Editors-in-Chief
Alice Tecotzky & Dylan Ng Art Directors Eli Harrell Simone Menard-Irvine Creative Director Sebastian Allais MS PCI Leaders Lila Wallace Pia Haider-Bierer Faculty Advisors Dr. Peter Melman Mr. George Seferidis Marketing Director Willa Gilbert-Goldstein Production Coordinators Violet Chernoff Lily Crowell Daniel Biro US Art Editors Daisy Zuckerman Lea Wong Isabel Mina LS Art Editors Katya Volkova Kennedy Mathis Associate Art Editors Avery Stern Charlie Flamm Hannah Will US Writing Editors Sophie Anderson Jake Srebnick LS Writing Editor Sadie Sadler Associate Writing Editor Caroline Peyser Contributors Imogen Bylinsky, Gianna Leon, Sage Lewitt, Freyda Lieber, Apple Lydon, Nathalie Marcus-Wade, Lily Orlando, Keira Reidy, Zoe Rutkovsky, Eve Scherer, Justine Schulke i
Dedications To the Class of 2020, whose literary and artistic passions have long brightened Packer and whose presence will be deeply missed. This year’s seniors have exhibited keen intellect, unwavering compassion, and singular grace throughout the past four years. We are eager to see all that they create, as we are certain that their art and words will inspire not only meaningful change, but fierce joy. Class of 2020, thank you for everything, now and always.
To Dr. Melman and Mr. Seferidis, without whom this magazine would not exist. The guidance they have provided to the Upper and Middle School teams respectively cannot be overstated; we are grateful for their steadfast devotion to language and artistry.
Editors’ Letter team will, for lack of a better word, slay. As you flip through these pages, be proud of the work of yourself and those you love, and remember that creativity abounds in times of pain. We will miss you! n
Though the construction of PCI was interrupted by the global pandemic, the Packer community— students and faculty alike—demonstrated continued support for the magazine, and for that we are ever grateful. Even amid turbulent circumstances, students harnessed their creativity and submitted thought-provoking, beautiful work; their dedication inspired us during these challenging months, and will hopefully inspire all of Packer in the years to come. Next year, we will undoubtedly miss the spirit and drive that is PCI, but are certain the editorial
May 16, 2020 Alice Tecotzky & Dylan Ng Editors-in-Chief
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Table of Contents Charlotte Agliata ‘21.............................93–94, 146
Sam Fishman ‘25..............................................161
Sebastian Allais ‘20.......................147–8, 153, 157
Ivy Flynn ‘27.....................................................136
Francesca Ammirati ‘25..............................89, 107
Carly Gavant ‘23...............................................151
Matteo Ammirati ‘26....................................161–2
Sanai Gibson ‘30...............................................104
Sophie Anderson ‘21...................16, 105, 109, 128
Abby Glusker ‘26................................................71
Olivia Azzolina ‘21...........................................103
Anna Griffin ‘22............................................155–6
Peter Baltzell ‘24................................................101
Georgia Groome ‘21.......................40, 69–70, 106
Delia Barnett ‘20.............................................93–4
Holly Guion ‘24..............................................81–2
Bea Becker ‘25................67, 97, 99, 107, 119, 146
Maddie Gunnell ‘20............................................40
Malva Blåvarg ‘23...............................89, 118, 138
Willem Guzman-Mitchell ‘25...........................107
Jack Browne ‘32..................................................15
Pia Haider-Bierer ‘25............65–6, 73, 113, 123–4
Lucy Browne ‘25...............................................109
Ollie Hammel ‘27.............................................130
Anika Buder-Greenwood ‘20......................22, 130
Sophie Hanna ‘23.............................................125
Nell Bunn ‘25....................................................108
Eli Harrell ‘20...........................39, 58, 64, 95, 102
Pilar Bylinsky ‘20...........................................72, 88
Ben Harrington ‘25.......................................141–2
Imogen Bylinsky ‘22............................83, 112, 118
Ruby Harris ‘20...................................................63
Celia Canellos ‘30...............................................87
Hannah Jatsch ‘20...............................................55
Blair Chase ‘20....................................................78
Aidan Jelveh ‘20............................................53, 61
Violet Chernoff ‘21.......................................25, 91
Amaya Joseph ‘23................................................14
Anelise Chun ‘25...............................................151
Justin Joseph ‘20..................................................57
Charlotte Clapp ‘27..........................................149
Rebekah Kim ‘21..............................................104
Ben Davis ‘26........................................................4
Kindergarten Class ‘32...................................41–2
John Dean ‘26...............................................38, 75
Francesca Komar ‘22................................6, 26, 48
Elizabeth Deegan ‘20..........................................77
Ruby Kopel ‘20.......................................4, 71, 111
Apple Diamond ‘22.............................................47
Scarlett Kuit ‘26............................................75–76
Ada Eagle ‘24......................................................90
Stella Lapidus ‘22................................................26
Daniel Elkind ‘30................................................79
Noble Leslie ‘32...................................................54
Caroline Farley ‘25......................................73, 145
Isabel Levine ‘24...............................................154
Anatole Faucon ‘24...........................................148
Dahlia Lippman ‘31..........................................103
Anaïs Faury ‘32.....................................................3
Amy Liu ‘25....................................................51–2
Lionel Fine ‘24............................................159–60
Diego Lowe ‘25.....................................79, 84, 110 iii
Table of Contents Ariela Lowenstein ‘24.........................................72
Zoë Rutkovsky ‘20...............................................21
Alexandra Lowenstein ‘26..................................12
Sadie Sadler ‘22....................................39, 90, 139
Safiya Lunat ‘26..................................................50
Farida Salami ‘20..............................................132
Apple Lydon ‘21...............................................129
Charlie Saltoun ‘32.......................................23, 85
Maeve MacDermott ‘26.......................113–4, 120
Lilian Shor ‘27..................................................124
Willa Mack ‘25..................................................122
Anna Simmons ‘20................................................9
Kate Marriott ‘21..................................1, 33–4, 44
Jake Srebnick ‘21.........17–8, 30, 55–6, 59, 69, 100
Ella Marriott ‘20.................................................98
Bella Srebnick ‘26.........................................16, 22
Alexandra Masella ‘27........................................46
Luke Starke ‘26...................................................15
Kennedy Mathis ‘23..........................................112
Audrey Taplitz ‘21...............................................37
Grant McGruder ‘30........................................158
Alice Tecotzky ‘20.................................43, 60, 110
Simone Menard-Irvine ‘21.......35–6, 41, 131, 158
Sarah Thau ‘22.....................................13, 96, 127
Charlie Michael ‘22............................................24
1CD Unicorns ‘31.............................................111
Ella Mignatti ‘26.................................................80
Lucie Van Kwawegen ‘27.................................133
Cece Milde ‘24......................................................2
Elise Van Kwawegen ‘27.....................................29
Isabel Mina ‘22.........................31–2, 37, 125, 129
Katya Volkova ‘23.............................................152
Lorenzo Mina ‘24.........................................115–6
Lila Wallace ‘25...........................................49, 108
Clemmie Morlock ‘26.........................................34
Grace Warner-Haakmat ‘20...........11, 88, 149–50
Henry Mwanza-Blake ‘32...................................15
Abigail Wiener ‘24............................................160
Leila Narisetti ‘20............................................31–2
James Wilding ‘25...............................................68
Dylan Ng ‘20...............................62, 135, 140, 145
Hannah Will ‘23................................................7–8
Julian Overton ‘25.........................................141–2
Amadi Williams ‘21.............................................92
Lark Nguyen-Hughes ‘25............................74, 120
Lahn Witrogen ‘24........................................155–6
Julien Perra ‘26....................................................53
Lea Wong ‘21................................................10, 27
Caroline Peyser ‘23.....................................24, 117
Amelie Woodstone ‘26........................................68
Cole Pieck ‘26.....................................................98
Evelyn Yang ‘27............................................19, 45
Nathalie Pridgen ‘22...........................................28
Nick Yohn ‘21.......................................................5
Matias Reinhardt ‘26..........................................23
Daisy Zuckerman ‘20............................................1
Charlotte Reiser ‘24..38, 80, 115–6, 121–2, 133–4 Alice Roberts ‘32.................................................15 Ethan Rothschild ‘20.......................19–20, 25, 137 iv
Kate Marriott ‘21
The place of class picnics, water gun fights, outings with your babysitter. It had seemed so tall, so daunting, but so exhilarating. There had always been people there, kids with faded hand-me-down bathing suits that sagged, mothers perched on the thick wooden steps with Ray-Bans covering their bright blue eyes. But now it’s empty, and you feel alone even though your friends are right there with you. You have a sudden urge to rekindle what once was, that feeling of exploration and courage, the taste of sand in your mouth, and the faint smell of urine on the landing up above. The rocks, which always felt so big and so tall, are easy to climb now. It used to take you a couple minutes to climb up
to the landing but now you walk up the ridges like they’re the stairs in your house. Your legs are stronger, longer. Your friends stand at the bottom, making comments about the cold, but you ignore them. You want to turn around and see them, ten years younger, frolicking in the sandpit with pails and seemingly indestructible grins.
T
ear rop Park d
Daisy Zuckerman ‘20
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Méditerranée Cece Milde ‘24 2
Anaïs Faury ‘32
Black Night So Quiet, So Dark 3
Starry Night The wind blows in The bruise colored night sky, as if squid ink were tinted with sapphire. The moon gazes down upon The village like a mother would her child. Stars glow beyond The mountains, a light at the end of an infinite tunnel.
Ruby Kopel ‘20 4
Ben Davis ‘26
Rebel Girl (excerpt) Home of Marie Equi Outskirts of Portland Date Unknown (between 1926-1936)
As if I had not suffered enough, the two then held each other in an all-too-friendly embrace. I tried to avert my eyes, but alas, there were in the middle of the pit! I suppose I lacked the strength of the other women who seemed to ignore it, but I was so repulsed that I couldn’t help but bear witness to the atrocity that unfolded next. The dirty blonde leaned into the brunette and kissed her. They locked lips for what felt like an eternity.
A sturdy young woman swung open the front door of the quaint Oregon cabin with her shovel still in hand. On the velvet couch, across from the fireplace, lay an unencumbered, blasé figure, sprawled as usual and partially covered by a blue wool blanket. Elizabeth, it called out nonchalantly.
Elizabeth leaned the shovel against the wall, letting I felt my stomach churn. out a subtle clink. Tossing her shoes off to the side, she approached the couch and sat down next to Click. Marie’s bra fell behind the sofa cushion. She Marie. Marie took her by the hand, nearly frozen leaned into Elizabeth’s arms, her head resting beand cracked from the cold, and they locked eyes, tween her breasts. illuminated by the glow of the gay embers. She gazed upwards into the hazel heavens. One was curly and dirty blonde. The other Elizabeth returned her lustful stare. had a brown butch cut. Then, in the most bizarre manner, the brunette placed her Their lips met halfway. hand on the inner thigh of her blonde companion! A wave of displeasure washed over …Bound to the fringe of society, I suppose me in aversion to the awful sight. these kinds of women find solace in a place The hand slowly lifted the grey prison gown, like this. Ever since the first encounter that I revealing an ink rose impressed upon her have described, I have seen a growing numpale thigh. Such vandalism of the body is ber of these creatures in the corridor and in common at Alderson, especially among the pit here at Alderson… these abhorrent women. …these women are feral, brutish, and lustful—too impatient to return to the men who Marie’s hand revivified hers with its tender warmth. must await them. I pray that they may find Her other hand, still crisp, reached beneath the wool respect for themselves and return to the natblanket and descended on her friend’s luscious ham. ural state of woman, Elizabeth! Marie pretended to object.
where love is pure and organic.
She worked her way behind the backside and up Marie’s spine, her graceful caresses turning into a deep tissue massage. Underneath her fingertips, Marie’s back rippled, her ink hammer and sickle undulating in wavelets of white flesh.
Your loving sister, Elizabeth Flynn Nicholas Yohn ‘21 5
Francesca Komar ‘22
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Hannah Will ‘23
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Harper watched in the mirror as his hair fell alongside him on the bathroom sink: distressed, scattered, and motionless. Riley just saw it as cut hair, no emotion-evoking adjectives needed. She looked in the mirror and made eye contact with her son. His brown eyes sparkled with specks of golden like sparks of a fire in the pitch black of night. She noticed how his chubby cheeks had begun to lose their chub and his missing teeth gaps were beginning to fill. Her mind fell to when they went camping together; it was Harper’s first time sleeping anywhere but his bedroom. “Harper, you’re going to ruin your clothes!” Riley called after her son as he rolled down the grassy hill in their backyard. “Who cares? They’re just clothes!” Riley loved her son for seeing life so simply, and she hoped that never changed about him. She always offered to take him shopping, but he preferred to stick to his too-tight jeans and ripped tee-shirt. “Ok mama, I’m ready for s’mores now. Just let me grab Aidan.” Harper ran inside to collect his beloved, worn-down teddy bear. He emerged, running, with a huge grin on his face while he suffocated his bear between his arms. That night, Riley and Harper talked themselves to sleep in their too-small tent. At 2 a.m., Riley woke up to find Harper sleeping outside on the grass. “I like it better where I can see the stars,” Harper said. So Riley dragged their sleeping bags onto the overgrown grass, and they fell asleep to the sound of crickets.
the work for you. As a cool autumn breeze rustled the surrounding willow trees, the top of Harper’s scalp felt the wind and the sunlight. He had never felt so free. It was like the feeling of going skinny dipping: living on the edge in fear of getting caught and judged but feeling so incredibly naked and free. Harper followed his patch of sunlight across the freshly cut grass until it had disappeared into the sunset, and then he watched that, too. The next morning, Harper’s energy was rejuvenated. Riley drove him to school and laughed at him as he stuck his head out of the window, tongue fully out, like a German shepherd in the back seat of a car. She dropped him off, and as she drove away, saw his excitement change into sadness as a group of boys approached him in the playground. The traffic guard made her keep driving. Anna Simmons ‘20
Riley now looked into her son’s eyes and wondered if he would ever find that happiness at school; he just didn’t seem the same as that happy boy. Harper was confused about why losing his hair bothered him so much, as he had never really paid any attention to it before. He rarely ever brushed it without teasing provocation from his mother. The buzz of the razor stopped, and Harper needed to breathe, really breathe. He went into his backyard to find his patch of sun and just lay there, breathing. It’s so much easier to breathe when you’re surrounded by trees and fresh air; the wind does all
Shaved Down (excerpt) 9
Lea Wong ‘21 10
Grace Warner Haakmat ‘20 11
Adele Bloch-Bauer The woman sits As angelic as a Golden swan Her dress engulfs her She is swallowed in a sea Of gold The wall Makes it seem as if The dress will never end The green floor Sits there as if it isn’t even there I’m just what you’re here to see I’m just what you want to see. Alexandra Lowenstein ‘26
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Sarah Thau ‘22 13
State of Vulnerability the lingering stares of old men, their eyes thirsty for a young lady who is actually only twelve and doesn’t understand why people are talking to her. when she goes through puberty and can’t wear certain clothes— no more skirts and dresses, tight jeans or tight shirts. and shorts are a big no-no. her male classmates and associates now make sexual jokes, taunting her for her breasts, and trying to grasp them as a dare. their eyes can’t seem to focus on the board anymore because they can’t seem to move their eyes from her behind. her parents’ male friends must be a problem too because she has to change every time they come for the fear that they’ll be alone for longer than a minute and she’ll end up violated. you wouldn’t believe her anyway. it’s always a woman’s fault. Amaya Joseph ‘23
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Alice Roberts ‘34
Things to do in the belly of a cow There are many things to do in the belly of a cow You can take a sightseeing tour around its four rumbling stomachs You can see where it makes the milk You can ride the roller coaster that is the digestive system You can even hear its moo echo around the whole belly You can watch the food it eats falling down like meteors And you can watch that food slowly dissolve into the ocean of stomach acid There are many things more we can talk about But if you want to leave You have to take the hard way out. Luke Starke ‘26
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nr y
Jack Browne ‘34
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Mw
anz
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7:00 p.m. 6:59 p.m. All the voices get ready A disconnected choir Like fans at a Yankee game About to paint the early night sky With The sounds of Pans banging Pots clanging Hands clapping And Voices roaring
People who don’t know each other Connecting through sound A way to say hello A way to feel less lonely A way to thank those who are doing so much Doctors, nurses, grocery workers, delivery people Now it is 7:00 p.m. Everybody starts shouting and clapping Even though we are not together It sounds like a perfect harmony On the streets of Brooklyn Heights
Bella Srebnick ‘26
Sophie Anderson ‘21 16
17
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Red Hook Jake Srebnick ‘21
Post-its Post-Its are good for Writing notes to your friend Or for a mini airplane A paper swan And colorful art A note of thanks A comment, a friend A bright note to cheer up your day And to send your worries away. Post-Its Evelyn Yang ‘27
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Ethan Rothschild ‘20
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Zoe Rutkovsky ‘20
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The Country House The darkness falls Over the house In the country The quiet night has arrived The moonlight shines Lighting the dozens of trees The dark blue house With little glistening specks of light Coming from the inside The white chair lying on the porch I remember when I was little Sitting on Nana’s lap Swaying back and forth Back and forth On the side, there is a treehouse With a long flight of stairs I remember sitting up there with a big mug of hot cocoa With one big marshmallow Right in the middle Laughing like crazy As if someone had just told a funny joke But Nobody was there Other than me and my doll The darkness falls Over the house In the country The quiet night has arrived Bella Srebnick ‘26
Anika Buder-Greenwood ‘20 22
6 Feet Away 6 feet away Feels like 6 miles Torn apart like the Capulets and the Montagues But still hearts move 6 feet closer Sickness spreads But sick or not Love dances its 6 beat waltz Across the world Because love can be from Any distance
Matias Reinhardt ‘26
Black People Swimming Charlie Saltoun ‘32 23
Boy Erased (excerpt) 6 I have a mom and a dad Grandmother and grandfather Aunt and Uncle A normal child Thank God for that 7 I sit with a group of boys We make obnoxious noises I am still a normal boy Arnold Schwartzenager walks naked towards the camera All the boys laugh I feel a different emotion; an embarrassed sort of shame. 9 We visit my aunt’s house She’s married to a woman That’s all I remember 12 My mom signs me up for tennis lessons A man walks to his locker And takes off his towel I stay in that moment Other men walk by and don’t notice It’s not something you’re supposed to notice 13 I learn about conversion therapy It’s all I want To change, evolve, go through a metamorphosis and be like the other boys 14 I delete my browser history I am disgusted by the links that fly past. During a camp trip, a bunch of boys talk about Mia Khalifa
Caroline Peyser ‘23 before falling asleep I go and throw up in the bathroom I talk about a girl who I have a crush on to a boy He laughs and says he thought I was gay My voice is deeper for the rest of the year 15 My view of LGBTQ culture expands. I want nothing to do with it. I don’t like drag. I don’t like Queer Eye. Recently I consider coming out. I don’t like smothering this secret. I decide not to. My family would support me. My friends would be supportive. I would just be different. I don’t want to walk out of the closet and into a box with “Queer” stamped on the top, lying lumped together with everyone else. Charlie Michael ‘22 24
Ethan Rothschild ‘20
Breakfast A blister swells beneath my pinky As I graze the frying pan Ever so lightly Releasing a chorus of choice words. I watch as yolks run wild Through gooey white playgrounds That turn yellow with time. I watch as the melted cheddar cheese drapes itself upon my scrambled eggs, Hugging the crispy bacon bits, and finding refuge amongst the sesame seed society. It works—this combo Undeniably. Not like you and me. Violet Chernoff ‘21
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the skin suit and i the skin suit and i are not friends. it suffocates my limbs, like hugs from my uncle that are always too close, breathing down my neck and blowing words in my ear. it is a constant invasion of personal space that worries no one but me as my poor organs are forced to play the role of hostages without ransom. the skin suit and i argue. it walks me to the mirror and spits on the glass. i tell it to fuck off and i fill my lungs to push it away. but it tells me i look fat and the skin suit snaps back on the exhale. the skin suit and i fall in love with someone else. it likes to be touched, apparently. we vibrate together thrumming, alive. endless percussion in the soundtrack of this enamor, heart beating against the skin suit until i think it will burst open, oozing sticky sweet and red onto the floor. Stella Lapidus ‘22
Frankie Komar ‘22 26
Lea Wong ‘21 27
Child of the Americas I am a child of the Americas. The child of an immigrant and an American. The child of those who are usually unwanted. I am both Spanish and Black. I am the child of an immigrant. Learning both Spanish and English as my first language. With rolling rs and strange sounding ñs. In my household one can only hear Spanish words. I am the child of La Pereda.1 Of the antique house with pictures of los bisabuelos and family crests.2 With an old kitchen stove from which, during the winter time, one can hear the screams of the fire. Even though it is far away from America, it still feels like home. I am the child of warm, flavorful, amazing lentejas and garbanzos, which on freezing winter nights fill me with joy.3 Of delicious empanadillas made by Mamá on Saturdays, right before dance class.4 I am the child of a Spanish immigrant. I am the child of an American. Of the slaves brought over from Africa. Of those who were hung from trees. Of those who weren’t allowed on the white side of the pool. I am the child of warm, melted mac’n cheese, collard greens, and sweet apple pies with ice cream. Of bacon bright and early on Sunday mornings. I am the child of Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday playing from the speakers in the living room. Of hearing smooth jazz as I eat home-cooked meals. I am the child of a Black American. I am a child of America’s most unwanted. But I’m also the child of those who built this nation and the black slaves who constructed its buildings. Of immigrants who brought their culture across the oceans. I am a child of the melting pot. Of the land which belongs to everyone. Of the country where freedom is the main principle. I am the child of the Americas. Nathalie Pridgen ‘22 Las Pereda: a small village in Asturias, Spain. Los bisabuelos: great-grandparents. 3 Lentejas: lentil soup native to Spain; garbanzos: chickpea soup native to Spain. 4 Empanadillas: empanadas. 1 2
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Sound Advice From a Young Child I think you understand the situation when your guardian or parent tells you to come right when you are having so much fun that you don’t. You disobey, they get mad, but you do not understand that they were calling you because of something serious. Well, I am warning you now, I have learned my lesson with the story I am going to tell you now... It all happened on a warm Saturday afternoon when my twin sister, Lucie, my little brother (8 months old), Gabriel, my mom and I were in Prospect Park. We decided to sit in the cool shade of a giant tree. My sister and I were two-years-old and we were wandering around, minding our own business, and making “food” out of leaves while my mom watched us. We were all happy, the weather was perfect, my sister and I were not fighting, Gabriel was resting. Suddenly, my mom called us back briskly: “Lucie, Elise come here.” I didn’t want to move or go home because I was having such a great time! I didn’t bother to move. I knew my mom didn’t feel scared but wanted us next to her. My sister, Lucie came back taking her time, calling me to come and join her: “Come, Elise, I am going to be soooooo bored without you!” But I continued to play, talking to my twin as if she was still there. My mom sat straight up and I knew she was a little more worried when she called me a second time a little harsher and a little louder. I didn’t pay attention to my mom even though I knew it wasn’t going to end well. Either I would be punished or I would be scolded, but what happened next didn’t even occur to me. My mom panicked but couldn’t leave my sister and brother alone. Anyways, it was too late. My mom couldn’t leave my brother alone because he was a baby and it would have been too dangerous if my mom interfered with the baby in her hand. A drunk man walked unsteadily toward me, he had a blank look, he was young, about in his twen-
ties, it was clear he did not know what he was doing, and suddenly, it all became a blur as the pain-filled my head. I felt the wet cool grass from the night before, the warm sun hit my face and before I knew it, I was screeching at the top of my lungs. It was a horrible scene (I think). This drunk man had kicked me right in the face. You read it, he kicked me right in the face, he really did not miss me. I later guessed that he thought I was a ball and wanted to kick me. Drunk people can do very stupid things. While I was screeching my head started aching and I was getting tired but the pain would not stop… Tears gushed out of my eyes without stopping, my scream was pitiful and could have broken someone’s eardrum! I soon heard police sirens coming nearer and nearer. My mom had called the police! I saw my mom panicking like she had never panicked before. “My daughter! My daughter! What have you done to my daughter, you crazy man?!” The police arrived seconds later, running out of the car. The policeman came and looked at me, a ball of blood, with a horrified look, and without hesitating handcuffed the drunk man and quickly pushed him into the police car. From the outside of the car my mom heard the drunk man say: “You got some alcohol ‘cause me is thirsty.” My mom told me that later. The police just drove away. I don’t know what happened to him, but I was immediately brought to the doctor. They said I was fine but my lip would be swollen for a while. After a few days, my lip healed quickly, thankfully. I think you now understand that if your parent or guardian tells you to come, you should just do it. It might be a bummer at first to leave the park or the playground, but trust me, it is way better than getting kicked in the face by someone, especially if he is drunk. I want you to think about this story when you don’t want to leave the place you are at because you are having so much fun, because if you think about this story you will run to your parents or guardians. Just remind yourself, the situation could have been way worse. The End! Elise van Kwawegen ‘27
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On The Line
Jake Srebnick ‘21 30
Cleansing (excerpt) She walked to the sink and washed her face with milk, she grabbed her daisy-white toothbrush and scrubbed it against her plaque-riddled teeth. She washed her mouth again with milk and put her toothbrush in the trash. She unfolded the white handkerchief she kept by her bed and took the milky-white comb and ran it through her dry, crunchy platinum hair. She checked the schedule, replenishing. She dug her toes into the smooth sand and slid toward the flowy, dusty, white curtains. She spread them open, revealing an open field of cotton, daisies, and iceberg roses. Row after row of white, all the kids were always drowning in a sea of ivory. She inhaled the crisp scent of the roses and daisies which transported her into a realm of calm. She was floating. A cloud engulfed her, suffocating her senses, she spread her arms and looked up to the fast-approaching blueless sky. She craved a soft kiss on her virgin lips.
Isabel Mina ‘22 31
A hand gently cupped her shoulder bringing her back down to La Maison. It was Papa. He spun her around and took her by the waist, holding her in his arms. Her bare breast touched his cotton T-shirt, which reeked of sweat. She leaned into him as he held them together; this was her home and he was her father. He took a whiff of her scalp and smelled the coconut oil. He burrowed his nose deeper in her hair until the smell of bleach finally came through. The intoxicating mix of coconut and poison aroused him. He held onto her waist tightly until he felt it come alive below his waist. He pushed her away gracefully, wishing her a blessed and pleasant day. He walked briskly to La Grande Chambre and dunked his head under the everflowing stream of ice-cold milk. His excitement quenched. Leila Narrisetti ‘20
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Kate Marriott ‘21 33
Two Neighbors
Two neighbors Exchanging words thoughts feelings The air as tense as The cling of the sun to the edge of the earth Two neighbors Rambling on and on As if nothing Is wrong
But something is
Two neighbors Talking About something That was once a word
But has now taken over their lives Two neighbors Talking Words going through one ear And out the other As if they were never said Two neighbors Wishing Hoping Praying For this all to be over Like their life depends on it Because it does Clementine Morlock ‘26
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Simone Menard-Irvine ‘21 36
G I R L
P R I N T
Isabel Mina ‘22
Silence From the Inside (excerpt) My head whips around and around. I smile wider as I catch a glimpse of the crowd members’ faces. They smile toward me, but I can see the fear in their eyes. A scuffle, a crack, a gunshot. We are all waiting, all holding our breath for something to happen. For us to get caught. You see, the German soldiers have been patrolling more frequently. It is more dangerous now, and the stakes are higher if you are caught. The words, told as a whisper, echo across the room: You need to be more careful. I dip. My hand sweeps the floor. It is a rich mahogany color. The house smells like wealth. We are lucky to have the owner as a supporter of the cause. He was able to fit more people than we usually can at our performances. More people, more money. Hold your leg higher in the air. It will hurt, but you will learn to need this feeling. The release when you drop it. The unraveling of the shoes just to put them back on the next day. The broken and battered feet all for the perfect pointe. It is the illusion
of beauty that belies true beauty. You cannot just pretend, but you need to feel it and be it. Your beauty and grace will give you fame.
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The sky is beautiful Heaven for me Ah sì, Ah... sì The music begins to slow down, but my heart is still beating faster and faster. It is coming toward the end yet I don’t want it to stop. I am dizzy but the adrenaline pushes me forward. I leap and twirl. There is a noise from outside of the house. It silences the room, killing the liveliness, but she can’t stop. She wades through the room, so thick and murky with fear. The song finally ends, and she slows to a stop. She stands there, on her toes, panting in the middle of the room. It is her best performance yet. No one dares to clap. Audrey Taplitz ‘21
Truly Never Here, Truly Never Gone Charlotte Reiser ‘24
Central Park The mammoth trees Send their emerald-laden branches High into the summer breeze All around City is forgotten Nature takes its place Green surrounds The forest fills with sounds John Dean ‘26 38
Cambodia The fields and trees Taken over by invaders Tall building and casinos Blocking the spectacular views Jobs not even made for the native The majority of the indigenous not able to partake Money runs the world Rich getting richer Poor getting poorer Corruption was and still is
Cambodia Otherwise known as Kampuchea To its people The people Though they may be poor Are the nicest human beings you will ever meet Some may say they have hate inside Maybe But they certainly don’t show it They are kind to all Foreigners and not Just trying to make a living Just trying to move on from the past
The Present Me Sitting in the lobby of what used to be a magnificent hotel Now a rundown mess I have seen this place Called Cambodia Or Kampuchea to its people I have seen its wealthy islands And its dirty back alleyways I have seen its broken bones And its slow recovery I have seen its trash-filled ponds Its pot holes Its starving cows But I have also come to know its indescribable people Its cute boys Its open heart Its devotion to individuals And to being one
The past Hard to forget But they are trying to move on For OVER two million people perished At the hands of their own The survivor still trying to understand His heartbreaking ordeal Their country is no longer red But blue for the beautiful rivers and skies Green for the gorgeous fields and trees
I have come to love Cambodia Sadie Sadler ‘22
Eli Harrell ‘20 39
The sea is a funny thing. Teeming with life, so deep and wide and full of color. Colossal whales and tiny minnows, starfish and dolphins. Too many species to count. Somehow, in the great oceans that cover the world, they coexist. They recreate. They carry on their kind and create more and more of themselves to fill the seas, and it’s been that way since the dawn of time. Margaret often thought of this as she waited for the kettle to fill with water in the sink, peering out of the kitchen window and watching the cold waves lap onto the pale rocks on the beach. This morning was no different from every morning since they had moved into the house. Everything was the same as it had always been, except that the light blue wallpaper that coated the walls had peeled slightly more at the corners, sagging with the weight of time. The kettle quietly whistled. Margaret heard the old red stairs creak behind her.
“Morning, Maggie,” said George as he kissed her on the cheek. “Morning, George. Busy day?” Margaret replied. “Not too bad, I don’t think,” George said as Margaret sat his toast and tea on the table. George opened the newspaper. She sat beside him. Things were sometimes tense between the two since the note had come back from the doctor earlier that year. This tension worried Margaret, but she reminded herself that George loved her very much, despite their inabilities, and that they’d figure something out. Margaret and George were not unlike any other young, newly wedded couple. They moved into an old house that was now their new house. They were building a life together, piece by piece. Maddie Gunnell ‘20
Boy from the Sea
Ella and Herself Georgia Groome ‘21 40
I Believe Time Stood Still So I Could Get To You
That was me before the tide, before all the shooting stars sprinkled me with the fine dust of wishes; losing time, today felt eternal, I count on fingers all the times you let me fall apart. Through my lashes, and hair that falls into my eyes, I see the emerald curve of your jawbone your corduroy hands, I want to immortalize you in marble. Time. I chew it up and spit it out so that I can write a poem with words you never said and eyes that could tell the future; Time: It webs together, deceiving glimpses of daily simplicity, and pretends there is virtue in the mundane; plays the same type of memory until the record scratches; gets distracted by the moon and field grass; Time sees summer in the winter. He is dauntless in the chamber of revision, he is the same boy, only better. Some people, they appear on the face of multiple different solar systems, constant through the continuum, floating along sunburnt deserts and South Dakota winds, touching the top of the universe with the tip of their tongue. Time sensitive; I’ve bleached out years of my adolescence to mystify the reality of existence, to confuse the few memories I still keep on me. I took a photo on a plane, 41
to mark my ascent into transcendence, and still to most, I look like I communicate with the dead. I saw some guy hop a turnstile to the other side of paradise, while I sit on mildew stairs covered in prehistoric dust and stare at paintings of ancient eternity until my eyes cross out the color blue. Searching for a holier land, I ask the ghosts in my closet how to let go of regret, then I slip under the cracks in my floor and find the caves of blooming vitality. A glittering string of forever and the future weaves around the edges of my arms, legs, and torso. In the dead language of proverbs and burgundy, I speak to the gods about my effervescent mortality, but after washing my hair in ambrosia and nectar, it turns out you are my constant decay. Simone Menard-Irvine ‘21
Kindergarten Self Portraits 42
Sunlight on the Metro-North The windows are thick on the Metro North train, like an airplane’s, only worse because the world outside is not endless sky, but that which you know. You’re in a cocoon, alone on the sticky red and cream seat, accompanied only by your backpack and a meager duffle with sweatpants and a toothbrush and a baby-blue sweater. Sometimes they’re comforting and sometimes they’re sad, these windows. Sometimes they protect you from all that is painful, all that has broken you and all that you have broken, and sometimes they divorce you from all that is good. You can see the sun’s rays while sitting in the luke-warm car of the Metro North. They flicker on the speckled floor, and if you’re riding at dusk the whole train loses its honeyed hue as melting butter does its form. But you can’t feel the beams, for the windows are too thick and the train is too isolated, a lonely body traveling through a disinterested planet of tree-lined tracks. The sun is there, you know it, but who is to say your eyes aren’t deceiving you? Maybe the distorted trapezoids of light are mere illusions, a trick you’re playing on yourself to remember that the Earth is still real even though you are not in it, even though you are spinning in a different orbit, that of trains and tracks and the wispy man sitting to your left. Your railroad brain ignores the pillars of discipline you have so expertly built, the ones whose durable marble gleams and whose bodies guard each chamber of your heart against those who dare to break that precious organ. But on the Metro North these columns crumble, pulverized by the compounded strength of that from which they have protected you. It’s sorrowful, this Metro North version of you. It’s been wounded by the apathy of boys and pierced by the sharp words of girls and you know it only now, only here in this rectangular prism of recirculating air. And just when your brain begins to unravel, when you’re about to allow yourself the luxury of feeling, you are at your stop, you are gathering your 43
duffle, you are ungluing your thighs from the leather. The pillars grow once again, you feel them. They harden against your delicate chest as you feel the compassionate (or is it cruel?) warmth of the sun. Alice Tecotzky ‘20
Silhouettes Kate Marriott, ‘21 44
Maps With lakes and valleys Fields and villages Rivers Houses Grasslands Even horrible places Where demons shelter Rocky steep hills Raging storms Lightning Thunder
Unknown ‘26 But there are also places with happiness too Where angels dwell And sheep sleep happily in the sun Kind deeds Sunny fields And Peace Evelyn Yang ‘27
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What I Love About Fall I love fall. Wherever you go outside in fall, the air is cool and crisp, and it smells like the country, even when you’re in the city. Some days in fall, I look up and let the cool breeze gently move over my face, and it’s more refreshing than diving into a cold lake. Fall is really pretty. Sometimes, I look outside my window and I see red and gold leaves slowly drifting down like the sky is throwing its own special party, and that’s how I know fall is here. Whenever I think of fall, I think of Goldilocks and her porridge because fall is perfect, not too hot, not too cold. It’s just like spring except it feels more alive, and the colors are more vibrant and the wind is stronger. Fall feels special and secret, like the sky is leaning down and whispering in my ear, like you’re the only one who knows it’s there, and maybe you are. Sometimes I wonder: Do other people stop to smell the fresh air, and feel thankful that fall is here? Do other people wonder why the leaves change and imagine that fire falling from the sky makes leaves change color? Or is it only me who looks forward to watching the leaves slowly drift down from the trees peacefully? Do others feel sad that fall is over? I will never know why fall has to end, but I think when it does, it doesn’t go down without a fight. Sometimes I get impatient when I try to see how long it takes the leaves to fall off a tree, or when I’m already thinking ahead to next year’s fall, and what happens then, and mentally cheer, “Go fall, just stay for a few more days, you can do it!” and I hope other people are as thankful for fall as I am. Alexandra Masella ‘27
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Nature Though my feet are small Underneath the canopy They fill the big shoes.
Apple Diamond ‘22
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Ch Fra ampi nki ons eK oma r ‘2
2
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Rosemary Sun Lila Wallace ‘25
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Pollen I miss when pollen fell in my hair Even when I would sneeze And wheeze As a breeze of allergies blew over me And I miss how it felt brushing it out of my hair The blossom filled trees comforted me as the weight of my doubt got Heavier And heavier The sunny day would blanket my worries like a cloak And they went away For just a moment But when that pollen fell in my hair I fell farther back into reality Because even the things you miss Remind you of the things that you’re trying to escape Safiya Lunat ‘26
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Darkest Beauties
Flowers Amy Liu ‘25
Violet 51
Rose
Orange Wither 52
Fainting Spells No one dares speak. For that, Would hurt the silence. This is how the boy liked it. Trees afar, Horizon nowhere to be seen. The sad, burnt hill Cast its gloomy fog. Yes, trees But some shy of leaves. Some are no more than dull points in the distance With a lack of iridescence. The negligent road Never had visitors. The boy felt loneliness, But the road felt it more. A day you can imagine; Dense air, Fearful sun, Tranquil clouds. This is how the boy liked it. Julien Perra ‘26
Fog Light Aidan Jelveh ‘20 53
Self-Portrait Noble Leslie ‘32 54
Crash Into Me (excerpt) A gentle roar echoed through the tunnel announcing the approach of the R train to the girl. Golden orbs and a subtle rumble beneath her feet confirmed its arrival, and she took a step back from the ledge in preparation for the approaching subway. Looking down, she aligned her black peep-toe Louboutin heels with the edge of the yellow lines. She admired the glistening of their skin, reminded of her twenty-first birthday when her father had gifted them to her. Now twenty-four, her closet contained a multitude of designer handbags, clothes, and accessories, the majority of which she hadn’t worn for nearly three months. “Please stand clear of the closing doors.” Fuck. She stepped on the train just as the doors closed behind her, nearly swiping the edges of her leather jacket in their jaws. It was 10 p.m. on a Monday, and seeing as this was the R train, she had expected no one to be with her at this time of night. But, as she slumped down in a row of seats,
she noticed a man sitting across the aisle. … th “49 street.” The echoing voice pulled him out of his deep thought, and he watched as the train began to pull into the station. From the flashes of platform he could see through the window, the station seemed like a ghost land. Good. He leaned against the railings of the bench, and rested his eyes, falling back asleep to the monotonous sound of the train doors opening and closing. Silence. Except, not quite. A gentle tapping against the train floor revealed that he was no longer alone in his tranquil heaven. Opening one eye, he saw a fashionably dressed woman in too-high heels and an overly-expensive jacket sitting down across from him, slouched into the seat. She turned to look at him with furrowed brows, and with that, he shut his eyes and attempted to resume his nap. Hannah Jatsch ‘20 55
Jake Srebnick ‘21
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13% 13%. Yes, I am part of the 13%. 13% of the country, yet larger in presence, An overwhelming journey, but one that will lead to my essence, Nagging notions lashing loudly at the back of my head, How do others perceive me? Can’t be too “black” here, Can’t be too “white” there.
Left to brace for the quotidian surge of anxiety that crashes over you, Before that train ride transports you to an entirely different world, A world where you can’t see your culture, with A magnetic, suffering compulsion to be a different you, with A continuously clinging fear of others’ perceptions of you,
Who are you even living life for? Of course, you can’t act a race, An arduous eighteen year voyage that continues to But those stereotypes drive how you carry yourself, wind and twist, How you see yourself, Beginning to guide you to the unearthing of who How you are yourself, you really are, But what is yourself ? But no matter who you are, Do you even have a self ? You are part of the 13%, Or are you simply the self that pleases others the And for all of the pain, tragedy, jubilance, and most? celebration, You love your race and your Caribbean culture, The culture you experience for a flash each time you step out into the world, Justin Joseph ‘20 Savory, succulent scents of jerk chicken and doubles swinging through the sky, Harmonious, honeyed sounds of Cliff and Marley that synthesize, Creating a golden air of warmth that never fails to be realized. These are experiences that have molded you, Offered the much-needed clues to locate your truest self. Then you swipe that smooth, white and lime, polyester MetroCard, Step onto the faded, blackish-yellow subway platform and gaze outward, Prior to Enclosing yourself in that metallic machine of movement. As time freezes while you take shelter on that hard yet comforting baby blue bench, 57
You love it.
Eli Harrell ‘20 58
Jake Srebnick ‘21
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You Meet Adulthood in a Subway Car you now remember. It pains you to remember. A nebulous cloud of feeling (you never learned to name sadness) detonates, blades of glass that prick your wan skin from within, a new cut with each uninhibited smile from the girl. No, this cannot be Saturday. Weekend’s prime night and life’s prime year and you feel that selfhood’s music has already changed? Already things are not so simple?
glass. Windchimes resound in the train car; resonant of brokenness, the sonorous shards’ music.
Eighteen is a September day that whispers of fall, a first migrating bird, these chimes, this music. It is the sorrow of the subway, the wrong emotion elicited from seeing a dad and his girl. In each arm, delicate liquid freezes, caught in an impossible place. The heart now pumps glass, and no longer is the magic of your functional body simple. Your translucent lungs choke on Or maybe they are simple. the magnificent burden of the Or maybe they never were, beEight p.m. on a Saturday. word remember cause the complications of six You see a young girl, you choose not to remember. and hack up the remnants of sixmaybe six, sitting with her dad, year-old Saturdays. enamored with the ads that, Your cochlea is still swaddled in music to worn-in pupils, seem simbut slowly that, too, fossilizes into And now, as if it’s simple, even ple. easy, they leave. Music changglass, Irises meet, golden-flecked hazel es and then swells and then the entire Cranial Nervous Sysand mosaiced cerulean, as stops tem too fragile for a Saturday, eyes shimmer, now glass. and nobody to blame but the girl. as your inanimate eyes peer inward, looking for a young On your way to friends, to joy, to girl. Remember, it’s Sacred She doesn’t even look like you, clear liquid in a clear glass, Saturday. this girl— because that has become the hair too light and limbs too long An explosion echoes. Organs fly. meaning of a Sacred SaturBits of glass litter the floor of but somehow she seems imday. the subway car. portant. Really it’s simple. And, you hope, the evening will You miss her version of Saturday, feel simple, will be one of senseless surrender ones free of recollection because Alice Tecotzky ‘20 you had not lived enough to to eighteen’s music. have moments to remember. But a giggle, lilting and heedless Throat hardens, legs too, and it’s and coveted and cruel, flies growing, exponentially growfrom the girl. ing, this part of you that’s The wings of childhood; those 60
Warped Aidan Jelveh ‘20 61
Response to Painting, “Midsummer Night In Harlem” by Palmer Hayden Gray streets haunted by stormy clouds, Moonlight peeking through. Sweat glistened along the sidewalk as a car drove by. The bellow of the engine and the roar of the occupants were drowned out by the teeming avenue. Stairs crowded with human bodies, but no one complained. White smiles were vibrant alongside honey brown skin. Shadows cast by tall buildings, The dark streets filled with the light of laughter. Dylan Ng ‘20
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Ruby Harris ‘20
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Louise de Marais’ diary, 1789–1794 (excerpt) With one foot out the door of my old dormitory, my eyes chanced upon a small volume tucked below an undusted nightstand between my former bed and Annette’s. Inside the front cover, I found my slightly-smudged name. In years past, I kept a diary to organize my thoughts and ramblings, but have recently been far too busy to continue. These entries still cleave firmly to my memory. septembre 20, 1793. vendredi. Today marks the first anniversary of France proving victorious over the Austrians at Valmy— our march of liberty has so recently begun, and shall not end until every man and woman is free! Here is a secret of mine: I yearn to return to the old theatres and their classic works. In spite, I must now proclaim my allegiance to the tricolor despite finding no joy in the propaganda, or theatre, as the Revolutionaries call it. My attendance at an old theatre could even cast a shadow of suspicion over myself, Madame, and Monsieur—it’s not worth the risk. Privately, I’ve heard the two make remarks which one might consider suspicious in the Revolutionary sense. “On one hand,” said Monsieur, “if it weren’t for the revolution, Pierre would’ve never been promoted to commander.” He glanced to the right, nervously. “But on the other, I don’t feel—how must I put this—as free as I was promised.” To this, Madame responded: “The Convention seems to arrest whomever they please…it’s no different from a lettre de cachet.” She rested her head on her hand. No wonder I’d been cooking without end every Friday. Just as I’ve left the kitchen, it seems that another flute is in dire need of champagne, another goblet of Bordeaux, and another mug of coffee— all at the same time. Voices rise and fall in incredible proportion through every room of the house, and it seems as though the windows might come crashing down. I believe these gatherings are nothing more than a show to please the more extreme sorts roaming the streets outside. In the kitchen we discussed,
or rather talked about, a somewhat different aspect of the Revolution. Jean-Philippe and Annette overthink things like Madame and Monsieur, but I’m more practical. “Every day that passes, the Convention strays further their promises. The executions are no different from the Old Regime’s arrests without cause!” said either Jean-Philippe or Annette, excitedly. “But have the streets not become safer?” I responded. “Because I certainly have. The Convention is simply making small steps toward liberty. Just wait.” “Touché,” Annette conceded, “The market has gotten fairer—the last time I was swindled was maybe a year ago.” I, perhaps too quickly, interjected, “It’s all because of Robespierre!” juillet 28, 1794. lundi. Dark clouds hang low over France today. Dawn broke for a moment, but the sun was just as quickly hidden. I don’t know what to make of it all—why must an era end so prematurely? I pump and pump the washroom’s rusted tap, but water only streams from the corners of my eyes. How could I have ever believed this was right? Robespierre kept the peace, but guess I never considered how he kept it—was I too cruel? Execution is wrong. No—if the trial is fair, and the arrest not arbitrary, it can be right. It must be right to keep up the general good in exchange for a few traitors. Alas, I do not know what is right and I do not know whether I was wrong. As a light rain washes the street’s cobbles of blood, the stench of death retreats to the riverbanks. France is yet unhealed. Those days were the best, and they were the worst. But I have other things to attend to now, for Madame and Monsieur’s dinner will not cook itself. A pot has just boiled over.
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Eli Harrell ‘20
In Color, a series Pia Haider-Bierer ‘25 65
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The Serve Boom! The yellow, peach-fuzzy ball Ricochets to the other side With one simple movement Hits the Roland-Garros red clay Bang! Ace! 15-Love! Exaltation Relief Joy Love Jackson Grace ‘26
Moxi Bea Becker ‘25 67
I Can Distinctly Remember I can distinctly remember The squelching of my boots In the muck, mud, and more I can distinctly remember Lightly b your ear e g n n di Just enough so that it could fit into your halter
I can distinctly remember Deciding that you were the one I was going to lease, and that moment of pure delight. That, I can distinctly remmember Amelie Woodstone ‘26
I can distinctly remember Wanting to put a red ribbon on that tail of yours: “Stay away; this horse kicks” Or at least you had tried to I can distinctly remember Cantering by Stella in her field I know that she wanted to come too
After the Snow Settled James Wilding ‘25
I can distinctly remember When you ran down that hill on the way back But that wasn’t right I turned you around And had you go down it again I can distinctly remember Knowing that I could picture myself galloping and cantering along the edge of a hill, With the sun blazing down I can distinctly remember At the beginning, When we were trotting along as peacefully as a butterfly resting on a flower But then you were the start of a roller coaster that moment of whiplash Jumping over that stream That moment of whiplash Shouldn’t have actually been there But it was so exhilarating I wanted to go again and again and again 68
All The Puddles Everywhere (excerpt) “Agnes. It’s time.” Agnes opened her eyes, only to find Eli hovering over her, one hand on each of her arms, shaking her. “Eli, it’s a Sunday, Paul’s probably isn’t even open.” She moaned and turned to the other side of the bed. Eli jumped on her, flipped her on her back, and held her wrists down on either side of her head. “We both know that’s not true, Nessie. Come on! Let’s go! It’s a beautiful day!” He jumped to his feet on the bed with Anges pinned between his legs. He bounced up and down while chanting, “Rise and shine!” Agnes began to laugh and Eli hopped back down next to her and tickled her. They became so totally consumed in a giggling fit that they were soon gasping for air. But Agnes quickly snapped out
of her laughter, sat up, and (very seriously) snarled, “Eli,” in a shrill voice. His face melted at her tone and he sat up too. “I was just kidding, Nessie. I’m sorry I-” Agnes shrugged and fastened her bed-head hair behind her ears. “Look, Eli, this is serious business. There’s no time to talk, let alone to be sorry. Who do you think you are tickling me when we have a haircut to get to and pancakes at the diner to eat afterward?” Eli shone his brilliant smile, the one where you could see the skinny gap between his front teeth, once he realized Agnes was kidding. He leaned over, kissed her forehead, and quickly dismounted the bed. “You’re right. There’s no time to waste.” He grabbed his shoes and ran out of the front door, leaving Agnes, shrouded in a jersey-gray duvet pulled up to her nose—only her messy hair and green eyes exposed—smiling underneath the covers. She peeled the bedding away, threw a pair of pants on, and raced out of the door where she jumped on Eli’s
Reflection Jake Srebnick ‘21 69
back. He carried her like this all the way to the Marcus realized, in one way or another. And to barber shop, both of them barely awake, fully forget about him? The love? The loveliness of the being in love? Empathy sparkled wet in his alive. eyes. Paul grabbed Agnes’ hand. “This part though, Paul, I’m not sure if you “When we stumbled through these here doors, know.” Agnes interrupted with forced cheer. you would say: ‘Agnes and Eli’...” “You weren’t the only one to cut his hair! I “Eli and Agnes.” Paul grinned and turned to remember, you would always talk to him while Marcus. “You would never know a happier coucutting his hair. I would watch your smiles from ple existed.” And then to Agnes: “What was it afar. I would wonder what you two were saying. like, Agnes, being so madly in love?” “The only thing hazardous about being in love Perhaps something like ‘Paul…’” is its inexplicable profoundness; it completely consumed me. It wasn’t just emptiness when I Georgia Groome ‘21 lost him, it was as if my entire life was a carpet pulled from underneath me. The love itself was magical… he was my everything. No kind of love is dangerous, only the aftermath.” Marcus tore his eyes away from his grandmother. It was as if Eli was there with her, somewhere behind her, hugging her tightly. He was always with her,
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Red Scarf Ruby Kopel ‘20
The Strangest Feeling A few years ago In Sag Harbor I got into a fight with my brother He shoved me into the pool The water was rude, grabbing me ~S P L A S H~ My clothes were soaked I could hear my brother cackling The screen door opened I climbed out of the pool One parent took me upstairs, The other staying to push my brother in the pool
D R I
P The water fell My mom wrapped me in a towel I got into bed And I sat there Somehow I was as cozy as I’d ever been. It was perfect. Abby Glusker ‘26 71
Gone It only takes two words to change a world. To change my world. It takes shards of a mug from where you dropped it, coffee grounds on the ground. It takes a duffle bag slammed on the kitchen counter. It takes the omelet that I left burning on the stove. It takes high heeled boots and dry eyes and stiff lips when you say it. I’m leaving.
What are you leaving? The mess on the kitchen floor? The old record player empty without your records? The back door wide open with the autumn air blowing in? The old house on the hill above the lake that they say is haunted?
The house on the hill is truly haunted now. Haunted by a ghost who watches from the windows, who never sweeps the lawn, who cries long into the winter nights. Who writes unaddressed letters ink smudged with tears words illegible.
Because you’re not leaving me. There isn’t enough of me left.
And you might have two words, but I only have one.
It only takes two words to change a world. To change my world.
Gone. Ariela Lowenstein ‘24
Pilar Bylinsky ‘20 72
Expectations That looks too tight on you, they always said. You’re getting too fat. That looks too loose on you, they always said. You’re getting too skinny. When I didn’t get the extra credit,
they’d shake their heads. When I didn’t score the point, they’d scold me. When I didn’t smile bright enough, they’d resent me. When I didn’t wear the right thing, they’d punish me. Expectations,
They make me crumble. Expectations, They make me cry. Expectations, They make me helpless. I’m never enoughI’m never enoughThey always say, that I’m never enough. Caroline Farley ‘25
Masked Pia Haider-Bierer ‘25
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Unknown ‘25
As you rung us out. While water dripped down from my hair. Before you hung us out to dry. Since the air was brisk. If the grass was wet. As we soaked it in. While blowing carelessly in the wind. After thinking mindless thoughts. If our ideas went dry.
While hung out on this line. As leaves blow through the air. When the colors fade away. Before the dripping comes to an end. If our time was the last droplet about to fall. While there is a peacefulness here. When the silence becomes lonely If we will ever leave this line
As the days grow dark and gloomy. After we’ve been hung up. Before we’re fully drained. As the last drop falls. While the wind blows us dry. When we hang here still. Out on the laundry line. Lark Nguyen-Hughes ‘25
You Hung Me Out To Dry
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The Subway’s Song I used to go Down dirty stairs Swipe the card AGAIN Beeps the turnstile People swarm around Left right down shoes clack Phones buzz and trill Down on the platform Shining screens Declare the time The trumpet Sings a solemn tune
A wind ruffles hair and carries hats A rumble comes from in the dark The subway is here! Doors ping open People shuffle in and out Ads sell items no one wants But now The subway’s song is silent Only the rat will try to listen
John Dean ‘26
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The Alleyway Scarlett Kuit ‘26 76
Elizabeth Deegan ‘20
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Warm Covers and Cold Feet You asked me in the car a couple weeks ago if I ever missed the way things were when I was a little boy. Lets race from the trash disposal down the hallway I take off and don’t even look behind me. Wild legs and I’m pumping my arms as fast as I can. I reach out and smash the wall with glee as mommy is right behind me. She’s picking me up and telling me how fast I am. Usain Bolt takes off. My mother on her feet. She’s screaming, I’m jumping. The pride in her eyes as she looks from the TV to me and how her Jamaica can exist in two perfectly unstoppable packages.
wasn’t for me, I always struck out, but you made me feel like I was the king of my small world. Hot days dipping our french fries in our icies and walks to the purple, orange and green playgrounds life was defined by smiles and jokes only we would get. Days spent in the car telling each other we’d sell the other one for a penny or a slice of cheese dissolving into giggles and pokes as I show you my love. The early morning drives to Delaware where I would pack my portable movie player and you’d pack the food. Doe, a deer, a female deer, ray a drop of golden sun. Yes, I do.
Can I sleep with you tonight? A question I knew the answer to but loved to ask. A bed big enough for us two and you were always grateful for the partner. Warm covers and cold feet, latching on to the soft core of my small world. I don’t think it can get better than this. Can you tell me a story? It had to be a new one. Tell me the story of the orange tree and Uncle Ba running away from home on the train with his comics. I begged you to teach me how to speak like you, I wanted to sound like you. I hated being the odd one out but it never really came to me. A glimpse into the world of my idol. My mother’s past is my fantasy and oh the things I would give to live in it. Sunday mornings spent watching Anaconda and Lost and spring nights listening to the radio as we wait for daddy to come home. As I wait for daddy to come home. “Let’s go Blay-er WE NEED A HIT!” You and the rest of the team cheer me on as I make my way to the plate. My biggest fan. Baseball 78
Blair Chase ‘20
The Best Day Ever wacht a moive. The moive was called Parant Trap. next it was a rally good moive. Then it was my sixth time waching it. I wanted to wach another moive. But my mom was to tird to wach another moive so we didn’t. So i askt my dad but he was also to tird. After that he said no too. Then we got osme brackfist at th bufet. Later we got some drinks next whent upstairs to our room. Then we changd into our bathing sutes and whent swimming.
Once we whent to Colrodo Springs. First we unpackt in the Hotel room. After that we put some stuf in the closit. Then we whent horseback rideing. After that my mom got scard when we whent on the clif. Next my horse was named Aztar. My mom’s horse was named Rose. my dad’s horse was named Samsung. My sister’s horse was named Spearit. My sister was the only one who had the same horse two years in a rowe. Everybodey got to ride there own horse but someone helpt me ride my horse faster. Then we had so much fun. Next we drove back to our hotel room and we whent to sleep. Later we
Perrier Diego Lowe ‘25 79
Daniel Elkind ‘30
Charlotte Reiser ‘24
Things to do in a Laundry Machine Think about why you are in a laundry machine. Ponder the meaning of life. Sing at the top of your lungs. Taste laundry detergent. Have a fashion show using all the dirty clothes of your family. Try to make yourself into different shapes. Sleep. Eat the candy that just happens to be in someone’s pocket. Swim in the beautiful soapy water. Make yourself facial hair out of soap suds. Make yourself a hammock out of tee shirts. Call your Mom. Be grateful to have an excuse to not shower. Have conversations with imaginary people, and then try to convince 80
yourself that you are not going insane and you are simply bored out of your mind. Scream as loud as you want. Don’t eat vegetables. Make dolls out of old clothes. Give yourself a haircut using only your hands. Pretend to be a ghost and trick people who live in your house to give you whatever you want. Dream of life outside, the cool wind blowing your hair wild, running, running through the beautiful world we call Earth. Ella Mignatti ‘26
Avarice Holly Guion ‘24 81
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the little sister I am the little sister counting their footsteps like crushed candy
a hidden language is sewn into the back pages of my storybooks itching to reveal some sort of prophecy I obsess over words instead of sleep
I catch fireflies a mile a minute they shy away from the touch of smoked glass jars the ones that don’t react to the wisp of the lake
the princesses with creamcolored complexions and washed-out hair they tell me to be kind
tugging on strings of hair like cheese wrapped in the sticky plastic that the au pairs buy cause they’re cheaper by the dozen
“but they do not look like me,” I say holding back tears crinkling from my waterline I am the little sister I swear through increasingly panicked breaths I point to my obsidian colored hair and my skin that blends into the crease of the sand
I collapse within the skeleton I call mother collapse within the folds of my leftover baby skin I collapse against the mosaic of a Utah sky that shakes the stars and sips on my daydreams I do not think the lake is fun it’s like cool dragon breath melting off a protective jelly coating
I am the little sister now, breath.
the night seems to tug and tug at the man-made freckles that start to line my skin this time before summer solstice comes
Imogen Bylinsky ‘22 83
Puffin Diego Lowe ‘25 84
Starry Night The town was fast asleep, not a person in sight, The stars being the only source of light. The breeze swishing left and right, Spoosh Spash Spoosh Spash The moon looking like a perfect crescent, a light that’s fluorescent The tree blowing in the wind, pinned to the ground looking down at the town. The starry night, a masterpiece to your sight. Charlie Melman ‘26
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Malva Blåvarg ‘23
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I Have A Dream I have a dream...yay! I have a dream that I can grow up and live in a tree house with my Best friend. and I wish that we have a Better presitent and live in peace and have my kid! and that all the Animals are safe! and people Ban! Plastic bags! Celia Canellos ‘30
Aver y Stern, ‘22
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When Miss Rona Came to Town “Hello? Yes, what you’ve heard is true. Miss Rona is in town!” Mr. Rona put down the phone in a huff. His wife had tried many times before, but she had finally succeeded in running away from their island in the sky, hanging above Mr. Middle and Miss Kingdom’s domain.
Mr. Rona sighed and gazed out the thinly clouded window, out onto the green pastures of roses and rhododendrons and rodgersias and rosemary, all of which Mr. Rona remember Miss Rona painstakingly planting only a few hours after they settled down here. Mr. Rona lulled into a reverie of better days, of simpler days, flashes of sunshine clouding his vision, dotted with the bees and butterflies that came as soon as the flowers sprouted...
Oh shoot! Mr. Rona had forgotten to call Mr. PeoMr. Rona called Mr. World as soon as it happened, ple. He jerked awake and rushed to the phone. who said he would inform all the Mr. Governments “Come on…answer!” immediately. Pesky Rona, always too carefree, too fluid, too Mr. Rona anxiously dialed the number, but after a amorphous. Mr. Rona had fallen in love with her few rings, it went to voicemail. for precisely that reason. Her ability to infect every Mr. Rona dialed again—no response. And again— being in any room she stepped into with pure joy. no response. And again—no response! Rona was a free spirit, all right. Mr. Rona knew she would be nothing like Mr. World had ever seen be- It was too late. Miss Rona was already in town. fore. Pilar Bylinsky ‘20
Grace Warner-Hakmaat ‘20 88
Favorite Food Tense and awkward until brought to a boil They start to loosen up Like slithering snakes in a pool of marinara sauce Twisting and turning on my fork like the inside of a labyrinth It leaves stains on the corners of my mouth Malva Blåvarg ‘23
The Exquisite Risk Francisca Ammirati ‘25
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Snapper Ada Eagle ‘24
An Ecuadorian Market (excerpt) The people are all different. You see caramel, peach, chocolate-like skin colors. Brown, black, blonde hair, short and long. There are girls and boys, short and tall, young and old. Some wear beautiful dresses, Others wear sports jerseys. No two people look alike. When you look up, you see extraordinary mountains Amazement and astonishment fill your head Patches of lime green, hunter green, forest green, fill the face of the mountains. Birds soar elegantly above the trees into the blue sky, They soar higher and higher until they are out of sight.
You then find yourself indulged in the smell of spices and herbs. The strong smell of cinnamon and mint fill your nose. You come back to the world around you, and realize you’ve walked to a different section of the market. You look at the time and realize it’s getting late. You walk away wishing you had more time, And think to yourself… When you see goods of different shapes, People of different sizes, Mountains of different colors, Foods of different scents, You know you are in an Ecuadorian market. Sadie Sadler ‘22 90
I “Caught Feelings” I thought I’d be immune to your schmoozy smiles and well-practiced nods. The ridiculousness of your swaggering gait And the puppy dog expression That’s almost infallible. But when you looked at me, Eyes ablaze, Asking the question Your mouth would not— I knew it was hopeless. Birds flutter on branches Against cerulean sky. Is that a balloon floating toward the clouds? I wasn’t immune, And I don’t think anyone is, For feelings are not hard to catch. Violet Chernoff ‘21
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Amadi Wiliams ‘21 92
Boy of Gold From the time he was a boy, Aureliano Buendía— the boy of gold—knew he was destined for greatness. Though not as physically glorious as his brother José Arcadio, He was greater still.
reliano intertwined everyone with himself so that the fibers of his being were not only his own, fortifying his soul against the ice.
The ice was held off further by Remedios, the remedy for the cold, which Aureliano could only express “in poetry that had no beginning or end,” a language of love that transcended time itself. Remedios, the greatest wall between the icy solitude and the man it sought to inhabit, so awoke in AureBecause bodies can be built and broken, by force or liano a love against which the frost stood no chance. by age. But being a Buendía brings abomination with it, Bodies can be buried in the ground. and Remedios faced off against Aureliano’s blood But the mind, what it creates running through her veins and lost the battle, bringIs indestructible, immortal, ing down the main line of defense against the cold. Gold. Aureliano possessed a mind that could not be melt- From clairvoyant to Colonel, Aureliano had pushed ed, stronger than any man. off the frost with honor, with cause to help where he could and harm only when necessary. When his hand met the ice brought by the gypsies, though he did not recognize the cold, he began to But the war came and brought the ice with it. freeze. Slowly, bit by bit Aureliano allowed the cold to overThe ice crept over him slowly, but his extraordinary take him, for ice makes a far better weapon than mind ran circles around the frost, always keeping morality. the chill at bay, And he so became trapped under the thick shield And with every curiosity he investigated, every quest of ice which protected him from the war and let for knowledge he set out on, the cold shrank smaller himself be encased in the cold, and smaller, Because letting down the barriers of ice would renFought off by the small golden fish that swam der him defenseless. through his blood. And in times of war, defenseless is the worst thing The fish swimming through his bloodstream whispered in his mind all that which was unknown to all others and gave him knowledge beyond human possibility. His Sight, unhindered by physical limitations, sprang from the incessant swimming of the golden fish and graced him with access to the reservoir of future.
to be.
But the fish kept swimming inside him, under the surface, Unable to break through that impenetrable frost, That frozen solitude which “changed him into a stranger” from the boy who first touched the ice.
Built by Buendía blood, marked by Macondo, the Colonel’s soul collapsed under the weight of the The boy of gold had a mind that transcended hu- war, crumbled after the loss of his love, man knowledge and the heart of angels, Until every barrier separating his essence from the His intelligence rivaled only by his empathy, living ice had been brought down. others’ “experiences as something of his own,” Au93
So here stands Colonel Aureliano Buendía, Boy of gold, frozen over. Delia Barnett ‘20
Charlotte Agliata ‘21 94
Home
Caracas, 1975 Close your eyes, and Isabel might not be there when you open them, her teachers thought. Friendly smiles evaporating under the Mediterranean sun, waving goodbye never got easier for her, no matter how many times she had to. Home, too, was temporary, though its grand wooden table will remain intact until the end of time itself. Waking up to the same sunrise each morning, with the birds singing their same songs, and the flowers who know no frost, she was free from the unrelenting change which had forced everyone out. From this far away, home’s masculine authority held no sway—perhaps only as hands on another’s shoulder, accepting the push and pull of a lively joropo. Distance made everything clearer, as if her power was merely out of focus. Here, the words of today and yesterday flowed alongside one another. Letters from the distant south lofted up to her tropics, and sometimes made her gaze drop to the floor in a moment of melancholy. Rapidly her lines worked their way down and across her pages, and faster still, boxing up the itinerant souls of her fathers, brothers, cousins, and grandmothers. No longer did home exist only in abstract; it lived in the never-ending loop of each exquisite o, bound in the ink itself. If the Boom were truly a boom, then why were walls coming up, and not crumbling down? To this she objected, revealing blank pages for both halves of humanity to love and adorn with their truths. She continues to bushwhack the wilds of imagination, though never truly leaving her past behind. Eyes open, her gaze forward, Isabel might not be where you expect her most. Eli Harrell ‘20
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Sarah Thau ‘22
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The Sun Bea Becker ‘25
97
Brooklyn Bridge
I never got one though
But as you’re walking over the bridge The lights at night match the stars in the sky You hear the sounds of honking horns When I walk over it the smell of the water it re- Then you come back to life and you are sitting minds me of the beach In a car stuck in traffic I remember in second grade when I walked over it Then you close your eyes and imagine for the first time Yourself standing on the It was very long Brooklyn Bridge I like seeing all the people at the end selling Toys, magnets, and hats
Cole Pieck ‘26
Barber Ella Marriott ‘20 98
Bea Becker ‘25 99
Freedom? On my own at last—free The flood of emotions drowns me like an overflowing dam—free? To roam this earth with one mind, one heart—free But what shall those thoughts be: contained, simple, elaborate, or original—free? The air is light, nothing holding me back, a life of honest choices—free Independence is confusing, not as easy as it seems—free? Looking beyond “that bitter moment,” embracing my time to come—free No comfort in sleep, pain, and sadness follow me there—free? Wrongly convicted for a crime in which I had no say, now my sentence is up—free How shall I spend my freedom, by which principals should I live—free? The air in the house is now clean, crisp, light, and open—free Doors closed shut, stuck in a room of my own creation—free? KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK! Open the door to a new life—free Or keep it closed surrounded by my thoughts, my contemplation, my peace—free? My stomach is filled with butterflies, my existence becomes weightless Struggles left behind, new obstacles to overcome. Jake Srebnick ‘21
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We Wanted Victory (excerpt) We wanted more. We jogged, ran, and sprinted until our feet were numb and burning, and we stretched until our muscles begged for us to stop. We longed for even more triumph. We had to be better. The sounds of screaming, shouting, and chanting filled the air. We were a team that never would stop fighting, a team that would not accept defeat, a team that had an unquenchable thirst for victory, a team that would conquer anyone who opposed us. When Coach came over, he yelled at us. Our aggressive, tiger-like spirit was diminished to the shyness of mice. We had not paid attention, we had not practiced, we had not done anything we were instructed to do, we had wasted time. As he scolded, we sat there sulking; he made us run around the field five times. We were tired, but determined. We kept trying because we knew that there would be an outcome. After all of the time, the effort, and the energy we had used to improve ourselves, we knew Coach made us work this hard for a reason. We trusted Coach, because he wanted us to win, because he cared, because he trained us, because when he was little, he used to be part of a group like us. A group of aggressive, hardworking, and unquenchable kids. Even when he left, we practiced, because we had to, because we weren’t good enough, because we couldn’t yet kick the ball over the fence. We ran drills and plays and scrimmages. We tackled, we fouled, we dribbled, we passed, we scored. We wanted to play like the professionals. We wanted only victory, perfection, the best of the best. We wanted more. The day had come, the hour was near, the referee blew the whistle, game time was here. We tried, we tried as hard as we could. They scored, more and more. They chanted, louder and louder. They wore us down, faster and faster. They wanted more than us, we wanted less than them. Coach yelled at us, because our practice had not paid off, because we forgot everything that he told us. When
they sent crosses from the corner, the defense was paralyzed. Whenever our offense got the ball, they stole it in faster than a blink of the eye. They scored bicycle kicks, they scored from forty feet out, they fouled without any noise leaving the referee’s whistle. The sun reflected off of the dirt we trampled into our eyes, and the tall metal statue of Commodore Barry coldly gazed at us in disappointment. The wire fences surrounding the park rusted and eroded, letting our spirit escape through the holes. The trees surrounding the park lost their leaves, one by one, drifting apart. We left the field, separate ways, separate cars, separate houses, separate lives. Anger, tears, and silence filled the air. We watched the grass grow, and we let it live. The muddy wasteland turned back into a field of green. We didn’t break any more toes with our devilish shoes. We took showers and baths, the dirt and water slowly rolling off of our faces, shortly to be replaced by shampoo. No one screamed at our stench, no one noticed us. After all of the time, effort, and dedication, this was the outcome. When we got home, our parents washed off our uniforms until there was not a speck of dirt, a speck of personality, or even a speck of spirit. They picked up our shoes and threw them in the trash. We didn’t exercise anymore, our muscles were begging us to stretch. We didn’t sprint, we didn’t jog, we walked. We didn’t yell, we didn’t shout, we whispered. We didn’t want to fight anymore, we wanted to surrender. We were a team that would stop fighting, a team that would accept defeat, a team with no thirst for victory. A team that, in the end, knew that soccer was just a game.
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Peter Baltzell ‘24
Eli Harrell ‘20 102
Dahlia ‘30
Untitled
an echo of the pit when all turns sour and clocks tick tick tick tick
for the children are crying time flies when you’re having fun! over their shoulders as they run through paths paved soles of sneakers baptized by wet concrete near 153 east elmwood drive
are you having fun yet? have we kissed goodbye the eagles and crows and butterflies that cocoon in the gut elmwood drive has never seemed so shut i shudder to the rhythm of my own fingers and then nothing for the pavement is callous and the children stuck there with it
and my teeth never seem to find the time to retract from the mango before juice dribbles down my chin
Olivia Azzolina ‘21 103
Quarantine Painting Rebekah Kim ‘21
I have a dream that kids of all ages and sizes will get the same amount of atention from thier parents as any younger child does. And that younger kids shouldent be bossed around by older kids. Sanai Gibson ‘30
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A Portrait of My Grandmother Ice cubes melt in a crystal glass. The condensation builds up around the rim, dripping down to form a puddle on the round, unstable table next to the ashtray. The ashes themselves flutter away in the slight summer breeze, as careless as the woman herself. She is uninspired as she purses her lips, coated in a layer of lipstick, the shade matching her nail polish. Which brings me back to the cigarette, burning in her fingertips. She is content in her dissatisfaction. Putting out the cigarette and then, a few moments later, relighting it. This is a portrait of a woman living in misery. I’ve heard that in her youth she was exquisite, the life of the town, a mystery to all. There is a resemblance to that now, in her sequined blue bathing suit and in the glamour of her cocktail, but the ecstasy is gone. In the cottage where we spend these summers, her bedside mirrors her own life: a bottle of Cointreau, a pack of cigarettes and a half-eaten tuna sandwich all framed by her looping necklaces. The cottage itself was built long ago when my grandfather was a boy, a playhouse for him and his brother. The three bedrooms were added when he married my grandmother. Now, divorced, she stays here, and my grandfather has his own house up the road. She spends hours on the phone telling me again and again that she misses the time when we lived closer to her and yet, here she sits, perfectly displeased, with all of her grandchildren. “Her entire world,” as she calls it, dancing around her and she doesn’t even blink an eye, wallowing in nostalgia for something that is right in front of her.
oversized mink coat. But there was a hole in her jacket and as she walked off into the night in her high-heeled shoes, past the hostess’ desk, pebbles began falling one by one onto the cold, marble floor. It’s this image of my grandmother, daring and carefree, that I associate with her. Even though her laugh usually only comes out late in the evening, when she is drunk on wine, I still hear it when I think of her in daylight. Watching her now, as she sits in her chair on the edge of the pool, it’s not quite clear whether the person that I envision her as ever existed. Happiness, of course, is not objective. I fear mostly for myself, in all my selfishness, whether after being happy, my whole life will be ruined like it was for my grandmother. And I also wonder if she ever really was happy, as she so often proclaims, or if it was all mere delusion, a story on repeat in her head. It’s ironic that my grandmother’s favorite quote is from a British play called Lettice and Lovage. In it, Maggie Smith plays an exuberant tour guide, making up stories about a sprawling, historical manor. But one line sticks out: “Fantasy floods in where truth leaves a vacuum.” My grandmother’s fantasy of her happy past is just like the perfectly curated photo books she keeps in her apartment. Endless collages of the twinkling Paris sky juxtaposed with candid photos of twirling dancers. Fleeting smiles and Italian villages in summertime. The chic looks of her many friends and late-night glasses of burgundy wine. And all of this covered in a thin layer of protective plastic.
There’s this story that my father tells about the first time he met my grandmother. They were having dinner in Boston. It was bitterly cold, as Boston usually is in the wintertime. So cold that the Charles River had begun to freeze over and gloveless fingers turned blue. My grandmother liked one of the potted plants on the restaurant’s table and decided to steal it. And so, as the story goes, the meal was finished, she hid the plant under her 105
Sophie Anderson ‘21
Ball Girl Georgia Groome ‘21 106
Frankie Ammirati ‘25
Bea Becker ‘25
Willem GuzmanMitchell ‘25
107
Nell Bunn ‘25
Lila Wallace ‘25
Grade 7 Self Portraits 108
iphone poem someone buy me roses please. but not roses because they are not sustainable Sophie Anderson ‘21
Pine Forest Lucy Browne ‘25 109
Mr. O and the Pursuit of Healing (excerpt) Mr. O will walk into the living room, that rectangular space with light blue walls and a cuckoo clock that was a wedding gift from his brother. His feet will sink into the shaggy carpet as the Yankee Candle that is meant to smell like cranberry chutney fills the air. The red button on the phone will be blinking, and he’ll pick up the clunky receiver, twirling the curly wire around his ring finger until the skin begins to bulge, the separated fat resembling a string of sausages. But no, none of that will happen, it is all too metaphorical, too wrapped up in the world of fantasy. Instead, Mr. O will amble past his wife—who will be completing the crossword at the dining room table, attempting to conjure the name of an actress whose face she can see so clearly—and out into the front yard. He’ll urge October’s air to kiss him with its clarity, to breathe sweetness into the dull part of himself, the part that is envisioning the army green bedroom he shared with his brother in boyhood. Heal me, he will think. Or maybe he won’t think it, but he’ll feel it somewhere deep inside the indentations of himself, in his acute awareness of fall’s waning beauty or his desire to sit amid the pile of leaves he had collected that morning and just be still for a moment. Mr. O will walk laps around his front yard and remember what it felt like to run around the track during gym class. He’ll remember the day when Coach Andrews sauntered up to him and complimented his form, told him he should try out for the cross country team, that “chicks love dudes who can run.” He’ll remember how he shook his head no, the licks of sandy hair stuck to his glistening forehead. If he had listened to Andrews, maybe he wouldn’t have had to spend his morning at Dwight Morrow High School. Maybe he would live in the city, or in California, or in Paris, in a penthouse adorned with Olympic gold medals. High school, they told Mr. O, is only four years, a meaningless epoch of acne and broken kegs and the occasional glimmer of hope that the girl in math class will have forgotten her
Diego Lowe ‘25 pencil and ask to borrow one. Shuffling around the edge of his lawn, no longer inspired by the auburn glaze of sunlight but instead suffocated by the odor of dog shit emanating from his neighbor’s yard, Mr. O will realize how wrong they were. The wind will begin to blow and the leaves will flutter upwards, dancing to nature’s song and revealing the patches of dead grass they had so expertly hid. Mr. O will reenter his house and see his wife still sitting at the dining room table, a cup of chamomile now positioned next to her left hand. He will long to ask her if she is happy despite the fact that he cannot run a mile, but his lips will remain sutured together, stitched with the knowledge that she will say yes and will later dump her tea down the sink to atone for the sin of lying. The cuckoo clock will strike 5 and Mr. O will migrate to the refrigerator for his Bud Light before retiring to his easy chair, whose sunken cushion will invite the mindless passage of time, the type that has enveloped the past 57 years and made each day indistinguishable, one blob of a life comprised not of discrete moments, but of interchangeably meaningless hours, the memories of which have been stretched thinner than the bed sheets he bought at Walmart two Januarys ago, pulled taut over his corneas so that every day to come is merely a recollection of its yesterday.
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Alice Tecotzky ‘20
Ruby Kopel ‘20
Dreams We Have to Create Change in the World No more fires in Australia!
We should get rid of pollution.
Stop using real weapons. They hurt people!
Make a cure for all animal sickness.
Stop people from littering.
Kids and grownups not being kidnapped.
Make sure everyone has what they need.
Stop using real weapons! Treat others with kindness!
Do not hunt animals! Do not laugh at other skin colors! Every kid gets recess no matter the school! Donald Trump is going out of the White House.
Don’t litter pretty please. Change Donald Trump. I dream that people stop saying stereotypes about other people.
Everyone is free! Black people are created the same way as white people! Stop stereotypes!
1CD Unicorns ‘31 111
mother and how she lost her tennessee mother’s tongue rises and wags trying to get us to speak the broken language of Tennessee born between two melting canyons that strain from the sunrise and are crushed by layaway boulders into red desert candy down by the river’s edge salt water that crumples into skin like acidic waste tan-colored girls who wear their ancestry in homemade bikinis her childhood compromised between the edges of sepia-stained photographs her voice cracks and wrinkles through a smudged Tennessee suffocating valley air piercing the blue ridge mountains where the earthworms are buried amongst piles of clay … now, she mistakes greenery
are now layered upon a king size by names she cannot remember but that come every Tuesday and Thursday but mother, it is impossible to teach us how to love a language that you have lost yourself. you have lost your Tennessee. Imogen Bylinsky ‘22
as the dollar bills that pile into her smooth leather wallet nature to her, is small cherub flower pots holding dried our cactuses begging to be resurrected the taffy-colored skyline hardens to the touch of her rippled footsteps she is not immune to this city sheets she used to watch spin from the raw part of silk worms
Kennedy Mathis ‘23 112
nd
Pia Haider-Bierer ‘25
Ha
As I slowly recognized something was different When the President signed the paper with a flourish While that single ink name would allow love When the wedding cake would never be baked Although love was legal While I was giggling with friends While they would ask me questions Curious and laughing When I said I didn’t like anyone When Hollywood insisted That they were just “best friends” Although they were asking to be married Because they were in love Because love was illegal When I would stay up Until the bright sun rose As I created miniscule flags With all the colors of the rainbow Then tore them to pieces Because I could not accept love
After Ellen’s sitcom ended And people still loved her After Matthew was brutally beaten After he was brought to a big white building With a sickly a scent in the air After the doctors tried to save him If a friend asked me about a boy Before they knew When people in Yemen When people in Iran When people in so many places Are oppressed Illegal or legal Millions of people are queer And people are hurt People hurt themselves Love is legal here But love isn’t acceptable
An na ’s
It’s Just Love
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Maeve MacDermott ‘26 114
One Last Chance As the seconds tick down to the two-minute warning, the butterflies start to eat me alive. All 4 years I’ve been here, all 35,040 hours I’ve been here, all 2,102,400 minutes I’ve been here, all 126,144,000 seconds that I’ve put my blood, sweat, and tears into, it all comes down to 2 more minutes. I know what I need to do, I need to do what I’ve done every moment I’ve been here. I need to put my defender on skates with the signature shimmy, I need to bolt downfield like Usain, I need to snag the ball like a dolphin leaping out of water, and I need to get in the endzone like Marshawn Lynch diving against the Saints. I was made for this, I am meant to be a good wide receiver, my name is Jamario Catch, Usain Bolt is meant to be a good runner, his name is Bolt. As we break the huddle, I have a fiery look in my eyes. I know the defender is in front of me, and I don’t care. I hit a hard slant, breaking my defender’s ankles with my signature shimmy, I snag the ball like a dolphin leaping out of water, but this time it’s different. I get popped by the middle linebacker. Like a gunshot going through my chest. The ball falls out of my hands, and the linebacker picks it up. All this time I’ve spent just to fail. As the seconds tick down to the end, all I can think is, Is this the end? Does LSU still want me? Does Clemson still want me? Can I even play in college? I enter the locker room, and as I walk in I hear Coach start a speech. I’m not in the mood at all, but it’s one of my last times seeing Coach, so my eyes drift over to him. “Hey, Listen up everybody,” he says, “Most of you guys will never walk onto a football field, most of you guys will never walk out to a whole student section cheering for you, but that’s okay. I want all of you to remember your first big play. Remember that first sack you got, remember that first touchdown you caught, remember that first interception you had, and treasure that moment forever as you follow the path that is right for you. “Catch, get in here and break us down,” he con-
tinues. I didn’t want to as I had just let the team down, but I did it anyway “LIONS ON 3, LIONS ON 3. 1, 2, 3, LIONS.” I walk on the practice field with a jersey draped in orange and the words Clemson Tigers wrapped around my chest. It’s a feeling that few will ever understand. We start warmups, and the quarterback and I already have a connection without saying a word to each other. He knows where I like my passes, and I can tell that we will be deadly this season. I walk into the locker room to see a bright orange locker with the name “Catch” on it and the number 5 next to it. I get my pads on, I get my jersey on, and it’s go time. We walk out to banging drums, shouting trumpets and the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen. The first play of the game, our quarterback says, “Welcome to the team, Catch, go deep and let’s see if you’re worthy of that last name.” “I got you,” I tell him, when in reality I know I probably won’t catch this. The ball is snapped, and I bolt downfield like Jesse. I see the ball launched my way, and I know that it’s one of those 50-50 balls where heart will win. I leap up like Javier Sotomayor and grab the ball with two hands. All I care about is impressing the team to show them that I was a good signing, so I forget about my landing. My right leg falls first, and I wish it never did. I feel every bone in my leg snap as I go down to find out that my leg is facing the wrong way. I let out a cry for help, all I can feel is PAIN, PAIN, PAIN. As I am carried to the locker room on a stretcher I see the team doctor. The way his eyes shift over to me lets me know that this is bad. He evaluates me without speaking a word… But then, he speaks words that I wanted to shove back into his mouth, “Catch…” he says as he slowly gulps. “You have a broken ankle and sprained tibia. This is going to require surgery and at least 2 years of physical therapy.” As I digest those words slowly, I sit there in pain. Silent. Speechless As ready as I am for this comeback, in the back of my mind, all I think is, Am I ready? Physical therapy has done its job for a good 2 years, and I
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Charlotte Reiser ‘24 am due to play my first game against Michigan in 2 weeks. I don’t want to disappoint anyone, and I feel the pressure of 5 tons on my shoulders to not disappoint my dad. He lost the 3-year fight to cancer, so the best thing I could do for him would be to win this relatively weak fight against a broken leg. As I step onto the college stage once again after 2 years, it feels no different from the first time I stepped on a college field. Coach starts me out slow and sits me for the first quarter, but in the second quarter he waves me in and it’s time. As a take the long jog to the huddle from the sideline, I can hear the whole school cheering just for me. As nervous as I am I can’t help myself to crack a smile. The quarterback says, “You up for another deep shot?” “Hell yeah,” I say with no fear after my last game, 2 years ago. The ball is snapped, and I just run, no care in the world, no fear at all, I just run. The ball is launched to me the same way it was launched 2 years ago, but I can’t make it. I just can’t run anymore. It’s like someone prevented my right leg from moving. I sit the rest of the game. In the locker room Coach calls me over to talk.“ “Is it worth it?” he asks, “Do you really want to leave here not being able to walk?” . I walk into AT&T Stadium with a blue shirt on, ready to show scouts what I have. I start off with the 40-yard dash. My record is a 4.32 which was the American high school record, but I know I don’t have those wheels anymore. As I get my “Ready, set, go,” I take off like a jet and fly by the 40-yard mark. The wind and my speed throws my dreadlocks back like Tom Brady launching a pass. I think that I have beaten my record, but as I look back at the jumbotron I see “Jamario Catch, 4.97.” I let out a big sigh in disappointment yet know I can’t dwell on one bad time. I need to do well in the receiving drill. I get to the receiving drill with anger as my motivation. 9 balls thrown. I run through and drop absolutely no passes. I walk out AT&T stadium with my chest puffed out and my hands waiting for a contract to sign. As I deposit myself onto my bed with my family and
turn on the TV, I feel guilty for wasting their time knowing that I’m not gonna get drafted until at least the third or fourth round. The introduction starts as Roger Goodell walks up to the stage. Everyone boos as a tradition while he announces the first round. I know that 224 players get drafted and after the first round there are only 192 players left to be drafted. After the fifth round ends I just lose it. All the work that I had put in is going to waste. I smash my TV onto the ground, giving up. I wrap my hand with a bandage after I had cuts from punching through my TV, apologize to my family for coming and go to bed as they slowly walk out. At 1:32 AM I wake up to a random caller. I pick up the phone to the GM of the Giants. “Jamario, how’s it going?” “It’s going great sir, how are you? “I’m good. Listen, we watched your games at highschool and at Clemson and we believe that you would be great pairing up with Sterling Shepard and Evan Engram. We don’t want you to think that you are not good enough because you were drafted in the 7th round. We want you to come in ready to kill your rookie season. “Of course sir. I reply, “It is such an honor to be able to put on the blue and play for such a great organization. I cannot thank you enough for this opportunity and I will not let you down. “We love to hear that. He says. “Have a good rest of your night and go savor every single moment of Roger Goodell announcing your name. “Thank you, you too. Bye, sir.” “Bye Jamario” I turn my phone on and tune into the draft and 3 minutes and 27 seconds later it happens. “With the 219th pick, in the 2022 NFL draft. The New York Giants select… JAMARIO CATCH.” The adrenaline rushes through my body knowing that I was enough, knowing that I did deserve to be where I was, knowing that I was going to see my high school Coach tomorrow and tell him that he had bred an NFL player.
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Lorenzo Mina ‘24
Caroline Peyser ‘23 117
Where I Come From knotted hair, scalps cracked open like fresh walnuts, hidden under woven sun,
stained glass, keeping it aglow, melodic sayings light up the small church, and we gasp in a silent revelation,
bone structures, filled with carnations, airtight footsteps dancing over fine family blood,
no longer do our bodies fume with fever, heaving between violent sobs, worn from a solstice season,
watching the limelight resurrect the sleeping indigos, cupping their hands and bathing in the froth of their colonizers, broken language whirling like static on their tongues,
sticky words perfumed with rosemary and sage, we throw upon the land, their spirit lies beneath here
gummy asphalt bruised into their own bodies, their voices laced with altitude, as they beg, the valleys to cave, so they can bloom their symmetry upon the badlands.
that I know. Imogen Bylinsky ‘22
/ before I could speak, outstretched palms wedded clay into my skin, suffocating me beneath a thousand cotton-woods, I used to write to them, but my city words crumble beneath abyss heat, like palaces piling upon ink-torn paper, moonlight hovering between 118
Malva BlĂĽv
arg, ‘23
Bea Becker ‘25 119
Joy The light shimmers through the window. Bouncing off the tiles, the floor, the people. The laughing— it engulfs me with happiness. Joy’s hands all around me pushing me up. This was my feeling— the feeling that I wanted to hold on to, forever. An emotion, that gives you hope. An emotion that makes the world More, beautiful. Maeve MacDermott ‘26
Leaf Lark Nguyen-Hughes ‘25 120
Rabbit Holes and Looking Glass Charlotte Reiser ‘24
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The Letter
The letter, once crisp and new, was now lying in a dark drawer, musty and cold. It was waiting for warm hands to stroke its cold paper envelope. The ink, now smudged, lay gracefully atop the center of the letter. The red, hard wax on the back, sealing it off from unwanted viewers. More years passed. The letter became even more forgotten, and everything from keys to documents were strewn across it. Then came the day when the boy finally saw the letter. Now lean and tall, the boy had grown up, ready to face the outside world. He was moving out of this place, back to where he had spent that one fateful summer. He remembered something. In the back of his mind, on the tip of his tongue, he just couldn’t place what was missing. He moved the papers covering the letter aside, and all the memories came flooding back to him. The girl, that summer, this exact letter that he had feared to open now lay before him, waiting to be read. His fingers reached for the aged, rough envelope, and tore it open, not knowing what was inside.
She wrote him a long letter, but he didn’t read it. She waited and waited for a response, but never got one. Her heart died, shriveling up inside, crumpling her dreams. She had wanted to tell him the awful news, heartbreaking and saddening. She had wanted to tell him about her sickness. She had wanted to tell him that she had fallen ill shortly after he had left, sad to see him go, the sadness growing and growing, her illness worsening and worsening. Oblivious and positive, no one had noticed what was wrong until it was too late. It tore away at her, until there was nothing left. She succumbed, letting the illness take her away. Hearts broken, tears rolling down once-rosy cheeks, her family suffered tremendously, shutting all ties with the outside world. He sat, firm and silent. Sweating and shaking, his hands trembled as he held the letter. He wondered what had happened to her. The girl he had spent all summer with, days full of sun, hours full of fun, minutes full of love. Days frolicking at the Willa Mack ‘25 beach, hours of talking, minutes of silence. He knew that she had been ill. He knew that she had been hiding something from him. He knew everything, and the longer he was away from her, the more destroyed and alone he felt. His feelings for her crushed and smothered him until he could no longer breathe, forever more taking a toll on his life. He thought that he could get over it. He thought that he would be able to break away from everything that had happened. But instead, it grew inside of him, a dark monster waiting to be unleashed. Black paint covering all the joys of life in one single stroke. There was only one thing that could make it better. The letter. Small yet powerful, the letter splayed in his hands, cold and clammy. He knew he had to read it. He knew he should read it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Minutes ticked away, hours passed, days flew by, weeks followed by months whizzed past. Suddenly, a whole year had gone by, and he had gotten back to his normal life, forgetting the girl, forgetting the letter. 122
Pia Haider-Bierer ‘25
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Dreams Drifting off Into a world full of Clouds Imagining dancing muses Or battling gods. A single tree A dozen houses Homework with an A+ A test with a CYour mother reading a book Your father watching the news Your sister playing a video game Your brother trying to annoy her Dogs barking Cats meowing The sweet sound of Family In the air Before you know it You are falling down a hole A great big hole Endless Empty Enduring. Then you are in space Mars Saturn The universe looks at you As if you are an old friend Then you wake up Your dreams Are over But the day has just begun. Lillian Shor ‘27
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Baking With Mama The flour living in our dark brown hair And the strong fragrant smell of cinnamon traveling through me Wrapping around us and giving us a tight hug Making us just a little happier The sound of the mixers mute our conversations So we let them do their thing And we continue Without a singular letter exiting our mouths It’s just me and Mama Doing our thing And I had found it silly But I never knew how wrong I could be It’s comforting for me It makes me forget everything And I get to see my mom In her apron doing her thing And it puts a smile on my face Because even with piles of work And loads of phone calls I see her standing by the mixer And everytime we step into the kitchen I feel okay Like all the chaos in the world just stops And pauses for a little And it’s just me and Mama Sophie Hanna ‘23
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Fruits Isabel Mina ‘22 126
Sarah Thau ‘22
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Q train thoughts I use plastic straws and call myself an environmentalist. I like riding on the Q over the Manhattan bridge and walking faster than Google Maps predicts I can. I like the green shirt I just bought and my friends in New York. I hate poetry, but here I am. I cry when I am filled with happiness. I like reading books, but never seem to have the time (this is a lie). I am a flawed human being and it drives me crazy. I live in Brooklyn now and still have no idea what express trains are. I like it when people can’t read my handwriting. I like black ink on lined pages and writing letters. I have had a few great loves in my life. It makes me hopeless when I see people that can’t pay for the metro and a system that criminalizes them. Sometimes I feel like a failure. I miss San Francisco but there is nothing left for me there and that is the truth. I don’t want to do my homework—I just want to laugh and dream and spend time in Washington Park. My stop is next.
Sophie Anderson ‘21
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Southern Belle Magnolia, biscuits, honey Thoughts follow me down the road, Kids with sparkling white houses covered in money, The more I stay the more the stars go. Thoughts follow me down the road, We get donuts by the empty station. The more I stay the more the stars go, Sweet babe, you would love the debutante. I roll my eyes with frustration. The more I stay the more the stars go, Kids with sparkling white houses covered in money. Sweet babe, you would love the debutante, I roll my eyes with frustration, Magnolia, biscuits, honey. Apple Lydon ‘21
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Isabel Mina ‘22
Goodbye and Godspeed, Katherine Johnson (1918–2020) I love reading about Katherine Johnson. I think it is so cool how smart she is, and that she got into high school at 10 years old. She helped Apollo 11 get to the moon. I love how she did what she loved even in unequal times. Ollie Hammel ‘27
130 Anika Buder-Greenwood ‘20
Simone Menard-Irvine ‘21
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Nacho Cheese Seeds Lately, I’ve been trying to reject this state of my life. I’ve been stuck making futile attempts to reclaim a reality that will never be mine again. I spend hours turning the past over and over until it gets sore and I can’t play with it anymore, or until it refuses to play with me. Sometimes it feels like I’m calling a number that no longer works. Leaving voicemails until I get a call that says, “Hello? You called? I’m sorry I didn’t answer. What’s up?” Doing this makes me realize the danger of nostalgia. We know the bittersweet feeling of analyzing the past. Nostalgia has this funny way of making you believe that the past was better than it actually was. It tells you that you didn’t appreciate the best parts of life enough and that you’re now stuck wishing for something that will never come back. I have millions of thoughts of my old complex, my old neighborhood friends, my old antics. Basically, my life before Packer. Images of me and my friends sitting on our stoops or going to the corner store multiple times a day. Sitting on the generator or walking to Howard Beach. Going to Spring Creek Park and hating everyone there or going to the boulders. These memories are secured, locked in a box that I’ve been opening every night. They’re like cassette tapes that I can’t play again; but I can imagine what they contain. Today I saw something that represented my childhood but that I had completely forgotten about—nacho cheese seeds. My best friend Victoria and I used to get them daily, sometimes more than once a day, and spit them anywhere. People would ask for them and I would hate giving it to their greedy hands. I remember how sad I used to be when we had to settle for the saltyass regular flavored seeds when the nacho flavor ran out. Only 30 cents, they became a staple. After I started going to Packer, I hung out with my complex friends less and less. So I barely ate nacho cheese seeds. I had no one to eat them with, no one to beg for them. There came a time when I only said hello to these old friends; nothing more, nothing less. I forgot what nacho cheese seeds were. I was used to spending $10 every day at Montague street and
getting more expensive snacks. Four years later, I see a picture of nacho cheese seeds on social media and it seems like everything shifts for a moment. I think to myself, “Do they even sell these anymore?” I realized that these seeds represent something a little grander than a snack. They represent the past; they are emblematic of a Farida that doesn’t really exist anymore but used to be greater than life itself. They represent a child that didn’t worry about what awaited her, but rather what there was in every day to come. It’s crazy how objects can symbolize life. Objects are objects until we attach meaning. After, t
I don’t have anybody to eat nacho cheese seeds with and no one will beg for them, but I think it’s time I eat them by myself and spit them anywhere. It’s the same seeds but a different girl, and I’m excited to see what she thinks.
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Farida Salami ‘20
Poor Mom… I’m pretty sure you love your mom. She’s probably a loving and caring person with whom you enjoy spending quality time. She most likely really cares about you and helps you with your difficulties, and when you’re sad she takes care of you and seems to be pushing gray clouds away on a rainy day to let the sun shine bright. This is a pretty sad story that happened to a kind, loving and caring mom. She’s very affectionate, kind, and friendly. I know her very well because she’s not ANY kind of mom, she’s MY mom! So, let’s begin… It was a bright and sunny day and spring had just begun. Flowers were starting to bloom and the air was not too warm, not too cool, just right. My sister and I had invited a friend, Chloé, over. We had all just finished eating breakfast and we’re about to drop her off back home. After that, we were planning to go biking with some other very good friends to enjoy the beautiful weather. Anyways, I was washing my hands in the bathroom when I heard a very loud BANG! I ran out of the bathroom and saw my mom touching her head and moaning. A marvelous brown piece of furniture, a shelf we had attached to the wall to be clear, was now next to her. Visibly, my mom’s head had a crack and dark, dark red blood was dripping out of it. I was horrified…so were my friend and my sister. My mom told me to go get my dad, my sister told me to get him very quickly… I knew my dad was downstairs waiting for us with our black and shiny car, a Range Rover to be specific. We lived in an apartment on the third floor. I ran down the three flights of stairs as fast as I could, jumping every four steps before landing on the hard, cold floor. My heart was pounding very hard. BOUM, BOUM, BOUM, BOUM, BOUM. When I finally reached the bottom, I told my dad to come upstairs quickly. He sprinted up the stairs while I was trying hard to keep up with him. I quickly opened our apartment door. My sister had put a wet towel on my mother’s head.
My dad helped my mom into the car, and my sister, Chloe, and I jumped into the back seat. My dad started the engine. VROOM. He drove as fast as he could to the emergency room. When we arrived there, my dad carefully helped my mom into the emergency room, ran to the front desk, and rapidly explained the situation. The nurse took my mother in right away. By now, the wet towel was as red as the devil’s fork. I was very scared. Some of the following questions popped into my head: • Is Mom going to be okay? • Why is this taking so long? • Is the doctor doing everything right? • Is Mom losing too much blood? It was like being in a horror movie. I was panicking. I was scared. I kept on thinking about the blood that was dripping down my mom’s head, the noise it made when it dropped to the ground. DRIP, DRIP, DRIP… Finally, when my mom stepped out of the emergency room, I thought this was one of the happiest days of my life, which it was. My mom had just cleared the gray clouds in my head. The sun was now shining bright and a colorful rainbow was illuminating the blue sky. I ran to my mom as fast as I could, nearly knocking her over. We canceled all our other plans and dropped my friend back at her house. The rest of the day we took it easy. My dad cooked a nice meal. YUM! But the most important thing that day was that my mom was doing well and so were my siblings, my Dad, and I. I think that you have learned, reader, that love and care are probably the best things you could ever give a friend or family member. So, if you know someone who you didn’t show this love and care to, and you haven’t apologized, go say sorry as soon as possible.
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Lucie Van Kwawegen ‘27
Traffic, shot through a water bottle Charlotte Reiser ‘24
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Girl Dylan Ng ‘20 135
Listen Up We head to the bathroom. It’s so late everybody has left to do more important things than hang around in the bathroom. We head into the biggest stall. “Okay guys. Listen up and DON’T FREAK OUT.” “Okay,” they say. I hesitate for a minute. “I’m lesbian.” “This is me,” I continue, “I have crushes on girls.” I look to Autumn. “I have a crush on you,” I say. I hope I sound like I’m not afraid, ’cause I am. They both have a shocked/petrified look upon them. SHECKTRIFIED. Autumn walks out and closes the door behind her. Now I look shecktrified. “Really?” Emily asks. I start to cry. I don’t know why. I just do. Ivy Flynn ‘27
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Ethan Rothsc hild ‘20
137
Step out of your own perspective The world doesn’t revolve around you It’s easy to get stuck in your own little bubble Try to look at things from a different point of view
Laugh loudly and unapologetically Draw stick figures Sing off-key You don’t need to be the best at everything Pour your heart into things Be passionate
Make an effort to not seek validation from others Have faith in yourself Take pride in your work Trust your instincts Don’t let your doubt lead to hesitation In times of desperate need Find comfort in yourself
Step out of your comfort zone Risk it all Explore on your own Or with others alongside you Greet new experiences with curiosity Let your excitement take over The world is undiscovered And the future is in your hands
Bad days are temporary They come and go And so far you’ve survived 100% of them You will recover It takes time to heal But have patience Sometimes good things take a long time
Malva Blåvarg ‘23
And there’s no need to compare yourself to the one who seems to have it all Don’t resent them for it Let go of your bitterness It’s impossible to be liked by everyone So strive to be liked by the ones that truly matter Don’t take your friends for granted Be thankful for those who care for you Tell them how much you love them Open up Be vulnerable It’s okay to let your loved ones see you cry Let them into your life
Some Advice From My Younger Self On Life (excerpt) 138
Name Poem The name I possess now is not my first name. It is the third or fourth, I don’t really know. I may never know. 龙丽筠,1 That is the first name I was given That I know of. Loosely translating to ‘strong dragon’ I think. Though that’s not at all what Google Translate says. The second name I was given, Given by my second orphanage, Is 盛丽筠.2 That possibly translates to ‘strong bamboo.’ I think. But either way, I like that better, Because dragons are too fierce, too mighty. But bamboo is quietly powerful. And beautiful, too. 盛丽筠 That’s the Chinese name I’ve kept, and will keep forever— Probably. But the name I possess now, The name I go by, (except for in Chinese class or when I’m performing an aliyah) Is Sadie Mae Sadler. It is certainly not as exotic sounding, Or as befitting of my past,
1 2
But I still like it. I know the story of Sadie, of Mae, and of Sadler. Sadie Edelberg, my great-grandmother. The Jewish-Russian Immigrant. The one who at six-years-old, Thought a banana tasted like heaven. Mae, my great-great-aunt. Sadie’s younger sister, born in this country. Sadler. Which was originally Sadovnik. Changed by my grandfather. As part of his assimilation. Sadie Mae Sadler, That is the name that brought me here. The name that saved my life. And of course I have nicknames, too. Like Sadester, Sad Sad, Moo Moo, and more. But that’s another poem, for another time, A poem that’s never ending. And not to go on for forever, But I have a Hebrew name, too. Sarah Malka. The Hebrew version of Sadie Mae, Whatever that may mean. But to wrap it all up, I am a mix of my names. Chinese, American, Hebrew, other. Each one of them making up Who I am. Sadie Sadler ‘22
Spelled ‘long li jun.’ Pronounced ‘lohng lee june.’ Note: ‘long’ is the surname name and ‘li jun’ is the forename. Spelled ‘sheng li jun.’ Pronounced ‘shuhng lee june.’
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Citrus Dylan Ng ‘20 140
What A Time To Be Alive
Ben Harrington ‘25 & Julian Overton ‘25
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Scan this QR code to access the video online!
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Fall (spoken word)
Scan this QR code to listen online! Ashley Bodkin ‘25
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Digo lowe skull
Planter Diego Lowe ‘25 144
Red Velvet Rope What was beyond that red velvet rope? Where the well-dressed people would go and the cameras were clicked. Where their heels clacked when they hit the marble floors and their jewelry shined when it hit the sunlight. Where the food was nothing but divine and the piano music was nothing but graceful. Where the chandeliers were made of gold and the curtains were made of silk.
Where the security cameras would scan every inch and the big men in black all stood guard. Where the actors would go to flaunt their wealth and the comedians would go to flaunt their skill. Where the well-dressed people would go and the cameras were clicked. I couldn’t help but wonder, what was beyond that red velvet rope? Caroline Farley ‘25
Please Stop Dylan Ng ‘20 145
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‘2 gliata A e t t o Charl
Hold On
Hold on to the stars, that firefly light, what glimmering beauty, they’re trying to fight. Hold on to the moon, that droplet of milk, such shaky simplicity, a rich bolt of silk. Hold on to the sun, that bright in the dark, what passion and rage, a glimmering spark. Hold on to the earth, that marbled dot, such crude green divinity, not easily bought. Hold on to the comet, that small icy rock, what smoldering sacrifice, a wondrous shock. Hold light. Hold darkness. Hold all that is in the world. Hold on to the everything and the nothing. Hold on to the fullness and the empty. Hold on to the start and the ending. Hold on to the ugly and the beautiful. Hold on to the universe; it is all we have. Hold on to the universe; it is all we have.
Bea Becker ‘25 146
Sebastian Allias ‘20 147
Climbing Up The Ladder (excerpt) It’s my first day at my new job as an employee of the best amusement park in the region. As I walk into the park, I’m hit with a wave of sensations, like surfacing from murky water you forgot you were submerged in. The joyful music blasting from huge speakers mixes with the happy screams and cheerful laughter of children to create an almost palpable wall of sound. I’m surrounded by roller coasters speeding around the park with dizzying velocity, every one of them packed full of kids with big smiles. My eyes are blinded by a ray of sunlight reflecting off the window of a nearby ticket stand. The air smells of cotton candy and popcorn, nostalgia and new beginnings. I can’t wait to get started. I force my lips to stay still. Three years of smiling all day every day and I still can’t hold one for more than thirty seconds. My lips tremble and the next mom in line gives me a strange look. I notice how her grip tightens around her daughter’s hand. I really don’t need another mom mad at me right now. Her daughter’s other hand is grasping the end of one of those Pound Ridge Local Amusement Park balloons they sell everywhere around here. It’s pulling her to the left while her mom pulls from the
right. The little girl looks so light the balloon might just fly away with her. I can imagine how that would look, the mom trying to wrench her daughter back to earth, the little girl not willing to let her balloon go, and the balloon trying to break free and float off into the sky where it’d probably confuse a passing bird. The thought of it makes me laugh and the crease between the mom’s eyebrows deepens. All of a sudden, the little girl starts talking in her small, high-pitched voice, a flush of red warming her cheeks, “Is it fun working here? I want to work at an amusement park when I grow up.” The mom shoots me an apologetic, slightly exasperated look. I don’t mind; it reminds me of myself as a kid. “You don’t want to work here,” I respond before I realize what I’m saying. I slap myself in my mind. Hard. Saying those sorts of things is exactly the opposite of what will get me my promotion.
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Anatole Faucon ‘24
r e b ld Can Stay) o m G e g in v th o o N N by Robert Frost’s (Inspired
old st green is g Nature’s fir new to old Her harvest wer ee lost a flo Her early tr our o back an h g r ly n o e w But is Decembe r e b m e v o gh N Soon enou day es down to So dawn go an stay ld c Nothing go Charlotte Cla
pp ‘27
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Grace Warner-Haakmat ‘20 150
Escape Freedom to flee The liberty of leaving Leaves on a tree Their will is gone thieving Dying or crying Maybe you have left Trying or buying A way out of the mess The mess you made Or maybe it wasn’t you The cage one built All enclosed for you The lock with a key Even though it may be lost The key lurks somewhere It whispers Will you escape or not Or maybe it means to break open the bars Physical force Or untying a knot Once you leave the place You’ve escaped, have you not? Or was the cage built in your head Engulfing you from the inside out Consuming one’s thoughts To manipulate actions Escape from the mind Is a world of abstraction
Carly Gavant ‘23
Anelise Chun ‘25
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Katya Volkova ‘23
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Sebastian Allais ‘20 153
Please Don’t Sail Your Ship Away We wanted to be older. We wanted to be bigger, independent. We played games on college campuses, lounged on massive bean bags, buried our noses in books double the size of our faces. We wanted to be tall enough to play with the crutches in the basement closet, to touch the ceiling when standing on the couch. We wanted to grow up. We stained our hands green with tree leaves, calling it medicine. We played as cats and journeyed off into the forest. We sat under the tables outside, our heads touching as we leaned over our secret journal. We sat atop the towering monkey bars, looking down far below us, our elbows shaking, our knees trembling. We held refined tea parties hidden in a closet, our pinkies sticking out as we delicately lifted the ladybug china. We served goldfish on a plate, slicing them carefully into crumbly strips. We made everything miniature. We sculpted miniature animals, coated them in a shimmering glaze, and caged them in glass. A green turtle, a blue bird, and a striking pink flamingo stared back at us. With our miniature hands, we carved miniature words, delicate and graceful and absolutely illegible. We passed notes in class, not because there was anything important to say, but because it was our secret, exciting, wicked mission to slide slips of paper across the table. We competed. We compared the books we read, how many and how long, we tested our hula-hooping stamina, sometimes lasting the whole hour of recess. We held contending tack collections, ignoring the cuts we’d get from the loose pins that floated in our coat pockets. They were our cherished collections of colorful thumbtacks, stolen from defenseless bulletin boards, until they were confiscated by the school’s gym teacher. We conquered. Together, we worked to finish every level of Fireboy and Watergirl during free time in computer class. The champions of the three legged race, we galloped effortlessly in unison, faces beaming, our legs tied together with a knotted purple jump rope.
We lied and won medals for it. We laughed and lost points over it. We learned and we tried to listen. We fought. We fought over who got to play doctor, over who got the lock and who wore the key. Sometimes we wouldn’t speak to each other, would sulk on opposite sides of the playground, waiting for the other to apologize. Our mammoth prides blinding us, demanding us to wait. We waited, and waited, and waited, and if apologies didn’t come, the animosity would be forgotten by the next morning. We were two ships, sailing side by side. But as the long days became long nights, we began to lose our way. Under the moon’s piercing, watchful gaze, we ran different currents, and tackled different storms. We called out to each other, loudly cursing the roaring winds and crashing waves that drove us apart. And then, there was quiet. An uncertain silence, quivering with tension and unspoken words. We didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to bicker, we didn’t push each other for fear of pushing the other overboard, left alone to fight the unforgiving sea. We were four nervous eyes, two struggling, awkward mouths, a pair of elephants, clumsily dancing our way through conversation. “MYSM,” I’d say. “MYSM,” she’d reply. We washed the leafy green dye off our hands, forgetting its marvelous medicine, we couldn’t fit through the small spaces of those red monkey bars, and when we stood on the couch, our heads pressed painfully into the ceiling. The ladybug china lay faded in the picnic basket, its glaze scratched, the utensils sparse. The teapot longed for its spout. We found that time had altered more than our ages, or our heights. That it had done more than grant us uncomplicated independence. We found that we understood less, and questioned more. We found that time had abandoned us in this bizarre parallel to what was before. We wanted to go back.
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Isabel Levine ‘24
The Man on the Wall The sun shines through the clouds and creates shallow light that grazes the roofs of the houses on the narrow Istanbul street. Naz peeks her head through the white linen curtains. She lowers herself onto the 6-inch windowsill and pulls at the latch to open her rusting window frame. Her head rotates to the right, giving her a view of the narrow rundown street. Clotheslines lined the railings of eroding metal balconies. She looks down at her hands and sees that they are covered with pink paint chips. Her building, three from the end of the block, was coated in decade-old salmon pink paint. Berna, her sister, calls for her. It is a Saturday, and they had no school. The cheap wrinkled uniforms they have to wear hang in their closets, the drab colors picked up by the sun creating illuminated shadows on the floor of their bedrooms. Their mother is making breakfast, their father at work.
They finish their breakfast fast and thank their mother for the food. Berna slips on her faux-leather peeling white sandals, Naz a pair of sneakers. They race down the creaking wooden stairs to the brickpaved street below. The grey fog hangs low in the thin winding streets and clings to the sides of the aging buildings. There it was. The 40-foot brick wall. Half of it had broken down, leaving just a shell of a building now. A man’s face is painted on it, the only exciting thing to happen to their neighborhood since the bombing. He is their protector, the street’s keeper. His face has century-old wrinkles and crevices, the wear is shown on his face. Berna and Naz run up to the mural and touch his chin. His eyebrows are wiry and illustrate his age. They sit on the curb and smell the musky scent of incense and fresh bread. They lay down on the sidewalk and look up at the sky. The sun shines through the clouds. The warmth seeps into their young faces. They feel safe. Their mother cracks open the dusty window
Anna Griffin ‘22
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and calls to them in the streets below. Naz looks up to her mother and calls back. “Naz, dear, come up and help me with the laundry.” “Okay, Mama.” Naz grabs Berna by the wrist and drags her across the brick-paved street. They make their way up the narrow twisting stairs. They turn the rusting brass knob on their grey peeling-painted door. Naz found her mother by the window in her parents’ room. Her mother waves her over to help take the dry clothing down from the swaying clothesline. They dump armfuls of clean laundry onto the creaky old king-size bed. She and her mother sit side by side on the bed folding the laundry in silence. They can hear Berna in the room next door listening to music on a 10-year-old radio. The static shocks them through the walls and travels down their spines. They exchange looks and smiles. As the sun starts to set into the sea, Naz looks outside. She looks at the man on the wall. He stares
back at her with encouraging eyes. He seems to be telling her something. She feels his breath on her windows, and his gaze matches hers. He tells her to wait. Wait for what? She thinks. She looks around the room. The cream-colored ceiling wears its age in cracks and the dust gathered in its corners. She looks below her feet. The hand-woven carpet below her parents’ bed has rough worn-away patches where their feet have stepped year after year. The threads are bare, the warp of the rug exposed. She then looks at her hands, young but old. Smooth but callused. They are an exact mirror of her mothers. She runs her finger down the lines and crevices of her palm. There were four little rivers that she traced with her fingernail. She thinks of Berna, her mama, her dad. She thinks of her home. The sun no longer shines through the clouds, but she feels safe.
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Lahn Witrogen ‘24
Sebastian Allais ‘20
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Simone Menard-Irvine ‘21
Baking One night I was Baking cupcakes. I put in one soft goey egg and some cold milk and sweet sugur and a touch of vanilla extract and strong lemon extract and crumbly flower and slippery Butter and the frosting sweet sugary slipery Butter and strong lemon extract and vanilla extract. It was fun cooking with mom. And then we ate together. I really liked it so much. Grant McGruder ‘30
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118th and Lex The tall metal doors slowly slide open and immediately I am trapped in the polluted warm air of the station. Women grab their clueless toddlers, squeezing their arm, nearly slamming their faces into the towering turnstile. A performer sings, his voice echoing down the dark depths of the tunnel. The smooth voice gets lost in the crescendo of rush hour. I fight my way through, the metal steps taking me to my freedom. There is silence. Then noise erupts, nearly knocking me back to the depths of the underground. I walk. Pushing through. Looking back. Making sure. I check my pockets. I weave through the cluster of men in their mid-30s, blasting some sort of mean 90’s rap about killing. They bob up and down as they down their dollar slices of pizza. Why do I walk here? Why can’t the subway stop in my living room, with my dinner steaming right out of the microwave? I wish to have my homework done, to have my stress lift away from me, like a soul from the dead. Noises, sights, smells, some sweet like honey, some bitter like wine. Trash is sprinkled on the corner. Coke cans; small crushed plastic bottles, some grossly tinted yellow; old blunts, lighters and many plastic bags, scattered about, from the Holein-the-wall Chinese takeout with a B inspection rating. My frayed laces drag through the small landfill at my feet. The ocean of plastic parts, as I quickly dash through. I pass the tall black gates of the community garden, untouched and bare. A lone tricycle perches in a box full of dead plants. Ignored and left to die. The neighborhood friendly sits on a lawn chair smoking a falling apart cigar. The music barely makes it out of his 1980s cassette tape player. I hear joy try and escape the small metal box, yearning to mingle with the cool air. I feel joy. Just happiness. For a moment. I continue to walk quickly, stopping by the neighborhood cafe. The aroma of freshly baked flan dances throughout the small cafe and grabs me by the arm, luring me in. The greetings are warm and kind-hearted as I order.
It’s not long before I’m on my way. A simple goodbye of a dap and a head nod. Thus departing the smell of cinnamon, sweet milk, and the cheap aftershave of the man in front of me in line. I reach into my pocket, shuffling through crumpled bills, candy wrappers and a stale dog treat for my dog. I finally made contact with the small white case, fumbling to open it. I put in my headphones, which I paid a little under $20 for from a very irresponsible 7th grader. In no time I’m lost in the words of Kanye West and the autotune of Travis Scott. As the light changes, I get enveloped in the deep voice of Tyler, the Creator. I get so lost I nearly trip over the untamed roots of a looming tree, nearly falling face-first into the cracked, shattered-glass ridden pavement. The cool fall air hits my face as it bounces against trampled faces of the tall apartment buildings. To my right, I pass the complex of old women sitting in their hot pink jackets selling imitation jewelry on their folding tables. Many times my sister had purchased a pair of hoop earrings, resulting in the cheap metals tinting her earlobes a light green. The wind lets out a shrill scream, reminding me to keep walking. Farther down the block, and I feel the bright white sun glaring down on me. My spine slumps with the weight of my math binder. The heft of quadratics slows my pace, weighing me down. A bright red beacon diverts my attention away from my immense discomfort. The familiar sight of the parked red Corvette sends the familiar nostalgia through my head. The speckles of bird poop cover the hood, and the windows are fogged up, water condensed along the edges. The waterlogged parking tickets build up, pushing the cracked rubber windshield out of the familiar resting spot. This unspoken landmark of the block stands tall, as the tires give out slowly each day, waiting for the owner to start up the engine one more time. Walking down the last stretch, I smell the faint buzz of the old corner pizza parlor. The hundredyear-old oven gives off its large howl, the rusty hinges of the door on its last legs. A group of men lean against the sticky white table, trying to find a game that’s on. A blare of static escapes from the parlor
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door as the chef screws with the rusty bent antennae. The smell of burnt crust climbs up my nose and sends my brain into a state of craving. I can see the large schoolyard of P.S 100 something; a pickup game of basketball takes place. A tall teenager drives to the rim, flying so high he nearly dunks it. I see two benches leaning against the fence and a couple of people sleeping there. Braving the cold, surviving, keeping each other company as the seasons change. Why do I get to go home every day to a clean house? Why can I come home, and adjust the temperature, while others look at the sky, longing for the sun to warm their shivering bodies? Sadly that question slips the grasp of my mind. I have to brave the infamous crosswalk. Where the gunshot rang. Where he ran. Where the boy got hit, and where I fearfully cross, every day, and take this walk, and relive this story, every, single, day. Lionel Fine ‘24
Abigail Wiener ‘24 160
Maybe As I reached the highest point. Before we celebrated. As the oceans rose higher than the Burj Khalifa. As our home reeked with methane The atmosphere getting thicker // Before we knew. After it was too late. Although some tried. After all the hard work. // Although there is no plan B. Because I am young. When I speak. Because there is only planet A. // When I try. While I am not heard. // If I was. // While I cried. If we succeeded. Just maybe. Just maybe. The earth would survive. Sam Fishman ‘25
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Matteo Ammirati ‘26 162