Prism: A Literary and Academic Journal is a curated collection of creative and scholarly works by North Raleigh Christian Academy high school students and alumni. Much like a prism disperses light into its constituent colors, this journal aims to showcase an array of perspectives throughout various pieces. Our goal is to honor biblical truth, explore the complexities of intellectual culture, and contribute meaningfully to the global academic dialogue.
Submission Process
Submission opens at the beginning of the school year to all interested high school students. Each submission is first reviewed by a team of student editors. If deemed satisfactory in genre and content, the submission is returned to the writer for edits. Then, the submission goes through the same process with one faculty member and the faculty general editor. After all the edits are finished, the submission is sent for final reading by the NRCA Communications Team and, if applicable, to the AP art class for complementary artwork. The editing team, consisting of the student editors and faculty general editor, reviews and organizes the submissions ready for publication. Lastly, the submissions and artworks are later assembled into the final product and published by NRCA.
Front Cover Artwork: Katherine Kim (Class of 2025)
Images Courtesy of:
• Smithsonian Open Access
• National Gallery of Art Open Access
• Cosmos
Prism: A Literary and Academic Journal
April 4, 2025
Dear Readers,
I am delighted to welcome you to the inaugural issue of Prism. In this volume, we celebrate the exceptional work of our students and the depth of thought, research, and creativity that has gone into each submission.
This issue highlights a diverse range of topics—from mental health and acceptance to mystery and discovery. Each article reflects the creativity, dedication, and intellectual curiosity of its author, and we are excited to share these insights with you. The contributors have demonstrated not only academic excellence but also a passion for exploring ideas that reveal, in unique ways, the beauty of written expression.
Within these pages, you will find discussions that are both timely and thought-provoking, complemented by artistic expressions that bring these ideas to life. In many cases, students worked independently but with collaborative inspiration guiding their efforts.
Prism is committed to providing a platform for student voices and supporting the next generation of thinkers, writers, and leaders. We hope you enjoy this issue and that it serves as a reminder of the vibrant academic and artistic community we are all proud to be a part of.
Sincerely,
Chad L. Huffman
Prism General Editor & Faculty Adviser North Raleigh Christian Academy
“Life is a starting mark of eternity even though it feels like half the race is already run. Only when Christ returns to fulfill the acts of Revelation has the starting gun fired. Are you ready for when that gun goes off?”
Artwork generated using AI, based on a story by Sarah Cloud and prompt developed by Karen Blom.
Understanding and Importance: Introduction
BY SARAH CLOUD (Class of 2026)
Iwant to start off by stating that this is nothing more than the reflection of my own time in the Word of God and my interpretation of it. Yet in this I hold my understanding to be correct and there is no other way I can see it unless God were to descend from the Heavens and speak to me Himself.
The first time a thought on the topic of life occurred, ironically enough, was about its exact opposite, death. It is a wonder how God works in our lives, and at the most unexpected of times. Up until this point (for the past sixteen years) I had been living in a world of ignorant bliss, always asking big questions that never really mattered in the end and eventually got swept under the rug. But God has a sense of humor. God opened my eyes to put my mind and thoughts to a more practical use, thinking about what life is about. Man has tried to answer this question and failed. This is because the meaning of life comes from the Creator. It would be easier to give a set answer to the question of how to raise the perfect child.
Man was made in the image of God to display His glory. Now, Christian men and women are called to share the gospel to everyone in hopes of bringing more to Christ. Most Christians skim over this. They take these words into account as truth but only that. What value does a truth carry without a use? Every truth God has must serve a use as He is God, and it is out of His character to let anything go to waste.
Christians who are weak in their faith and attempt to answer the call never stop to question the extent of how they affect others. These shallow Christians do this because they do not value life. You heard me, Christians who do not understand the full weight of their impact on the people they share the gospel with do not value the lives of others and in turn do not value their own life. For how can we value something as important as
someone else’s life without stopping to value our own first? It is simply not logical.
We value life when we are faced with the Enemy in the physical end of their world. When life is at its end and slipping out of our fingers, we finally realize that our time was always destined to be limited. We can finally look back on our life and see the value of it. Those who dwell on death and life while time is plenty realize this much sooner and are in turn much more miserable. I know because I’ve lived it and to dwell on it is a waste, but such people are few and far apart.
I have recently been hit by this crushing reality of my insignificance. I say this not in the way the world would think, but how God would mean it. While it is true I am but a small cog in the machine of God’s plan, I am still a piece. If I were to be removed from the equation, I would know it is because I have served my purpose, like the jack that holds up a broken car. When a car’s tire needs replacing, one puts in a jack to hold the car up while the mechanic replaces the tire. Only then can the jack be removed. You do not simply drive off with the jack still attached as it serves no further value, but it was a necessary part for the job at hand.
Paul states very clearly in Romans 12, “For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think... each according to the measure of faith that God assigned. For as one body we have many members...” (Romans 12:3-4a ESV). If you grew up Christian or around Christians, you have heard it once and probably a thousand times, but I will say it again. The Christian life is about finding what God has given you and utilizing it for His good even though a lot of times it seems unclear. Let God guide you and He will make sure you end up where you need to be.
How to Value Life
To start, proper attention must be drawn back to the story introduced in the beginning of this article. I was just thinking, as I usually do, when God had decided to reveal to me my life’s futility. Naturally, this scared me out of my wits, and I started to look back on my life more seriously now as if I could have died that very night in bed. If God willed it, I very well could have died. I looked at all my good (a very short list) and all my evil. I always heard pastors and reverends hit me over the head with the line, “We are all in need of a Savior.” But now this has become a reality for me.
Step one in valuing life is to see where you as an individual have gotten in life. As humans, we have not gotten very far in becoming the best we can be. But not to fear, Jesus Christ paid for all of that on the cross with the blood sacrifice so we could escape retribution. This statement, as has been said many times before, will hold true. Yet the thought always stops there, not because the teacher delivering the message refuses to expand on it, but because the student never thinks to tend to the thought. Christ is the center and is a very complex part of the Christian life, and the Bible makes it clear that Jesus wishes to have a relationship with all the people of the world. This is an obvious thought to any Christian. To get past the obvious, each individual must come to understand the gravity of this, and that can only happen through everyone’s individual experiences.
Step two in valuing life is to expand beyond face value or the Sunday school explanation. We must take what we have learned from the Word and dwell on it. The key to resonating is to ask questions. Why does God love us? What is the best way to live my life? How do I follow God’s commandments on certain modern topics that are not directly in the Bible? The list can go on. Thinking up intelligent questions about God is hard for someone who has only gone to Sunday school and sermons without paying attention, but it is attainable through praying and studying. Unfortunately, questions and studies will sometimes come to a point where it can no longer be explained without straying from what we know as biblical truth. To attempt to go beyond this point is called (what my father likes to say) “putting God in a box.” I would just call it beating a dead horse. This simply means that the thought or study has reached its max capacity, and the peak of intellect on said topic has been reached in our limited world. Some questions go unanswered because there is a proverbial wall that has been set between man and the full understanding of God. After all that time thinking and coming up with no answers, it would appear precious time has been wasted looking for answers that could never be found in this life. However, the opposite is true as well. To go far enough in thought that you hit a roadblock means you genuinely took time to investigate God, and you care. You walk away with a better understanding of Him. Step three is understanding that we are little, and God is grand. Our lives are in His hands, and in order
to value our lives we must understand our small size in its fullest. By taking time to think on these questions, even if they are unanswered in the end, we exhibit a mind that is able to think on the hard questions and a heart that is willing to ponder the nature of Christ. Most questions can lead to understanding God’s character and interpreting certain aspects of the Bible, especially when it comes to understanding life’s value.
Romans 6:23 is a verse every Christ follower is familiar with. “For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 6:23 ESV). I understand I am a sinful and imperfect human compared of God. From the day I was born I was destined to rot in the ground cold and alone, but Jesus gave me hope. He extended a hand to me and the rest of the world. From here I can apply this to the Scripture above and ask, what is sin? The answer is anything that goes against God’s will. This can lead up to the question of, if the wage of sin is death, what is death? The answer, separation from the presence of God. Separation from God is a horrible reality some will unfortunately have to face. It is a reality we are unfamiliar with and cannot fathom without having the experience. To come face to face with an unknown, an existence without God’s presence, and see how that affects people helps believers see the importance of everything. It is a simple process in itself that should never fail anyone who wishes to study the Word but needs assistance till they can find the rhythm that works best for them.
Life is a starting mark of eternity even though it feels like half the race is already run.
Only when Christ returns to fulfill the acts of Revelation has the starting gun fired. Are you ready for when that gun goes off?
How to Think About God With the Limited Human Mindset
If this article has made anything absolutely clear, it is that God can never be fully understood in this life. His plan, existence, and His very Being can be one big mystery, but I hope to give you a bit of insight into how man can think of God.
While God is consistent, and no one can make any version of Him that they would like, any well-based interpretation is welcome to the table. If God is to be the center of your universe, an in-depth understanding is necessary. If the relationship built with God is close then these thoughts of the mind will bleed into the heart. A relationship with God only comes from being in the Bible, asking questions, and receiving wisdom from knowledgeable Christ followers. I am most likely preaching to the choir, but it is true. It is not a journey you can take alone though, and the church family brings you closer to your spiritual goals.
A key point of thinking about God is understanding. Where does understanding come from, though? Is it
something humans gain as they grow in knowledge and experience life while maturing, or does it come from God and He gives it to us as we grow older? I like to think it is a mix. While basic understanding is a sort of logic that comes from what we see and know, the understanding of Christ comes from God and relationship with Him. This is why so many nonChristians fail to explain what God is and who He is even if they study the Bible cover to cover. There are things that cannot be understood outside of relationship with Him, like understanding His loving nature, His Fatherly wisdom, and that there is no such thing as luck, karma, or coincidence.
God is the King, and trust needs to be placed in Him, even if it is the size of a mustard seed. What true faith looks like on display is something I cannot tell you directly. It would be better for you to get a professional pastor’s input.
God wants us to value our lives, listen to those He puts in our lives, understand what He is and what He is not, and to think about Him correctly. Put these together and you can finally understand the weight of the calling of God and how to affect others correctly.
Artwork generated using AI, based on a story by Sarah Cloud and prompt developed by Karen Blom.
“Vanishing
North”
Artwork by Natalie Massengill (Class of 2025)
Prologue
Vanishing North
BY SHAYLEV KAKADE (Class of 2026)
I might as well introduce the reader to the crew of the Daphne, which is a ship of great value to them. There is, of course, Captain Ferguson, who brought this shabby group together. The chief mate or the second-incommand is Bear Claw, who resembles a pirate with the utmost integrity. The zoologist is Callum McIntosh, the biologist is Conor Mcpherson, and the photographer is Ewan Ambrose. Scott Henry and Séamus Gaskin carry out most of the manual labor of the ship. And at last, but not least, is me, Emile. Now as introductions have been passed, the story, regardless of what length, begins.
An Introduction
The cold air off the lake brings a chill to those caught in it. The water ripples gently and carries the trees’ pigmentation: red, orange, and yellow, all mixed into a complexion of beauty and tranquility, swaying back and forth calmly in the benevolent waves.
It is this that I appreciate about the work I do, to be far off in God’s beautiful world, away from noises, lights, and chaos. A life worth living on a land worth exploring.
It was Day 1 here in the northeast corner of Minnesota. We were anchored in Lake Superior, the location Captain Ferguson believed to be optimal to discover what we were searching for. And we all trusted him, for he would know.
He was the man who had rediscovered the Fernandina Galapagos Tortoise. And it was he, this time with the help of his crew, who had discovered the Xerses’ butterfly, thought to have disappeared a few hundred years ago. But this was a larger task: to hunt for a catamount in Minnesota. It was possible, that was for sure, and of course if catamounts had lived here before, they could live here again. That was our mission.
“Good morning gents,” said the captain to us as we settled in to eat breakfast and plan the journey ahead. After the meal, Captain Ferguson, Little Bear, and I headed into town to meet with a man who claimed to have had an encounter with this creature.
The Witness
We rowed in our canoe by the shoreline. Looking left, one would behold a vast sea of blue. To the right were trees topped with the grand colors of autumn and the only noises: the breeze whispering through the trees and the paddle quietly hitting the water.
We passed Chippewa City, an abandoned townsite, for reasons I do not know. And for reasons I do not know, we arrived at Grand Marais—population 1,337. We got off near the foundation of the old Grand Marais lighthouse in the small harbor and trekked the rocks into the tiny town. We entered the Angry Trout Café, a small, cozy, grey-colored building, and sat down near a window overlooking the harbor.
A few minutes later, a man entered the building and sat in a chair at our table. His brown beard went down to his chest, and he wore a University of Minnesota cap. After we all ordered, the captain asked the question that was on all our minds:
“So, you say you’ve seen this creature?”
The man faced the captain and responded with “yes.”
Little Bear now asked his question. “Could you describe to us this, uh, experience?”
The man paused, took a breath, and told his story:
“I was out on the farm, looking at my crops, and some fowl flew up into the air like they were startled. So I go over to the pond they flew away from, and in my peripheral vision, I see movement. I turn and look back and see a long, white tail go into the brush. Well, I don’t
stick around to find out what it is, so I head back to my house.”
It was my turn. “Where was this?”
“Over near Elbow Lake,” was the reply, then he added, “Some people think a cougar’s out there, and some people don’t. The most popular opinion is that it escaped from a private owner.”
“Are there many private owners around here?” asked the captain.
“A few, and one man reported one missing. If you find it, he’d like it back immediately,” said the man.
“Of course, thank you, you’ve been very helpful,” replied Captain Ferguson.
We each thanked the man, and then we rowed back, across the deep blue lake, to the Daphne.
Once we reached the ship, we performed other chores and prepared for an adventure.
The Trek
Early in the morning, Captain Ferguson, Bear Claw, Callum, Ewan, Wolfe, and I got into our canoes and headed toward the swaying wall of orange and yellow and red. Our first destination was Elbow Lake, which was the location of the sighting of the man. As we hiked through the brush, Ewan, the photographer, and I discussed what a catamount is.
“I did some reading on the catamount or puma,” said Ewan. “They’re supposed to be eight feet long, but I’ve looked at some reports from this area, and people have reported seeing a 12-foot-long large feline.”
I found this unique detail intriguing and inquired of Captain Ferguson about this.
His reply was, “If it’s true, it’s a heck of a big one.”
This was a classic Ferguson response.
We continued trudging through the thick orange and yellow brush, and as we hiked, I relished the quiet breeze fighting against the loud colors of the treetops. It was like a tunnel of red and yellow, allowing only a sliver of sunlight to pierce the trees and hit the ground. The conversation of the puma continued.
Bear Claw, with his eyepatch and scarred face, walked to Ewan and me.
“I’ve heard people say this cat is white, like a polar bear.”
“Like some sort of albino animal?” I asked.
“That’s what the reported owner said,” replied Bear Claw.
“Oh, I gotta get a picture of this,” said Ewan. The sun was directly above us when we reached Elbow Lake.
The Old Man
Arriving at the lake, we set up camp, while Bear Claw hunted around the lake, looking for tracks, for he had been an expert tracker before joining the captain.
The smell of fresh air combined with the chirping of birds brought peace of mind to the company. Just as Wolfe had made the last tent, there was a whooping sound: Bear Claw had found something. The captain,
Ewan, Callum, and I headed in the direction of the sound, leaving Wolfe, a very large man, to guard the camp.
“What’ve you got?” asked the captain, his voice gruff.
“Tracks,” replied Bear Claw, “but not a feline. A person, and fresh.”
“Which way he’s headed?” asked Ewan.
Before Bear Claw could reply, a face popped outta’ the shifting red and orange wall.
The captain spoke first, “Hello stranger, how are you?”
The face moved into the open, revealing a body. This man’s weathered skin shone in the sunlight. His long, wavy white hair and long white beard completed the look.
The man spoke, “My name is Broken Tooth, of the Chippewa tribe. Come with me, please.”
And so, we followed the man through the colorful canopy, as a sprinkle of light began descending from the heavens. We reached an old shack, made of wood. There, a fireplace was surrounded by a ring of six stumps, on which we were directed to sit down.
We waited as the sky changed from light blue to the colors of the trees, creating a massive collage of reds, oranges, and yellows. The drizzling had slowed when Broken Tooth brought out a grey pot with some sort of stew in it and set it above the fire to cook a meal. We sat in silence.
When the meal had finished cooking, and stars twinkled in the dark sky above, Broken Tooth gave each of us some stew. By the taste of it, I reckon it was a rabbit. As the fire raged on the embers of timber, Broken Tooth finally spoke:
“What are you looking for? Some creature, I figure, by the way your friend was looking at tracks.”
The captain responded truthfully, “We ARE here for a creature, a feline. Are there large cats here, perhaps of white fur?”
Broken Tooth looked at each of us and nodded.
“My ancestors,” said Broken Tooth, “have taught about a large cat, for the cougar used to live here.”
As we ate our stew, Broken Tooth told us about his family’s history and about the legends they believed to be true, and where his people thought a cougar might be. The frigid night brought shivering, and we were thankful for the fire and for the large polar bear fur jackets.
When we had finished our meals, we said our farewells to Broken Tooth. Bear Claw, being the expert tracker that he was, led us home through the dark towers which could be seen occasionally when the moon decided to peek its head out from behind a cloud before retreating.
We reached a quiet camp, but we knew the captain wouldn’t let us sleep. For everyone knew that catamounts are nocturnal, and to lure one in, the captain had many tricks up his sleeve.
Searching in the Night
A grin crept onto the captain’s face as he opened his backpack.
“Now it’s time for the fun part, gents,” he said.
The captain had, over the years, collected quite a collection of nifty tools.
He gave us dark lanterns, but not to Bear Claw, who refused to use them for the same reason he refused to wear shoes.
Taking out a map of the area, he pointed to where he and Callum would go and where Bear Claw, Wolfe, and I would go. We each had a weapon of choice to protect ourselves. And he took out a small box, which he set up on the shoreline. This would play cougar shrieks to try to draw one in.
The captain planted a caribou carcass on the other side of the bank and settled in, for he had said earlier that day, “You young bucks can run around at night, but for me, I prefer to work smarter, not harder.”
And so, we slunk around Elbow Lake, searching for any signs of a cougar, playing the sounds a cougar would emit, which Bear Claw could perform very clearly.
After spending a large part of the night hunting around the lake, as the mosquitoes started to wake up from their sleep, there was a whooping sound: Bear Claw had found something.
When we reached Bear Claw’s location, the captain asked what happened.
“See here,” said Bear Claw, “a piece of fur, from either a deer or maybe a feline.”
But besides that little bit of fur, the night had been unsuccessful, not something I was not accustomed to because being on this team always came with setbacks.
In the late morning, after we had achieved a few hours of rest, the captain laid out the daily plan.
“Today, gents,” he started with a twinkle in his eye, “we’ll head deeper into this lovely land, towards Lima Mountain.”
This made absolute sense, due to the fact that Broken Tooth had mentioned Lima Mountain as a place where the Chippewas believed the cougar lived.
And so, we continued this trek through the tunnel of colors, the only openings in the wall being the turquoise bodies of water that were common to the North Star state’s geography. The mosquitoes were worse today, and they specifically attacked Wolfe, though we all were afflicted with the unhappy tactic of having blood taken. And this was how most of this day was, and when we reached Lima Mountain, we set up our camp and slept a few more hours until midnight, when it was time to arise and hunt for this beast that eluded us.
The Hunt
The same techniques employed the first night were also employed the second night but seemingly with no effect.
But as the sun began its ascent to his home in the sky, Bear Claw signaled for us to see him.
Next to a body of rippling blue, on the soft marshy shoreline, a track could be seen. It definitely looked feline and sparked a debate on whether it was a cougar or a bobcat. But as the sun became surrounded by a luminescent glow, the captain grinned. Wolfe grinned back at the captain, for this was when the team needed a large-built 6-foot-5 man, and everyone knew this was his favorite occasion of the trip.
“I found another track,” called Bear Claw, and the hunt was on.
While Callum travelled back to camp, the rest of us embarked on the journey.
I took a break at this moment to paint a picture of what we looked like on this hunt. Leading the way through the vibrant trees is Bear Claw, with his bare feet tiptoeing along the ground as quiet as a mouse, wearing his no-sleeved deerskin shirt, and with his bear claw that connected to a chain which he wore around his neck. Then comes the captain, studying everything Bear Claw does, with the twinkle in his eyes; his wisdom can be seen with his brown beard and polar bear jacket, and you can tell he is thinking up a master plan to catch the beast. After him is Wolfe, the big 250-pound man who stands 6 foot 5 inches, who’s hunted cougars before, and loves hunting them again. And while they’re doing this a slight breeze calmly whispers through the trees, which stand tall with red, orange, and yellow hues for leaves. And to the left is a small pond, with its rippling waves catching the trees’ colors, creating a colorful mirror; and the flamingo-pink sky in the background, behind the colorful leaves, and above a few stars can still be seen, twinkling in the heavens above.
The trio hunted the mystery feline for hours, around Lima Mountain to its west side. The idea of a white beast lurking undetected brought feelings of exhilaration for some and caution for others. At nightfall, we settled down in the brush where we were sheltered from the rain.
When the second day of this hunt ended, a slight early snow began to fall, and we knew we had to speed up the expedition. The clues of a large feline were here—the witness reports, the tufts of fur, the occasional track.
It was early in the morning when the air smelled as fresh as every fruit imaginable, and the dew drenched the moss and trees. A fog had rolled in, and the hunting had continued, each man trying their best to find this creature. Our food was running out, but we were experienced woodsmen and knew how to catch food. And so that morning, I went out early to catch a creature for breakfast.
I was out looking for a favorable place to spot some game when I sensed movement. When I turned around, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was on a small piece of land that overlooked a tiny pond: a cougar.
Its alabaster fur gleamed under the sunlight, and all around it were the trees, still full of the oranges and yellows and reds. It just stood there, staring at me, like it knew I was here the whole time. We stared at each
other for what felt like eternity as a few snowflakes fell slowly from the heavens above. And then, it was gone, disappeared, vanished back into its home.
Epilogue
In the coming days, we still searched for the creature. After I told the team my experience, we looked in that direction. After a week we had to give up, as a fierce snowstorm was heading towards us. When we reached our boat, I reported my findings.
Some people believed I hallucinated, that the idea of finding this beast had gotten to my brain. Others defended the idea that I was lucky and that this proved this creature was out there. A few more people said this was the escaped cougar creature that had been reported.
As for me, I’m not sure whom to believe. But I
lean towards the idea of the escaped feline. I guess the correct action for me would’ve been to chase after that creature and bring it back to its owner. However, after seeing the beauty of the land, with the numerous pigments of not only the trees, but also the sky and water, as well as the freshness of the breeze and the birds chirping quietly in the morning, it creates a scenic picture of a majestic, God-given creation. And because of this, I can understand why a panther would escape captivity.
Nevertheless, these findings are just my experiences, nothing more, nothing less.
Artwork by Natalie Massengill (Class of 2025)
Hunter’s Entrance
Photography by Andrew Pearce (Class of 2028)
Artwork generated
AI, based on a story by Sarah Vance and prompt developed by Karen Blom.
The Painter
BY SARAH VANCE (Class of 2025)
The painter’s brush hovered over the canvas, the bristles resting on its empty expanse. As a vision of glory and splendor shone in his mind’s eye, he swept the brush over the void that was the canvas, breathing light with fine strokes, and casting shadows with a flick of the wrist. The brush knew the painter’s every intention, and almost at once the painter knew that this canvas would become something worthy of its inspiration. He worked on his painting for months, until he was satisfied with it, and it practically radiated light.
The painter’s children knew whenever he had finished his artwork, for he would call out in a resounding, joyful voice, “It is good!” They ran towards the sound of his voice and embraced him, or rather his knees, because they were still very small.
“It is not just good, it is wonderful, Abba!” they replied, and the painting seemed even more spectacular in their eyes because their beloved painter had made it.
His artwork was exceptional. Light dazzled brilliantly, and darkness beckoned malevolently, but the darkness never overcame the light. And the next day after he had finished the first painting, a new canvas hung on the easel, waiting to be transformed. On it, the painter used a myriad of golden hues, creating an abstraction of shapes that rose from watery darkness. The contrast was sharp, and all could see the division between the glowing firmament and the water below.
The painter’s third painting was his most detailed thus far, a conglomeration of shapes, colors, and textures. As he worked, he considered his plan for the canvas.
“Let’s see. I will continue with the waters from my previous painting, but separate them with green land. Yes, that will work.” And as he mused, his brush moved expertly. “The swirling waters are the seas, and the stretches of green I will fill with this.” With swift strokes, the painter created life on the canvas. He used
greens and browns for the plants, and blues and purples for shadows and umbra. He daubed bright bunches of red on the trees, for they were trees that would bear fruit.
When the painter believed it to be complete, he called his children to him to view his latest work. Adam, the oldest of the painter’s children, was impressed by the craftsmanship but did not understand the effort and time his father put into his art.
“Abba,” he said, “Why do you spend so much time and work so hard on these paintings? The slightest spark of a match or flood of water would lay waste to them, and your life’s work would be gone.”
And the painter replied, “Do not worry about such things. The canvas is just a tool for me to express my deep love for you, my children. A father knows and sees all things, near and far, and wishes for his children to see beauty and splendor, and to know his love.”
“I see what you mean, Abba! You have made the trees with the warmest, most inviting green you have, and the fruits and grasses are all flourishing.”
But the painter did not respond, for he had grown worried by Adam’s words, and withdrew into his study, where inspiration struck him once again.
He brought out another canvas and immediately set to work. He reached into the deepest recesses of his mind and painted all he saw there. He painted lights that filled a dark sky, with swirling stars, deep cosmos, and two lights that were brighter than the rest. The brightest light he made warm and brilliant, which he knew could sustain life for all who depended on its warmth. The dimmer light was cool and gray and would control his seas and give comfort in the night.
When he knew it was complete, the painter left his art to dry and retired to his room to plan his next work. His children, wishing to see what others thought of the painter’s art, took the canvases and brought them to town.
One man, a cunning salesman visiting from far away, saw the art and said, “The painter’s work is good to you, but only because he says it is. I can show you much better if only you travel with me.”
The children were intrigued by this, but they remembered the painter’s warning to never go past the town limits and realized that the salesman was trying to lure them away.
“We are curious about what you have to say,” said the painter’s daughter, Eve, “but Abba has told us to never go out from the town, where it is safe.”
“Did he really say to never leave the town? What about when you grow older and begin to live lives of your own? Surely you can travel and see greater wonders then.”
“And his words tempted the children once again, planting a seed of doubt in their hearts— but they did not follow him.”
When the painter started his next painting, he worked with renewed earnest. For he knew that the children had gone out to the town and had spoken with the salesman.
He filled the canvas with deep blues and frothy greens and populated the sea with swimming creatures of all shapes and sizes. He painted fish both great and small, floating seaweed, and tiny mollusks. Above, he drew birds soaring over the waves, speeding
gulls, stoic pelicans, and all other winged animals. These inanimate birds were unbelievably lifelike, seemingly cawing to each other over the surface of the waves in a testament to the painter’s immense talent.
The next day, he started his final painting. The painter brought out new brushes and dipped them in his finest paints, for he wanted it to be his finest work. On the canvas, he made a portrait of his children. He used intricate detail to capture their exact likeness. As he painted, he hoped that his children would see the true design behind his paintings.
“I have given you all I have, all I have made, my children. I entrust my creations to you, and hope for you to understand my deep love for you through the paintings.”
After many years of work, the painter could finally rest, for his art was complete. He called his children to come see the portrait, but they did not run to him as they once did, nor did they answer. The painter searched for them, yet he could not find them in the town. With a heavy heart, he realized that they had ignored his warnings and left the town with the salesman, tempted by his promises of the outside world. They did not know that there is nothing greater than a father’s love for his children.
Artwork generated using AI, based on a story by Sarah Vance and prompt developed by Karen Blom.
Rodeo Star
Artwork by Kaylin Mitro (Class of 2025)
Das Karl Marx
BY MEREDITH PARKER (Class of 2026)
“My object in life is to dethrone God and destroy capitalism.” This radical quote by Karl Marx, a revolutionary philosopher of his time, highlights what he stood for. Marx advocated for the total overthrow of the state through violent rebellion. His ideas were shaped by his early life and career, and his legacy lives on through his philosophical contributions such as Das Kapital and The Communist Manifesto
Karl Marx’s life was marked by radicalism and revolution. Marx was born on May 5, 1818, in Trier, Prussia, which is now called Germany, during the Age of Revolution (Kenton). He was born to a family of Jewish descent, although his father had converted to Christianity for his career of law. During his early teen years revolutions occurred in France, Belgium, and Poland. Being excused from military duty, Marx studied at Bonn University, where he joined a group of political radicals, and followed his father’s footsteps by enrolling in law school. A year later he transferred to Berlin University, continuing his studies in law. He then became a member of the revolutionary Young Hegelians’ Club, a group focused on George Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel’s ideals of anti-Christianity and opposition to the current Prussian political system. After his father’s death when Marx was twenty, he began to pursue a doctorate in philosophy. His dissertation, “Difference between the Democritean and Epicurean Philosophy of Nature,” was accepted at the University of Jena in 1841, when he was twenty-two.
Marx’s life was greatly influenced by various wars and revolutions. When he was seven, news of the Decembrist Revolution in Russia flooded the newspaper, followed by several more revolutions around Europe during his teen years. At twenty, he heard news of the first mass workers’ revolution, Chartism, in England. These uprisings influenced Marx’s later ideals of a
violent uprising of the lower class, the proletariat, against the upper class, the bourgeoisie. The scattered revolutions with the radical political ideals he engaged with in college set him on a path to create his own utopian philosophy: Marxism.
Karl Marx’s early career provided him with the opportunities to share his philosophy and spread his ideals. Disliking wealth and the bourgeoisie, he remained poor most of his life, only holding a few jobs in journalism. Working at the German newspaper, the Rheinische Zeitung, Marx wrote several articles stirring the lower class against the Prussian government, a precursor to his later full revolutionary ideas (Outstanding). He was later promoted to editor-in-chief and steered the newspaper in an increasingly revolutionary direction. The Rheinische Zeitung was banned by the Prussian government soon after, forcing Marx to resign.
Marx then moved to Paris, where he continued to write radical and revolutionary articles for several different publications. A large group of Polish weavers rose up during this time. During this time, Marx and his friend Friedrich Engels wrote their first book, The Holy Family (Outstanding). In this book, the two explain how communist workers are able to break out of “false consciousness,” a manipulation technique that capitalism used to keep their workers docile. After the Prussian government pressured him to leave France, Marx moved to Brussels and helped create the Brussels Democratic Association and became the vice president. Revolutions began to break out in France and other places in Europe. In February of 1848 Engels and Marx wrote their most well-known book together, The Communist Manifesto (Wolff).
Revolutions continued to flare up in Austria, Hungary, and Germany. Marx and Engels went to Berlin
to fight in the revolution. The two restarted the Rheinische Zeitung, under the name Neue Rheinische Zeitung, and published their radical philosophy, praising uprising, such as the rising of the Paris proletariat. After the failure of both the newspaper and the Prussian revolution, Marx and Engels moved to London, where they continued to write together. In 1867 Marx published his first volume of Das Kapital. Engels and Marx continued to participate in the political happenings and revolutions of Europe. They wrote more revolutionary works. On March 14, 1883, after being ill for 15 months with a buildup of mucus in the airways, known as catarrh, Karl Marx died of bronchitis and pleurisy at the age of 64. He was preceded in death by his wife of 38 years, Jenny von Westphalen, and five of his seven children. The quote on his grave in London reads, “Workers of all lands unite” (Pinsker). Karl Marx died poor, far from the home county that had disowned him, and almost entirely alone. His final words, shouted at his housekeeper were, “Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough already” (Curie).
Karl Marx is, indisputably, a prominent and wellknown figure. Marx’s legacy led to the creation of communist states, such as the Soviet Union. The concept of communism was not invented by Marx as it can be seen in works such as Republic by Plato in the 4th century B.C. or Utopia by Thomas More in 1516, but he propagated it.
Communism, according to Marx, aimed for the end of private property and the sharing of wealth and property equally to all. All the workers would work equally and be given the same amount of compensation. The bourgeoisie would no longer oppress the working class but would be overthrown, and all would be able to be equal.
Marx’s most well-known works, Das Kapital and The Communist Manifesto, both helped to shape communism as it is known today. The Communist Manifesto is an attempt to explain communism as a whole. This book, cowritten with Friedrich Engels, laid out communism, making it easier for future generations, such as Russia or China, to understand. The principles of Das Kapital describe the functions of capitalism, which he was violently opposed to, and Marx’s plans to overthrow it. These books, and Marx himself, all advocate for the violent uprising against the “oppressive” bourgeoisie. The largest contributions to philosophy that Marx provided were his theories on communism, capitalism, and economics. Marx never specified the details of a communist state, instead focusing on a utopian view of the future. In summation, Karl Marx’s works The Communist Manifesto and Das Kapital greatly influenced the world even to the present, and his advocation for communism and a violent uprising against the overbearing upper class, and capitalism as a whole, affected how states and their economies functioned decades after his death.
Marx’s legacy can still be seen in the present-day in communist countries such as China, Laos, Vietnam,
North Korea, and Cuba, as well as former communist states such as Russia, Poland, Mongolia, and several other East European countries. There are many other fallen or enduring communist states that were created as a result of Marx. Vladimir Lenin originally brought communism to Russia in 1917 with the violent overthrow and assassination of Czar Nikolai II Romanov and his family (CES). The Bolsheviks killed the royal family and several other bourgeoisies. This was in line with Karl Marx’s belief in a violent uprising against the bourgeoisie. The Soviet Union was formed, keeping communism in power in Russia until 1991 when the Soviet Union fell. In 1921, inspired by the Soviet Union, the People’s Republic of China was formed, the first Communist State to form that is still standing. Karl Marx inspired Lenin to create the Soviet Union, which then killed over 50 million of its own citizens (Rummel), and Mao Zedong to create the People’s Republic of China, which killed an estimated 100 million of its citizens (Rummel). His legacy is one of violent uprising resulting in the violent deaths of the state’s own citizens. He left a legacy of death and destruction in the name of equality.
Karl Marx also has a legacy outside of the communist states he left behind. He inspired literature critiquing him and his ideology, such as Animal Farm. Old Major, the elderly pig that introduced the ideas to the other animals on the farm, represents Karl Marx (Jaqueline). He created the ideology that eventually led the farm animals into death or destitution, while the leaders of the revolution prosper. Marx’s cult following on social media, where people ignore the horror done in the name of Karl Marx’s ideology and instead fixate on the utopian ideal that he focused on. Marx’s legacy is one of violence, but his intent was to lead the suffering to prosperity, and those who praise him are generally in support of his purpose, not the results of those who came after him.
Karl Marx’s life was influenced by the revolutions in his childhood, the radical political movement he engaged with in his youth, and the even more revolutionary philosophy he engaged with in his adulthood. He left a legacy of communism, death, and destruction in his wake, though unintentional. Marx was an idealist who dreamed of a utopia, but it could never be achieved because of the folly of man. Marx was not trying to create the atrocities that occurred in the communist states, but they were unfortunate results of his philosophy. Even if it wasn’t his goal, Marx still indirectly perpetuated all of these things through his philosophy. His ideas were shaped by his early life and career, and his legacy lives on through his philosophical contributions such as Das Kapital and The Communist Manifesto
Center for European Studies. “COMMUNISM: KARL MARX to JOSEPH STALIN.” UNC.edu, 2018, europe.unc.edu/iron-curtain/history/communism-karl-marx-to-joseph-stalin/. Accessed 20 May 2024.
Curie, Marie. “11 Famous Last Words, Featuring Oscar Wilde and Leonard Nimoy.” Marie Curie, 16 Mar. 2017, www.mariecurie.org.uk/talkabout/articles/11-famous-last-words-oscar-wilde-leonard-nimoy/152953
Jacqueline. “City News | City of Newport Beach.” www.newportbeachca.gov, 2024, www.newportbeachca.gov/Home/Components/News/News/32858/99. Accessed 20 May 2024
“Karl Marx.” Visit the Main Page, www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Karl_Marx. Accessed 20 May 2024.
Kenton, Will. “Karl Marx: His Books, Theories, and Impact.” Investopedia, Investopedia, www.investopedia.com/terms/k/karlmarx.asp. Accessed 20 May 2024.
“Outstanding Dates.” The Life and Work of Karl Marx: Outstanding Dates, www.marxists.org/archive/marx/bio/marx/lifeandwork.htm. Accessed 20 May 2024.
Pinsker, Joe. “Somehow, Karl Marx’s Resting Place Has an Entry Fee.” The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Company, 27 Oct. 2015, www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2015/10/das-tomb-karl-marxs-resting-place-has-an-entry-fee/412411/. Accessed 20 May 2024.
Rosen, Michael. “Marx, Karl.” Harvard, scholar.harvard.edu/files/michaelrosen/files/karl_marx.pdf. Accessed 20 May 2024.
Rummel, R. J. “Chapter 161,911,000 Victims: Utopianism Empowered* by R.J. Rummel.” University of Hawaii System, www. hawaii.edu/powerkills/USSR.CHAP.1.HTM. Accessed 20 May 2024.
Rummel, R. J. “Chapter 1Introduction and Overview.” China’s Democide and War, www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/CHINA.CHAP1. HTM#:~:text=In%20this%20they%20utterly%20failed,a%20prudent%20estimate%20is%2035%2C236%2C000. Accessed 20 May 2024.
“The Chinese Revolution of 1949.” U.S. Department of State, U.S. Department of State, history.state.gov/milestones/1945-1952/ chinese-rev#:~:text=The%20creation%20of%20the%20PRC,Communists%20entering%20Beijing%20in%201949. Accessed 20 May 2024.
Wheeler, Brian. “What Is Marx’s Das Kapital?” BBC News, BBC, 7 May 2017, www.bbc.com/news/election-2017-39837515 Accessed 20 May 2024.
Wolff, Jonathan, and David Leopold. “Karl Marx.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Stanford University, 21 Dec. 2020, plato.stanford.edu/entries/marx/. Accessed 20 May 2024.
“Value of Photos”
Photos by Adella Wu (Class of 2026)
The Value of Photos
BY ADELLA WU (Class of 2026)
Photos were once so treasured. A photo was the vein to a loved one you could not see. Soldiers pressed them against their hearts, some shot bloody through; crimson dyed the black and white lips of their true loves. A photo kept people’s hearts alive in dire times, but now they seem to be completely taken for granted.
I was told it is because of the sheer number of photos people take nowadays, and I agree, to a certain extent. The sayings go, “quality over quantity” and “rareness is beauty.” Yet, is one rose more beautiful than a whole bouquet? I believe photos have turned from painstaking pieces of art, as rare as pearls found at the bottom of the ocean, to twilight. Although it is a phenomenon that happens every day, each is uniquely precious, like the capturing of a friend’s crinkled eyes and a quick smile when you make them laugh, and the vivid pictures of a beautiful autumn day, bathed in yellow sunlight. For photographers, the camera roll is their canvas to memorialize the places they find beautiful and the people they love.
One thing is for certain: the romance of the 40s, with black and white photos in the pockets of fearless young men, is a bygone era. In the digital age, my favorites are still vivid Polaroids of chaotic moments with friends, family, and loved ones alike.
The Cherry Orchard
Artwork by Sophia Gordon (Class of 2026)
As the Cherry Orchard Falls
BY NATALIE MASSENGILL (Class of 2025)
The Cherry Orchard, a play by Anton Chekhov, is a comedy, but even in its first production, the play was mistaken for a drama (Evdokimova, Caldwell, & Lanin). It was written in the early 20th century, a period of rapid change in Russia, shortly before the Russian Revolution, while the country was still reeling from the liberation of serfs around 50 years earlier (Hingley). When this play takes place, the middle class was beginning to experience new prosperity, and land ownership began to slowly and steadily fall away from the nobility (Hellie). The resulting turmoil of the era might immediately seem a strange setting for a comedy. However, Chekhov’s insistence that The Cherry Orchard is comedic is necessary to understand the work as a whole. We are meant to find the characters caught up in this change amusing, including Madame Lyuba Ranevskaya, a noblewoman on the brink of financial collapse, and Yermolay Lopakhin, the son of a serf who found success as a merchant. The two reunite after Ranevskaya returns home to sell her manor and cherry orchard, and, in this homecoming, both she and Lopakhin are confronted with relics of their past. Through these somehow comedic events in The Cherry Orchard, Chekhov uses the manor and its orchard symbolically to explore both characters’ relationships to their home and their histories, demonstrating how the past cannot simply be cast off.
When Ranevskaya returns home, it is because she has no other choice. She is penniless after spending years abroad trying to escape past tragedies, and her family worries that seeing her home again will bring back mournful memories. They’re right. Already,
Ranevskaya has tried and failed to escape her past. In the process, she lost the last of her fortune, distanced herself from friends and family, and returned looking perhaps more aged than she should. In this characterization, it is important to note that Chekhov explicitly intended for Ranevskaya to be played by an older actress, who, according to his letters, “lives entirely in the past and has nothing in the present” (Evdokimova, Caldwell, & Lanin). Ranevskaya wanted to be free from her past, and, as a result she has spent the last years of her life staring behind her, leaving herself with nothing in the present. That original wish for freedom is nearly entirely drowned out, especially now that her future is uncertain and untethered to her home. Her attention has always been absorbed by the past, even while fleeing it, and she only becomes more consumed as she enters the manor and orchard that embody her past.
Upon arriving home, Ranevskaya’s actions are characteristic of Chekhov’s comedy; she embraces her family members and fawns over her old nursery and orchard with the same adoration in a fashion that approaches ridiculousness. She is enamored with the preservation of these places of her past even though she has tried so hard to escape them. Ranevskaya is delighted to see what has not changed, and, as she idealizes this trait in objects, she embodies it in herself. In an article, authors Evdokimova, Caldwell, and Lanin, argue that Ranevskaya’s actions are meant to criticize the Russian elites as infantile, idealizing pastoral lives on the edge of a cherry orchard and floundering in the face of change. However, given Chekhov’s specific
casting directions, the word infantile seems inadequate. It is true that Ranevskaya has not learned from her age, but she is still mature. Her age denotes the breadth of her life, all the tragic memories she runs from and the happier ones she clings to. She has seen much of the world but remains absurdly ignorant, idealistic, and unrealistically absorbed in her past. As a result, she is both old and young, both fleeing and pursuing her past, and these two contradictions should be accepted as necessary to her characterization. She was not meant to be solely infantile or a response to any specific people or idea. Ranevskaya is an old woman desperate to escape her past, and, as a result, she is unable to look away from it, even to preserve what she loves.
Where her orchard is involved, Ranevskaya is obstinate beyond reason. Lopakhin, a former serf who earned financial success as a merchant, proposes a solution to her hardship, to lease just the orchard’s land as plots for other wealthy members of the new middle class to build summer houses upon, but Ranevskaya protests the plan, saying, “Cut it down? My dear man, forgive me, you don’t understand anything. If there’s anything interesting, even remarkable, in the whole of this providence, it’s our cherry orchard” (Chekhov 292). She refuses and must later sell the entire property instead. In this action, she demonstrates her inability to change or adapt to her circumstances and instead clings to the past. Even though it is a logical choice, she cannot allow the orchard to be changed so fundamentally, a relic of the past made into a harbinger of the future. She cannot cast off her past with such finality as cutting down and leasing the orchard– even though she previously tried to leave it behind, she left it intact– and so she cannot change to preserve even some of her home. Ironically, as much as the orchard and manor are synonymous with her history, Ranevskaya loses them because she is so stuck in her past.
She knows her loss is of more than property, though. When she leaves her home and orchard for the last time, Ranevskaya bids farewell to her orchard and, in the same breath, “[her] life, [her] youth, [her] happiness” (Chekhov 345). Her words reveal the depth of meaning the orchard has to her character; it is all of this to her because it is her past. Ranevskaya pours this significance into her home and loses it as a result of her adoration, trapping herself in inertia as she tries to remain tied to her past. Thus, as the orchard is ripped from her and her past is forcibly cut off, she remains tied to it by her emotional connection. Early in the play, Ranevskaya might have welcomed this, lamenting, “if I could forget my past” (Chekhov 296), but she cannot truly do it. Because Ranevskaya cannot forget her past, she cannot stop obsessing over it. She cannot bear to leave her past behind. Even if she succeeded in forgetting when she first left the manor, she would still have felt the same pain articulated in the first quote. She was unable to cast off her past once, and now, Ranevskaya is still tied to her home, even as she leaves it for the last time. She cannot forget, and she cannot free herself, even as her
orchard is cut down to make space for a future to which she cannot adapt.
Ranevskaya’s loss is contrasted with the gain of Lopakhin, the wealthy former serf and the purchaser of the house and orchard. However, just like Ranevskaya, his situation is not so easily simplified. Despite his current success, Lopakhin feels trapped by his past, lamenting his poor handwriting, a marker of his class status, calling it “awful, like a pig’s” (Chekhov 309), even as he wears clothes finer than anything Ranevskaya can afford. No matter how much his circumstances have changed, he feels his past identity as a serf remains. He returns to old memories of his father and laments the cruelty of his upbringing, citing Ranevskaya’s return for his reminiscence. Still, he harbors a deep familial love for her as a result of events from his childhood. Most reminders of his past, however, are far more negative for Lopakhin and reminders of his class status. He lived through the liberation of serfs, and his freedom is not even a generation old. He finds this aspect of his past inescapable, dragging him back again and again, even though his wealth and influence should logically be enough to provide him with security. No amount of change, however, is enough for Lopakhin to forget. Thus, Lopakhin is restrained by his past and eternally aware of that fact, unable to feel secure in his new social position or feel equal to those around him.
When Ranevskaya’s property is put up for sale, Lopakhin buys the land his family was once bound to as serfs. He rejoices, and Chekhov writes, “The cherry orchard is now mine!... Don’t laugh at me! If only my father and grandfather could rise from their graves and see all that has come to pass…” (Chekhov 330). The purchase is a victory over his past, although his insecurity in this new change is revealed where he has to tell others not to laugh at him. Instead of staring over his shoulder at an increasingly distant past as Ranevskaya does, Lopakhin feels his past is forever lurking behind him. There is no question of wanting to return to his previous life, but when Lopakhin returns victorious to the newly purchased land to which he was once bound, he returns to what is now, once again, his home. In an attempt to feel secure in his current status, he legally binds himself to the manor and orchard, just in another form. He is triumphant, as part of the small but conspicuous group of serfs upsetting the social order with their prosperity, but he cannot claim victory over his past. Lopakhin tries to conquer his past by buying the orchard, and he connects himself more to his childhood in doing so. Thus, the manor and orchard are his past manifest, and Lopakhin cannot cast them off, returning to them in his pursuit of freedom from them.
Lopakhin has a future full of financial success and little in his past, but he still cannot move on. Instead of cutting off the physical manifestation of his past, Lopakhin makes it his own, but even in doing so he cannot achieve the freedom he hopes for. Lopakhin wants to be free of class markers, such as his handwriting, but by announcing his purchase in front of
Ranevskaya in the middle of a ball and then allowing the ball to continue despite her tears, he demonstrates a callousness associated with his unsophisticated background. Chekhov weaves this irony into Lopakhin’s exclamation, and he rejoices brutishly (Evdokimova, Caldwell, & Lanin), revealing the background he renounces in his victory. In this attempt to cast off his past, Lopakhin binds himself to this property again, although this time in ownership, and displays markers of his past, revealing Chekhov’s irony on two accounts. Still, Lopakhin prevails, and he will enact his plan to provide for the emerging middle class, even with Chekhov’s characteristically subtle humor marking its beginning.
As the orchard is cut down and the manor left behind, Ranevskaya is symbolically amputated from her past, and Lopakhin returns to his in an attempt to remake it. The two characters on opposite sides of the Russian class system live with contrasting perspectives on their pasts, but neither can escape, even with opposite results. Ranevskaya cannot tear herself away from her past, nor even commit to continually trying to do so. Instead, she returns to it either in fawning adoration or melancholy nostalgia. Then, she laments her return. As a result of her obsession with it, her past bears too much weight for her to ever be able to cut herself free. She could never sell off her orchard because of how it represents part of her past. As a result, all of her land is sold, but Ranevskaya remains as absorbed in her past as ever, even as she is unmoored from its manifestation.
Lopakhin tries to efface his past, and even though he can distance himself far more than Ranevskaya could ever hope to, he cannot truly separate himself. He becomes rich, wears fancy clothes, and does what most former serfs could never dream of— buy his former mistress’ manor— but still feels his past standing behind him. As he tries to further distance himself from his past, Lopakhin ties himself even more tightly to the land and his origins. They are both flies caught in a web, entangling themselves in pursuit of escape. Through both of these characters’ relation to their pasts, the manor and its orchard play a central role as their home. Most of the two characters’ lives took place on this property, tying them to their pasts in memory. As such, their relationships with the manor and orchard can be seen to reflect their relationship to the past. It is the symbolic significance of the manor and orchard as the past that is central to this interpretation.
Chekhov makes deft use of literary devices such as this symbolism, but through his irony and absurdity, Chekhov complicates his message with comedy. Ranevskaya is not to be pitied for her situation– it is clear that it is her fault– but she is still deeply human in her joys and sorrows, even as she encroaches upon ridiculousness. The audience is meant to laugh at Ranevskaya and recognize that they, too, can be comedic (Evdokimova, Caldwell, & Lanin). Lopakhin is closer to a hero, as a harbinger of change, but he remains
unsuccessful in anything but his purchase of the land. He cannot conquer his past any more than Ranevskaya can escape hers. The irony in his actions is as comedic as in Ranevskaya’s, and the audience is still meant to see themselves in his struggle as they laugh. Neither Ranevskaya nor Lopakhin is condemned as a villain nor upheld as a hero. Neither’s relation to their past is better than the other. In Chekhov’s vibrantly realistic play, every character is flawed. Both Lopakhin and Ranevskaya are trapped by their pasts, and they cannot disentangle themselves by any simple means. Still, The Cherry Orchard is a comedy. A tragedy or drama would imply that something is wrong here, something must be corrected, but Chekhov only presents what is real. She loses, he gains; she is cut free, and he is tied down, and both remain connected to their pasts all the same. In the final scene of the play, another landowner’s manor is saved by a random stroke of luck as Ranevskaya leaves hers. It could have happened to her, too, but it does not, and the world keeps spinning (Abidi) as the cherry orchard falls. Ranevskaya’s and Lopakhin’s struggles are too realistic to be simple or tragic; any easy solution would be wrong. There is no neat ending for them, nor resolution. With these intricately balanced characters, Chekhov promises only that there is no simple solution to the past.
Works Cited
Abidi, Syed Ahmad Raza. “Multiplicity of meanings in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard.” Lapis Lazuli -An International Literary Journal, vol. 3, no. 1, 2013, https://pintersociety.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/ Sayd-Ahnad-Abidi-7.pdf. Accessed 25 Oct. 2024.
Chekhov, Anton. “The Cherry Orchard.” Plays, Translated by Peter Carson, Penguin Classics, 2002, pp. 283-346.
Evdokimova, S., Caldwell, M. L., & Lanin, B. (2000). “What’s so Funny about Losing One’s Estate, or Infantilism in ‘The Cherry Orchard.’” The
The Cherry Orchard Artwork by Sophia Gordon (Class of 2026)
“The Locked Door”
Artwork by Lily Burnette (Class of 2026)
The Locked Door
BY NATHAN WILSON (Class of 2025)
Aman’s heart is like a house, but what happens if the door is locked? What happens when the blinds are shut and the windows are sealed? What happens when no one is allowed in and the emotions are not allowed out? The residents forget to pay the bills. They forget to talk to their neighbors, leaving the neighborhood distanced by fences. The key is thrown away, and people think the house is empty. The water is turned off and the lights go out. The residents sit in darkness.
Shawn, in what felt like a lifetime of darkness, sat alone in the cafeteria. People passed behind him. People passed in front of him. Their words were muffled as he ate in silence. He had gray under his once bright blue eyes. He was tired, but his eyes felt no burden. An emptiness lay in his chest at every moment. He looked up, scanning the cafeteria. His eyes locked with those belonging to a blurry face. He immediately looked back down and did not look back up for the rest of the day.
In the house that was Shawn’s heart, the residents were sitting in silence. Before the door had been locked, other residents had moved in. The newer residents were the active ones, while the older ones said and did nothing. “Could today be the day the house falls?” Depression asked.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Hurt replied. “The building hasn’t suffered any damage in a while.”
“But what if it crumbles to pieces?” Anxiety asked nervously.
“Stop moving around!” Fear scolded. “You could cause even further damage.”
“What’s the point?” Broken said. “The house has lost power, so how could anything we do fix it?”
The residents stopped speaking after that. They sat in silence, just as Shawn walked home from school
without muttering a word. He passed by more people with muffled voices and blurry faces. His steps and heart beating were the only sounds he could hear. The only thing he could see was gray. For Shawn, there was no light at the end of the tunnel.
As Shawn ate, he could not see the faces of his family. Their words were muffled, and when Shawn spoke back to them his words were but indeterminable whispers. As he lay in bed later that night, a single tear rolled down the side of his face, and he fell asleep. “There goes another day,” Depression sighed as the residents shut down for the night.
The next day, Shawn sat alone at lunch. The residents sat in silence. Muffled and blurry, people passed by before and behind Shawn. Suddenly, there was a voice that was not suppressed. Shawn looked up, and standing in front of him on the opposite side of the table was the girl he could hear clearly, yet her face was still blurred.
“Hey, Shawn,” said the girl, “we’re in the same science class, and I was wondering if you could help me study for the next test?”
“Um… sure,” Shawn replied hesitantly.
“Great!” the girl exclaimed. “It would really help if we could do it over FaceTime or a call, so here’s my number.”
The girl wrote her phone number on a piece of paper and put it in front of Shawn. He in turn wrote his number on a clean napkin and gave it to her. “Here’s mine,” he said quietly. “When do you want to study?”
“Can we do it tomorrow after school?” the girl asked. Shawn nodded. “Yay! All right, thanks, Shawn! See you later.” She waved as she walked back to her friends. In the house, dripping from one of the faucets could be heard. The dripping continued as Shawn
walked home. It continued as he ate dinner with his family.
As Shawn lay in bed, one resident spoke up. “I don’t think the day will come very soon,” Depression stated.
“But do you not hear the sound of the faucet dripping? This could cause the house to crumble!” Fear exclaimed back with a tremble. The residents said no more as Shawn shut his eyes.
The next night the light above the residents was flickering. The faucet was still dripping as well, but this was not the main concern. “I don’t think the day will come in the near future,” Depression commented.
“But what if the foundations crumble?” Anxiety asked nervously.
“I don’t think so,” Hope spoke up.
“What do you know?” Fear sneered. “You waking up just makes the house more likely to fall!”
“It has not fallen before. Why would it fall now?” Hope inquired.
Fear grumbled frustratedly but said nothing in return. They sat in silence, but the room seemed ever so slightly brighter with Hope seated next to the other residents.
As Shawn slipped into slumber, so did the residents. He had been happily humming a tune he heard earlier that day. As he drifted off, a tear did not fall from his eye. Today had not been so bad. He fell asleep with a smile.
The next day, Shawn did not sit alone. The girl had been able to recall all the information for the test, so she invited Shawn to sit with her and her friends. As they were talking, Shawn could hear their voices. As he smiled with them, he could see their faces. As they laughed, Shawn could speak.
All the lights in the house were flickering. The residents were arguing amongst themselves. Only Hope and Depression remained silent. For the rest of the day the house was in a panic. Fear believed that the house was crumbling because of all the new commotion. Anxiety was worried the house was already falling. Hurt said that the house could not take any more damage. Broken said there was nothing they could do to help the house, so they should leave it alone. As Shawn was falling asleep and the residents were shutting down, Depression whispered, “I do not think the day will come. Rest easy.”
The next morning, the lights were no longer flickering but were working perfectly. The faucet was still dripping. The blinds were still closed and the windows were still sealed. No other parts of the house had gained power yet, but Fear was not happy with this improvement. “What has happened?” Fear exclaimed. “The house is now sure to fall apart. Why are the lights suddenly working?”
“I fixed them,” Hope replied calmly.
As Fear protested this, Anxiety wondered, “Where has Depression gone?”
Over the course of a month, another of the old residents woke up and worked on the house. It was Happy that awoke and fixed the water. While Shawn was
at a football game with his new friends, Happy was attempting to unlock the door, but Fear would not allow this to happen. Shawn’s friends were encouraging him to ask out the girl, but Shawn was scared. After the game, as Happy was arguing with Fear, Hope snuck past them and opened the window blinds.
Broken walked up to the now opened blinds and looked out the windows. “It’s beautiful,” Broken whispered. As Shawn was falling asleep and the residents were doing the same, Broken said, “Fix the foundations.” Happy and Hope opened their eyes and nodded. Broken closed his eyes and leaned back. Though damaged, the house had never crumbled, and Broken knew this. He knew it would be okay. When darkness fell over the house, it was the last any of them saw Broken. When the night left, it took him with it.
Shawn and the girl had decided to go for a picnic as their first date. The sun shone on a sky as blue as a diamond. The green grass gently grazed their skin, soft as a field of feathers. Shawn felt the comfort of a smile on his face, and it did not fade. Yet another old resident had awoken. This was Content, who fixed the wiring and piping of the house. The water ran smoothly, and the toilet flushed regularly now. During the date, Content was sitting on the couch enjoying the house. Fear was guarding the door and yelling at Hope for working on unsealing the windows. Happy was trying to have a conversation with Anxiety.
“Why don’t you want to talk to me?” Happy asked with a frown.
“I’m afraid I’ll say or do something wrong,” Anxiety replied sheepishly. “I don’t want you to think less of me or think I’m weird.”
“But I can’t know any of that if you don’t talk to me,” Happy persisted.
Shawn and Ellie were enjoying their date. As the two were talking, their hands found each other. At this moment, Hope opened all the windows. They were finally unsealed. Fear shrieked at this, but Hurt, who had been staring at the cracks, felt the breeze. He did not say anything until later that night. When Shawn got home after his date, he told his parents about how well it went, but he also admitted that he had been a bit nervous.
Shawn did not immediately fall asleep that night because he was so happy about how well the date had gone. He tossed and turned for about twenty minutes, but he did so with a smile on his face. When he finally started to fall asleep, Hurt said to Happy, “Fill in the cracks, would ya?” When Shawn woke up there was one less resident in the house.
The old residents worked on the house and fixed it up before Shawn’s third date with Ellie. The second date had gone just as well as the first one. Anxiety simply sat on the floor and did nothing. Anxiety did not know what to do. Fear grumpily guarded the door. It was not to be unlocked while under Fear’s watchful eye.
During the third date, Content and Happy were talking to Anxiety while Hope was working on filling in the cracks. Fear was still guarding the door. As the date was going smoothly, Anxiety was beginning to speak
confidently to Happy and Content. By the end of the date, Anxiety was leading the conversation and kept it going.
Shawn took Ellie home. Fear walked over to the couch and sat down, tired and needing a break after guarding the door. Ellie kissed Shawn. They stood in each other’s embrace, enduring the downpour so as not to be apart. An eternity lasted for only a second, but in Shawn’s mind, it was a perfect moment, one he wished he could capture forever like a photo.
When Shawn went to bed Fear was exhausted. As Shawn was falling asleep, Anxiety went up to Fear and said, “Maybe we’ve been doing this all wrong.” Fear merely grunted and the lights went out. The next morning Anxiety was gone, leaving Fear at an all-time high of rage and grumpiness.
That entire day, as the other remaining residents worked on the house, Fear yelled and screamed at them. Fear blamed them for Anxiety and the others leaving. Fear guarded the door and said that if any of them came near it then they would face horrible consequences. Fear would not allow the door to be unlocked. It must not be unlocked. It could not be opened under any circumstances.
As Fear was hurtling curses at the others, someone knocked on the door. This was the first time someone from the outside had wanted to come in since the power went out. Hope, Happy, and Content attempted to unlock
and open the door, but Fear stood strong. Fear was not going to let the house fall apart. The house would not crumble or suffer any more damage. The knocking continued for the rest of the day, but Fear did not give in. Even when the darkness came, Fear would not open the door. Fear screamed and yelled until the darkness consumed the house. Just like that, Fear was gone the next morning. The house still stood, just as strongly as the day before.
Knock-knock. From the inside, the click of the door unlocking echoed throughout the house, and out from the opened door stepped a new resident. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” the girl said. “I brought paint. Is there any room for me to stay?”
“You’ll always have a place here,” the resident said with a true smile. Ellie smiled back. “I am Love. I’ve only just arrived, but there are others living here: Hope, Happy, Content. They fixed the house after it was nearly destroyed. At least, it felt destroyed, but I guess it never could truly fall, could it? You brought the others here, and they have made it a home again.”
“I can’t wait to meet them,” Ellie said as she took Love’s hand in her own and followed him inside. In Love’s hand was a key that he gave to her. The door shut after they entered, but no one would ever lock it again. In front of the door, a mat welcomes all who wish to enter. On the mat reads, “Home is Where the Heart Is.”
The House with Cracked Walls by Paul Cézanne, painted
(The Met Open Access)
Modern Rome — Campo Vaccino, 1839, by J M W Turner. (Wikipedia)
Its Own Rushing Splendour
BY MEGAN LIN (Class of 2023)
Megan Lin graduated from NRCA in 2023. She attends Brandeis University, where she continues her scholarly pursuits in art history and philosophy. Lin wrote this essay for her Poetry and Philosophy class in April 2024. Her ongoing pursuit of academic understanding from a biblical worldview shines as an example of NRCA's goal for its alumni to engage in lifelong intellectual and spiritual growth.
Our discussion of Shelley’s fragment “The Triumph of Life” shall begin with a linear reading until the proper point for analysis is reached, after which we shall assess Shelley’s employment of particular metaphors. We will, however, first remark on the form, for what are roughly iambic pentameters strung together in terza-rima inform our interpretation vitally. In “A Defence of Poetry,” Shelley ascribes to poetry mastery over the sound of language to create harmony (23-24) and thereby incite pleasure (16-17, 29-33). The harmony of the meter and rhyme delights the sense, and, eager to see this harmony continuously satisfied, the reader is borne forth word by word and tercet by tercet in spite of himself. For while this irresistible propulsion makes for relish at the outset, where the imagery remains graceful and dear, the same makes for horror when the reader finds himself in the poem’s strange interior, wherefrom he is unable to extricate himself. It is as if his foot were caught in a fast-forwarding vehicle by which he is dragged along, searing himself against every obstacle in the path.
This is just how “The Triumph of Life” proceeds. The opening tercet sees the mounting sun “Rejoicing in his splendour” (“The Triumph of Life,” lines 1-4), and images of waking and rising, snow and birdsong, newness and birth (lines 4-12) infuse each line to recall in the reader the freshness which only morning clarity brings. This is “the birth / Of light” (lines 6-7), and in it all things—all earth, the sun itself, and no doubt the speaker too—exult. We know the character of their exultation: for if the daylight is yet faint, and the dawn chorus is heard, and the trembling of flowers is observed
(lines 9-10), this exultation cannot but be of gentle, attentive eagerness to embrace all that is good—one which the sun easily overcomes and indeed is eager to be overcome by the sun (lines 18-20).
Here we may be tempted to pause and sort out the complication which the mention of imposition (line 20) cast upon an otherwise most agreeable scene, but the very next thought, separated only by a semicolon and occupying the same tercet, beckons us forward. So in the following lines we encounter yet another incongruity: the light which wakes all puts to sleep light itself (lines 22-23). And yet another: a tree is described as having been “flung athwart” the mountain by its seed (lines 24-26), as if its germination and growth were violently forced upon it. Faintly perturbed, we read on. And just as the “freshness of that dawn” returns in “cold dew” (lines 34-35) and “enamored air” (line 39) to our relief, and though the rhyme of the single-line ending (line 40) offers rest, we do not resist the ellipsis and are at once plunged with the speaker into the trance.
The first image of this trance is the “public way / Thick strewn with summer dust” (lines 43-44)—that which is hot, dry, and blanched by the overhead sun. Already the sun has transformed from the source of delight into the source of irritation. And irritation indeed, for dust, unlike sand, whose crystalline composition makes for sharp pain when ground against the skin but whose weight eventually bears it smoothly away, rises against and sticks to one. So it is with gnats which ceaselessly swarm around one’s head. Neither is malicious injury, but both are faceless bother; nor pain which crushes, but itch which rouses and exasperates.
But we have already tarried too long at these two images: the verses roll on as before, only now the language of haste is also employed. Everything is moving at once in one direction—“onward” (line 47)— and in every direction—“to and fro” (line 45). This is added to our growing load of unresolved disjunctions as we, with the crowd, are swept away onto the next torrent of confusion bursting with bodies, worms, breathlessness, and barren ground (lines 52-65). Now we almost fear to tarry, as upon revisiting these lines the luridness of bodies colliding with crushed worms in the dirt or the strain of laboring for breath in the midday heat assault our imagination all the more while unrelenting in impetuosity so long as the structure is kept; we would sooner relegate them also to the unresolved bunch.
Awaiting us are images of nature (lines 67-72) wrought in language similar to that of the opening section, but the restorative freshness is diminished. For first, the disturbance caused by the clamor is not so effortlessly recompensed; second, that clamor which first drowned out the crowd’s, speaker’s, and our awareness of the landscape proceeds uninterrupted, leaving us to find the natural elements which actually surround the speaker more a vision than the vision itself. By the sixth line the racket already returns in full force, and it is here that we encounter the chariot (lines 77-106) “in its own rushing splendour” (line 87). Notice in this line that not only is the chariot rushing and splendid, or its rushing itself splendid due to its splendor, but its very splendor is rushing—fast surging from the source which is the chariot. In this way do speed and light, two of the most central metaphors of the whole piece, most indestructibly coalesce. We make it our task to appreciate these metaphors.
In the Defence, Shelley ascribes to metaphor the ability to instill and perpetuate apprehension of the relation between existence and perception, and perception and expression. In this way, he writes, poetic expression is of no qualitative difference from all linguistic expressions at the core (“A Defence of Poetry” 18-19). The main difference between poetic and quotidian language may be said to be that quotidian language more often circumvents perception, such that upon hearing certain expressions we immediately apprehend the relevant existences; complex and opaque existences are revealed through a multitude of readier ones, hence the development of grammar, lexicography, and higher-level explanations. These approaches fail, however, when the relevant existence is simple yet opaque—one either sees it or does not. In such a case perception, along with its associated ideas and affections, must be interposed in a final attempt to bring existence into view.
The existence our fragment takes as its main object is “Life,” the charioteer (“The Triumph of Life,” line 180) characterized first as a deformed, shadowy figure tempering the chariot’s refulgence (lines 87-103) but soon after identified as “[she] who dims the Sun” (line
148) as if she herself were the source of light.1 No demonstrative resolution to this contradiction is found in the fragment, but inferences approximating “Life is a paradox” are to be resisted. For besides the fact that such a statement has little explanatory or descriptive power, it is doubtful: it may yet be that life is no paradox as nothing is a paradox; rather, that it is simple and self-consistent, therefore inscrutable once occluded. It cannot be captured directly, hence one must aim for the surrounding circumference, and a circumference includes an infinity of oppositions whose intersections turn out to be singular. So the multitude of metaphors employed in this fragment may yet work to image life (“A Defence of Poetry” 27) in its monist consistency. Many of these metaphors are such that initially, each appears itself contradictory, but upon second glance the contradictions turn out merely phantasmal. Consider, for instance, the image framing the chariot’s entrance (“The Triumph of Life,” lines 79-85) in which we find two moons in full juxtaposition: one newborn, the other dead; one luminous, the other dim. In the quick procession of the verse we almost but do not forget that the shadow of the moon is as much the moon as the crescent is—they are not only of one but are in fact one and the same body, admitting no opposition. Of the same sort is the metaphor of light, to which we now return.
Even from the very first line, the poem is replete with light-imagery manifest as celestial bodies, phases of daylight, spring and summer, fire and lightning, heavenly spark (lines 201-207), precious minerals, reflections in waters, the “shape all light” (line 352) and, of course, the glare of the chariot. We have already seen how the dawning sun recalls in one pious gladness, ushering one to embrace all things as delightful. We also know the noontime sun is the source of great languor, as wakefulness is the condition of all ennui. Then are we perturbed to read that the sun in the same move wakes and enslaves one? Upon consideration, we are no longer perturbed. Or again, of course it is light itself which must drown out light, for darkness only enhances luminance (lines 391-392), even as opposition is powerless against one acting out of fervor unless a greater fervor—such as a care for the self or for another—should redirect one’s pursuit. Neither is there mystery to the fact that fire and frost should both lead to destruction (lines 137-175); for vigor risks the body and soul, but the lack thereof is likewise death. And the simultaneous allure and excess of the brilliance are likewise one, for without being enthralled one may simply turn away before the excess can grow severe (lines 424, 458-460); in the same way one does not easily resort to suicide. The instances are too many to enumerate, but for each we make a natural leap toward considering the general human experience before dispelling all apparent incongruity.
1 I take the referent of “her who dims the Sun” to be the charioteer because the chariot usually takes the pronoun “it” (e.g., lines 87, 105), while Life definitely takes the feminine pronoun once (line 240); in other places (e.g., lines 438, 441, 443) I find the referent of the feminine pronoun less clear. But the point that light and shade are intimately and even inseparably intertwined stands whether the chariot or the charioteer is named in that clause.
But it would be wrong to then say, “Much like light, life is…”—not because it is untrue that the source of pleasure and agony are one, or that nourishment and destruction are on a continuum, etc., but such conclusions avail nothing. They make analytic assertions about that which we have not seen, namely, “life,” and do not show it to us. What we require is a presentation— indeed, a vision—of this existence called “life,” and for that we must recourse to the poem itself. Let the poet’s words recall in the imagination the cool and quiet of the morning as well as the strange sorrow of seeing Jupiter fade into the day. —The inescapable noonday sunlight emanating from the sky and the ground and the sickness it brings, combined with the horrible tumult and the heat of too great a crowd. —Or conversely, the heatless glimmer over the lake and eyes which swell from prolonged gazing thereat. The tapestry of images and effects thereof are the perception which relate expression to existence, for perception, being necessarily temporal, puts its receiver into the temporality of experience. Only then can these light-imageries profess to be metaphors of life—for life is experiential, and any artifact which endeavors to put life on display must likewise be experiential.
For this reason, we are, on one hand, not supposed to resolve the apparent incongruities discussed above— at least not on the initial reading of the poem. Recall the poem’s unrelenting pace—speed being the other metaphor for life—which actively prevents us from stalling at any point of perplexity, resulting in that ever-tumefying, unintelligible mass of suspicion and disorientation that increasingly weighed on our mind as we read on. Only after hitting the poem’s abrupt end are we released from the incantatory race and allowed to observe from a distance and reason with the disjunctions, yet even then the danger of falling back and being borne onward (lines 451-452, 458-460) by the persuasive meter remains. This is not wholly ill; for to analyze the content of a poem without heeding its momentum is akin to reflecting on a past event or relationship: all pre-reflective facts are excluded, and only a fragment of the object of reflection remains. In this way, on the other hand, our gaining of insights in a deliberate reading at the expense of apprehensions available only in a natural reading becomes part of the experience and thus part of the metaphor.
We will make some observations about the actual functioning of the speed-imagery. For one, while the perception of speed may be visual or aural, it is primarily vestibular; we have addressed how the structural pacing affects this, but this vestibular experience also finds its cause elsewhere. Consider the speaker’s and Rousseau’s multiple mentions of the chariot’s swift passage (e.g., lines 87-106, 137-175, 433468, but also implicitly throughout), the repetitiveness of which suggests their point of view is somehow concurrent with the chariot’s movement; the words of Rousseau, whom the speaker is apparently situated beside, suggests he is being hurried along the pageantry even as he speaks (line 304). And so, without explicitly
being swept into the retinue, the speaker is rushed alongside it merely by participating in the vision—and we with him by following his voice. And as the point of view surveys the volatile throng and sweep of persons from ancient to modern history, we learn a new meaning of “the light’s severe excess” (line 424): the nauseating vividness with which images assert themselves in rapid succession, by which from time to time we are tempted to quit reading altogether—if not for the smoothness of the verse and the grace of the poet’s words. The rushing splendor in which the chariot blindly rolls on is the same in which the poem progresses, and we become enthralled by the verse the same way the speaker is enthralled by the vision, and he in the same way those in the vision are swept into the midst of the silent storm.
Until—what? Where has the chariot gone (lines 545-546)? Will the shadowy charioteer ever be reconciled with “her who dims the Sun”? Is life a paradox or not—and what would it mean? Both speakers ask the same questions, and both receive vision upon vision until irony forever renders both yet another vision. We, its recipient, are rushed headlong in the manifold advance until all cease in an abrupt, jarring interruption beyond which we are not allowed a single glance. Only in this way, one might say, does the fragment approximate an “image of life” (“A Defence of Poetry” 27).
Works Cited
Shelley, Percy. “A Defence of Poetry.” The Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1904, pp. 11-90. Internet Archive, http://archive.org/details/ defenceofpoetry012235mbp.
---. “The Triumph of Life.” Poetry Foundation, 2024, https://www. poetryfoundation.org/poems/45143/the-triumph-of-life Accessed 30 April 2024.
