Mosaic 2021

mosaic The Publication of the Arts SPRING 2021

Student Editors

Anna Cole ’21

Marina Butler Cerisola ’21

Isabelle Nagy ’22 Faculty Advisor

Dr. Nancy Hunt

Staff

Marina Butler Cerisola ’21

Fatemeh Shahroudi ’21

Anna Cole ’21

Ingrid Yu ’21

Sara Harley ’23

Audrey Morrison ’23

Jasmine Flanders ’23

Selma Ruiz ’23

Amy Li ’21

Reena Dail ’23

Dylan Barry-Schoen ’21

Ayo Adeyemi ’21

Heidi Hansch ’21

Cecilia Yu ’24

Charlotte Juge ’23

Isabelle Nagy ’22

Ashley Yang ’23

Anna McMillan ’24

Lucia Butler Cerisola ’23

Design & Production

Communications Office

Front Cover: And Miles to Go Before I Sleep, Emily Oh ’21, oil, 16” x 20” Back Cover: Untitled, Trixie Stork ’21, acrylic painting, 18” x 18” All content © 2021 Santa Catalina School students as indicated.

5/2021-250

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September 14, Nicole Oliver ’21, acrylic painting, 8” x 8”

SPRING 2021

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Fikamorebi, Marina Butler Cerisola ’21, mixed media, 15.6” x 15.6”

Table of Contents Art, And Miles to Go Before I Sleep...................Emily Oh ’21..................................Front Cover Art, September 14.............................................Nicole Oliver ’21............................................1 Art, Fikamorabi..................................................Marina Butler Cerisola ’21.............................2 Art, Untitled.......................................................Milan Coleman ’21........................................4 Poem, Cadence................................................Helen Yenson ’22..........................................5 Photograph, Silk Water......................................Sarah Scheetz ’21.........................................6 Poem, Odysseus’ Tears.....................................Lorenza Marquard ’24...................................7 Poem, I Call on Demeter....................................Sophia Gargiulo ’24.......................................8 Art, Meat...........................................................Trixie Stork ’21..............................................9 Art, Eggs...........................................................Trixie Stork ’21..............................................9 Art, Portrait........................................................Sophia Gargiulo ’24.....................................10 Prose, Desolation..............................................Auggie Davis ’21.........................................11 Art, Tarot...........................................................Nicole Oliver ’22..........................................13 2

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Poem, Calypso..................................................Sophia Tonini ’24.........................................14 Photograph, November 30................................Ana Leissner ’21.........................................15 Prose, Excerpt from The Assimilation Game......Anna Yeh ’23...............................................16 Photograph, Portrait..........................................Samantha Scattini ’21.................................17 Art, Untitled.......................................................Ingrid Yu ’21................................................19 Poem, The Knight’s Tale....................................Lucia Butler Cerisola ’23..............................20 Art, Mushroom..................................................Marina Butler Cerisola ’21...........................21 Prose, Ode to Her.............................................Bella Borgomini ’21.....................................22 Photograph, Jueves en la tarde.........................Fatima Licona ’21........................................23 Photograph, City Road......................................Amy Li ’21...................................................24 Poem, Dragon...................................................Auggie Davis ’21........................................ 25 Poem, The Loss of a Friend...............................Emily Harris ’22...........................................26 Art, March 2020................................................Emily Oh ’21................................................27 Art, October 20.................................................Ingrid Yu ’21................................................28 Prose, Grief Counseling Center..........................Ayo Adeyemi ’21.........................................29 Prose, Sierra’s Deserter.....................................Bella Borgomini ’21.....................................30 Photograph, Pink Exotic Flower.........................Maddy Foletta ’22.......................................31 Art, Untitled.......................................................Tylor Merhinger ’22......................................33 Art, City Road.............................................................Selma Ruiz ’23....................................................34 Prose, Middle School Bullies..............................Greer Biddlecome ’24.................................35 Art, Houses.......................................................Gracie Gaon ’21..........................................36 Prose, Eurolychus..............................................Maggie Madden ’24....................................37 Art, Dreamscapes..............................................Caitlyn Sullivan ’22......................................38 Prose, There She Was, Standing There..............Cecilia Yu ’24..............................................39 Art, Untitled.......................................................Sophia Lamarque ’21..................................40 Art, Wood with Face..........................................Georgia Meyer ’22.......................................41 Art, Untitled.......................................................Trixie Stork ’21............................................42 Photograph, 5900 Feet Above...........................Kate Larsen ’21...........................................43 Photograph, Black Cat......................................Dharma Ragsdale-Cronin ’24......................44 Poem, Dear Gods of Art....................................Lorenza Marquard ’24.................................44 Prose, Walking into a Coffee Shop.....................Sarah Sallee ’21..........................................45 Photograph, Red Photo.....................................Sophia Chun ’22.........................................47 Prose, Scene.....................................................Auggie Davis ’21.........................................47 Prose, Scene.....................................................Cheryl Mendoza ’21....................................50 Art, Horse..........................................................Dylan Barry-Schoen ’21......Inside Back Cover Art, Untitled....................................................... Trixie Stork ’21..............................Back Cover The Publication of the Arts

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Untitled, Milan Coleman ’21, watercolor, 5” x 6”

Acknowledgments Ms. Meg Bradley Ms. Julie Lenherr Edson ’88 Sister Claire Sister Christine Mrs. Jaime Ball Ms. Crystal Boyd ’89 Ms. Katherine Burkhuch Ms. Jeannie Evers Ms. Beth Jones Ms. Liesel Kuehl Ms. Claire Lerner Dr. John Murphy Ms. Sarah Paff Ms. Jen Rocha Mr. Peter Meyers …and all the students of Santa Catalina who submitted their work.

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Cadence Helen Yenson ’22

The elusive ‘goodbye’ is but a formality Curtailing our speech.

One final moment before we depart For the greater unknown of the future.

I walk along the streetside, Listening to songs my younger self adored.

Images, memories flash before me— Each beat is familiar, like a garden path I’ve wandered many times in my life.

Larger footprints stamp over smaller ones Until nothing old remains.

Beyond the tunnel lies tendrils of light Pulling my feet ever-forward, the dirt Is carved with valleys, far and wide Into the fading dawn and a brighter birth.

When we are certain the traveler is gone, Their journey half-trodden into the road beyond— We can say that word truly, hear it ring, And watch as the sound dissolves the air: Never quite reaching our traveler.

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Silk Water, Sarah Scheetz ’21, digital photography

Odysseus’ Tears Lorenza Marquard ’24

Distant land I once called home has sailed far away Left out to roam through the endless ocean sway My heart has broken alone The ocean orchestra I once adored brings bitter taste onto my tongue My tortured years spent abroad have been cursed into oblivion Hardship follows day and night and as years pass, what was once bright has become a sunless sight

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I Call on Demeter Sophia Gargiulo ’24

I call on Demeter: Mother of seasons, Founder of the feast, The breath of Spring, May you bring a fruitful harvest Grant the saplings strength, The earth blessings, So that the trellis may bear grapes, To preserve good faith in the farmer, Give the wheat a golden lustor, Let the cattle graze on the greenest grass, Send your ripest apples to our trees All this I ask in your name

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Eggs, Trixie Stork ’21, acrylic, 16” x 16”

Meat, Trixie Stork ’21, acrylic, 16” x 16”

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Portrait, Sophia Gargiulo ’24, oil pastels, 18” x 24”

Desolation Auggie Davis ’21

It’s not like he expected this to go well. This was always gonna be a mess.

But he’d been hoping, secretly, in his heart of hearts, that things would be okay. Maybe he was being overoptimistic, but the hope was there, all the same. Germinating.

It was engulfed in heat and flames, just like everything else.

It happened like this: They needed his help. He knew they were foolhardy.

He tried to stop them, to keep them safe.

It happened like this: An inopportune warning, then, heat. Death, almost.

And a song. One he desperately tried to stop. But it ended too late.

His next death was not a near miss.

It happened like this: He was trying to save them It happened like this: His efforts were their doom.

It happened like this: There was a great battle. People’s lives were on the line. So they tried to help. He knew they were gonna get hurt. He tried to stop them. Then everything went wrong.

We were so close to beauty. We were so close to happiness. I’m sorry It happened like this: He got hurt. Badly. And then he was better. But He wasn’t.

It happened like this: A sacrifice was made. But he was too distraught to treasure that sacrifice, and it destroyed everything. continued next page The Publication of the Arts

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It happened like this: 4 people dead, because of his foolishness.

It happened like this: Is it really so terrible to die, if all of your loved ones are already gone?

It happened like this: A sacrifice, done in vain, when his grief from the horror leads to his death anyway. Another death from the horror of the sight, and then another. He didn’t live to see those, but he knew of their existence.

Maybe it’s time to start again.

It’s happening like this: 4 babies, worlds apart. 24 years of memories in each baby.

It’s happening like this: Mistakes were made once.

It’s happening like this: It is time to find each other again.

It’s happening like this: He can’t fix his mistakes. None of them can. But they can start again.

It’s happening like this: A message, broadcast wherever possible. It tells a story, of flames and destruction, and of hope.

He’s looking for them. I’m looking for you. Please, listen. I want to try again.

Marry me?

Phoenix

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Tarot, Nicole Oliver ’22, watercolor, 11” x 14”

Calypso Sophia Tonini ’24

Dawn yawns awake from deep sleep, Still sleepy in the dewy meadow morning, As the sun rises above the earth, Gracefully Calypso walks.

Her stunning beauty shadows her insightful mind.

Sweet smell of honeysuckle prickles softly at her nose, While baby blue hydrangeas bloom in family perfect bundles.

She clips one from the bush, pollen wisps all around her.

The summer light glides with her golden seaweed curls.

With the bundle by her side she walks on hot sand, like gold, underneath her bare feet.

The ocean rushing up to her glistening skin and while hushing millions of quiet sailors’ secrets. Deceitful air of Zues, rushes up to meet her.

Though he tries to fill her with the guilt, dismissing her here forever, Away from those she loves, The baby blue bloom awakens the honoring memories of her family.

She is shows pride and her love, head strong and lifted, What a powerful goddess she is.

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November 30, Ana Leissner ’21, digital photography

Excerpt from The Assimilation Game Anna Yeh ’23

Scene 8 After several days of prying, Anne is frustrated and fed up with Ama, she feels she has gotten nowhere knowing about her heritage and culture and that Ama has closed herself off. Anne enters the kitchen and puts her hands on the back of a chair.

ANNE Why won’t you tell me?

Ama ignores her, moves around the kitchen.

AMA (Gram) Here, do you want a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner?

ANNE No, I want you to teach me the stuff Aunt Linda told me about. I want you to have a conversation with me in Mandarin. I want you to share one detail about your life with me that doesn’t have to do with America. Please (she says, desperately and annoyedly) Ama doesn’t answer, moves to go into the kitchen to start making the sandwich. Anne watches, annoyed as Ama takes the bread out of the fridge and turns the stovetop on. Anne crosses her arms, she is thoroughly irritated.

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ANNE You know things aren’t like they were back then Gram, people aren’t constantly out to get you just because you’re different.

AMA (Gram) Really? So those shootings of Asian women in Georgia last spring don’t mean anything to you?

ANNE No! That’s not what I was sayin--AMA (Gram) The prejudice is still there, you can’t see it because you don’t remember the worst of it, but I do.

ANNE Look, I’m not saying that racism is gone or something, I’m just saying it’s light years better than before. And I know COVID made asians a target for white supremacists, but teaching me a little about my own culture isn’t going to increase my chances of getting shot by a racist!

AMA (Gram) That’s what you don’t understand, every immigrant in this country has had to play the game. We either assimilate and lose our identity to succeed, or we guard our culture until it destroys us. They don’t see us until we make ourselves seen,

Portrait, Samantha Scattini ’21, digital photography

and no one wants to be seen as an outlier.

She sighs and pauses briefly, shaking her head You want this culture so badly, but you don’t realize what it will cost you! Right now you are at the place I strived my whole life to achieve through myself and your father; you are white. You don’t have to explain yourself or your culture to anyone, because there is nothing to explain. That is a luxury I wish I had. And you’re taking it for granted. She says exasperatedly Don’t you see this is a gift we’ve given you? You are normal, finally, normal!

ANNE Normal? Is that how you see being asian, as abnormal? It’s not a disease Gram. God, this town is so messed up it made you think that you were an

outcast just because you were different - And now - now you don’t even see it! UGH!! Your heritage -- it’s -- it’s supposed to be a part of me, and I feel like it’s not and I really want you to help me understand it but you’re -- you’re not even willing to try! *Pause* Anne has tears of anger in her eyes and is looking down. Ama walks over to Anne, puts her hands on Anne’s crossed arms, and speaks softly.

AMA (Gram) I want you to succeed, I want you to succeed in this American world, and teaching you about mine won’t do you any good.

Anne doesn’t look up.

ANNE Why do you have to see it that way? It’s not all bad.

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Anne is now silently crying, she looks confused and defeated AMA (Gram) It was for me.

ANNE Did someone attack you back then? In North Carolina?

AMA (Gram) If I said so would you drop this whole crusade?

Anne looks at Ama, she doesn’t need a verbal response to know that the answer is yes. She looks back down and composes herself.

ANNE I’m gonna go upstairs and start packing.

I can make my own dinner when I come back down.

Ama seems disappointed, but distances herself slightly from Anne. She speaks quietly.

She examines them, studying her young family in the yellowed polaroids.

She starts to spread them out on the table, looking upstairs to where Anne is asleep, but then doubles back and returns them to the box. She closes the lid and stashes it away, then walks into her bedroom and closes the door.

Scene 9 Cut to the next day, Anne and Ama eat a silent breakfast, each observing the other for any signs of hostility. Anne goes upstairs to get her suitcase, and they awkwardly hug in the doorway and say their goodbyes.

ANNE Bye Gram, thanks for having me.

AMA (Gram) Of course. You drive safe, ok?

ANNE Ok.

AMA (Gram) Ok. Anne leaves. Ama lets out an exasperated sigh, covers her face with her hands.

End Scene

Anne smiles, but not wholeheartedly.

She walks down the driveway and gets into her car. Ama waves as she pulls out of the driveway. Anne swallows, smiles, and drives away.

End Scene

Scene 8

Scene 10

Later that night Ama pulls out a box with all of her Taiwanese memorabilia and pictures to look at on the couch.

Anne is back at home in California cutting apple slices in the kitchen when she hears the doorbell ring. She doesn’t

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bother to check it yet, finishing preparing her meal and moving to eat at the table.

Once she does check she sees a card addressed to her. It is a pumpkin shaped halloween card. It reads:

Untitled, Ingrid Yu ’21, mixed media, 9” x 12”

Dear Anne, Happy Halloween! I miss you and can’t wait to see you next summer! Stay safe!

Anne’s eyes dart down to the signature, which has been relocated several times due to the 2 scribbled out spots which have clearly housed the word “Gram” on the lower half of the card.

Love, Ama

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The Knight’s Tale Lucia Butler Cerisola ’23

There once was a boy with a bright future,

Who of happiness and sadness were as little as him aware.

Or one that seemed marvelous in his culture.

Though one son, who would have ended up the same,

Many would call him lucky for his parentage.

Thinking joy came from money and fame, Had one day, which he thought changed his fate.

Though in his blood it was uncommon, he had a wealthy heritage.

His father through much work and luck had What those desired most, who with it would be just as sad.

Across the land, so far and wide, There were his admirers, his real pride.

Though ironically all wished to be he, He who managed out of poverty to flee, But his own son who feared him most

Nicholas Boulevard was his name, who at the time only aged eight.

He had run a bit too far away from his father’s rage, To a hall of his dead relative’s belongings, and could recognize but one image That which belonged to his grandfather.

Under which, he found his true love, a book wrapped in leather.

In there, a story told of a knight of kindness and courage

And becoming his image any close.

Who was said to have found true happiness and did encourage

For in spite of all the rare things he had accomplished

Nicholas to become and have all the same, but the promised joy.

The happiness he had strived for was truly malnourished.

So, he became a knight of morals to have a life to enjoy.

So, he became his family’s nightmare

To many countries he rode and defended his beliefs.

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Though his outer wins, he only had inner defeats.

About how its promises never became fulfilled, could never satisfy

The more he killed, and won prizes and fame

Beyond the short moments he experienced after blood on his hands

The sadder and more unsatisfied he became.

Marked his victory and brought his fans.

The most beautiful of wives he had too,

He was angry with life and society with its lies.

And many kids, but still of happiness had no clue.

So, he became as abusive and angry as his father for his hidden cries.

Wide across the boundaries of his land, he was admired.

Though, as ignorant society stayed, and could only view him as an angel,

Though he had none of the happiness they desired.

Who could not utter a mean word, but would kill for them with his rifle.

Mushroom, Marina Butler Cerisola ’21, watercolor, 4” x 4”

Nicholas became hateful of life as the years went by

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Ode to Her Bella Borgomini ’21

My husband has been crying. I am

who never took the time to connect with

unsure of what to do.

the woman who raised him. He thinks

“Where did you put my suit jacket?” he

I didn’t love her. But it isn’t as simple

asks me coolly.

as that. He forgets that a woman must

“Should be hanging in your closet, I just

always compare herself to other women.

got it from the cleaner’s.” I respond. He

And his goddess of a mother -- the

mumbles a bit underneath his breath

woman who single handedly raised him

before finding it. I hear him scoff.

-- well she and I are no exception to this

“Where’d you go to get it cleaned?” I

rule.

don’t respond. He enters the room. “Did

On the eve of her funeral I reflect on

you take it to the one on the corner of

the first time she and I met. When my

5th?” I had. “Because I’ve told you, time

husband brought me to the restaurant

and time not to go there anymore.”

where we were to meet his mother, I

“Okay, I’ll --”

knew only two things about her: She

“God, you really are no help at all

was a successful, self-made business

sometimes.” He storms off in a fury,

woman and she was his hero. I was

leaving me sitting on the bed. He slams

intimidated to say the least.

the bedroom door shut behind him. I am

When I entered the restaurant I was

unsure of what to do.

nervous, beads of sweat trickled down

Tomorrow we bury his beloved mother

my neck as I shook her hand and

-- and no words I say can soothe his

felt her eyes trace me up and down.

hurting. I know what he thinks. I feel his

I knew she was asking herself the

angry eyes on me when he thinks I’m

question I had already asked myself a

unaware. I know that he has made me

countless number of times. She was

out to be the villain. The terrible wife

asking herself if I was good enough for

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Jueves en la tarde, Fatima Licona ’21, digital photography

her son. I could see it in her eyes, that

For with every passing year a woman

she expected better. I wonder now, if I

knows that her youth is fleeting; for

misunderstood this look she gave me-- if many, growing older is one step closer it wasn’t a look of disappointment, but

toward oblivion. We both feared being

rather resentment. Only in the clarity of

forgotten -- growing obsolete. Despite

retrovision can I see how my youthful

these fears I shared with her, even then,

presence used to light up a room

I was unable to truly reach out to her, to

-- and likely bright in the face of my

connect with her fully. The day we met,

future mother-in law, as if to scorn her. I

she realized her son had been talking

wonder if she mistook my sunshine for

over me. She addressed him,

fire, my kindness as competition. Today

“Sweetheart, let her speak please.” She

when I think of her, I empathize with a

looked at me then. And I knew instantly

woman likely fearful of growing older.

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saw one another. Both of us understood

swiftly wipe my tears away. “I’m sorry I

what it meant to struggle to have our

snapped at you,” he says yawning.

voices heard. For this reason, we were

“It’s okay,” I respond as I turn to face

destined to exist in the same invisible

him, but he has already fallen fast

universe. I’ll never forget how her eyes

asleep.

twinkled softly when she looked at me

On the eve of my mother in law’s

that day.

funeral I hope she does not resent me. I

“Good night,” my husband says as

hope she remembers that we are one in

he climbs into bed. I am snapped out

the same.

City Road, Amy Li ’21, digital photography

of my reverie. I don’t let him see as I

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Dragon Auggie Davis ’21

The shining glint of scales on her face Suggesting at the sharpness of her teeth The stretch of wings she wields with vicious grace Intimidating all those trapped beneaths The searing shadow of her fiery breath Which strikes within the viewer halting fear All warning of an instant, painful death For any knight who dares to wander near But when a passing wind then deigns to stay And swirls form a now familiar face The creature’s chilling visage melts away And leaves a friendly figure in its place

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The Loss of a Friend Emily Harris ’22

A sudden sea of unsettling silence Fills a void once full of feeling And takes me by surprise.

It aches and throbs and pulls and tugs Until I feel unsteady Where did it all come from, this sudden silence Have I done something wrong Am I alone in this bubble, looking on at the scene Or is this just a dream?

Is this just a dream once sweet, but turned sour Will I wake up with feeling and look in the mirror less dour Because I don’t feel like I’m falling and no one can see And I’m stuck wondering, is it just me?

But when I wake up I still feel crushed by the silence And mourn the loss of a friend.

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March 2020, Emily Oh ’21, digital painting

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October 20, Ingrid Yu ’21, mixed media, 9” x 12”

Grief Counseling Center Ayo Adeyemi ’21

Entering through the doors the 18-year-old girl’s facial muscles contorted and tightened in the same way that newborns do when they first open their eyes. For a brief moment before adjusting the needles of white light from the overhead fixtures pierced through the air to her eyes. She had entered Aurora’s Grief Counseling Center. “Hi darling, the doctor will with you shortly but you can head on back!” A hand met the small of her back giving a light push into the direction of a narrow hallway in which had six rooms on either side. Her finger lightly dragged against the cold glass window panes. The lights were turned off in all but two rooms: in the middle room on the left, she could see a young boy maybe 3 or 4 years old gripping tightly to a teddy bear that looked as if it had been broken and restitched many times. The doctor was sitting in front of the young boy, with her eyebrows almost furrowed, her pupils almost quivering, and a large smile almost disappearing from its place stitched on her face. Seeing this, the girl’s fist tightened, and her legs shuffled lightly and quickly across the floor into the other room with lights on. Out of routine she immediately walked to the tall dark oak bookshelf on the right side of the room. It was overflowing disarray of books red, green, yellow, and brown. She heard the shrill voice of a young boy.

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Sierra’s Deserter Bella Borgomini ’21

On a dry Tuesday afternoon, a young woman enters June Stewart’s convenience store. The door bell chimes as the elderly June looks up from the cash register. Situated in the middle of the Sierra Nevadas, she isn’t used to many customers. The mysterious woman eventually approaches June and pays for her items in silence.

Though she would never say it, she had fond memories of that trip. Only six years ago, the two had stumbled upon a campsite that felt perfect for their frugal honeymoon. Only six years ago, all of their troubles seemed far, far away.

“Thank you, have a great day!” Says June, as the woman exits her shop, but the stranger doesn’t look back on her way out.

“I suppose it’s as good a place as any to talk,” responded Natalie, as she turned off the highway.

“Get anything good?” Asked Natalie’s husband, as she returned to their car.

“Here,” she said, tossing him his favorite snack. As Natalie drove, the two sat in silence. The car felt heavy with words better left unsaid. This trip marked their first reunion in over a year. It had been a year since David had walked out on her, and Natalie was determined to find closure.

“You know, we’re just about to pass the very spot that --” “I know where we are,” said Natalie sharply. David was referring to the very campsite where the two had spent their honeymoon. “God, that feels like ages ago.” Natalie shook her head gently.

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“Well, shall we take a pitstop there?”

Offered David.

“It’s just up ahead if you take --” “I know the way,” Natalie said. She found it unlikely that she would ever forget. In a few minutes, the pair had arrived. As they pulled into the campsite, it was as if they had travelled back in time. Their spot in the desert remained untouched -- unmoved.

Natalie took a deep breath and stepped out of the car.

“It’s starting to get a bit dark,” said David, noting the sun sinking slowly behind the mountains. “Maybe we oughtta start a fire.”

“Fine,” said Natalie, easily convinced.

“But we’re not staying overnight.”

David nodded his agreement as he fetched firewood from the car -- he had

Pink Exotic Flower, Maddy Foletta ’22, digital photography

stowed some in the trunk. Natalie took a moment to access her surroundings.

The oranges and the browns of the desert were magnified by the setting sun, shining brightly in her eyes. The past seemed to pull her back violently.

She felt her heart aching. But she would not reveal this to David. Not yet. The two sat beside the fire -- mesmerized by the flames, neither of them uttering a word.

“I-” They both began at the same time -- interrupting one another.

“Oh, you go ahead,” said Natalie expectantly.

“No, I was just going to say I don’t know where to begin.”

“Me neither,” Natalie admitted.

“I have to say I’m not sure why you dragged me out here, how this is supposed to help.”

“Me neither,” repeated Natalie.

“Something told me I had to and I don’t know why. There’s so much we have to talk about and I’m not sure how to start.” The fire blazed on, crackling under the dusk sky. The husband and wife refused to meet each other’s eyeline. continued next page The Publication of the Arts

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“You still wear it?” Asked David incredulously. He had noticed his wife was still wearing her wedding ring, it sparkled delicately in the firelight.

“Yeah, I guess it’s hard for me to take it off.”

“Huh.” David looked into the distance, surprised.

“What?”

“Nothing I just -- I thought you hated me.” Natalie thought for a moment.

her father.” Natalie looked at David and thought to add, “I need you,” but thought better of it. Natalie had found out she was pregnant the day after David left her.

“I named her after here you know. This spot.” David looked at Natalie, his eyes now brimming with tears.

“She’s beautiful?” Natalie nodded.

“Stunning.”

“When do I get to meet her?”

“You know I could never do that.” She meant to look at him when she said that, but her eyes remained glued on the fire, and she only managed to whisper. She cleared her throat.

“One day,” said Natalie, smiling sadly.

“How’s the army treating you?” She asked, changing the subject.

“You’re sorry? Then why did you leave me David? With nothing, nobody.” She made her way to the car. “Can’t you see how unhappy I am? Can’t you see how you ruined me?”

“Fine. Keeps me busy I suppose.”

Natalie nodded silently. She would never understand why he chose that life over her. Why she wasn’t enough. “How is she?” Asked David softly.

“She’s good,” said Natalie. “Misses her Dad.” “She’s never even met me.” David smiled but his eyes appeared glassy.

“I know. But she misses you, she needs

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“Hey Nat?” Natalie turned to him. “I’m sorry.” She laughed and stood up suddenly.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“You’re lying, everything you did was to hurt me.”

“I’m sorry Nat I --” He stopped, for from the glove compartment of the car Natalie had pulled out a gun. She had never held a gun in her life. She liked the way the cool metal felt in her hands

“Well what am I supposed to do, David?

What I’ve been doing? This isn’t life -- I’m not living! You ruined me, you’re haunting me! I need to move on.” She pointed the gun at her husband as tears fell violently down her face.

“Natalie, you can! You should!” David attempted to approach his wife carefully.

“But it hurts. It hurts so bad,” Natalie uttered between sobs.

“I know, I know,” said David gently, inching closer.

“You don’t get it. I need this to be over.

I’m done with this pain.You can’t do this to me any longer,” Natalie was now yelling. David finally reached his wife and grasped her firmly by the shoulders.

“But Natalie, I’m not even here.” Just continued next page

Untitled, Tylor Merhinger ’22, pen and ink, 18” x 24”

-- a new sort of weight. “Natalie, calm down. Please don’t do something you’ll regret.”

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then, a sudden gust of wind rushed into the desert. Natalie collapsed to her knees and felt her husband’s dog tags clang around her neck She found herself completely alone in the desert -the middle of a vast nothingness.

City Road, Selma Ruiz ’23, digital art

At 8:03 pm, June Stewart closes her shop. As she looks outside, she is

shocked to discover a baby, sleeping quietly in a carseat on her doormat.

Confused, she picks up the cradle to find it only has one word written on its tag: “Sierra.” As June carries the baby inside, she could have sworn she heard a gunshot -- echoing softly in the distance.

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Middle School Bullies Greer Biddlecome ’24

When I was little all the normal people, the ones with two eyes, would always make fun of me.

I never knew quite why though, now I understand that it was because I’m different.

They would say “Hide!! Here comes the monster with one eye!” right to my face.

But that’s not even the worst part.

The things they said behind my back were the worst.

I once overheard these girls saying that I would never find someone to love, and I’d be alone forever.

I was so scared that they would be right, and that’s why it stuck with me the most.

I hoped that maybe one day someone would come and sit with me for lunch, Or ask for a pencil in class.

That they could get to know me and people would see I’m not so bad afterall.

When that never happened I felt lonely, So lonely that I became angry.

Not just at the bullies from school, But everything and everyone.

Soon I was known as the school reject and outcast.

Once I realized that I was pretty much on my own, I started to stop taking what people said to heart.

I accepted the fact that I would be alone, and although it still gets lonely, living here alone, I realized I am so much stronger than all those Middle school bullies.

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Houses, Gracie Gaon ’21, acrylic painting, 4” x 4”

Eurylochus Maggie Madden ’24

Clumsy fingers Stumble over a simple task Remembering how my mother so deftly worked By a crackling fire After a familiar meal, a poor meal, but a familiar one nonetheless I can almost feel the warmth of the hearth But The low lamenting of other disgruntled soldiers Bellows through our briny chambers The smell - must and desperation - must have seeped into me now My coarse clothes My matted hair Even my scars - smooth, hard ridges - must reek of this life What has become of me?

My father’s son One he prodded into war One he gifted our family sword One he believed in Has been reduced Deferring to a madman Suffering in silence My sword is my one true solace The familiar indents Made my sure fingers Not these bumbling fellows, tripping over such monotonous It’s speckless surface Memories preserved of days long past The comfort of a cloth wiping away my sins Even the clinging tang of the battlefield Anything would be better Than darning these reminders of a life worth living The Publication of the Arts

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Dreamscapes, Caitlyn Sullivan ’22, gouache on paper, 3.5” x 5”

There She Was, Standing There Cecilia Yu ’24

There she was, standing there, With the sun shining upon her angelic face A smile softly gracing her lips, Her eyes alive with wonder and full of happiness, Her brown hair moving swiftly through the air, Her skin feeling smooth and delicate, Her outfit simple, but on her, it was worthy of the Red Carpet.

There she was, standing there, Waiting for someone to show up, For the mysterious person who has kept their identity secret unless they show up, For she has fallen in love with them, and they her, for who could deny her shy but outgoing personality, who was humble and kind for those who she never knew.

There she was, standing there, Waiting for me.

I could not go to her for I could not bring her into the life I lived for it would ruin her, People would try to take a hold of her to get to me, so I could never have her meet me in person.

There she was, standing there, She saw me, yet never lingered on me, I sat a couple of feet away from her, right by a cafe, and when she looked at me, she immediately glanced away for I was not walking towards her as I told her I would.

For I was not introducing myself and telling her I am the person who she loves, For I was just some stranger, sitting at a cafe, reading a book.

I knew then like I knew before, I am deeply and incandescently in love with her, And she will never know my name and what I look like

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Untitled, Sophia Lamarque ’21, acrylic, 8” x 10”

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Wood with Face, Georgia Meyer ’22, pen and ink, 11” x 19”

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mosaic Untitled, Trixie Stork ’21, clay, 3” x 5”

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5900 Feet Above, Kate Larsen ’21, digital photograhpy

Black Cat, Dharma Ragsdale-Cronin ’24, digital photography

Dear Gods of Art Lorenza Marquard ’24

Dear gods of art, I must call for urgent aid My mind has gone blank, this blanket has caused me blind, If only it were unsaid, such a curse that follow along, If only you would help, your yellow eyed friend with this relentless art block of mine

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Walking into a Coffee Shop Sarah Sallee ’21

Morning: The doorbell chimed as people entered the comforting warmth of the coffee house. The sound of the espresso machine hummed in the background as men dressed in suits waited for their first dose of coffee before heading to their critical board meetings on the top floor of the buildings on Main Street.

Muttering, a woman in a grey pantsuit glanced at her blackberry while two women in front of her in matching bright workout pants chatted to each other quickly as they headed out, passing a young worker hunched near the door with his toasted bagel and cream cheese. A sneeze broke the otherwise light atmosphere of the coffee shop immediately following the chill breeze that slipped through the door as an intern came hurrying in, late for the morning rush and most certainly new to the pleasures of fetching five different types of coffee at a quarter till 7 in the morning one observer noted, according to the large clock hanging precariously above the front door. The clock was shaped like an old wooden birdhouse and had light blue tendrils painted along its edges and a little wooden

bird that would pop out every hour, in clear view of the working baristas and Eliane, whose position perched on a metal stool on the right side of the cashier gave her the perfect view of the opposite end of the busy house. The sun was just starting to rise and with it, yellows, oranges, and blues decorated the air outside, light flooding in through the front windows before kissing the wooden flooring that was starting to illuminate the wood paneling that accented the counters and edges of the big glass dome. The dome curved down and reflected tiny specks of light, enhancing the appeal of the covered bakery treats which were nestled under the glass, ready to be bought. “Eli dear, you better hurry or you’ll be late,” one of the two baristas, Cat, called to the little girl who nervously gripped the edges of the seat, hoping the cool metal might calm her sweating palms. As one of the baristas helped her get down, Eli’s chest tightened at the thought of walking out the door. With the last half of the warm chocolate croissant clutched between her small palm, Eli took a deep breath, tightened her hold on her bright purpleflowered backpack, and headed off continued next page The Publication of the Arts

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to start her first day of Kindergarten.

Suddenly, she stumbled a bit over the big step of the front door, nervously nodding thanks to the customer just walking in and blushing as she thought ‘Maybe I should’ve asked for that extra shot of chocolate in my hot chocolate this morning.’ The doorbell dinged behind her as the little bird in the clock flew out, wishing her well on her way.

Evening: Eliane sighed as she swiped her hand across her sweaty head before dropping the dirty rag that she had used to clean the rest of the counter in front of the bar.

The sun was finally starting to set as the day wore to a close and the last of the band headed out after their live gig at the coffee house. She smiled softly as she looked down at the old wooden counter, worn with age and appearing darker as the shadows grew in the corner of the daily coffee shop/Friday night dance scene. Memories flickered in the back of her mind as, humming to herself, she finished cleaning and grabbed her small purple backpack before making one quick trip behind the counter to grab a chocolate croissant

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before she left. The doorbell chimed as she opened the door, the little bird in the clock above darting out once more to wish her farewell and keeping guard of the little coffee house till Monday.

Despite Cat, the manager, telling her she didn’t have to work the morning shift, Eli refused to even consider switching. She loved stumbling in at quarter till 6 and drinking Cat’s homemade hot chocolate before helping load the coffee beans into the espresso machine and turning on the radio as they put out fresh pastries for the early morning crew. Besides, if she didn’t do the morning shift she wouldn’t get to see the delight every time she whipped out an extra banana nut muffin for the little girl with the blue backpack who had just started at a new school. Banana nut was her favorite treat because her older cousin told her it would chase the worries away according to the little girl who had told Eli this on her second week visiting the coffee shop before skipping out the door.

Muffin in hand, she had blown a kiss to the bluebird as he flew out of the clock above her head before she crossed the threshold and let the door softly close.

Red Photo, Sophia Chun ’22, digital photography

Scene Auggie Davis ’21

(Lights go up on BENVOLIO, who stands, slightly haggard behind the bar at a coffee shop. He’s wearing an apron that isn’t quite the right shade of green or logo to be Starbucks. There are chairs and tables scattered around, but the cafe is clearly empty) (Enter MERCUTIO, tall and confident in a button-down shirt that’s unbuttoned just a little too low. who walks in and leans against the bar) BENVOLIO. (slightly taken aback) ...Hi, how can I help you?

MERCUTIO. (flirtatiously) Hey, could I get a caramel frappuccino but replace 2 of those frap roasts with caramel syrup and also put some whipped cream on top and dust it with cinnamon? And one

black coffee?

BENVOLIO. ...so only one pump of actual coffee in that frap?

MERCUTIO. It’s for my friend. Romeo.

He can’t handle bitterness. The black coffee’s for me.

BENVOLIO. Alright. And whose name am I putting this under?

MERCUTIO. Mercutio!

BENVOLIO. Perfect. That’ll be $6.25.

MERCUTIO. You think my name is perfect?

BENVOLIO. (flustered) $6.25 continued next page The Publication of the Arts

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(MERCUTIO puts the money on the counter and another dollar in the tip jar.

He then wanders over to an empty table to sit in while he waits for the order, and leans back precariously to watch as BENVOLIO goes to make a drink) (SFX. Explosion. The bar and tables shake. BENVOLIO grabs the bar for support as MERCUTIO and his chair are knocked to the ground. BENVOLIO gestures to MERCUTIO mouthing words that we can’t hear, as MERCUTIO grabs his ears. He tries to yell back be we can’t hear him either. Finally, he understands and leaps over the bar, somewhat ungracefully. The stage rotates so that facing the audience we see the pair, huddled behind the bar. They mouth things at each other, but we can’t hear them, and clearly neither can they.

Finally, the metaphorical dusts settles and we can hear them)

MERCUTIO. Apt (MERCUTIO goes to get up) BENVOLIO. It’s not safe yet. He rarely stops at one bomb MERCUTIO. Oh, you know a lot about the patterns of Bomb Voyage?

BENVOLIO. I like to stay informed when it’s my life on the line.

MERCUTIO. But Bomb Voyage? He’s not exactly an A-lister BENVOLIO. A-lister or not, he could still kill me. You think I’m gonna work across the street from a bank and not stay informed?

MERCUTIO. ...touché. (pause) So how long do you think we should wait for, o knowledgeable one?

BENVOLIO. (yelling slightly) Are you okay?

BENVOLIO. (checks watch) We should be safe after half an hour.

MERCUTIO. (also yelling) Yeah! Are you?

MERCUTIO. Half and hour?!

BENVOLIO. I’m fine!

MERCUTIO. (speaking) What was that?

BENVOLIO. He tends to patrol for hostages. We don’t wanna make ourselves targets

BENVOLIO. Bomb Voyage is at it again, apparently.

MERCUTIO. You seem awfully calm about this

MERCUTIO. Again? I thought he got locked up my our latest vigilante?

BENVOLIO. I told you. I work across from a bank, I’m used to this. How do you think this shop has stayed together?

BENVOLIO. Apparently he blew up the prison.

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(MERCUTIO takes a second to look around. Nothing in the shop is shaken or

out of place)

safe?

MERCUTIO. I...didn’t think about that.

BENVOLIO. (checks watch) 25 minutes.

BENVOLIO. Well don’t worry in 30 minutes when it’s safe to come out I will still be perfectly capable of making you your caramel frap. Sorry-black coffee MERCUTIO. (laughs) I completely forgot about the coffee. Oh, Romeo’s gonna kill me

MERCUTIO. Right. And I don’t suppose you brought your phone? Or a book?

BENVOLIO. Nope.

BENVOLIO. Because he got his coffee late?

MERCUTIO. (distressed) Because I left my phone at home and have no way to tell him I’m okay!

BENVOLIO. ...right.

MERCUTIO. (pause) So BENVOLIO. So MERCUTIO. How much time before it’s

MERCUTIO. So there’s not much for us to do here.

BENVOLIO. There isn’t. Any ideas?

MERCUTIO. I might have one. But first I have something to tell you BENVOLIO. Oh? MERCUTIO. I don’t drink black coffee.

(BENVOLIO smiles and presses his lips up against MERCUTIO’s as the stage rotates back around. As the lights go down, we see an apparently empty coffee shop, the only sign of life being a single table that’s been knocked over)

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Scene Cheryl Mendoza ’21

Setting: The interior of a cottage in a Danish village. The walls form a semihexagon to give the audience a clear view.

A straw bed, stage left, a chest at the foot of the bed which a woman, Mary, is seated on, sobbing.

The lighting is cool and the walls of the cottage are grey, made from stone.

The cottage door, upstage center, is flung open by a backlit female figure.

Ophelia, steps out the halo of light and into the light of the cottage as the door shuts with a force behind her.

Ophelia quickly glides to Mary and kneels by her, she tries to take her hands but Mary pulls away.

Mary’s sobbing continues.

Ophelia stands back up and walks over to the hearth, upstage right, which has a kettle hanging above where the flame would be.

Ophelia picks up a pitcher of water from a nearby table and pours it into the kettle.

She gently places the pitcher back on the table and crouches down to start a fire.

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She strikes up a fire and a warm glow begins to illuminate the cold, grey space.

Ophelia walks upstage left where there is a window overlooking a field she looks out over the fields with rue and fenugreek plants hung on the window to dry .

Ophelia runs her finger gently along the thin, drying plants .

She grabs two jars; one of dried rue and one of dried fenugreek from a shelf and tucks them into her dress.

Ophelia glides back over to the chest Mary is sitting on and sits beside her.

Ophelia cradles her face in her right hand, using her other hand to wipe her tears.

Ophelia tries to shush Mary but Mary just cries harder.

In her agony, Mary crumples into Ophelia’s arms.

Ophelia holds Mary, Mary lays her head on Ophelia’s chest.

Ophelia rocks Mary and caresses her hair, she pushes a few stray pieces behind Mary’s ear.

She adjusts Mary up to look into her eyes and they stare at each other for a moment.

When they lock eyes, Ophelia begins to tear up and Mary, still tearful, begins to quiet down Ophelia takes a violet that was tucked behind her ear and tucks it lovingly behind Mary’s downstage ear.

Ophelia places both hands on the sides of Ophelia’s face and uses her thumbs to wipe away Mary’s remaining tears.

Ophelia takes her hands down the sides of Mary’s arms with ease until they are holding hands Mary takes a deep breath in and Ophelia and she exhale in tandem.

Mary: I don’t want– Ophelia: Shh… we must not speak directly. People are always listening.

There is no freedom– Mary: or peace.

Ophelia: That either. We must be extremely cautious with what we say, how we say it, and where we say it.

the issue at hand.

Mary: But, Ophelia, we have to be practical about– Ophelia: No, not yet. Please. I have to be strong for you and I cannot remain brave if – Mary: I understand. Oh God, this is all so horrible… (she begins to cry again) Ophelia: Shh shh shh (situating Mary again) you will be just fine.

Mary: But our futures… my future… how is it our futures are worse off now than they were before all this.

Ophelia: Our futures are not ruined. This is not a curse, this is a blessing.

Mary: How can something that splits us apart be a blessing! How could I say yes…

Ophelia: Stop. You did the right thing.

This is bigger than us.

Mary: But what if it isn’t… what if this is all some cruel joke and all this pain is for nothing.

Ophelia: It isn’t

Mary: You are a blessing beyond belief, I cannot fathom how I could go on without your wisdom and friendship.

Mary: But how…

Ophelia: Nor I you, but let’s not think of such a world and focus our attention on

Mary: This isn’t what I planned for my life to be like.

Ophelia: I know. Have faith.

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Ophelia: Who could plan for something of this magnitude.

to Mary who cradles the cup in her lap, using both hands to gently secure it.)

Mary: I am not ready but I don’t know if anyone ever actually is. I suppose this is as ready as I will ever be.

Ophelia: I will miss you terribly. You are my sister.

Ophelia: Are you sure?

Mary: Yes. Ophelia rises and walks over to the kettle. She reaches up to grab a thick, ceramic cup from the shelf and ladles hot water into the cup.

Ophelia: I wish I could give you better advice but…(She takes one of the jars out of her dress, removes the top, and pours the dried plant into the water and swirls in a bit of sweetner.)

Mary: I know… I don’t want to leave you…(Ophelia turns and hands the cup

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Mary: And you’re mine. I’m sorry to leave you alone with only men…

Ophelia: I will be fine. Don’t you worry about me. (Mary drinks from the cup.)

Mary: This doubt and fear…

Ophelia: To our graves?

Mary: To our graves.

A knock at the door. Mary drops the cup and it shatters.

The girls embrace tightly.

Blackout.

Horse, Dylan Barry-Schoen ’21, acrylic painting, 9” x 13”

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