back from the flower in fear as it growled at him. The flower lifted up its head showing its teeth and started to scream and try to bite them. Ivy let out a small scream of fear, and jumped backwards from the flower as it tried to attack them. James fells backwards onto the ground. The noise woke up the other flowers which started to scream and bite at Ivy and James. “What the hell?!”

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... continued...

James said as he got up. The apples on the trees start wailing and screaming, shaking in the trees. Ivy and James were still trying to grasp what was going on. A small flower bit at Ivy’s dress and made her move away out of fear, but this only made her move closer to other flowers trying to bite her. James looked at the hill they fallen down and realized they would have to get rid of these flowers if they wanted to live. James looked around to see if there was something he could use to fight them, and spotted some sharp gardening tools, and he grabbed two. James noticed Ivy being bit and rushed over to her, swiftly cutting off the flower’s heads. “Quick, we have to kill these things if we want leave this place,” James said, as he handed Ivy one of the gardening tools. Once Ivy took the tool from James, they started to cut off the flower’s heads trying to not be bit. After what felt like forever, all the flowers except one are dead, the Delphmbell. The two of them stood in front of the flower at a distance and then looked at each other and noded as if they both just knew what the other was thinking. James ran behind the Delphmbell, while Ivy threw the gardening tool at it trying to distract it. The flower bit at Ivy’s dress and she avoided the bites quickly jumping backwards. Meanwhile, James was behind the Delphmbell. James cuts at the bottom of the flower’s stem.

The Delphmbell shrieked trying to bite at James, but before it could, James cut it off, fully detaching it from the ground. They heard a loud thud, as it fell still screaming and trying to move. After a few seconds the flower was silent. They had won. James and Ivy's clothes had a few small rips and they had a couple of small bites on them too. James and Ivy try to catch their breath and calm down. Silence was interrupted with the apples still shrieking, which provoked James. James turned around to face the apples on the tree. He picked up a rock from the ground screaming “SHUT UP!” James threw the rock at the apples. The apples became quiet and some fell on the ground and were bruised too. James tried to calm down his heavy breathing as he turned around back to look at Ivy. It was silent for a moment. Ivy looked down at the flower on the ground staring at it before finally saying, “I don't think this will fit in my basket.” James sighed. “I’ll help you carry it,” replied James. The two of them lifted up the flower and started heading toward Ginger's house. They 39

... continued... looked like they had been through hell and back. Ginger opened the door and noticed the flower first. She seemed relieved they had the Delphmbell. “Oh you got it! It looks bigger than I expected. Thanks guys!,” Ginger said happily. “Anytime!,” Ivy replied joyfully. Ginger looked at James and Ivy and noticed how beat up they looked. She stood there for a split second looking at them. “Uh... what happened? Are you guys good?,” Ginger said, sounding a bit concerned. Ivy smiled “We're great! Nothing like a good adventure right James?” Ivy replied and looked at James for his answer. “I want to go home,” James replied unamused.

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by Miabelle Gillier

An Abstract Dream

by Michael Shteynblik An abstract dream I saw the composition of the world shift into shapes and colors, I saw the streets, the buildings turn into Abstract idea. The mere concept of matter and being, gone. I felt as I became the abstract, a river flowing off the edge of the world into the unknown cosmos. I flew faster than time through hues incomprehensible to the human mind. I felt that I had opened every window in the universe, finally being able to see. I wake up to my alarm clock, it’s early in the morning. I reach for the alarm clock blindly, my fingers feeling strangely detached, as though they aren't mine. I sit up slowly and take a deep breath. The weight of reality begins to settle upon my shoulders. I stand up and look outside my window. For a split second the buildings blur, blending into the abstract, the lines of reality bent with an ounce of force. I am here, I am now, but I am not the same.

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Was he real, or am I insane?

by Arialeey Serrano

Erika woke up on her side of the bed, she sat up and looked to her side looking for her husband Spencer. She didn't see a single trace of him or a sign that he woke up and left. The other side felt cold as if no one had ever been there before. She decided not to overthink and stood up walking over to the bathroom only to see nothing of her husband's belongings in sight. No toothbrush no towel, nothing of his, only hers. Panicked, she called his phone waiting for an answer only to hear “This number is not in service”. She then tried his parents' phone for them to say they never had a son, now she got really worried and confused. She started looking for anything, any proof that Spencer had existed but was shocked when she looked at every photo and none with Spencer in it as well as none of their texts or trace of him in her phone.

She was out of breath asking herself if she had imagined him, but she couldn't have, everything was too real, all her memories with him were real and vivid. She searched one more time around the apartment and noticed a tilted book on the bookshelf. She opened it and a note fell out, with shaking hands she picked it up and it was in her husband's handwriting. She slowly read the note “If you ever doubt that I was real just know that my love for you was real, and that can never be erased”.

She started crying as she realized Spencer was gone, but she knew somewhere, somehow, love left a trace and she would never forget him.

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Just one more day... *

by Adrián Mera Life? I always thought I had more of it left, but he took mine too soon. I thought I could stay arrogant, selfish, and ungrateful for most of it and not have any consequences... Still, I ended up here, and filled with regret. What will I be remembered for... will I even be remembered... what did people think of me? Did I make a difference, or waste my one and only attempt? I wish I could just go back, but it's too late, too late to say “thank you”, “goodbye, ”I loved you”. Why did I have to leave so young? Why did I leave so fast? Why couldn't I just enjoy what I was given? Why did I want more? I hope my parents know how much I love them. How much i’ll cherish them. How much I wish I said “thank you”; they supported me, while I just ignored them and took them for granted. Just like when we went to eat, and I just sat there, on my phone. What was my problem. What is my issue. Why am I realizing this now? How did I let myself stay distracted with my toys.

With my phone. How did I let myself stray away from the life my parents wanted for me. Why was it taken away from me.

My life. Was it really that replaceable. Did my parents cry? Did they mourn? Why am I thinking about this now. Where even am I? It feels so empty. Yet it reminds me of everything that was full in my life. My memory feels so fussy. I can't remember if I tried. Did I? Did I ever change? Did I ever improve? Did I ever show my love? My mind feels full of a type of fog. I can't think properly. Did I mean anything? To anyone? What did my parents think of me? Did they know I loved them? Am I dead? Or alive and filled with regret. Why won't he tell me. Was my life really that meaningless? That useless? That even he won't fix my problems. But why?

*This text touches a sensitive topic. It may be best to skip if you feel uncomfortable!

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Why do I still search for hope in him even though my life is over? I was promised and feel deceived. I still remember all the warm smiles that embraced me, that I made giggle, that I made cry, that I made wonder.

My friends... All the good memories we made together, did they mean something. Is he going to love me? After everything I've done. Will he ever forgive me? If only they knew if only I told them; my friends, my family, these people were my life, still I pushed them aside, and took it for granted. Please forgive me. Give me one more chance. One more chance. One more chance to love, to cherish, to enjoy, to show gratitude, to be happy. I wanted to live my life making others smile. Now, I don't even know if they will attend my funeral. If my parents will even host one. What did my time on Earth account to? Please, hear my prayers, my distress, my tragedy, my desire to show how much I loved them. Send me back, if not, just tell me. Did they love me just as much as I loved them? Where will I be going? Will I be going somewhere? Will he accompany me? Accept me? Love me? Forgive me...?

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The Two Faces of Mateo

by Alyana Bernardo Mateo was two years old, spoke fluent gibberish, and had the biggest baby attitude the world had ever seen. At Saint John’s Little Saints Preschool, he was a perfect angel.

“Mrs. Luzmarie, Mateo is such a sweetheart,” parents and teachers would say, watching him sit quietly, giving hugs, smiling.

Mrs. Luzmarie agreed. “He’s a little ray of sunshine,” she’d say, smiling as Mateo nodded along to storytime like a wise old man.

But the second Mateo got home? A nightmare in footie pajamas.

His older sister, Alyana, suffered the most. She couldn’t sit on the couch without getting whacked by a toy dinosaur. If she told him “No,” he’d roll his big brown eyes so hard, she swore he could see his brain.

And the gibberish tantrums? Legendary.

“Ehh! Baa! Mmm-ahh!” Mateo would yell, arms flailing dramatically when he didn’t get his way.

He’s also ALWAYS hungry.

“Mama. Ah. Ehh. Mmm.” Pointing aggressively at the fridge.

He’d eat breakfast, then demand snacks. Lunch? More snacks. Dinner? Still hungry. It was like he had a black hole for a stomach.

But here’s the worst part—Mateo was smart.

If Alyana tried to tell on him, he’d bat his long eyelashes, walk over, and hug her like he was the sweetest little brother on Earth.

And their mom? Totally fell for it.

At school, Mateo was an angel. At home, he ruled with chaos.

And Alyana? She knew the truth.

Based on a true story.

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DO IT FOR HIM

by Isabella Ortiz Andueza

Leo and Aria were high school students who studied in the same school. They had known each other since the sixth grade and had been inseparable friends ever since. Over the years, their bond grew stronger, but what Aria didn’t realize was that Leo had liked her since the very first day they met. What Leo didn’t know was that, over time, Aria had also started to develop feelings for him.

Both of them were too shy to admit their feelings, so they confided in their best friends. Leo told Jasper, loyal best friend, while Aria poured her heart out to Isla, her supportive and clever confidante. When Jasper and Isla realized what was going on, they teamed up to create a plan.

The first plan was simple: encourage Leo and Aria to confess their feelings directly. But despite Jasper and Isla’s nudging, both Leo and Aria held back, too afraid of ruining their friendship.

When that plan failed, Jasper and Isla moved on to Plan B: setting the two up on a secret date.

The plan worked better than they expected. Leo and Aria, initially shocked to find themselves alone together, ended up talking for hours. They laughed, shared stories, and even opened up about things they hadn’t shared with anyone else. By the end of the evening, their connection felt stronger than ever.

After the date, Leo found the courage to text Aria: "Would you like to go on a real date with me?"

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Aria’s heart raced as she replied: "Yes. I’d love to."

From that moment on, their relationship blossomed. A year passed, and they were still together—completely in love and happier than ever. But one day, everything changed.

One afternoon, Aria sat across from Leo, her hands trembling. "I have some bad news," she said softly. "I’m moving. My dad got transferred, and we’re leaving at the end of the month."

Leo froze. The thought of being apart from her felt unbearable, but he forced a small smile and said, “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll be okay.”

Aria nodded, but deep down, she knew how much this hurt him.

As the weeks passed, the day of her departure arrived. Leo held her tightly at the airport in his arms, as if letting go would make her disappear forever.

“I’ll never stop loving you,” he whispered. “But it’s time to say goodbye.”

With tears streaming down her face, Aria boarded the plane, clutching the memories of their time together.

When Aria arrived at her new home, she immediately texted Leo to let him know she had landed safely. Hours passed with no response. Worried, she called his mother.

Leo’s mom answered with a shaky voice. “Aria,” she said, her words catching in her throat, “I’m so sorry, but Leo... he’s gone. He was heartbroken after you left. He didn’t know how to handle it...”

Aria dropped the phone, her mind spinning. The love of her life was gone. How could she go on without him?

For days, Aria couldn’t eat, sleep, or think clearly. She sat alone in her room, consumed by grief. Thoughts of giving up crept into her mind, but something stopped her. She remembered Leo’s words: “I’ll never stop loving you.”

Aria made a decision. “I’ll live for him,” she whispered to herself. “I’ll carry his memory with me and honor him by living the life we dreamed of.”

Years passed, and Aria found ways to keep moving forward. She pursued her dreams, started a career, and eventually built a family of her own. She carried Leo in her heart every step of the way, sharing his story with her children and teaching them about the power of love, resilience, and hope.

Leo’s absence was a wound that never fully healed, but Aria found strength in knowing she was living the life he would have wanted for her. She chose to turn her pain into purpose and live every day in his honor.

photo by Luiz Penna

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SLEEP PARALYSIS* anonymous In this story, I will discuss the feeling of petrification. The terrifying experience of not being able to move, speak or scream as much as I wanted to. Seeing a horrifying image that feels too existent to be fake. This experience left me feeling like I was in an artificial world.

January 17th, 2023, 1:03am. I found myself in a heavy, soundless sleep. I hear a knock from my door echoing throughout my room. A familiar voice called my name. My head was not able to move, and I could not answer the voice that I thought was my mother. Thought..

My door slowly opened without a sound. It was now clear that it was not my mother who had called my name. This thing had come up to me, I was not able to see it fully since my head was not able to budge out of one location.

This shadow thing goes out of my eyeline and directs itself beside me. At this moment in time I wanted to scream, cry, or call out for help but i was not able to, i opened my mouth but not a single word came out. I felt a grasp at my arm, something was holding on to it. It started to whisper in my ear, the whispers were incoherent. It held on tighter and tighter and kept repeating the whispers louder and louder until I woke up.

A feeling that felt like hours only lasted a few minutes. Not being able to sleep afterwards was horrible. The worst feeling was the paranoia that I was still in that haunting dream and could not escape it. My mind is my worst enemy and can bring my nightmares to life. It had the ability to construct sounds that aren't really there so I was left in fear while I heard footsteps on the other side of my door. Now, I have many sleepless nights praying this does not occur again.

*This text touches a sensitive topic. It may be best to skip if you feel uncomfortable!

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First Day Jitters anonymous Everyone knows the first day of school is scary, especially in a new place. But what if it isn't a new place. Calling a place home after it hasn’t been home for so long is weird, because you can’t even remember when it was home. On the first day of school being quiet was the game plan which isn't me. I didn't know how I wanted to present myself, I didn't know the social scene or what was considered okay. Now that uniforms were used it thought it would put so much more focus on the little things like what shoes I wore, what jewelry I had on, how much makeup I did or didn't put on, what my hair looked like, I put so much pressure on myself about what other people thought. Then I thought of the type of people who I wanted to be friends with.

What if I had to become friends with people I didn't want to be, it was too much. The first day of school I woke up 2 hours before school started. Made my bed, put on my uniform, straightened my hair, and did my makeup and my stomach felt sick. I had spent the whole summer not thinking about this but the second I landed here it was all that was in my head. But once I got to school I was quiet. I spoke to some people. It was fairly uneventful, I didn’t understand why I had put so much pressure on such an uneventful day. It really went to show how my overthinking was so useless, and I wish I had spent my days before looking forward to it more, but this did teach me a lesson.

Uncertainty can be a good thing.

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THE FINAL TRAIN

BY NICOLÁS MADERO

The city was shrouded in fog on this sour late-autumn evening. The cold air made Sarah's breath mist as she stood by herself on the platform. With the exception of the occasional hurried step of commuters eager to get home, the city was dying down and the streets were silent. She looked at the time. In ten minutes, the last train would depart, marking the end of another day. This night, however, felt different to Sarah.

She didn't intend to be here. Despite being unexpected, the invitation evoked a deep-seated desire that she had long since buried beneath the daily grind. She wondered what had brought her there as she stood waiting.

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The Secret Keeper

by Cristine Tacher Iris was left alone to sort the house. The kitchen still smelled faintly of cinnamon, the rocking chair still faced the window where her grandmother used to sit for hours, watching the world go by. She had always been quiet.

Gentle. A woman who lived simply.

Or so Iris thought.

She found the journal tucked inside the nightstand, wrapped carefully in an old silk scarf. The pages were worn, the ink uneven, as if the words had been written by a hand that struggled to stay steady.

The first page was simple.

“I must remember.”

Iris frowned, turning to the next entry.

“Today, I forgot the word for the thing that boils water. I stood in the kitchen, staring at it, willing my mouth to remember. But it didn’t come. It took five minutes before I thought of ‘kettle.’ Five, whole minutes.”

She flipped through the pages, her pulse quickening.

“It’s getting worse. I woke up this morning and didn’t know what year it was. I told myself it was just sleepiness, but I know better. I know what this is. I know where it’s going.”

Iris’ breath hitched.

“I must write everything down. I must remember. I must not forget who I am.”

Her hands trembled as she turned the pages, each one filled with fragments of a woman who had been fighting against time, trying desperately to hold onto herself.

“Iris. My granddaughter. She likes the color blue. She likes to read. She always kisses my cheek when she leaves.

She is kind. I must not forget her.”

A tear slipped down Iris’ cheek.

“Today, I forgot my mother’s face. I had to look at a photograph. When I saw it, I cried, because I knew she had been gone for years, and I had already started losing her again.”

The words grew shakier, more desperate.

“I must remember, I must remember.”

The final entry was short, barely legible.

“If I forget everything else, I hope I remember that I loved. I hope I remember that I was loved.”

Iris shut the journal, pressing it to her chest.

Her grandmother had fought to hold on, to leave pieces of herself behind before she faded completely.

But in the end, she hadn’t saved herself.

She had only Iris to remember what she couldn’t.

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10TH-12TH GRADE WORKS PHOTO BY BENJAMIN JACOBS

Essays

artwork

by Gabriela Chanez

Conversación con un fantasma

by Mariola Lugo Cuando niña te solía tener miedo; sin embargo, ahora a mis 16 años de edad, te admiro. Desde siempre nos han inculcado un miedo terrible hacia lo desconocido y sobrenatural, pero mientras vamos creciendo y cultivando experiencias nos damos cuenta de que es la parte más bonita de nuestra vida: el misterio que existe en ella. Al crecer espiritualmente, nos damos cuenta de que sí existen energías que nos rodean tal y como tú. Sea algún familiar, un ser especial, o simplemente alguien que estuvo anteriormente en donde residimos. Espíritus y almas perdidas e iluminadas que nos guían y hasta nos protegen. Pensar en que existe algo como tú sí da miedo, pero a su vez brinda un sentimiento de protección y guía. Además, creo en que cada vez que sentimos una punzada en el corazón o algún sentir por cambiar de dirección, sí son ustedes reflejándose en nuestra intuición. Por eso creo que pensar que no existen es simplemente ser ignorante, por que quién está conectado consigo mismo espiritualmente entiende que nuestro mundo y universo va mucho más allá de lo tangible, y que a todos nos rodea una serie de energía y espíritus como el tuyo que van creando camino para todos en el día a día.

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artwork by Ana Alameda WHAT IS THE BEST APPROACH FOR SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORMS SUCH AS YOUTUBE AND TIKTOK TO CONTROL AND LIMIT THE AMOUNT OF LABOR THAT MINORS CAN ACCOMPLISH?

by Andrea Montalvo

Child labor has existed since the beginning of human civilization, and social media has fostered a new generation of child laborers by allowing parents to exploit their children without consequences and forcing these young social media stars to work all day every day for profit. Historically, parents have always had a role in the amount of labor their child can do. According to Harold Goldstein, a former Assistant Commissioner for Manpower and Employment Statistics in the Bureau of Labor Statistics in the U.S. Department of Labor, child labor has two roots: the first is the family farm “where children learned the discipline and skills of work from their parents, who could protect them from unhealthful or unsafe working conditions” (Goldstein, 1976, p. 47) and the second were founded from England’s poor laws where “children of poor parents could be bound out as apprentices” (Goldstein, 1976, p. 47). As a result, while some parents would protect and keep their children at home, others would force their children to work in factories to provide for their families. In another article by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, the author Michael Shuman a supervisory contract specialist in the Office of Administration in the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics concurs with Goldstein by stating that it was the “right of parents to take advantage of the productive capacity of their children was long recognized” (Schuman, 2017, p.

13). Although labor was different back then, with unsafe working conditions, and social media may appear to be a straightforward way to make money, it should not be permitted to monetize and exploit children without regulation, as it was done before child labor laws were passed. This begs the question: What is the best approach for social media platforms such as YouTube and TikTok to control and limit the amount of labor that minors can accomplish? The ideal solution would be to completely prohibit the monetization of content produced by adults that primarily portrays children.

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Visual media from digital and printed images to videos and animation have been used to educate, exchange knowledge, creativity, and ideas, etc. But it has also been used to exploit and profit from people and their experiences. An influential piece of visual media is the image “Migrant Mother” by Dorothea Lange. This image was taken when Lange was hired by the Farm Security Administration to take photographs of struggling farmers to raise awareness for them between 1935 and 1944 (Pruitt, 2020). Lange approached a hungry, desperate mother, didn’t ask her name or found out about her history, and took her photo (Pruitt, 2020). The mother, who was later identified as Florence Owens Thompson, a full-blooded Native American, is the focus of the photograph and was said to be just 32 years old when it was taken, and she appears exhausted and worn out, with wrinkles on her face (Lange, 1936). Nonetheless, Thompson remarked that she felt “exploited” (“Woman Fighting”, 1978) by the photograph, even though it had such a significant impact in raising awareness about the Great Depression. Moreover, child social media stars are typically exploited by their parents with footage of their daily lives because some may argue that “[c]reating a YouTube channel can bring you and your loved ones together” (How to Start, 2023). Similarly, The Atlantic wrote an article on child Instagram social media stars and about how they “owe their fame to their parents’ intense work behind the scenes” (Volpe, 2019).

This concept gives parents the impression that they are doing something important and meaningful, but at some point, money begins to influence how they behave.

In a journal investigating the culture of greed in economics by the Academy of Management, the authors Long Wang from the University of Hong Kong, Deepak Malhotra from Harvard Business School, and J. Keith Murnighan from Northwestern University, state that “[a] critical and inherent problem in an economic approach to greed is that the push to maximize gains does not include a stopping” (Wang et al., 2011, p. 644). This can also be applied in this context because according to Amber Edney, a former student of the University of Florida wrote in the University’s Journal of Law & Public Policy, “children across the United States receive very little protection from regulations aimed at protecting privacy or financial earnings” (Edney, 2022, p. 551). Moreover, parents monetizing their children has created a new type of child star called the “kidfluencer” (Edney, 2022, p. 555) where they generate revenue through sponsored content. But, there aren’t specific laws that can protect the revenue these kidfluencer’s make.

There are different types of laws that can protect child stars, most of which are child actors, income in each state. For instance, there are the Coogan Laws in California. According to Marina A. Masterson, who wrote in the University of Pennsylvania Law Review, these laws usually require “state-approved work permits and require that a certain percentage of the child actor’s earnings be protected in a trust account, rather than under the control of the parents” (Masterson, 2021 p. 580). In fact, California tried to extend the Coogan Law to social media where it would’ve been required in a “contract worth $500 or more” (Masterson, 2021 p. 580).

But there's another issue: the proposed child labor legislation would conflict “with family law and the constitutional right to parental authority” (Masterson, 2021, p. 580). Therefore, the constitutional right to parental authority always stops these child labor laws from being passed because it is illegal to legislate someone's personal life since it is parents who upload these videos. Not only is money a component in the exploitation of child social media stars, but so is the pressure to remain relevant and continue generating revenue. Every day there are thousands of people on social media hoping to become influencers (Edney, 2022, p. 559). So to gain revenue from things such as brand deals creators have “to show they have, and can keep, a large number of followers” (Edney, 2022, p. 560). This creates pressure for creators to maintain their following and even leads them to experiment with new and sometimes even dangerous ideas (Edney, 2022, p. 560). As a result, it is the responsibility of social media websites to implement regulations, as well as the state to enact new laws.

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Although the United States has tried and failed to implement regulations for children in monetized social media content, there have been other countries that have had more success (Edney, 2022, p. 566). On October 19, 2020, France passed a law that offered the “same protections afforded to French child models and actors” (Edney, 2022, p. 567). According to the Library of Congress, this legislation requires “parents [to] seek prior government authorization before their child can engage in online activities that amount to a labor relation” (France: Parliament, 2020) and will also protect the income generated by these videos (France: Parliament, 2020). The French government classifies something as a labor relation when a “child receives orders or directions from the video producer” (France: Parliament, 2020). These rules will also apply to the bill called “grey zone” (France: Parliament, 2020) where the child is not in what was previously classified as labor relations but “spends a significant amount of time making videos or derives a significant level of income from them” (France: Parliament, 2020).

This could be another solution to the problem of minors being exploited on social media, but the constitutionally protected rights to free speech and free press make it virtually impossible.

Social media sites have also been required to take a more active role in protecting the children that use their platforms, but they have “failed to address the issue of children appearing in social media content” (Edney, 2022, p. 564). The Social Media Child Protection Act “makes it unlawful for social media platforms to provide access to children under the age of 16” (Rep. Stewart, 2023). It also requires social media platforms to verify age, requires social media platforms to establish and maintain procedures to protect the confidentiality, security, and integrity of personal information collected from users, provides parents with a private right of action on behalf of their children, and demands the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) to prevent any social media platform from violating these regulations (Rep. Stewart, 2023). This act required the social media site YouTube to take a more active role in protecting the children who had used the platform. YouTube, a website dedicated to sharing videos owned by Google, had to require “all content creators to notify the company if their content was geared toward children” (Edney, 2022, p. 563), YouTube also “began limiting data collection and personalized advertisements on child-oriented videos” (Edney, 2022, p. 563), and even “disabled the comment section on videos featuring children to prevent pedophiles from interacting with children and each other” (Edney, 2022, p. 563). However, while these implementations worked for protecting children who viewed videos on the site, they did not protect children who created content.

Social media can be used for good as well as bad, but social media has given rise to a new form of exploitation. There are no laws in place that protect child influencers from the amount of labor they may perform or protect the revenue they generate. Social media platforms also have no regulations in place for the content creators, only the consumers, and the United States government has failed to successfully enact laws to prevent these children from working a tremendous amount of labor due to the protection of free speech and press. As a result, it is the responsibility of social media sites to limit the amount of labor a child can perform by prohibiting the monetization of content produced by adults that depict children. As previously stated, “[a] critical and inherent problem in an economic approach to greed is that the push to maximize gains does not include a stopping” (Wang et al., 2011, p. 644). Therefore, if the parents of these children are not gaining revenue, they will not feel compelled or under pressure to create more content.

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Sports as a Bridge to Peace: Uniting the World Through Play

by Orlando Fernández Valera Sports have a remarkable power to unite people across boundaries, languages, and cultural differences. Sports, whether they be rugby, basketball, soccer, or even the Olympics, have a special ability to bring people together and promote peace. Sports, which have billions of fans worldwide, foster a sense of unity and purpose that may cut through even the most enduring barriers. The tale of Didier Drogba, a soccer player who helped end a civil war in his native Ivory Coast, is among the most potent illustrations of this. Another great example is how the Olympics have historically been used as a platform for diplomacy and unity, such as the 2018 Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, where North and South Korea marched under a unified flag.

These stories show how sports can be a powerful tool for peace and reconciliation.

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Many sports are unique because of their simplicity. Sports don't require costly facilities or equipment, whether you're running a race, shooting a basketball, or kicking a soccer ball.

They are inclusive because of their accessibility, which enables participation from people of various ages, genders, and socioeconomic backgrounds. Peace requires a sense of community and belonging, which is fostered by this inclusivity. Events like the Olympics, the Rugby World Cup, and the FIFA World Cup united nations on a worldwide scale.

People from all around the world gather to support their teams during these competitions, fostering a sense of camaraderie and enthusiasm. For a few weeks, rivalries and conflicts are often set aside as the world focuses on the games. This temporary truce can sometimes lead to lasting peace, as seen in the case of Ivory Coast.

Didier Drogba is among the most well-known soccer players in Africa. He was born in Ivory Coast and rose to fame by playing for teams like Chelsea and representing his nation abroad. However, Drogba's influence extends beyond soccer. He was instrumental in bringing an end to the five-year-long civil war in Ivory Coast. Political and ethnic tensions were the root cause of the war, which began in 2002. The nation was divided, with the government ruling the Christian south and insurgents controlling the Muslim north. Millions of people were displaced by the fighting, which claimed thousands of lives. The conflict persisted in spite of numerous attempts at peace talks.

The Elephants, the national soccer team of Ivory Coast, advanced to the 2006 FIFA World Cup in 2005 following a pivotal victory over Sudan. This triumph united the nation during a period of division and was a great source of pride. Drogba and his teammates were asked to celebrate in the presidential palace following the game.

Drogba took advantage of the occasion to make a sincere call for peace rather than merely savoring the moment. He and his teammates knelt down in front of television cameras and addressed the Ivory Coast people personally. He said, “Men and women of Ivory Coast, from the north, south, center, and west, we proved today that all Ivorians can coexist and play together with a shared goal—to qualify for the World Cup. We promised you that this celebration would unite the people. Today, we beg you, please, on our knees, forgive each other.”

Drogba’s words had a powerful impact. Within a week, the government and rebel forces agreed to a ceasefire. This eventually led to the end of the civil war in 2007. While Drogba’s plea wasn’t the only reason the war ended, it played a big part in bringing people together and Fernández encouraging peace talks. His story shows how sports can go beyond just being games and become a force for positive change.

The Olympics provide yet another outstanding illustration of how sports can bring people together. Peace and diplomacy have always been promoted by the Olympic Games. The Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, South Korea, in 2018 are among the most prominent instances.

Because of political differences and nuclear concerns, tensions between North and South Korea were very high at the time. Nonetheless, the Olympics offered a chance for the two countries to unite. Athletes representing North and South Korea marched together under a one flag during the opening ceremony, signifying optimism for peace on the Korean Peninsula. In a historic move for both nations, the two also fielded a combined women's ice hockey team.

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The PyeongChang Olympics didn’t just bring North and South Korea together; they also inspired the world. The sight of athletes from two divided nations walking side by side sent a powerful message of unity and reconciliation. While the political situation between North and South Korea remains complex, the Olympics showed that sports can create moments of hope and connection, even in the most challenging circumstances.

In other parts of the world, sports have also been used as a diplomatic instrument. Table tennis matches between the US and China, for instance, helped reduce Cold War tensions in the 1970s. Better ties between the two nations were made possible by this incident, which is referred to as "Ping Pong Diplomacy." Similar to this, in 2008, two countries with a long history of conflict—Armenia and Turkey—took advantage of a World Cup qualifying soccer match to talk about peace. The presidents of both nations attended the game in Yerevan and seized the opportunity to discuss collaboration. Even though the game ended in a draw, it was a big step in bettering ties between the two countries.

There is more to sports' capacity to foster peace than just major competitions like the Olympics or well-known players like Drogba. Around the world, there are a lot of grassroots initiatives that employ sports to benefit local communities. Sports like rugby and soccer, for instance, were vital in mending the scars of racial division in South Africa after apartheid.

During the 1995 Rugby World Cup, Nelson Mandela, the first black president of South Africa, notably supported the mostly white squad by donning the Springboks rugby jersey. The nation received a strong message of togetherness and reconciliation from this gesture.

In Colombia, sports have been used to help former child soldiers reintegrate into society.

Programs that teach soccer, boxing, and other sports provide young people with a safe space to heal and rebuild their lives. Similarly, in the Middle East, initiatives like “Football for Peace” bring Jewish and Arab children together to play soccer and learn about each other’s cultures. By fostering mutual understanding and respect, these programs help break down barriers between communities.

In conclusion, sports have an amazing ability to bring people together. Whether it’s through the excitement of the Olympics, the inspiring actions of athletes like Didier Drogba, or the hard work of community programs, sports have proven that they can be a force for good. The stories of Drogba in Ivory Coast and the 2018 Winter Olympics in PyeongChang are powerful examples of how sports can promote peace and reconciliation. In a world often divided by politics, religion, and race, sports remind us of our shared humanity and our ability to come together for a common goal. As the legendary athlete Muhammad Ali once said, “Sports can create hope where once there was only despair.” Sports truly have the power to bring peace to the world, one game at a time.

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IS LOVE ETERNAL? By: Adelaida Siaca Ortiz

“ Tú eres la tristeza, ay, de mis ojos/Que lloran en silencio por tu amor.”

“You are the sadness of my eyes, that cry in silence for your love.”

- Rocio Durcal, Amor Eterno (Eternal Love), written by Mexican artist Juan Gabriel.

It is 1 am, and his oxygen mask has just been removed. As I hear the gasping breaths that are but a mimicry of life, I bite my lip, and clench my fists. I tap play on my silver headphones. Suddenly, the crooning melody of Rocio Durcal’s ballad “Amor Eterno” envelops me.

This is not the first time I have played this song. It’s been the background of my life in recent months: in the hospital, in the car, and finally, in his house. It has been an escape from a painful reality. Abello is sick, and has been so for a long time now. Disease has devoured him like a hungry worm, inching first through his leg, and then finally lodging in his heart.

The lamps cast the room in a warm yellow glow. The Paintings he collected are colorful and vibrant under their luminescence. Pictures of his youth are scattered throughout the various surfaces of the room: the nightstand, the drawers, shelves. He lies in a hospital bed hospice brought here to keep him comfortable : where he awaits his end, surrounded by loved ones: my sisters, my grandmother, and my parents. I gaze at that pale figure, his swollen ankles anchoring him to pain. The music plays on…and I stay there, seated, rooted by cowardice, feeling as if I am running away when I should be talking to him more, cherishing him more.Where is my grandfather, his humorous and loving warmth? What can I do when I cannot understand what he says? His language, the language of the near-dead, is foreign to me. I do not know when he says “ Te Amo,” I love you, or if he even calls out my name. And so, "Amor Eterno '' becomes my cipher to understand him, and to understand myself.

In Amor Eterno, the speaker looks at herself in the mirror, only to see grief pooled in her eyes. It is not a wailing grief, but a silent one within. While the song is one of those old “baladas,” ballads, I cannot help but feel that I am the person singing, mourning the death of her loved one.

Like the voice in the song, I have tried to be strong. I have built a dam around my heart. Brick by brick, the dam gets larger and larger, but so do the dark waters that surround it become deeper. My eyes are windows to those waters, one I cannot shut with blinds.

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No more gasping breaths. The song plays on…by now,my lip is bleeding. My jaw is clenched. My limbs are numb and stiff from hours of sitting in the same position. Suddenly, a rush of adrenaline jolts me to stand. I get up and start walking. Walking and walking, and walking. All to not see his mouth agape, a white cotton towel knotted around the jaw to hold it shut. The glossy blue eyes that will never close. My feet slap on the red-tiled floor of the cool house, nothing in sight. The sweet waft of pound cake baking in the kitchen reaches me. whispers of grief, and phone calls to announce his passing come from the dining room. When I close my eyes, I don’t see the still husk his passing has left behind. I smell his acqua di parma soap,. I remember the way his eyes glistened with nostalgia and joy at the thought of croquetas, ribeiro, and the whole family laughing and eating together in his ancestral home in Spain. His smile and light are gone now, sucked out by the vacuum of my present reality. I feel flung out of space, lost and wandering. Desperately, I hold on to the music.

“Sé que pude haber yo hecho más por ti,” I know that I could have done more for you, the voice sings. Could I have done more for him? Could I have helped him steer clear of night’s plutonian shores? Could I ?“ Y aunque tengo tranquila mi conciencia/Sé que pude haber yo hecho más por ti,” and though my conscience is at ease I know I could have done it for you, the song answers.

And I come to a realization. I don’t have to destroy my dam and release its waters, even when my thundering thoughts eventually subside. I can open it bit by bit, letting its insides trickle out slowly. While it may never be empty and waters will always come back in the storm of thoughts and feelings, I always have windows that peer into them.In the midst of these thoughts, I find myself in the dark,cool parlor. The night is still, catacombic almost. I probe through my surroundings, trying to find something solid that will ground me . I latch myself to the armrest of an armchair and sink into its plush surface. Exhausted, I drift into sleep.

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More than a year has passed since the night I lost my Abello. I still try to talk to him and write to him every now and then. But, as when he was on his deathbed, I hear no response. While it sounds ridiculous, I feel furious at my lack of clairvoyance, something women in my family possess. His spirit comes to my mother in the scent of flowers.. He leaves unmistakable signs of his presence for my sister Syra in everyday life. They both dream with my Abello, before disease, his dependable and strong form. I hear not a whisper, don’t smell even a whiff, or see a figment of him. All I have is my writing. With ink, I try to cross the chasm that separates us, but the other side feels billions of light years away.

But then, I am reminded of Rocio Durcal’s words when she sings: “ Amor eterno/ E inolvidable/Tarde o temprano estaré contigo”- eternal and unforgettable love, sooner or later, I will be with you– and cling to her words. Maybe eternal love does not have to transcend death, because it is already here with me.

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MY DREAMS

by Tatiana Santiago Soft, delicate, and comforting Where my dreams become realities Where gravity no longer exists Where anyone can be anything These are the things that keep me trying They bring me joy in times when I’m crying When I’m home or on the go your always with me Ambitions and fantasies reside in you I can not imagine living without you Even if they call me different names, if it’s with you I can be anything

DELIVERED

by Tatiana Santiago I poured my heart, And I waited for a response Only for you to ignore, my love I waited for you, for so long I grew wary of your love you cared for me but not enough

Poetry 63

TICK

by Tatiana Santiago Soft, delicate, and comforting Where my dreams become realities Where gravity no longer exists Where anyone can be anything These are the things that keep me trying They bring me joy in times when I’m crying When I’m home or on the go your always with me Ambitions and fantasies reside in you I can not imagine living without you Even if they call me different names, if it’s with you I can be anything

art by Lola Llach

DRIED INK

by Tatiana Santiago I poured my heart, And I waited for a response Only for you to ignore, my love I waited for you, for so long I grew wary of your love you cared for me but not enough

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A Place Beyond Soft, delicate, and comforting Where my dreams become realities Where gravity no longer exist Where anyone can be anything These are the things that keep me trying They bring me joy in times when I’m crying When I’m home or on the go your always with me Ambitions and fantasies reside in you I can not imagine living without you Even if they call me different names if it’s with you I can be anything

Hourglass Drip drip drip makes the sand slowly fall, As I run through the halls and down the stairs I feel my lungs burning for air The great chase leaves me parched as my throat burns with anguish Tick tick tick does the clock as is it ticks down the minutes I have The sun sets down and brings the moon reminding me of the impending doom Ring, ring ring goes the alarm set on my phone The exit is close to the shining light of the skyscraper reflecting on the pristine white floors Beat beat beat goes my heart as it–

Christmas day The wind howls, the lights are off silence can be heard not a wink or a blink everyone is asleep as the prospects of the next day await the children waste their energy wondering what they got while the adults get their sleep anticipating the coming day as the night goes on a jolly man flies around spread joy all through town here, there, everywhere gifts are spread all around for the waking hour has yet to arrive once here all the children will be spread with cheer as they run downstairs awaiting to see what the jolly man has brought poems by Tatiana Santiago

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My paramour

art by Tatiana Rivera

My paramour is as weak, as a newborn infant.

More timid than a chicken, or frightened cat, His voice is as squeaky, as a rat.

Not a stubble in sight upon his round chin; Slender, and delicate like a fragile rose.

A storm of inner turmoil clouds his mind; Inside someone hollow and low.

Paler than the first drop of snow, Patience is as thin as it can be.

I have never seen a god among mortals; My paramour, even conceded to the public like the darkest secret known.

As rare as painite, and as bonded like eagles Love for him burns deep l ike an inextinguishable flame.

Forever warmed by the whispers of his name

Defiance The silence is not a form of weakness, Mistakes aren’t a show of instability, And strength does not equal power.

In this world, society has taught To speak so that you may be known, To be perfect so others don’t see your flaws, And to be strong so that no one can overpower you.

However, silence is another form of protest, Mistakes are proof of growth, a way to create better things, And strength helps us overcome— but our words can hold even more power.

Many things in life are shaped by influence, Yet wisdom is knowing which voices to trust.

To think for yourself is the greatest defiance, For truth is not given—it’s something we must seek.

66 poems by Tatiana Santiago

A FADED “WE”

by Andrea Lantigua I trace our steps in memories shared, And wonder why they meant more than I dared.

You were my best friend, But they were yours A truth that has quietly settled, leaving open doors.

Truly, what did they hold that I could not?

A question that lingers, a battle I Fought Life moves forward and we grow apart, Distance carves the space between the heart.

The pull that once drew us tight and near, Fades with each moment, Each passing year.

April’s end saw us break away, Our bond dissolving day by day.

The July came, but no words from you, No “Happy Birthday”, nothing to undo.

Accepting this truth, a burden so vast, The force that joined us, could not last.

What we were became too much to bear, Gravity no longer exists, it's no longer there.

And now, though it hurts, I let it be, A distant past, a faded 'we'.

artwork by Isabella Colón 67

COMMON SENSE

by Giovannah Semper What is normal?

What does it mean to be “normal”?

Are you normal?

Or am I normal?

Does the definition of normal actually exist?

When we think of normal, we imagine the individuals who seem “perfect.”

But no one is perfect.

That person who appears physically perfect— Are they truly normal?

What of their mental health struggles?

Are those “normal,” too?

The intellectuals—are they normal?

What about those who don’t fit the same mold, the ones who aren’t as quick, or as sharp?

Are they “normal”?

They are normal until they show their flaws— until they’re not so perfect anymore.

Call them crazy.

Call them dumb.

Call them smart.

Call them strong.

They’re never enough.

Never the right amount of normal we always talk about when we envision the “perfect” human.

And it’s simple: They don’t exist.

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A Needless Extreme

by Alejandro Rodríguez You never wept for me, never called for me.

You walked in silence, but did you truly renounce me?

Question you? Yes. Completely renounce you?

A needless extreme.

If not my path, then whose?

None.

There was no path.

I carved my own.

In the disorder I dared to call creation?

Yes. Irrational, perhaps.

Yet, purpose took shape.

And what purpose, if not the one I laid before you?

To exist without any.

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The Last poem & artwork by Luiz Penna As I walk past the school I feel nostalgic and dull The memories so vivid Everything goes by fast just like a snippet My second home my second family At times I feel unready to confront this reality I keep thinking and immerse myself into a deep state of melancholy I wish we could go back to distant times were I felt jolly Hopefully i’ll be ready for this new chapter of my life Even though for me, leaving this place will feel like a strife A place that I hated with passion at times It made me cry like putting limes in my eyes Now I will finally be set free At what cost all of this just for a degree No, but for all the memories rendered in this illustrious place I feel ready and prepared for all challenges I shall face Finally, thank you for nurturing me and making who I am I will always be thankful, now let's close this chapter like a smooth jam.

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The scribbling and scattering The jumble of thoughts That runs through the mind Alone but not lost Quietude is to shatter Thoughts remain, prevail The damage of repeated pattern

The World on Paper

by María Alameda

Fail to remember, or remember to fail The might of gentle memories The spirit that remains To not reiterate nor adjust Silent thoughts in my brain To spill out of the mind And into the paper surrender The moments I now remember To this, I always render The truth that quickly scrambles As you write with your pen The thought that has been written Into the paper, out of the head To find yourself through the lines To specify what you mean To understand who you are When you are not seen Thoughts are now, in a utopian trance My pen writes for me, I only move my hands What I never dared to say The moments that beat my mind I can now be in peace As I leave them all behind In secret and silence The pen moves its ways Up and down, side to side My legacy now remains I write to write a thought That tumbles in my mind We write to write a thought That we shall never leave behind The paper written and crumbled The secrets left untold The shreds of paper torn We are truly never alone If we stay with pens and papers If we give our minds thought We will always understand What is real and what is not The deepest moments The thoughts that cannot shake her This is my legacy And this is my world on paper

photo by Lucas Cid

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Proof I was there I keep the wrinkles on my shirts like a kid refusing to wash his hands after meeting his hero, I keep the rose stains on my neck I keep streaked mascara on my face, watch it fade with every smile washing on delicate, water tattoos, vanilla-scented candles, bask in the nuances of a lifetime.

I don’t cut short—why else even start?

Dog eat Dog Run ‘til your legs stiffen Watch them turn to logs To your barks they won’t listen Learn to growl, to bite, to claw

poems by Emilio Solé

Keep your canine but lose the pack Be more than a wolf; be the dog Peel and chew the meat off their backs Forget about the stench; eat it raw Feel your blood run cold, and run hard Burn like ice, refresh just as fast Now to be cruel’s to be fast Run to be anything but last Let the eyes on your back gleam with sorrow and care Let them believe you should switch from the cage Have them forget what’s right and what’s fair And when it’s all over, rinse off all your rage Stand in the mirror, look down at your paws Bare your fangs, squint your eyes Let silk and wool cover your flaws You need to eat too, forget all the flies

GUSTAVO ALONSO

The Makeover of Masculinity History is a man, with makeup on his face. and a sword through his heart.

He became wealthy.

The mascara on his eyelashes, His eyes closed to his defects.

History is a man.

He controlled his family.

The dark eyeshadow palette, The set of abusive memories.

He massacred a city.

The blood of those he killed, The blush splattered on his cheeks.

He destroyed households.

The tears he held inside, The eyeliner beside his eyes.

He conquered the World.

But still, No makeup remover is strong enough, To uncover the reality.

To cleanse the expectations Of his toxic façade.

He was hungry in the streets.

The refusal to seek help, The lipstick glued his lips.

At last, the wound begins to heal, At last…

He lost his friends.

The scars within his soul, The concealer on his damaged face.

History is a man with a face as clear as its conscience bare.

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Wicked(-ness) “Morally wrong” A social construction, Mind abduction, Social corruption, Sense reduction.

poems by Gustavo Alonso

There is no such thing as “wicked.”

The disease of the convicted, Of the misery-addicted, Or the violence afflicted.

Society burns our name, Letting the shining flame, Become outraged shame.

As if life was a game, Of grasping fame, Or losing aim.

“How could they wish that, Upon their fellow peers,” They have stubbornly asked.

Because even when religion interferes, Being “morally wrong” is unreal.

There an image of judgment remains.

With the same gavel that chains Our minds into a pond of pains.

Being “crazy” is a mere fairy tale, A checklist of rights and wrongs, That seeks to surround us with worry, The punishment is where our soul belongs.

The question of its origins haunts all, What could make a heart so small?

Yet, only some understand, That there is a story behind the hand, The hand that controls our lives with commands

Mold in a Gravestone The ink of our pen, Spills on a blank canvas.

It draws a splatter, A cluttered cloud of stories.

Why don’t we leave our bones, And accept our fate, Where there is mold, Our lives clotting.

Although we pick it up again, It cracks, anxious.

And through all the chatter, It treats us like quarries.

Legacy is just dust, It flies away with a gust.

We can’t clean our gravestones, For it becomes too late.

Yet we dream to find gold, Where bodies are rotting.

In the history books, Joy is not a simple dot For which we fought.

Because maybe a blank painting Is not so bad after all.

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Pronouns in a Box They used to tell us that our route Had been already selected: That our malice, our doubt, Had been, by God and nature corrected.

They used to tell us that our hopes, Had been to our genes injected, That by our soul’s ropes, Our future, protected But what if our path wasn’t as straight, That those toys, colors, chores we must hate Pushed our bodies from the “safe” crate And broke the rhythm of this poem’s fate-ing joy.

Alas, the words nailed on our skin The ones he stabbed us with The ones she spit into my spirit The ones they wrote in legal paper with rainbow blood they removed color from Are those with which you drag me back into my place you steal my gold and lock me into the cell erasing my story, “a victim’s trending myth”

Let’s Play: What Am I? I watch you when you sleep and rapid write in a test, When you go through moments only your heart can attest.

You rarely acknowledge me though, As your eyes are too keen on the future, And not in the roots of your wounds, the suture.

Yet I know when your soul glows, Because when there is wind, it blows Into the drops of sweat in your face.

Yet, my quick hand moves, it grows Like warmth in icy snow.

You want to jump to a joy you don’t know, In your stress-filled spirit, memories stow.

But why don’t you look at me?

When time is slow.

Why don’t you enjoy irrelevant moments?

As my tick-tocks to nothingness flee.

I’m a clock!

Yet you watch me now, In the field of broken dreams I plow, In your precious, prosperous, progressive society, non grata errata stigmata For the key I’ve been searching behind the depths of your heart, The delicateness of your touch, Your compassion to let us upstarts Into, over there - your realm of paradise, Where no matter the cracks of the gneiss or the flavor of the spice We can all breathe the fair air And bear the same prayer One in the world we share The clothes we wear, and our bravery’s glare Could make you care.

And all this because I stepped out of your wall, The box in which a single syllable had too much gawl.

Here is a Poem for You to Analyze

😉

Our mistaeks crumble our past Unabating feilure fills the vast, Rodents don’t just perish wit a blast Mistakes make or break our lifes, It stabs our minds with little knifes.

Sends tickles to oru skin; Terrific weed in a field of chives.

And you just feiled to se, Klumsy, you reed peotry Elaburated to sting liek a bee, Scared as it ruins yuor perfectionist glee.

poems by Gustavo Alonso

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Wounds in Heartbeats’ Path

Un éphémère minable

Our route is right there, A never-ending route, Where the small shadows of light, Shelter us from the dark storm We must traverse, In the gentle pain of love’s touch.

Les aiguilles de l’horloge, Tournaient furieusement.

Elles se fondaient En voyant la fin.

Reflété dans la vitre, Un nuage rouge, Brusquement le poussait.

Les chiffres se brûlaient et Le temps devenait de cendre.

La planète se tuait.

Every step we take is One closer to a ravine And another closer to The garden of roses Where pollen covers us In the pleasurable delight Of each other’s company

Mais encore, les fibres, Du voile de l’univers, S’accrochaient aux Innombrables secondes D’histoires qui voulaient disparaître Vers le monde du vide.

Yet, the needle of love sharpens As we fight over our destiny.

A tight, invisible thread looms, With the lint of hardship Our heartbeats suffocate on.

Because this needle, With every stab, With every callous wound on our skin, Slowly brings us together, But pulls us into the vortex, Where uncertainty is no longer thrilling.

C’est ainsi comment se sent Quand nos heures, Hors de prix, S’épuisaient.

poems by Gustavo Alonso

Alas, it’s our decision, To continue this hazardous journey, Where the needle sows us together, And disappointedly, looks at us suffer Or to jump off of the hovering trail, To one where our wounds are Just a bit less deep.

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“Intimacy” Isabel Bringas Berrios A spider’s web is many things To some, it is a work of art Beautiful in its detail and complexities The impressive care that goes into its creation But like any other piece, it’s fragile Meant to be admired from afar We look, but can never touch Lest the threads begin to fray To others, the attics and cellars of the world, It creeps up on us unexpectedly Bit by bit, year by year Enveloping us as we grow old In an almost peaceful quiet To the insects, it’s a trap A danger that constricts them, Ties them down and keeps them there With no freedom of movement They avoid it at all costs Unwilling to surrender But for the spiders that spend hours Weaving each individual thread, Tightening the bonds and building connections Until they’re strong and healthy It’s more than just a collection of strings It gives them stable ground to walk on, Shelter in the storm, food during famine A reason to live, to persevere A spider’s web is not a construct It’s home

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Life Out of Corpses: By: Gabriella Maldonado There lie two corpses, Surrounded by their ghosts.

One full of glee, The other drained of hope.

Near a river they remain, Surrounded by silence The result of a thousand years of violence.

So close, but yet out of reach The difference between the young And the old filled with misery.

“Maybe it’s not too late” The younger one calls To her older reflection, Beat down by the misery of others.

Glee Hope Happiness Imagination

The stuff that remained in the older’s dreams.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

Life out of corpses… could that really be true, Could she capture the dreams of her fading youth?

As the distance draws to a close The ghosts disappear, The corpses are gone, And out of the water a figure appears.

Life out of corpses Was really true.

And so out of one came two.

Glee Hope Happiness Imagination Emotions she had long forgot.

Returned to their owner Like a flood.

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THE INVISIBLE STRING FAIRY BY: CHARLOTTE SHUE

Pull and loop, I swing, I swerve.

Twist and knot, your love preserved.

Blues and pinks, I’ll never snap Grays and blacks.

I’ll have your back.

art by Cecilia Trinidad

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SHORT STORIES Colors of Exile by Alexandria Lugo-Negrón Managua was my home—until my home became a prison.

For many Nicaraguans, governmental oppression and social unrest were a fact of life. Still, as a child, I never deeply thought about the forces that held my people down. My world was painted in the vibrant colors of our street posters, wrapped in the lush greens and blues of our land, which subconsciously inspired me to take up art from a young age.

I begged my mother every week for a new set of crayons, markers - anything I could get my hands on to express what I subconsciously felt in response to my surroundings. The city was my canvas, and my mother was my silent supporter, casting a watchful eye over my budding obsession. She knew what my art meant to me, and I wonder now if she saw the path it would lead us down.

After high school, I took a job at a café to help my family financially, knowing college would be out of reach. The café became my second studio, and its patrons, my unwitting muses. Some, like Pablo, became some of my closest friends. Pablo, a boy around my age, ran a local underground newspaper, El Grito, a space where young Nicaraguans could voice their opinions. It wasn’t well-known, but it was slowly gaining a loyal following as our city’s desperation deepened. Our connection grew through shared passions, and one day, he asked about mine.

Reluctantly, I showed him one of my paintings. This piece, unlike anything I’d created before, depicted a mother shielding her child from the barrel of a soldier’s rifle. It was raw and painfully direct, capturing a scene all too familiar to those who remembered the Somoza dictatorship’s terror. The soldier symbolized our government, and the child, our nation’s innocence, helpless against the brutality of authority. Pablo was moved.

“Let me publish this in El Grito,” he urged. “Anonymously, of course.”

I hesitated. My parents had always kept a low profile; my mother, a teacher, and my father, a mechanic, avoided politics as a matter of survival. But the longer I thought about it, the clearer my purpose became: my art could be more than just expression—it could be a voice for the voiceless. I agreed.

When the edition was published, the response was overwhelming. My piece spread like wildfire, pasted in markets, cafés, bars, and on every street pole in sight. It became a symbol of resistance.

Through my painting, I felt the city pulse with a unity we had long forgotten. But with that unity came danger.

It wasn’t long before the authorities took notice, and I felt the tension closing in around us. Government agents were cracking down on dissent in our neighborhoods, and I heard whispers from customers of a plan to silence the younger generation—the ones daring to challenge them. I tried to keep working at the café, my hands steady even as my heart pounded with fear. But I couldn’t ignore the growing sense of dread. That evening, I rushed home, fearing the worst.

My parents sat waiting at the dining table, their faces pale.

“They were here,” my mother said quietly, her voice barely a whisper.

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My father’s clenched fists trembled with anger. “They searched everything. They were looking or the artist behind the piece published in El Grito,” he said, his words filled with the weight of what this meant for us.

My heart sank. I glanced toward my art desk, but my mother had already hidden everything thanks to our neighbor who had alerted us of the crackdown a few hours prior. She had stashed my brushes, my paints, and canvases deep in her closet, everything except one piece—the one I had shared with the world.

“The investigator was one of my former students. We got lucky,” my mother said, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Most people wouldn’t have.”

Reality hit me all at once: if we stayed, they would come for us again, and this time, there would be no mercy.

That night, I packed my belongings, each item a goodbye to the life I had known. My hands quivered as I wrapped up my paintings, unable to destroy them despite my mother’s insistence. Instead, I took them to Pablo’s apartment. I left them with a note that read, “I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. I’m leaving a piece of myself with you. Keep using El Grito to be the voice they silence. Thank you, my friend.” A part of me knew that I would never return, but it was a reality I hadn't faced yet.

I slipped the note under his door and tears blurred my vision as I walked away. At home, I lay awake, my thoughts a torrent of regret, love, and resolve. I would be leaving my friends, family, and culture behind. But not my art; I could not let the government take every piece of me away. In the morning, we left. As the plane rose above Managua and I took one last glance at our beautiful flora and fauna, I vowed to keep my art alive, even if it was from afar. I would continue to tell the story of my people because I knew the fight was far from over.

art by Abby Lawrence

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UNTITLED

photo by Lucas Villamil

by Mónica García Pérez

They met at a time when both their lives were pulling them in opposite directions. She had accepted a dream opportunity she couldn’t pass up, and he was finishing school, preparing to launch his career. The connection between them was undeniable, electric even. They spent every moment they could together before her departure, but the reality loomed large. Despite their feelings, they knew they couldn’t ask each other to put their lives on hold. Their timing was off, no matter how right they were for each other. Long-distance wasn’t feasible with their futures at the forefront, and the painful truth was that love alone wasn’t enough to change their circumstances. On the night before she left, they sat in silence, the weight of unspoken words between them. They both knew this wasn’t the end of their story, just a pause. “Maybe one day,” he whispered. She smiled sadly, understanding that some love stories aren’t about being together right away but about finding each other again when the timing is right. Years later, they would look back and wonder what could’ve been. But in that moment, they both let go, with hope rather than regret. Because sometimes, the right person comes at the wrong time, and all you can do is trust that, if it's meant to be, your paths will cross again.

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THE CURSE OF BEING UNPUNCTUAL: BY: GABRIELLA MALDONADO Jennie always had a stigma of being late. Jane's Christmas party, late. Her Graduation, late. Her meeting’s, late. That late autumn day in October, it seemed her curse followed her. It was her best friend’s Luke’s birthday party, and all her friends were going to attend. So, that day she had an abnormal fixation on arriving on time, and proving to her friends that she wasn’t always late. Her tardy history be damned. But, everything had gone wrong from the moment she woke up that morning.

Her cat Snow was nowhere to be found, “Where’s that little brat?”, Jen yelled, to the point where her apartment echoed the screech. But lucky for her, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a white ball of fluff coming out from behind her couch.

She looked down at him with a look that said oh so now you come out. She fed her cat and proceeded to make herself breakfast. But, just her luck, the coffee spilled on top of her favorite blouse, and all of her high hopes for that day were going down the drain. She tossed the blouse in the laundry, changed, and rushed out of the door as she was already late for work. The day had begun with such a wonderful start.

So wonderful that when she started her car it was already out of gas. She then remembered the night before when she was rushing home to get her order before the guy left and promised herself to fill the tank in the morning.

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12AM TALKS Isabel Bringas Berrios "What are you doing?"

I don't know "This again?"

I know, I know. Now's not the time.

"Clearly. Shouldn't you be asleep by now?"

Been trying.

"I don't understand why you do this to yourself."

Believe me, neither do I. You always say it's not worth it, and I know overthinking makes things worse...but I can't help but keep coming back to it.

"Are you seriously still hoping?"

I've accepted that it's never going to happen by now— "But you still love him, don't you." …

Yes. I do.

Is that what you're waiting for? For me to admit defeat?

"Hold on—" No, it's fine! No use bottling it up anymore. Yes, I still love him. I never stopped, and I doubt I could, no matter how hard half of me might try. Because I care about him. Too much. So much that it burns my soul and plagues my mind on nights like these, until it's all I can think about. Until sleep becomes a distant memory.

It's disappointing, isn't it.

"What is?"

That after all this time, out of everything I've been through, this is going to be what ruins me. "...I think I've heard enough."

As have I. We should probably at least try to get some sleep.

"Agreed."

Well, good night I suppose.

"Likewise. Until next time."

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Shipwrecked by Gabriella Maldonado Running. Terrified. At the edge of a cliff. With thugs chasing after me.

You may be wondering how I got into this situation. Well, it all started a few weeks ago when I met this girl named Stacy. My name is Hannah by the way. Stacy was a thief, though I didn’t know that at the time. She owned a small inn, and I was looking for a job. Seeing a “help wanted” sign on the window of the inn I thought luck might have just finally been on my side. Ohhh how wrong I was. The first few days were calm. I mopped the floors, cleaned, and tended to the guests and the money was good. Stacy also gave me a room to stay. That was my daily life until a month later a large group entered the inn saying they were looking for Stacy: “Ms. Clay, some guests are asking for you.” I called.

This is where my headache began.

Who could they be? I’m sure Stacy wondered as she climbed down the stairs. But when her gaze reached theirs, her smile faded, and her eyes became full of worry.

“Hannah how about you go to the back and feed the horses. While I talk to the guests” That was Stacy’s emergency code whenever there was trouble or at least that’s what she told me and that made sense seeing as she looked terrified although she managed to maintain her composure.

So, I did as I had been told. I did feed the horses, I also put up the saddle and put her so called emergency bag on the horse. Not even a minute later Stacy ran out of the house and jumped on her horse and told me to do the same. The only problem is I’d never ridden a horse. How bad could it be? Right? Wrong! Stacy road straight into the forest and I followed her still unaware of what was going on, but the people who I thought were guests were now chasing after us.

“What’s going on” I asked her as the air left my lungs, yeah riding a horse is not as easy as I thought it be and I was holding on for dear life.

“Well, if you must know...”

“Well, I think I kind of do!” I retorted. “Seeing as they’re chasing after both of us” “I used to sort of kind of be a thief, and I might’ve stolen from them five years ago” “What! What the hell did you steal that they’re still chasing after you after five years?”

“That’s not important cause I don’ have it anyway, I sold it soooo yeah, they’re pretty angry” I was about to scream at her, that was until I fell off my horse and instead of helping me, she kept on going. As if I hadn’t felt betrayed enough.

Back to where we had begun, I was running from these morons faster than I’d ever run before powered by nothing more than adrenaline, anger, and fear. That was until I realized that I was heading straight towards a cliff. I’m screwed I thought, that was until I heard a voice from below.

“Jump!” Stacy screamed from the lake.

“Are you insane!”

“A little bit, but it’s either you jump, or you have to deal with those thugs, and I don’t think you want that”

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Great! So, it’s either I die, or I die then, as if my life wasn’t already miserable enough” “Just jump! Trust me!”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to say that right now!” I screamed back at her, but I realized she was right.

So…I jumped, and somehow managed to land on her boat.

“See I told you”, she said as her face light up, and if looks could kill, she would have died at that moment with the stare I gave her.

But regardless she began to row that boat like her life depended on it.

“You stole the boat, didn’t you?”

“I don’t believe that should be your greatest concern at the moment”, she answered.

As we fought our boat ended up crashing on the shore of a small island, since the boat wasn’t that large so to speak it was completely ruined after the crash, and we fell face forward onto the sand.

“Look at what you did!”, Stacy yelled.

“What I did, really!”

“Okay it’s both our faults I guess…”

“It’s your fault for being a thief and causing us both to almost die!”

“I suppose that true”, she murmured under her breath.

“What are we going to do now?” I asked “Well, we can start over here we can create a new inn here, I’m sure there’s people here….”, just liked that she kept rambling on and I really wanted to punch her just once, once. I think that’s a perfectly reasonable reaction right. But I didn’t. That was how I met Stacy Clay and how by some twisted joke of the universe I ended up shipwrecked along with her.

photo by Jayden Rivera

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The Hidden Fortune by Dana Lewy She packed her bags, ready to go back home. After 4 years, Lola would've thought that going back home to Ohio, her family would take her more seriously, especially after just graduating from Princeton. When she arrives home from her family’s helicopter, her parents have made her a surprise party, celebrating her graduating from college. Her family, the Richardson’s were a very successful family, as they all worked in a multi-billion toothpaste company.

Welcome back, dear!”. The father said, while the mother was hugging Lola so tightly.

She greets everyone inside and during the dinner table, her father stands up to make a toast, and he said “It’s my greatest pleasure to say that our dear Lola will be part of our company in the Finance department as the CFO. Welcome it, Richards Toothpaste!” he said excitedly.

Lola, as surprised as she could have ever been, stands up, “I never asked you, never discussed this with you. You know I wanted to start my own company. Remember when I asked you for money to begin it?”.

Edward Richard, the father, starts bursting off in laughter.

“Oh dear Lola, we wouldn’t give you the money because that company would never succeed”. Lola started to stand up, bursting into tears. She leaves the dinner table as she can't believe what is happening.

With all of this, she decided to go to and distance herself, so she went to, her favorite ice cream place to cool off.

As she was pushing the ice cream store door open, it smacks right into a man wearing ripped, filthy clothes that hung off him from old rags. He stumbled back, sweat dripping off his face, and a strong stench of dirt and grease that filled up the air. “Oh, please forgive me, I'm so sorry”, Lola said as she was helping him get back up.

He had a huge bump on his leg, all bruised up due to falling.

“Please let me help you. Come to my house. I know exactly what to give you,” Lola said.

This man agreed instantly, as he was starting to see blurry and felt dizzy. As he gets in her car, she asks him,“ So who are you?”.

“My name is Jeremy. I’m 25 years old,” he said.

“No way, me too!” she said delightedly. What do you work in?

“I’m a construction worker.”, he said. “So… what about you?, Jeremy said as they were walking to the car.

“Oh, I just graduated from Princeton”. After some minutes, they arrived at the house.

“This is your house?” he was totally shocked. They got out of the car and immediately went to the kitchen to look for an ice pack. As they were looking, Jeremy accidentally clicked on a button in the kitchen cabinet that opened a door, a secret door that Lola has never even seen before in her own home. They run to it, with suspicion of what would possibly be on the inside. They start seeing maps all around, covering the whole premises of the room. Lola was so shocked that she immediately went in. There were multiple cameras showing in the screens with view to a certain rainforest, with a mini stream of river, where an instrument lied, a specific instrument, a HARP. Lola and Jeremy looked again at those maps, this time more closely, to realize that there were red X’S on the country Guatemala.

“Guatemala?” Lola questioned. She was troubled about why it would be Guatemala.

“It's probably something of a lot of value”, Jeremy said.

They started inspecting the entire room, trying to see what else they would be able to find out. They found a keypad at the end of the room, as if there was something behind that room.

The code was impossible to guess; they both tried but really couldn't figure out what it could be.

Jeremy told Lola, “Think about something related…your family’s name or story that may have to do with this”.

“Um…”, Lola said with full uncertainty. “Let's try our house number #3214”.

They put the number 3214 and the door open like if they were in a spies' mission. Inside were a bunch of equipment, including ropes, flashlights, food, water, bags, life vest, among other things. It wasn't until Jeremy found a letter that said, “Who is this, Leonard Richardson?”.

Lola realized it was her grandfather's letter, this held all the details on the underground safe-space in Guatemala. There was a moment in which the Richarsons, the toothpaste company, was being accused of fraud and thought of hiding that hiding the money was the best way to hide some millions the family had. Although now the company was in a better state, Lola and Jeremy looked at each other slowly, and then back to the letter, and she said “we really need to find that money for us. At the same time, this will fix our problems, I could start building up my company, and prove everything to my family”.

Jeremy said, “This could change our lives”. She didn't fully trust him.

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Still, she decided. “Come with me”. They grabbed everything in the room, all the gadgets, materials, maps, they covered the cameras to the photos, everything they needed. Lola immediately went online and booked two flights for Guatemala. Without telling anyone in her family about the room she had discovered in her own house and her new friend, they both left the next day for the airport to embark on their new adventure, their “treasure hunting”. Despite the flight getting postponed to the next day, they seemed much closer; this unexpected connection was formed. The,n those strangers that had met the first day, weren't strangers anymore anything both stranger, on the contrary, they seemed like soulmates. After their whole day of connecting, the plane complications were fixed, and they were ready to go to Guatemala. They got on the plane and flew to Guatemala. As soon as they got there, they went straight to dinner. Salsa music started playing, and Jerem grabbed Lola right onto the dance floor. You could see Jeremy’s nervous because he actually really liked her and so did she. Sparks flew; they weren't talking about the money for their separate purpose. They wanted to after getting the money to be in an actual relationship. The next day, they knew that the adventure should start early on, so as soon as the sun rose, they got all their materials and maps and left on the bus to follow the location with more proximity through the Maya Biosphere Reserve in Guatemala. Jeremy and Lola were both thrilled, ready to start the journey. They had to overcome some obstacles, find the specific locations, encounter a group of hyenas chasing them, and the harsh rain. They decided to take a break.

Jeremy, at this moment, started to feel off; he was looking to the sides frequently, like if he was trying to leave while not showing much interaction. Lola, on the other hand, was amazed and ready for finally be able to prove to her parents that she can be successful on her own. Jeremy, after looking around for so long, said, “Um… I’m going to the bathroom. I'm not feeling so well. I will come back soon”.

Lola, not thinking anything of it, stayed there waiting as she was passing through the pictures they had taken together the night before. Meanwhile, Jeremy was getting farther and farther away from the location. He had secretly grabbed the bag with the maps and all the equipment and was going to arrive at the location. He peeked though and saw a river with streams and after in the end, there was a harp.

The harp was the main component; it was the code, to open up the underground safe. Jeremy had actually fallen in love with Lola, but thinking of his economics struggles, his greed couldn't stop him from betraying Lola and getting more money for himself. He struggles you get the Harp, but once he gets it, he starts reading the letter that Lola's grandfather had left for them in the safe.

“Once you get to the Harp, go back to where the river starts and from the center go back 5 feet ot the left horizontally and 15 feet to the right vertically.” He started measuring and counting until he got to the spot seen in the picture. He started playing the musical notes, but the underground safe wouldn't open. Lola, on the other hand, was relaxed until she realized that everything was gone. At that moment, she knew that he had betrayed her, everything that they worked for together, that relationship that they have cultivated. Lola was in shock; trying to wipe the tear off her face, she couldn’t believe it. She was betrayed by someone that she trusted and relied on. Then, she immediately remembered that they were sharing each other's locations and went to check where he was. She followed him all the way towards the destined location on the map. Jeremy was still in the meantime trying to decipher the code.

She sees Jeremy and starts screaming. “ Really, Jeremy, really… I helped you out. I was your pathway to a new beginning. I gave you a chance when no one else did.” Lola’s voice cracked, but she refused to break.

She got the harp, put the musical notes, and the floored open automatically. In the safe, there were 30 million dollars inside. Lola gave Jeremy 100,000 and said, “Take this, hope you can better your life and persona”. She took 2 million for herself to start up her new company. Jeremy apologized, and they went to their own pathways. After 5 years, Lola started a very successful clothing coming that her family had now invested in. Jeremy, on the other hand, became the founder of his own construction business. One day, they both bump into each other in that same ice cream shop again. They see how much they both have changed, specifically Jeremy, and they smile at each other. Then, without a word, they walked away, back to their own lives.

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Metamorphosis by Catalina Hernández It was a Sunday afternoon in 1897, Anna Stonewall sat on her deteriorated wooden desk, dipping her quill into an inkwell. In the isolated town of Bakewell, England; writing was the only activity she truly enjoyed. Outside, the cobbled streets of Bakewell layed silent, save for the distant clatter of a carriage wheel and the soft patter of rain against the wooden shutters.

Her lack of friends and surplus of tormentors led to most of her days unfolding in the same quiet solitude. Just Anna and her journal. As the ink bled onto the page, each word felt like a tether to a world beyond this one, a world where she was not alone.

She was used to loneliness, in a way. Perhaps it was due to her father’s passing, or the absence of her mother while living under the same roof. Even though they shared a house, it often felt as if Anna lived there alone. This all led her to become a quiet and independent ten year old girl. She only ‘spoke’ to her journal, biked to school alone, bought provisions for the house weekly, took herself to church every Sunday without fail, and prepared dinner each night, only to clean it up and re-do it the next day.

Monday morning came too soon. Anna woke up, downed a glass of milk, stuffed her half-written story in her satchel made from a potato sack, and biked to school. She arrived promptly at 7:21 every day, leaving her just enough time to choose her seat and organize her work. Class was scheduled to start at 7:30, yet the only people who got there on time were Anna and the professor. She didn’t mind the quiet. It was the moments after that she dreaded.

At exactly 7:37, the others started arriving. “Well, if it isn’t the mawkish maid of Bakewell, pathetic aspiring writer,” Veronica said, striding past Anna’s desk. Laughter and whispers rippled through the room. Anna remained silent and instead expressed her emotions on paper.

By lunchtime, the whispers grew louder. As she made her way to her usual lunch spot, the bench behind the deli shop, she heard them. ”She thinks she’s some kind of writer.” ”Bet she scribbles nonsense in that stupid book of hers.””She is pathetic!”

Anna gripped her journal. She would never allow herself to cry in public. She sat in the usual spot as always, pulling out the bread and butter she had packed earlier. The food tasted bland. Her stomach felt twisted. She tried to write, which always helped her, but she couldn’t. Something felt off.

When she looked up, she saw Veronica and her clique across the road. They were looking. Smirking. Suddenly, one of them picked up a stone and threw it at Anna. Luckily, it only landed near her feet. Still, Anna saw it as a warning.

Anna snapped her journal shut and froze. She knew she couldn’t sit there and let them pick her apart like they always did. She just ran. She didn’t know where she was going. Yet, she didn’t stop running until the town was behind her.

Suddenly, she was surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of trees. The forest wrapped around her like a wool cloak.

She fell to the ground, her back against the trunk of a large pine tree.

It was too much.

She hugged her knees to her chest, gripping the ends of her skirt. She wanted to disappear, to sink into the soil and never return.

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All of a sudden, she felt something. She wiped her teary eyes...only to find a smallcaterpillar crawling across her arm. She watched as it moved, slow and calm. A minute before, she had felt as if her world was crumbling. But now, as she observed the caterpillar, something shifted inside her. She looked at her surroundings...only to notice the caterpillars were everywhere. In the trees, the grass, everywhere. Something about them seemed to mesmerize her, like she was in a trance.

Suddenly, she heard something. Not a voice, but a whisper, a message in her mind.

“Change is painful, but it makes you who you are.”

That day, Anna stayed in the forest for hours and hours. She spent those hours tracing the caterpillars' movements with her finger, watching them slide their way across the trees, and observing as they nibbled on the green, vibrant leaves. The following day she returned.

Every day that week, Anna returned to the same tree, sitting and petting the caterpillars as she wrote beside them. Sometimes, she’d read snippets of her writing to them. She even spoke to them about her issues at school, and even without speaking, they provided comfort and guidance.

As the weeks passed, she noticed something new. The caterpillars weren’t moving. They were stiff, clinging under the branches, as their bodies curled inwards. Then, they changed. Each one of them folded itself into a silken cocoon, disappearing completely. She ran her fingers across them. She was unsure of what was happening, but she knew it wasn’t the end.

She remembered that as she faced Veronica and the others at school. While still passively accepting the taunting at school, she now wrote imaginary retorts and references in her journal. Now, she began to grow happier as she remembered her caterpillars were waiting for her return, even if she had to wait some days to see them slide around her.

Days turned to weeks. The caterpillars laid still, but Anna no longer felt alone. She was also changing.

One morning, everything changed. Anna arrived at the same tree, but it felt different. The air was lighter, the breeze was smoother, and the sun shined brighter. She looked up. The cocoons were open. And then, there they were...butterflies. Dozens, colorful, light creatures that were once nothing but fuzz crawling on the wood.

Anna was overwhelmed with joy. Wiping her tears with one hand as she let a butterfly land on her other. She grabbed her journal out of her satchel and turned to the final page. The story she spent so long devoting herself to, the one they ridiculous was finally finished. Her story was no longer just words on a page.

It was her.

That afternoon, she wrapped the pages carefully and mailed them to a London publisher.

Months passed. The butterflies had already scattered, but she felt fulfilled even with their absence. Then, four months later, a parcel arrived. There was a book. Anna’s book. It was everything she imagined, especially her name embossed in gold.

The next morning, whole Bakewell seemed to whisper. Yet, this time, the whispers were different. ”She actually did it.” ”Wow.” Anna did not need their words of validation. She had her own. She skipped away as a breeze blew dozens of butterflies around her. For the first time, she understood. The caterpillars didn’t vanish, they transformed And so did she.

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Theo Kent Was Here by Wyatt Wunker Detective Danielson leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen against the metal table. The man across from him, a wiry figure with nervous fingers stared at the recorder sitting between them.

“Start from the beginning,” Danielson said. “How did you know Theo Kent?

The man exhaled sharply, “You make it sound so official. I didn’t know him. Not really. I saw him around. We all did. He was the kind of guy who’d hang around just long enough for you to think he might stick, but he never did. Always halfway in, halfway out, like he had one foot out the door before he even sat down. You’d blink, and he was gone. You get what I mean? Always there but never really in the room.”

Danielson let the silence hang for a moment before continuing, “You spoke to him the week before he went missing. What did he say?”

The man rubbed his hands together, “Missing. That’s a funny word. He was already halfway gone before anyone noticed.”

“Explain that” “Theo wasn’t someone you remembered in detail. You remembered the idea of him. The way he moved, the way he looked at things like he was measuring something the rest of us couldn’t see.

But ask someone to describe him? They’d hesitate. They’d say ‘I think he has brown hair’ or ‘maybe glasses?’ They’d get lost in their own uncertainty. It’s like trying to recall the shape of smoke.”

Danielson noted this, “And you? Did you know him in detail?”

“I knew him the only way you can know someone who doesn’t leave footprints. In moments. In thoughts he let slip when he thought no one was listening.”

“Such as?”

The man hesitated, then said “Theo believed we weren’t actually free. Not in the way he liked to believe. He thought that modern life was just a series of increasingly sophisticated cages. Jobs, bills, obligations, even relationships. He thought society functioned by convincing people that their movement was voluntary when in reality, their choices had already been narrowed down to a handful of roads someone else had designed. ‘Most people think they’re driving,’ he told me once.

‘They don’t realize that they’ve only ever been passengers.”

Danielson frowned, “So he rejected all of it?”

“No. He didn’t reject it. That would mean engaging with it. He just slipped out of it. Like a shadow stepping backward out of the light. He talked about it like it was a matter of physics. That if you stopped giving weight to the things that held you in place, you stopped being held altogether.”

Danielson scribbled down, but the words didn’t feel new. He had heard variations of this already: Theo as a ghost, Theo as an enigma, Theo as a man halfway gone before he even went off the grid.

“Something changed,” Danielson said. “Something got him on this path.”

“Yeah. That’s the question, isn’t it?” ***

91

Detective Danielson followed a lead of his to a university where Theo had worked, not as a professor but adjacent to things, contracted for translation work. Old texts, rare books, things that required those who could see meaning where others didn’t. The office where Theo worked had since been repurposed, but Danielson found a woman, linguistics professor Dr. Evelyn Hart, who had known him. Or, at least, known the version of him that existed then. “He wasn’t like the others,” she said, not looking up from her desk as she flipped through old files.

“Most people in this field want to conserve things. Not him.” “What does that mean?” Dr. Hart gestured vaguely toward the shelves, “You ever see the way people interact with history? They dig it up, clean it off, put it in museums, wrap it in context until it stops being what it was and becomes whatever they need it to be. Theo hated that. He thought that people had no right to preserve things if they weren’t going to understand them.” Danielson leaned forward, “And what does that have to do with him disappearing?” Dr. Hart finally looked at him, something sharp in her gaze, “Because for a while, he tried to make peace with it. The weight of the past.

The weight of being seen. He wanted to belong, maybe not in the way most people do but in a way that made sense to him.” Danielson gestured for her to go on.

photo by Cyrus Wunker

Dr. Hart hesitated. Then, she pulled out a thin file from a drawer and slid it across the desk, “This is what did it.” Danielson opened it. Inside was a letter written in Theo’s handwriting but unsigned. I thought it might be enough. I really did. That I could live with the illusion as long as I was aware of it. That I could be seen without being captured. That I could play at permanence without becoming part of the display. But I was wrong. Because once you become an artifact, you allow yourself to be preserved in someone else’s understanding. You are no longer yourself. You are a reference point. A fixed position. A shadow cast backward through time.

92

And I will not be remembered.

Danielson’s pulse ticked up slightly. He flipped the page, but there was nothing else. He looked back at Dr. Hart, “What happened after he wrote this?”

“He left. But not all at once. First, he stopped submitting reports. Then, he stopped responding to emails. Then, he stopped coming in at all.” She tapped the folder, “And one day, this just showed up in my inbox. No sender.

No timestamp. Just there.”

Danielson closed the file, fingers drumming lightly against it, “Did you try to find him?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Detective, that would be an insult.” *** There was something distinctly final in Dr. Hart’s expression that suggested that she had accepted Theo Kent’s disappearance well before Danielson had ever set foot in her office. To her, he was not missing. He had merely ceased to be her concern at all.

But Detective Danielson was not yet ready to grant Theo such absolution.

These were among Danielson’s thoughts as he traveled through the university’s archives. The scent of aging parchment and ink lay thick in the air, disturbed only by the faint rustle of movement beyond the shelves.

The stacks were not a place of hurried footsteps, nor were they a sanctuary for idle conversation. They belonged to a quieter world, one where time did not dictate urgency, only preservation.

And yet, Theo Kent had been drawn here. He had attempted, for a time, to exist in a place meant for keeping things still. The irony was not lost on Danielson.

A young man was waiting for him beyond the main reading hallway. He was a slight, pale figure with restless hands and the nervous disposition of someone who had seen something he did not wish to understand.

Danielson stopped before him, “Owen Trask?”

The young man inclined his head, speaking in a low tone, though there was no one close enough to overhear, “Detective. I appreciate you meeting me.”

“You wrote that you had information regarding Theo Kent.”

Owen nodded, his glance flickering toward the rows of shelves that loomed around him, “Yes, but not here.”

Danielson followed him through the narrow stacks until they reached a secluded corner, a modest table and two chairs illuminated only by the amber glow of a single hanging lamp.

“I only knew him in passing,” Owen began. “But he wasn’t like the others.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to say so.”

Owen let out a slight, humorless laugh, “I imagine not. But I don’t think anyone has told you what he was working on when he left.”

Danielson raised a brow, “And you can?”

Owen hesitated. Then, with careful precision, he withdrew a single sheet of yellowed paper from the inside of his coat. He passed it across the table with the reverence of a man presenting an object of great significance.

Danielson unfolded the page.

The handwriting was unquestionable: sharp, measured, deliberate. Theo Kent’s. But unlike the letter Dr. Hart had given him, there was no resignation here, no farewell. This was something else entirely It is not enough to disappear in body. One must vanish from memory as well. A man may burn his records, abandon his name, forsake his past, but these are merely shadows. He is still held in place by the recollections of others: their expectations, their perceptions, their insistence upon what he was and must therefore always be.

If memory itself is the anchor then to be free one must not merely remove oneself but remove the notion that one was ever there at all.

93

Dr. Hart hesitated. Then, she pulled out a thin file from a drawer and slid it across the desk, “This is what did it.”

Danielson opened it. Inside was a letter written in Theo’s handwriting but unsigned.

I thought it might be enough. I really did. That I could live with the illusion as long as I was aware of it. That I could be seen without being captured. That I could play at permanence without becoming part of the display.

But I was wrong. Because once you become an artifact, you allow yourself to be preserved in someone else’s understanding. You are no longer yourself. You are a reference point. A fixed position. A shadow cast backward through time And I will not be remembered.

Danielson’s pulse ticked up slightly. He flipped the page, but there was nothing else. He looked back at Dr. Hart, “What happened after he wrote this?”

“He left. But not all at once. First, he stopped submitting reports. Then, he stopped responding to emails. Then, he stopped coming in at all.” She tapped the folder, “And one day, this just showed up in my inbox. No sender.

No timestamp. Just there.”

Danielson closed the file, fingers drumming lightly against it, “Did you try to find him?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Detective, that would be an insult.” *** There was something distinctly final in Dr. Hart’s expression that suggested that she had accepted Theo Kent’s disappearance well before Danielson had ever set foot in her office. To her, he was not missing. He had merely ceased to be her concern at all.

But Detective Danielson was not yet ready to grant Theo such absolution.

These were among Danielson’s thoughts as he traveled through the university’s archives. The scent of aging parchment and ink lay thick in the air, disturbed only by the faint rustle of movement beyond the shelves.

The stacks were not a place of hurried footsteps, nor were they a sanctuary for idle conversation. They belonged to a quieter world, one where time did not dictate urgency, only preservation.

And yet, Theo Kent had been drawn here. He had attempted, for a time, to exist in a place meant for keeping things still. The irony was not lost on Danielson.

A young man was waiting for him beyond the main reading hallway. He was a slight, pale figure with restless hands and the nervous disposition of someone who had seen something he did not wish to understand.

Danielson stopped before him, “Owen Trask?”

The young man inclined his head, speaking in a low tone, though there was no one close enough to overhear, “Detective. I appreciate you meeting me.”

“You wrote that you had information regarding Theo Kent.”

Owen nodded, his glance flickering toward the rows of shelves that loomed around him, “Yes, but not here.”

Danielson followed him through the narrow stacks until they reached a secluded corner, a modest table and two chairs illuminated only by the amber glow of a single hanging lamp.

“I only knew him in passing,” Owen began. “But he wasn’t like the others.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to say so.”

Owen let out a slight, humorless laugh, “I imagine not. But I don’t think anyone has told you what he was working on when he left.”

Danielson raised a brow, “And you can?”

Owen hesitated. Then, with careful precision, he withdrew a single sheet of yellowed paper from the inside of his coat. He passed it across the table with the reverence of a man presenting an object of great significance.

Danielson unfolded the page.

The handwriting was unquestionable: sharp, measured, deliberate. Theo Kent’s. But unlike the letter Dr. Hart had given him, there was no resignation here, no farewell. This was something else entirely.

It is not enough to disappear in body. One must vanish from memory as well. A man may burn his records, abandon his name, forsake his past, but these are merely shadows. He is still held in place by the recollections of others: their expectations, their perceptions, their insistence upon what he was and must therefore always be.

If memory itself is the anchor then to be free one must not merely remove oneself but remove the notion that one was ever there at all.

94

Danielson read the passage twice, then set it down carefully. He regarded Owen with a level gaze, “Where did you find this?”

Owen’s expression was taut, “He left it inside a manuscript he was translating. A fragmented oral history, one of the older texts we had in the collection. I don’t know if he was assigned to it or if he took it upon himself, but he kept returning to it.”

Danielson retrieved his notebook,” What was the manuscript about?”

Owen rummaged through his backpack until he pulled out a notebook of his own. After some flipping, he lingered on a page for a moment, then looked up, “It was about a man who erased himself.”

“Explain.”

Owen exhaled, rubbing his hands together as though simply speaking the words chilled him, “It was obscure. A story passed down through oral tradition and recorded long after the fact. It described a man who, at least according to the tale, learned how to disappear not only from sight but from thought. He moved through the world like a phantom, never remembered for more than a moment, never recorded, never named in any lasting sense.”

“And Theo found this compelling?”

“He didn’t treat it like a folktale. He treated it like an instruction.”

Danielson drummed his fingers against the table, “You’re suggesting that Theo Kent, an academic, a translator, a man of intellect, believed he could do the same?”

“I don’t know what he believed, Detective. But I know that after he finished working on that manuscript, he started removing himself. First from the archives, then from correspondence. Then from every record we ever had of him. And when he finally disappeared…”

He swallowed “The manuscript disappeared too.”

Danielson felt a prickle of unease at the nape of his neck. It was not fear, nor even suspicion, he was not yet a man given to entertaining the impossible, but it was something close.

Owen shifted in his seat, rubbing at his temples as if the mere conversation exhausted him, “It’s strange,” He muttered. “I– I know there was more.”

Danielson frowned, “More?”

“The manuscript,” Owen said, his voice taking an unsettled edge. “I remember reading it. I remember turning the pages. I remember–” He broke off,, shaking his head sharply. “But I can’t recall a single word of it.”

Danielson’s pen stopped mid-motion, “You mean you don’t remember the specifics?”

“No. I mean I don’t remember it at all. I know I studied it. I know I saw the text. But the only recollection I have of it is in this notebook,” Owen said, pointing to his neatly organized bullets. “And even these notes seem to be less detailed each time I revisit them. It’s almost like it’s fading away altogether. Come to think of it, the same could be said about Theo himself. Detective, what’s happening?”

A cool stillness settled in Danielson’s chest. One may leave behind no address, no forwarding notice, no trail of accounts of transactions, but one simply does not erase the fact that they were once there. They do not remove the memories of those who know them.

Unless, of course, that was the point.

Danielson straightened, slipping the letter into his coat. The facts were as follows. Theo Kent had uncovered a story. He had followed it, studied it, absorbed it. And then, he had enacted it.

And if the pattern held, if the next step in this vanishing act would soon be as complete as the rest, then Detective Danielson was running out of time.

He had to find someone who remembered Theo Kent.

Because if this is what Theo had intended, soon there would be no one left who did. *** Danielson had spent too long chasing the ghost of a man who had worked so tirelessly to erase himself. It seemed to him that every lead had been exhausted. Every lead except one: Maya Lindwood.

Unlike the others, she had not gotten on as usual after Theo’s departure. It seemed to have affected the extrovert-turned-hermit more deeply, leading Danielson to believe that she was present in the final moments before Theo’s erasure began.

Danielson arrived at her house under an evening sky, the light dimming over the rooftop. The house was modest and unremarkable, yet there was a precision to it that struck him at once. Nothing in its appearance suggested carelessness, yet it bore an intentional emptiness, as if stripped of any unnecessary weight.

95

The door opened before he could knock. The woman who stood before him was watchful, but not apprehensive.

She regarded him with the bearing of someone who had already considered the outcome of the conversation before it began.

“You should have come sooner,” she said.

Danielson removed his hat, “Miss Lindwood.”

She stepped aside, “You best come in.”

The sitting room was spare, yet not barren. A chessboard sat on a side table, its pieces unmoved. A book lay open, though Danielson noted that the spine bore no creases.

The room had the quality of a place deliberately kept still, as if any trace of motion may disturb something unseen.

Maya gestured toward the seat opposite her own, but Danielson remained standing.

“You knew Theo Kent.”

“I did.”

“And you still remember him?”

A shadow of something unreadable crossed her face, “For now.”

“For how much longer?” Danielson asked.

Maya exhaled, her fingers tracing the outline of the table, “That depends.”

Danielson remained still, “On what?”

Her gaze was steady, but something behind it suggested caution, “On whether you already feel it happening.”

It was an answer he did not care for, “You knew him before all this,” he said. “Before he began pulling away.

What was he like?”

“Like a man trying to hold onto something that was already slipping from his grasp.”

Danielson removed his notebook, letting his pen hover, “He resisted?”

“For a time.”

“What changed?”

Maya looked down at her hands, “He saw what was happening. You’ve assumed this whole time that Theo discovered something and acted on it. That this was a decision he made alone.”

Danielson regarded her closely, “And you’re telling me otherwise?”

Her voice was steady, “What if he wasn’t the first?”

The words settled into the space between them, “Then why was he different?”

Maya’s fingers curled slightly where they rested, “Because he was forced to turn back.”

Danielson’s jaw tensed, “And?” “You wanted to know why he disappeared.”

Danielson nodded once.

Maya’s voice dropped slightly, “Because, Detective, he wasn’t supposed to remember.”

“Where did he go?”

Maya met his gaze, “You already know.”

A pause.

“The archives.” *** The key turned in the lock, or perhaps it had never been locked at all. Danielson stepped inside without hesitation, into the low-lit hush of the archives.

Shelves stretched in long, silent rows, their contents resting patiently. Books that had outlived their readers, that had endured more than the hands that placed them there, their corners fading, their spines cracked, the scent of ink long dried hanging in the air. And beyond them, beyond the shelves, beyond the dim and flickering light, the man who should not be there.

Theo Kent stood beside the table, his gaze not on the book before him but on something else, something further, something unseen. Danielson had imagined this moment, a man resurrected, a figure stepping out of the abyss.

But Theo was not a ghost. He was real. Here. Present. As though he had never gone at all.

Danielson did not speak. Neither did Theo. The silence stretched between them.

Then Theo exhaled, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Danielson stepped forward, “Neither should you. And yet, here we are.”

96

The door opened before he could knock. The woman who stood before him was watchful, but not apprehensive.

She regarded him with the bearing of someone who had already considered the outcome of the conversation before it began.

“You should have come sooner,” she said.

Danielson removed his hat, “Miss Lindwood.”

She stepped aside, “You best come in.”

The sitting room was spare, yet not barren. A chessboard sat on a side table, its pieces unmoved. A book lay open, though Danielson noted that the spine bore no creases.

The room had the quality of a place deliberately kept still, as if any trace of motion may disturb something unseen.

Maya gestured toward the seat opposite her own, but Danielson remained standing.

“You knew Theo Kent.”

“I did.”

“And you still remember him?”

A shadow of something unreadable crossed her face, “For now.”

“For how much longer?” Danielson asked.

Maya exhaled, her fingers tracing the outline of the table, “That depends.”

Danielson remained still, “On what?”

Her gaze was steady, but something behind it suggested caution, “On whether you already feel it happening.”

It was an answer he did not care for, “You knew him before all this,” he said. “Before he began pulling away.

What was he like?”

“Like a man trying to hold onto something that was already slipping from his grasp.”

Danielson removed his notebook, letting his pen hover, “He resisted?”

“For a time.”

“What changed?”

Maya looked down at her hands, “He saw what was happening. You’ve assumed this whole time that Theo discovered something and acted on it. That this was a decision he made alone.”

Danielson regarded her closely, “And you’re telling me otherwise?”

Her voice was steady, “What if he wasn’t the first?”

The words settled into the space between them, “Then why was he different?”

Maya’s fingers curled slightly where they rested, “Because he was forced to turn back.”

Danielson’s jaw tensed, “And?” “You wanted to know why he disappeared.”

Danielson nodded once.

Maya’s voice dropped slightly, “Because, Detective, he wasn’t supposed to remember.”

“Where did he go?”

Maya met his gaze, “You already know.”

A pause.

“The archives.” *** The key turned in the lock, or perhaps it had never been locked at all. Danielson stepped inside without hesitation, into the low-lit hush of the archives.

Shelves stretched in long, silent rows, their contents resting patiently. Books that had outlived their readers, that had endured more than the hands that placed them there, their corners fading, their spines cracked, the scent of ink long dried hanging in the air. And beyond them, beyond the shelves, beyond the dim and flickering light, the man who should not be there.

Theo Kent stood beside the table, his gaze not on the book before him but on something else, something further, something unseen. Danielson had imagined this moment, a man resurrected, a figure stepping out of the abyss.

But Theo was not a ghost. He was real. Here. Present. As though he had never gone at all.

Danielson did not speak. Neither did Theo. The silence stretched between them.

Then Theo exhaled, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Danielson stepped forward, “Neither should you. And yet, here we are.”

97

Theo’s lips twitched humorlessly. He looked down at the table, at the book. The manuscript. The thing that should not have been there, that had vanished when he had vanished, that had reappeared now, intact, waiting, as if it had always been there.

“You remember,” Danielson said.

Theo tapped once against the table, absent-mindedly, “I do.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

“No” “What happened?”

Theo’s gaze flickered, “She did.”

“Maya. She remembers. Actively.”

“She shouldn’t.”

Danielson exhaled as, not for the first time, the facts began to take on a new shape. It was not that Theo had disappeared. He had tried to, yes, but at least for now, he had not succeeded. He had done everything right: stripped away the layers, unwritten himself piece by piece, removed every record, every document, every trace that might have held him in place. And yet.

Yet. Maya had remembered. And that was enough.

Danielson’s voice was quieter now, “You thought it was permanent.”

Theo nodded, just barely, “I did.”

“But it wasn’t.”

Theo’s jaw tightened, his gaze landing on the book, “The others,” he said. “They were different.”

“Others?”

“I wasn’t the first.”

Of course he wasn’t. Maya had said as much. Danielson could see it now, the form of something larger behind the facts, the pattern that had repeated since before Theo had followed it, before he had ever begun to unravel himself.

“How many?” Danielson asked.

Theo slowly shook his head, “No way to know. No way to remember.”

“You were supposed to forget too. That was the last step.”

“Yes.” “But you didn’t. Because of her.”

Danielson turned the thought over in his mind. Maya, who had stepped away before she too was lost. Maya, who had held on to something, who had not let go when she should have.

“She wasn’t supposed to,” Theo said, half to himself, “But she did. And that was enough.”

“Enough for what?”

Theo looked up, meeting Danielson’s eyes, “To keep me from finishing it.”

The words settled, final. Danielson nodded slowly, “And now?”

“I don’t know.”

Theo’s gaze again returned to the manuscript. His fingers hovered over the cover, almost touching it, almost sealing whatever remained unfinished. Danielson did not move. The moment stretched too long, the weight of everything narrowing to this, to a man at the edge of his own undoing. Theo’s breath was steady, too steady. And then– He pulled his hand away, first but a fraction of an inch but then, decisively. He turned, stepping back from the table, from the book, from the thing that had brought him there in the first place.

“I need to go,” he murmured.

Danielson watched him, saying nothing.

Theo nodded once, to himself, maybe, or to the space he was leaving behind. Then, he walked past the shelves, past the old spines of books, past the rows of words that had never needed remembering.

And so, Theo Kent was gone.

Or not.

But does it matter?

What is a disappearance, after all, if not a story someone else must tell? And what is a man if not the shape of his own telling? One could argue that Theo Kent is no more real now than he ever was, that he existed only as long as he was perceived, and now he is merely a collection of recollections, misplaced and uncertain, dissolving as they are held.

98

But that is true of all of us, is it not?

I do not write to preserve anything. I do not write to give answers. There are no answers, not really. Only questions repeated in different forms, people chasing the same vanishing horizon, grasping desperately at understanding only to emerge empty-handed.

This story is not about Theo Kent. It is about the spaces he left behind. It is about what remains when a man decides to subtract himself from the world, when he removes his name, his past, his tether to the ordinary. But even erasure leaves a mark. Even a hole in the earth is still a shape. Even silence, in its own way, is something that can be heard.

Perhaps he is gone. Perhaps the last of him has already slipped away, and what you are reading is no more than the echo of an echo, words about a man who ceased to exist.

But perhaps not.

Because you, reader, are still here.

And as long as you are, as long as there is someone left to wonder, someone left to turn the page, someone left to ask was he ever really here at all?– Then Theo Kent has not disappeared.

Not yet.

art by Cristine Tacher

Must First Reach the Stomach

by Ivana Wu

Every little thing that Scarlett Spencer had in her life right now was all molded by her with her own two hands. Her so-called “Perfect Life” is where she gets to wake up every morning in a big house late in the afternoon and is served tea as she waits for her rich husband to come back home from a long day of work. After growing up poor when she was a child, this new life of hers is just the simple routine that awaits her every day, and she has made it very clear in her life that she will not allow anything to come in between this lifestyle of hers.

However, they would have a new visitor staying with them for this weekend. A high-class friend of Scarlett from her days before marriage named Isabella Nolson. A friendship she hadn’t seen in years. Isabella was everything Scarlett wasn’t: young and pure to the core of the heart. This brings an uncomfortable feeling towards Scarlett. A threat. Suddenly, the silent thoughts around her are broken by the distant hum of a luxurious car pulling into the driveway.

“How was work?” Scarlett asks John while she assists her husband, John, with his briefcase.

“Good. What’s for dinner?” John replies.

“Chicken Cutlet with mashed potatoes, your favorite. By the way, a friend is coming over to stay for a night. I hope you don’t mind a little bit of presence.”

“That should be fine. I’ll wash up before coming back down for dinner,” states John as he walks his way up the stairs.

As Scarlett finishes up cleaning the kitchen and setting up the table, she hears a knock on the door. From the smell sipping beneath the doorstep, she already knew exactly who it was.

Isabella Nolson.

As the door opens, Scarlett finds herself standing before Isabella, whose porcelain-white skin seems to glow in the soft light, and golden blonde hair cascades in gentle waves, catching the light like spun silk. Her eyes, pale and ethereal, shimmer like sunlight on a still pond, drawing all attention. A cool, refreshing breeze sweeps through the air, carrying the faint scent of jasmine. The wind caresses Isabella’s delicate white floral dress, making the petals flutter as if they, too, are caught in the moment, swaying gently side to side. Leaving Scarlett with no choice but to be awed by her delicate beauty.

100

Upon seeing Isabella for the first time in a while, Scarlett is quickly embraced with a warm hug by Isabella, “We have not seen each other in so long. How have you been, Scarlett?”

As Scarlett touches her jet black hair while staring at Isabella’s golden blond hair, Scarlett replies, “Well. You must have had a long trip, I just finished cooking some of my husbands’s favorite dishes; would you like to join us?”

“I would be more than happy to join you guys. Allow me to freshen up first,” replies Isabella.

“No problem. Your room is in the top right. Allow me to finish setting up the tables.”

While Scarlett takes her time setting up her tables with utensils and pearly white royal blue porcelain plates, she is faced to see both her husband and best friend coming down the stairs while laughing about a particular thing together.

“I see that you guys have already met,” Scarlett said, without keeping to herself the uneasy feeling she had.

“We actually met when we were younger because of our mothers. She seriously has not yet changed a bit. It’s been a long trip for Bela; let’s not keep her waiting any longer,” John added.

“Not at all. The food looks great, by the way. Thank you so much, Scarlett,” Isabella says.

As the three of them take their seats at the dining table, the air around the dinner table feels thick, heavy, almost suffocating, as the soft clink of silverware against plates becomes a distant noise. She watched the way his fingers lingered just a second too long on her best friend's hand, the warmth between them almost palpable. Her stomach churns with a tight, unsettling knot, and her pulse quickens as she catches the glint in their eyes, a look that was clearly not meant for her. Every word they exchanged felt too intimate, every smile too knowing, and the space between them felt miles away, leaving her feeling small and cold.

Scarlett’s childhood involved having to face endless needs with her parents due to their large amount of debts they have replay back after her uncle’s bankruptcy upon living this kind of life. She had sworn to herself at the age of 13 that she would never marry into rich when she became old enough to live off a man so that she would no longer have to lift a single pinky of hers. And the last thing Scarlett would want right now is for her only source of income that she is depending on to pay for the kind of lifestyle she currently has to be stolen from her.

She would do what it means possible to get rid of this threat of hers as soon as possible.

This leaves her to retort to what she does best, the same method she had used on her husband to force him into this 8-year marriage.

As she notices her husband and Isabella finishing up their plates of food, Scarlett asks, “Can I offer you guys one of my favorite pumpkin pie recipes?

101

“Fix a big piece for Bela, dear; she has quite the sweet tooth,” mentioned John.

“Thank you so much. I would love a piece,” added Isabella.

As Scarlett slowly fixes herself a piece of pumpkin pie, she makes sure to top it off with a little bit of whipped cream and sliced pumpkin chunks on top as decorations.

Upon coming back, she places the dessert plates in a very specific order. Making sure rgar Isabella has gotten the place she had prepared for her on her left hand.

While placing the jaded plate down, Scarlett says, “Let me know if you like it.”

As she takes the first few bites, Isabella adds, “It’s delicious. Thank you so much, Scarlett, for allowing me to stay for a night.”

Before Scarlett could express how she felt about Isabella’s warming words, John replied on her behalf, “It’s our privilege to have you here, Bela. If you ever feel lonely, we want to let you know that you are more than welcome in anytime.”

“You are always so good with your words," says Isabella in a teasing lilt in her voice as she twirled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers.

John chuckled, low and smooth, the kind of sound that once sent shivers down her spine. “And you always did love pushing boundaries.”

Her pulse thundered, her stomach churning with something between dread and a dark, unwelcome thrill. It was torture, the slow burn of it, the sharp-edged jealousy tangled with doubt.

She clenched her fists beneath the table, swallowing the ache in her throat, willing herself to ignore the way her body reacted to the charge between them.

"You must be tired, Bela; you should go on and rest early. Scarlett and I would love to show you around our little town before I drive you back," said John.

"That sounds perfect. Thank you," replies Isabella "Good night, Isabella," adds Scarlett and John As Scarlett and John walk up the wooden stairs together with John's broad arms on Scarlett's waist, Scarlett kisses John before going into her chamber room to change into her sleeping wear and says, "Goodbye. See you soon."

The town, usually drenched in golden light, wakes beneath an unfamiliar shroud of gray.

The air is heavy, damp with the promise of rain that never quite falls, carrying the scent of earth and something unsettled on a Wednesday morning.

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A hush lingers over the small town as if the sun’s absence has stolen away its usual hum of life, leaving only a strange, expectant quiet.

After performing a heavier exercise than usual in the morning in her room, Scarlett decided to make her way down to bake her favorite fresh blueberry pancakes for the last time and heads to Isabella's room to wake her up for breakfast.

Upon her first few knocks, Scarlett calls, "Good morning, Bela. May I come in?"

"Is that John?" asked Isabella "No. It's Scarlett, I made breakfast. Do you want me to bring it in for you?"

"I don't want to trouble you, We can all just eat downstairs along with John before he drives me back."

"Oh. Something from work came out unexpectedly for John, so he headed out extra early today with his co-workers. He wants me to share his goodbyes. But I would be more than happy to show you around our little town before bringing you back home since John had left his car with us."

"I completely understand. Work is a priority in men's eyes. I'll be on my way down after I pack my belongings."

"No problem. I'll wait for you in the car. I left your breakfast on the dining table!"

After some time, Isabella rushed down to eat a few bites of the blueberry pancakes and took her luggage to the trunk only to find out that there was another luggage there as well.

Without putting much thought into it, she brushed it off and sat in the passenger seat.

As they drove a few more streets down, they passed by a few police cars that seemed like they were in a rush of an emergency. Innocently ignoring it, Scarlett begins driving quicker.

The daily newspaper arrived today in front of Scarlett's port on Thursday morning.

It reads: John Webler, former CEO of Webler Industry, was found dead Wednesday morning at his house with an autopsy of pumpkin poisoning. After hours of searching, he was found buried under a few planks in the CEO's chamber room.

The "perfect" executed plan, planned by no other since the very beginning.

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Never Ending Ripples

by Isabel Colom

As Margrette was woken up by her mother, she wondered if she would see him again.

“Good morning Margrette!”

“Good morning mother.”

Margrette wakes up to ther usual routine in the morning. Her mother brings her breakfast in bed that their cook had made for her along with her uniform on a golden hanger. The sweet aroma of cinnamon and vanilla curled through their as Margrette cut into her thick golden-brown french toast. Organic maple syrup dripped slowly from her fork, pooling the wooden board beneath.

Each bite filled her with comfort before she got out of bed and slipped into her uniform; a pleated skirt, a neatly knotted tie, a freshly pressed polo shirt, and a tailored jacket. The cool fabric sent a shiver down her spine as she moved to her vanity, reaching for her go-to pearl necklace. As she fastened the clasp, her eyes flickered to the mirror, catching a glimpse of the window behind her. Outside, the lake stretched out, its surface shimmering under the soft morning light. A boy stood by the water’s edge. He skimmed a stone across the surface, watching as it bounced before skinking. Margrette simply watched, sinking into the peacefulness of it all.

As she stares, she hears her mom scream.

“Margrette! You’re late!!”

Margrette jumps and runs down the long gold spiral stairs as she says goodbye to her mom.

Now, she’s off walking to her elementary school, Westminster Prep. As she’s walking, her short brown hair, shining in the sun, hits her face. When it clears up her view, her sight is directed at the lake. She comes to an abrupt stop and stares. As her vision spaces out and blurs, she hears a loud…

“Hey!” He spoke. Shocked, her eyes wide open, and butterflies fluttering in her stomach as she is trying to find words to say. It all was so overwhelming. As if she had chocked and lost all ability to speak.

“Hello,” she says under her breath.

“Are you okay?”

He had a very strong accent. One that Margrette couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“I’m late to school,” she runs off completely flushed.

Her cheeks had been overpowered by a strong rosey red color. She was overwhelemed with feelings. It was visually and internally obvious that she was intrigued by this strange boy. As she got to school, the thought of him never went away. It was like he had caught a spell on her. Every second felt like an hour. She couldn’t wait to see him again. His brown curly hair that shined in the morning sun an his bright blue ocean eyes. It was so surreal. As the last period bell rang in her ear, she jumped right out of her seat in excitement to go home and hope that she would see him on her long way back. As she ran, exhausted, through the widy afternoon, she looks around and he was nowhere to be found. This unsettling feeling overpowered her. Almost out of breath, she continued her route home. That evening she spent pondering of what tomorrow will bring for both of them. That night, she set an alarm for early in the morning. She was ecstatic. She couldn’t forget the feeling she got when both of them had locked eyes for a split second. The feeling of love at first sight.

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The next morning, she wasted no time. She jumped out of her bed and got ready in seconds. She missed her breakfast in bed just to see him. As she quickly slips on her uniform shes already at the door about to leave when she hears her mom.

“You’re up early.”

“Yes mom, I have stuff to do.”

“Stuff meaning?”

Margrette just giver her a smile, avoiding the question that approached her. Every step on the cobble stone path beneath counted as she looked around until she arrived at the lake. There he was, hair still blinding, skipping a rock just like last time. Margrette just stared before calling out for him.

“Hey! Remember me?”

The boy turns back abruptly as ge signals her to come to him.

“Hey, I’m Oliver” “Oliver, thats a pretty name. I’m Margrette. Do you live around here?”

“Kind of,” he replies. “I live here but I’m originally from England.”

She finally puts a finger on the accent.

“When did you move to Long Island?”

“A couple months ago. My parents needed to find jobs.”

“Did they find any” “No not yet. It’s been hard.”

“I hope all goes well.”

Margrette’s off to school feeling completed. She finally talked to the mysterious boy at the lake.

After school, when she gets home, she slowly twists the gold knob of the entrance. The silence was loud. As she opens the door, it makes a loud creaking sound. She hears footsteps on the other side. As the door hits the wall behind it, Margrette looks up and finds herself face to face with her mom. Her mom has her arms crossed, she looks furious.

“Margrette. We need to talk.”

“Okay,” replies Margrette, confused.

They sit down at the long dinner table. The silence still loud. All Margrette could hear was the sound of her deep breaths. Until they were interrupted by her mothers raspy voice.

“Who is he?”

“What?”

“That boy I saw you with this morning.”

“Oh! That’s Oliver. I just met him.”

“He doesn’t look pleasant.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he doesn’t look like he belongs to this wealthy part of Long Island.”

“He doesn’t. What’s the problem with that?”

“You shouldn’t hang around people like that.”

“Why not?”

It isn’t normal for the rich to hang out with the unfortunate.”

“I don’t care if he isn’t wealthy.”

“Well you should. I’ll be watching.”

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Margrette still confused, goes up to her room. She didn’t care that her family was wealthier.

She is determined to find a way to talk to him. She will alter her mothers mindset.

The next morning, after her usual routine, she wrote a message on a small wrinkled white lined paper from her school notebook to give to Oliver. When she heads out of the door, she sprints to him and gives Oliver the crunched up piece of paper. She then sprints to school in order to not get caught.

As Oliver opens the paper in confusion he reads, “Meet me at the park at 4:00pm today,” he slowly smiles. He can’t wait.

That afternoon felt like an eternity for the both of them. Patiently waiting for the clock to hit 4. As it hit 4, it was time. They now were simultaneously on their way to the park. They finally met.

“What’s going on?”

“I have to tell you something,” she says visually stressed. “My mom said I can’t talk to you.”

“Why are you here then?”

“Because I still want to. From now on we meet at 4,” she says with confidence.

“But why does she not want us to hang out?”

“Because you’r ‘poor’ apparently.”

“Maybe she’s right, we shouldnt.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s true. The wealthy shouldn’t be with the poor.”

“Your’re really going to let that affect us?”

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

Oliver and Margrette continued seeing each other for months. They started to get really close.

This is when Margrette takes a big risk and asks her mom if he could visit they’re house after school.

“Mom, I have a question.”

“Yes Margrette?”

“Can Oliver come home afterschool today?”

“No way,” she tries to walk away but Margrette pulls her back.

“Please, I promise he’ll change your mind.”

After a moment of silence and thinking her mom says, “Fine, just this once.”

That morning, Margrette told Oliver that he could come over to her house afterschool. Oliver was shocked at how Margrette convinced her mom, but that is one of the things that he loves about her. She is always determined to get what she wants. When school ended, Margrette and Oliver walk to her house. Oliver was astonished at how big her house was. He was nervous to meet her mom. Fingers trembling and heart raisng as he reached for the door knob. Margrette enters first.

“They’re here!!”

Trying to catch his breath Oliver says, “Good Evening ma’am. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

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“Hello Oliver. The chef snacks for you guys.”

At the dinner table there layed granola bars, raisen boxes, and organic gummy worms.

“Here we’re a healthy family,” says Margrette.

“Haha, I see.”

They take the snacks and lay on the velvet red couch that was at they’re living room and watched a movie. The Notebook, Margrettes favorite. They watch the movie all the way till the end.

“Imagine if we grow old together just like them.”

“That would be amazing.”

“You promise to never leave my side?”

“Promise.”

After the movie, both of them in tears, Oliver left.

“Well he’s a nice boy.”

“I told you.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“It’s okay.”

After this, Oliver would come over on weekends and on week days afterschool. Margrette and him would skip rocks at the lake together just like how Oliver did when they first met. They did this for years. Oliver and Margrette kept their promise and stayed together. They beat all odds of childhood love. They resembled that it is possible to be with the one you love forever. They grew old together. Still in love. Just like their younger days. It was no different.

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Through the Tears

by Carlos Toro

“So, no progress on your father?” asked my therapist.

“Nope,” I said, gripping my pants tightly.

“Remember what we talked about,” she said, “Your father doesn’t define you, John. I can guide you and give you advice, but your relationship with your father is up to you to mend.”

We both said our goodbyes and thank yous, and I started to make my way home.

“Hey!” I yelled once I entered my house to let her know I'm here, “I’m home!”

“Hi,” my mom said in a monotone voice, as if she had done this a million times before, “How was your session?”

“It was fine,” I responded in hopes that she wouldn't ask any more questions.

Luckily, she didn’t. She seems to have a pained expression, but it’ll be fine. She shouldn’t have to worry about me. So, I go up to my room and sit at my desk, still unsure of what I should do next. As if I’m trying to find something to think about, I take a look around my room. There’s the old superhero figures I collected as a kid, the shelf with the decade old games, another shelf with some vinyls and CDs that I don’t really have a use for, and I even notice a small pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Darn, I should probably take care of that, but I can save that for later. I face my desk as if I'm about to start working, but then I gaze at the broken CD player, the loose pencils, and a couple of books from previous high school years. While trying to find a way to put my computer on this mess of a desk, and still trying to find something to think about, I look up at the retro superhero poster that my dad bought for me. Just as I think about those posters, I feel a dark presence coming from behind me, one that rang far too familiar.

“Still being a little shitstain, I suppose?” says a voice that I know all too well.

“Hey, dad,” I say meekly. I can’t see the look on my face, but I’m willing to bet I look scared as hell.

“You call that a way to treat your mother?” he scolded.

I stay silent. I mean, what am I supposed to say? “. . . worthless brat,” he said, “Why do you even bother? Hell, why do I even bother?”

I feel his presence leave my room as he said that. He didn’t even close the damn door. I want to get up and close it myself, but I can barely move my legs. I feel my eyes getting a bit watery, but nothing came out of them. All this anxiety and I can’t even get out a single tear. All I can do is . . . nothing. Hell, all I’m good for is nothing.

A notification from my phone broke me out of my stillness. It was my friend, Mark.

He sent a message saying: Hey, are you doing better? You had me real worried today & I didn’t see you after you got sent to the school’s psychologist.

I responded: yea, the psychologist just sent me to my actual therapist. it’s fine tho, it was just a regular panic attack.

It took a minute, but he eventually responded with: Hey, I know the whole deal with your dad has been real rough, and I know you’re not fond of receiving help, but if you even need a friend to talk to or a shoulder to cry on, I’m here for you, man.

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“A shoulder to cry on”, huh? As if I could actually cry. All these shitty feelings and I can’t even get a single damn tear out! Whatever. I can’t let Mark get too involved either. I can’t burden him like that.

So, I simply respond: dw about it. ill be fine.

After a minute, he simply responded: Alr. I couldn’t help but feel a certain chill when I read that message. I might be overthinking it, but is he legitimately hurt because I don’t want him too involved? Does he care about me that much? I mean, it’s not like I want to hurt him. All I want is for everyone to stop worrying about me. That way, I won’t be such a burden to everyone around me . . . am I being a burden regardless? Are my actions hurting people? Out of nowhere, I start feeling that presence again. I can’t stay here. I’m gonna go on a walk.

As I leave my house, I momentarily lock eyes with my mom. That look she’s giving me . . . god, I really am causing her a lot of pain, aren’t I? I’m feeling the presence grow stronger. I can’t stay here. I leave my house without saying a word and start walking aimlessly. The town seems emptier than usual. It’s not like this is supposed to be the liveliest city in the world, but it’s pretty hard to notice much of anything. So, why . . . why is it so hard to hear the silence?

“Christ, how pathetic can you get?” said my father who, clearly, has caught up to me, “You really are no use to anyone.”

I can’t say anything, all I can do is keep walking.

“Not only do you treat your mother so horribly that even I’m surprised that she still wants you around,” he continues, “but you made that friend of yours feel worse by simply existing!” “. . . I get it,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“See? You know and yet you refuse to do anything about it,” he shot back, “Everyone would be better off without your junk.”

“I F*CKIN KNOW!!!”

Suddenly, my legs started running. My dad was saying something, but I couldn’t hear anything. All I can do is run. I can’t do this anymore. I run towards the harbor and jump to my sweet release. Now, no one will ever have to deal with my junk ever again.

I wake up on the ground, lying on the lap of a man I don’t recognize. My mind feels a slight bit clearer. I can hear everything just fine, silence included, and I can see more than just red.

“Everythin ok, partner?” asked the man.

“I-I think so?” I stuttered, “W-Who are you?”

“Name’s Tory,” he responded, “ I used to be the captain of that ship over there until my son took over.”

“Your son, huh?” I say, somewhat sadly. I gaze at the boat he signaled at, watching it gently go against the current, basking in the silence. It’s all so . . . calm. I can finally think. I finally have the space to think about what had really happened so long ago.

“Listen, I don’t expect you to trust a complete stranger like me,” Tory explained, “but, as a father, I can’t just not worry. So, tell me sonny, what’s come over you?”

I can’t keep this up. This man’s voice is so gentle. It almost reminds me of . . . him. Strange, just a moment ago, I could’ve sworn he hated me, but now . . . all I can do is hold back the tears. Don’t worry, John. You can do this. It’s gonna be ok.

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art by Kai Napoli

“My father . . . is dead,” I say, nearly choking, “He died 8 months ago. This pain has been so much, I had forgotten how gentle my father used to be to the point where he became my living nightmare. I thought it was him reminding me of my shortcomings, but that was just me this whole time. All I wanted was to keep people away, but it only ended up hurting them. It ended up hurting . . . her!”

How could I be so selfish? I thought keeping her away was protecting her, but . . . that apparition of my father was right! Not about me, but about how I treated her. I need to go see her now! I need to see my mother!

I jump out of Tory’s lap and start running to my house when he calls out to me, “You got this, sonny. I believe in you.”

I say thanks and make my way home. I bumped into a couple people, which surprised me more than it should have. Were they here this whole time? I guess I was just too blind to see them until now. I make it to my house and look around, but she’s nowhere to be found. Don’t tell me. Did she get the same idea I did? No, wait. She’s gone to the one place I haven’t been able to face in the past 8 months. So, I start booking it to the graveyard, faster than I was before. I actually got there a lot faster than I thought I would. It doesn’t take me too long to see her, and she noticed me before she even turned around.

“I was a pretty bad mother, huh?” she said sadly, her back facing me, “The moment he died, I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even help my own son. I’m such a failure of a mother, aren’t I?” The moment she said this, something sparked within me.

“NO, enough of that!” I exclaimed as I embraced her, “ You did everything you could! I was the one who was too damn stubborn to accept your help. You tried your best to be there for me, and I couldn’t even be bothered to be there for you. So, don’t you dare blame yourself!”

We were in each other's arms for a while, just apologizing to each other, over and over again. Finally, I started sobbing, and the tears came out. All this emotion finally spilling out. It had a place to go.

Through the tears, I notice a figure in the distance. It was . . . him! He was looking at us with the gentlest smile, as if he was finally at peace. Then, he slowly faded away. I . . . I think I understand it now. I understand why we even bother. And so, the tears continued, allowing me the clarity to see the sunrise once more.

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seline

by Emilio Solé

1 He was a little too mature for his age—but not in the way that was useful. Not the independent, responsible kind of mature, the kind that made kids seem more like adults. No, his version of maturity was something else entirely.

He had the angst, the mood swings, the restless dissatisfaction of a teenager crammed into a nine-year-old’s body. He acted like he had seen too much, like he carried the weight of a world that hadn’t even noticed him yet.

Even growing up in one of the most tranquil places you could imagine, he still found things to hate and point out—even the tranquility itself. He’d argue with himself over what could be more annoying—his parents watching TV or the leaky ceiling.

The way-too-loud, grainy TV audio yammering on over whatever was happening in Lisbon only brought him closer to what he didn’t have, reminding him of the little cracks that made up the bigger, seemingly beautiful picture.

He lived in what’s now a historic town in Portugal called Cerdeira. He knew that in 30 to 50 years, pseudo-poets and lovers, painters and bards would come and go, swearing by its so-called unique aesthetic. A place untouched, an untapped fountain of divine inspiration.

But the truth is, it’s not so special. Not special at all. Trees grow vertically and rain falls from the sky just as it does anywhere else.

He was right about one thing—for an outsider, there really was no place like Cerdeira.

In a family of athletes, even as an athlete, Teo stood out. He had three sisters, all swimmers—and good ones too.

Teo didn’t hate swimming, and he might’ve been good at it, but he swore against it. He ran instead—both track and cross country. He’d disappear for hours, running up and down different dirt paths and cliff curves.

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2 By the time he was 8, he had already felt the gravel on every mountain top on this side of Portugal and every bit of sand surrounding each lake. But he never tired of it—it always felt fresh.

To his parents, running was a protest, outright defiance against what they would rather he do.

Mara, his mom, was a little more laid back about the whole issue, but Marcello, his father, was different. This whole struggle with swimming was just another way Teo hoped to get a rise out of him, and even if that wasn’t entirely true, it worked.

You see, Marcello was a swimmer, and so was his father before him.

So when the conversation would come up, Marcello would drag him through the past. Teo would be forced to relive that his father, before him, had been scorned for his own failure with water.

They’d bicker, and they’d yell, and every day—without fail—for thirty minutes at least, they’d have it out.

It was like clockwork, and Teo would relish it, bask in his father’s discontent. Every argument ran the same course, and it always ended the same way.

He’d storm off, walking right past his old swim goggles—now dusty, abandoned on a shelf—without so much as a glance. Then, he’d lace up his running shoes and disappear.

With a run.

But this time, this time, things felt different.

They had gone through the motions, and he had been scolded like usual. He went for his run, but during the run, things shifted.

He had been through the path a million times, and yet this was the first time he noticed it—a new path he had never seen before.

3 An opening that looked like it was ready to swallow him whole, pull him in and spit him back out into a place untouched.

A purple mountain cutting through the clouds, the sun setting behind it in sharp contrast.

A scene too perfect to be real.

Teo approached the lake, ever so slowly.

He leaned over and gazed into the turquoise water, just as blue as the sky but just as opaque.

It wasn’t common for him to stop during a run, but he felt like he had to.

He took a seat on a rock right over the lake, and that’s when he noticed it.

That’s when he noticed her.

His eyes widened, breath catching in his throat.

She was standing at the edge of the water, barely a ripple around her feet, as if the lake itself was holding its breath. She didn’t move, didn’t speak—just looked at him.

And for once, Teo didn’t think about running.

For once, he wasn’t trying to escape.

The weight in his chest, the one he always ran to shake off, didn’t push him forward this time. It held him still.

And he let it.

For a second, he thought she might not be real. The way the sunset hit her made her look like something out of a dream—or a memory he wasn’t sure belonged to him.

She tilted her head. “You run a lot.”

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4 It wasn’t a question.

Teo blinked. His instinct was to scoff, to roll his eyes and throw out something sarcastic. But the words didn’t come.

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

A pause. She studied him, arms crossed, unreadable. “What are you running from?”

The question hit him harder than it should have. Because he wasn’t sure he had an answer.

For the first time, he didn’t think about moving. His legs, always ready to push forward, felt weighted, like they finally caught up with the rest of him.

The silence stretched between them. Then, as if sensing something shift in him, she nodded once and turned back toward the lake.

Teo didn’t move for a long time. He just sat there, staring at the water, feeling something unfamiliar settle in his chest.

He wasn’t restless.

He wasn’t angry, either.

By the time he got home, the house was quiet. The fight with Marcello had already faded into the walls, like it always did.

Teo walked past his room, past his desk. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he stopped.

His fingers hovered over the dusty shelf before finally reaching out, brushing against something he hadn’t touched in years.

The old swim goggles.

5 He picked them up slowly, turning them over in his hands. The dust clung to his fingertips as he wiped at the lenses, clearing a patch just big enough to see himself in the reflection.

photo by Iñigo Gould

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Perceptions is published thanks to the support of the Saint John’s School Secondary English Department.

This work may not be reproduced without written permission of the Saint John’s School administration and the writers and artists showcased in this magazine.

Created in San Juan, Puerto Rico, in May 2025.

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