The Amanuensis 2025

AMANUENSIS

Savannah Country Day School 2025 Volume LVIII

CONTENTS {LITERATURE} Wesley Smith, “Love of Nature” - 7 Lily Barrow, “Bailing is Never the Answer” - 9-11 Thomas Holland, “The Moment” - 14 Chase Turner, “Ode Poem”- 16 Sarah Sussman, “If” - 18 Suri Desai, “The Forever Color” - 21-30 McKay Beck, “Ode to the Night Sky” - 33 Ian Rogers, “Nothing New” - 36 Reese Bailey, “Trapped in My Own Thoughts” - 39-40 Anonymous, “Family” - 43 Kensie Glass, “An Ode to the Sociotropic Sky” - 46 Jad Danawi, “Ode To Elephant” - 51 Ian Rogers, “Give Me Back My Guitar!” - 55 Ian Rogers, “Mood Ring” - 57 Charlie Glidewell, “The Rising and Falling of the Sun” - 61 Jones Lane, “Ode to Rain” - 63 Anonymous, “Women and Stuff” - 65 Ian Rogers, “Her Midas Touch” - 67 Nicholas Dunne, “The Stars Are Your Friend” - 72-75 Victoria Kang, “Sky” - 77 Tennyson Fitzgerald, “A Sonnet to My Mom” - 80 Nell Strength, “Bodies” - 84-90

{VISUAL ART} Agnes Brown, Girls & Fruit - 6 Sophia Okumu, Lacoste - 8 Alice Edwards, Taxi - 9

Agnes Brown, Temple - 20 Harlan Lerch, Court Room Study - 21 Hajin Lee, Fragments of the Sky - 31 Najee Young, Snake - 32 Matilde Robbe, Getaway- 11 Nell Strength, Zinnia - 32 Agnes Brown, Magnolias - 12 Vivienne Smith, Flower - 34 Feriby McCorkle, Angus’s Christmas - 13 Tennyson Fitzgerald, Butterfly - 34 Hajin Lee, Where The Clouds Rest - 15 Feriby McCorkle, Grazing in the Garden - 17 Matilde Robbe, Column Crossed Lovers - 35 Matilde Robbe, AmorediNonno - 37 Kharis Ott, Jellyfish - 18 Kharis Ott, Shining Through the Quad - 38 Agnes Brown, Bear- 19 Amelia Moret, Birds - 38 Agnes Brown, Fruits- 19 Agnes Brown, Fishies - 41 Miles Carson, Japan - 20

{VISUAL ART} Nolan Watson, Yellow - 42 Nolan Watson, Drive - 42 Romey Gerlach, Fox -43 Hajin Lee, Monochrome Metro- 44

Walker Peters, Skull Study - 60 Ivan Lin, Bird by the Water - 62 Vivienne Smith, Rainbow Trout - 64 Matilde Robbe, Lined - 64 Nell Strength, Sunset- 65 Ian Rogers, Run Girl!- 44 Nell Strength, Yawn - 66 Andrew Wynn, FPMC- 45 Hajin Lee, First Light - 68 Maeve Hecht, Circus - 47 Robbie McCorkle, Bird of Paradise - 76 Rebecca Kimball, Crab - 47 Mary Margaret Carroll, Life’s A Circus- 78 Agnes Brown, Girls- 49 Charlie Hawkins, Oasis - 78 Agnes Brown, Fish - 50 Mary Margaret Carroll, Up and Away - 52 Nell Strength, Beach - 79 Nell Strength, Garden - 79 Ellie Northup, Smoothie Bowl - 53 Harlan Lerch, Runway - 81 Ellie Northup, Gather- 53 Lauren Lewis, Streetview - 82 Matilde Robbe, Slidin - 54 Caroline Semones, Flower Vase - 82 Victoria Kang, Parrot - 55 Maeve Hecht, Dog - 83 Hajin Lee, Timeless Corner - 56 Najee Young, Owl - 90 Ian Rogers, Frog en Pointe - 58

Ian Rogers, Amphibien Apéritif - 58 Theodore McGuirk, Westward - 59 Tennyson Fitzgerald, Floral Study - 60

Artist Spotlight Agnes Brown Class of 2025 Page 48 Author Spotlight Nicholas Dunne Class of 2025 Page 69

Cover Art: Agnes Brown, Flock, Watercolor

STAFF Chief editors Ian Rogers '25 Mary Margaret Carroll '25 Agnes Brown '25 Feriby McCorkle ‘25

Amanuensis Council Aarya Patel Anne Mandel Lily Barrow Charlie Hawkins Elijah Nguyen Hillary Bunger Finlay Taylor Suri Desai Kensie Glass Tennyson Fitzgerald Mimi Dulany

Theo McGuirk Cara McIntosh Ryder Nguyen Aarya Patel Ria Patel Nell Strength Paxton Towe Danny Engle Saya Patel Tanner Kaminsky

Advisors Olivia Oliver-Floyd Jessica Duthu

Agnes Brown, Girls & Fruit, Marker 6

Wesley Spencer, Love of Nature, Poetry The outside is a lovely place to be The high tide is rising through the river Walking with the fresh air blowing by me Depth of the river is growing bigger My Love is for the river and water It Comes from the love of the animals And all the great sights of the marshwater But, my love for the fish spreads to mammals Being in the woods away from the towns All alone with only wild creatures Searching for the greatest deer feeding grounds Waiting for the deer with perfect features The power of nature, speaking to me A call from the woods, where I’m meant to be.

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Sophia Okumu, Lacoste, Oil

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Alice Edwards, Taxi, Photography

Lily Barrow, Bailing is Never the Answer, Short Story The soft strings of the violin music come to a sudden halt as if they were yanked out of midair. Gasps erupt through the crowd like a volcano explosion - powerful and uncontrollable.

I feel the vibration of my coach’s footsteps speeding up as she frantically runs towards me. I lie motionless on the ground, the world a thunderstorm around me. Thinking about what just happened, my head throbs as if someone is squeezing the blood from my brain. My eyes squeeze shut, tears forming and slowly bubbling to the surface. My neck bones scream from the crunch of my fall, a tingling sensation crawling down my spine. I slowly try to sit up and fly back to earth, but the harsh impact continues to send waves of pain throughout my body.

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“Come on Lily!” my coach screamed only minutes before, her excited voice echoing through my ears, reassuring me I would ace my round-off backhandspring backlayout. I inhaled slowly. You’ve got this, I reassured myself. I had the best floor warm-up of my life, sticking every back layout without Coach Shelley’s help and even having extra time to practice the dance for my routine. Even with all this confidence, I couldn’t help but think about what could go wrong. I could mess up my steps and stop before my tumbling pass. I could slip in my roundoff. I could twist an ankle on my landing and not be able to get up. I could bail out midway through my back layout and fall on my head. A small, worrying voice now had a place in my gut, but I prayed I could be stronger than this voice. Finally, I exhaled and took my first step.

One, two, three, four, five, six. Perfect! I thought to myself.

I had taken the right number of steps! The soft bristles of the floor comforted me, giving me a sense of nostalgia as I thought of my gym back home. I confidently hurdled for my round-off (a cartwheel that lands with two legs instead of one), the cold air brushing against my face. My hand placement was good and straight in front of where I had taken my last step. I snapped my feet down and landed perfectly square from the corner of the floor. I was just where I wanted to be. valuabl

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After landing my round-off, I can’t remember exactly what happened next. What I do remember is being in the air, ready to flip for my back layout, but my body wouldn’t listen to my brain. It was like they were two separate people, a wall blocking all contact. It felt as if I was in the air for hours, slowly gliding backward, but not flipping over enough to land the skill. Suddenly, my head found the floor. I had bailed out.

About fifteen minutes later, I sat with my coach on the chairs beside the floor, eating gummies and sipping endless amounts of water she said was necessary for my health.

Even with all the pain I was experiencing and the embarrassment I felt from falling, I had learned a valueable lesson: In life, never give up and stop halfway through something, for it can lead to dangerous results.

Matilde Robbe, Getaway, Photography

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Agnes Brown, Magnolias, Acrylic

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Feriby McCorkle, Angus’s Christmas, Acrylic

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Thomas Holland, The Moment, Poetry The Moment I saw it had to be done, The beginning of many memories, The shining metal gleaming off the sun, The black seats so clean and so leathery.

The very first drive was like a blessing The acceleration so fast so sharp One step of the gas so get to pressing The engine so clean it sounds like a harp The smooth rides and the joy the car brings me And the smooth rides are so very joyful It’s like sailing across the open sea Never a doubt that it would be awful The great feeling with my hands on the wheel, The best day ever– it felt so surreal.

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Hajin Lee, Where The Clouds Rest, Photography

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Chase Turner, Ode Poem, Poetry O Thomas Boyd, so kind and full of grace, You brighten every room with just a smile.

No kinder soul could ever take your place, Your heart outshines the stars by miles and miles.

You lift me up when I am feeling low, With words so wise, like Shakespeare but less old.

Through thick and thin, you always seem to know, The perfect joke to turn my gloom to gold.

A friend so rare, like diamonds in the sea, With endless patience, kindness, strength, and cheer.

The world’s a mess, but you still stand with me, A guiding light that keeps my pathway clear.

Oh, Thomas Boyd, my hero, wise and true, The world needs more, but one will have to do!

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Feriby McCorkle, Grazing in the Garden, Acrylic

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Sarah Sussman, If, Poetry It doesn't exist, yet it lives within me, A paradox of thought, a deceit of the mind.

A mystery that pulls at the seams of certainty, Stretching truth until it frays into doubt.

But if it is truly limitlessOpening doors of possibility on fragile hinges, Fastened with screws of fear, tightened by spite, Turning on the axis of hope and hesitation

Kharis Ott, Jellyfish, Photography

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Agnes Brown, Bear, Ceramics

Agnes Brown, Fruits, Ceramics

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Miles Carson, Japan, Photography

Agnes Brown, Temple, Photography

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Harlan Lerch, Court Room Study, Charcoal

Suri Desai, The Forever Color, Short Story She knew that the blood on her hands wasn’t hers, but no one else was in sight. She knew that it was the blood of her mother that was now caked in her nails, dripping from her palms on to the concrete beneath her, a small puddle now forming a few inches from where she knelt.

There were no hunks of twisted metal, no flashing lights from racing vehicles coming up to the scene, and for once, she wasn’t hearing her own tortured screams as she locked her crimson-stained hands and pressed at the center of the woman’s chest. That was what she looked like in the dreams.

Not the smiling mother who’d bake cookies for the two of them after school, not the one who never hit the high notes as they sang along with the radio, not the one who rejoiced in picking lush scarlet apples from the trees arching over their backyard.

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This woman was utterly foreign to her despite having identical features as the person she once called mama. Her once pearly white teeth were either crooked or knocked out completely, the gaps in her mouth almost taunting, her limbs were bent at angles that shouldn’t even be possible for a human, but the worst was the oozing cut down the center of her mother’s body– it was as if the blood itself was haunting the girl…. calling her out, naming her as a murderer. A cold sweat slid down her caramel skin like a layer of filth that she could never wash off, but that didn’t matter. A sweat was invisible, but the carmine stain was forever. It was always the blood that came back to her first. No matter what.

Suddenly, even though the cars were racing through the middle of night, a ray of beaming light shone through the windshield of the now wrecked car. Instead of closing her eyes, she found that without her permission, her eyelids were slowly opening, with more and more of that deadly light taking her away from the scene until– reality came back.

Still half-asleep, the girl rubbed her eyelids for a good minute, and undid the chestnut braids she’d slept in the night before. With all of her courage, she then went to open the pink blinds that hid her sleeping form from that disastrous ball of light. The scene from the dream, the scene that was now more familiar to her than real life was, was now replaced with a lush green lawn, wide oak trees with spanish moss draped over their leaves, and ruby-red poppies her aunt had planted in honor of Veterans Day.

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Still half-asleep, the girl rubbed her eyelids for a good minute, and undid the chestnut braids she’d slept in the night before. With all of her courage, she then went to open the pink blinds that hid her sleeping form from that disastrous ball of light. The scene from the dream, the scene that was now more familiar to her than real life was, was now replaced with a lush green lawn, wide oak trees with spanish moss draped over their leaves, and ruby-red poppies her aunt had planted in honor of Veterans Day. It was any other normal day, in which only normal things were to occur. This was the mantra that she told herself every day after she’d woken up and every night before bed. It hadn’t done much to curb the nightmares, but it had been enough to get her through the days. Moving from California to the other side of the country would have been quite the culture shock for anyone, but coupled with all of the “Are you ok?” and “I’m so sorry for your loss” or even worse– the silent stare–- the weight was threatening to crush her hunched spine. Just like her mother’s.

“Nina!” Aunt Jolie’s bell-like voice rang through the house, as she practiced her daily wake-up call for her niece. Her aunt joked often that she’d have to buy a rooster to wake Nina up, but Nina thought that Aunt Jolie was perfectly suited to the task.

When she stumbled downstairs, she found Aunt Jolie scrambling fluffy eggs, toast popping out excitedly from the shiny toaster and a glass of orange juice that Nina had squeezed earlier in the week sitting on the kitchen counter.

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Squeezing the oranges by hand was hard on her tiny hands, and her, sadly, tinier muscles, but Nina found that she often needed the relief of taking her pain out on an innocent orange.

Nina had just picked up her plate of food when she remembered something– suddenly, the plate went flying to the ground, but thankfully it was paper, so there were no shards she’d have to pick up later.

Instead of cleaning any of it up, Nina lifted up the brown couch cushions, searched under the blue blanket where Lucy, Aunt Jolie’s golden retriever had soundly slept the night before, and searched through her backpack at least five times.

“Aunt Jolie, have you seen my chemistry textbook? I really need it!” She neglected to tell her aunt that she had a chemistry test that was worth twenty-five percent of her semester grade– Aunt Jolie was already freaked out enough about Nina’s grades.

“What does it look like, sweetie?” Nina saw that she wasn’t really looking, but instead cleaning up the mess Nina had left behind, her blue eyes never once traveling to meet Nina’s hazel ones.

“It’s pretty big and old and it’s red,” Nina knew she could have described it better, but she was already frazzled trying to look for it herself.

“Red?” Aunt Jolie’s eyebrow bent in confusion as she poured coffee into a travel mug. “Read, like someone else has already read it before you?”

“No,” Nina laughed, wondering if her aunt had suddenly contracted early-onset dementia. “Red. Like the color red.”

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“Color red?” Jolie walked over and pressed her palm to her niece’s forehead. “Well, you’re not warm. I guess you’ll have to go to school. Maybe this ‘red’ thing is some teen slang I know nothing about. I’ve always thought of myself as pretty hip, though.”

“It’s not teen slang, Aunt Jolie,” Nina thought the woman must have really had it bad. “It’s a primary color like blue and yellow. The first letter in ROY G BIV.” “Oh sweetie, sometimes you make me so worried. Everyone knows there are only two primary colors– blue and yellow.”

At this point, the woman was making her scared to leave the house.

“And Roy G Biv? Seriously, something like that could only be the name of a leprechaun.” She gave her niece a kiss on the cheek, ran her fingers through her long blond hair, and then walked out the front door briskly, though she did look back at the house a few times. Five minutes later, it was time for Nina to head to school too. She was doomed.

Maybe it wasn’t dementia. Maybe it was just plain insanity.

She hadn’t heard an adult say the word leprechaun since the second grade, in which her teacher Mrs. Pinewood told them that a leprechaun had left them each two chocolate coins as a St. Patty’s day treat. Everyone was very suspicious when the teachers came out of the hall closet, a plastic bag in one hand, and chocolate staining their mouths.

Before she knew it, she had nearly bumped into the sign that advertised Greenwood High School, and also tried to reassure parents there was no horse hoof in the sloppy joes that were served last Thursday. Of course, the school was right. It was only horse calf.

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She took her seat in chemistry class, dreading the moment that fateful test would be placed in front of her. Could she fake sick? Say there was a family emergency? Pretend like she was a lunatic?

“All right, class,” Ms. Moreno, a spindly woman who had a strange love of pencil skirts, was subbing in for their chemistry teacher Mrs. Johnson while she was on maternity leave. “My boyfriend just proposed to me, so out of the generosity of my heart, I’ve decided we will do a flame test lab instead of taking that test. Well, I’ll do it and you all can watch.”

Ms. Moreno placed on a pair of immaculately clean safety goggles, and turned up the heat of the bunsen burner. She dipped a stick into a solution of strontium chloride and placed it into the flame.

“Can anyone tell me what color this flame is?” Ms. Moreno stared at the class, and seemed surprised that no one would answer such a simple question. The woman really did not know high schoolers.

“It’s red,” Nina murmured, drawing a caricature of Ms. Moreno’s face, really nailing her crooked nose and thick black eyebrows.

“Red?” Ms. Moreno looked at Nina as if she was more stupid than a dung beetle. “What on earth is red? It’s very clearly blue, Nina.”

“Is everybody going crazy?” Nina jumped out of her chair, nearly screaming at the woman. “It’s red. Not blue, blue is a completely different color.”

“Young lady, this red you speak of doesn’t exist. You are not the type to be spewing nonsense like this. I expected more of you. I thought you wanted to take AP Chemistry next year.”

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“If red doesn’t exist, what color is blood?” Surely this would get her to see sense. A chemistry teacher surely knew science.

“Blood is blue, Nina. Everybody knows this. It’s why our veins are blue, why the show Blue Bloods exists…”

Oh my god. What had happened to the world? There was no way of even countering a response like that one. She was going to kill that Tom Selleck. Thankfully, the two had moved on from their color war, and Ms. Moreno began dipping new sticks into other solutions. She had insisted that the test would be on tomorrow, so Nina decided to head to the school café to grab a bite to eat before she hunkered down on her studies.

Unfortunately, today was “Healthy is Happier Day,” the one day of the week that every place that sold food on campus had to serve horribly healthy food or serve nothing at all because of the disturbing number of health nuts that were on the PTA board. Seeing that the best two options were a kale and seaweed smoothie and an apple, she decided to go with the latter.

“I’ll have a red apple, Morgan,” she said, tapping her phone on the reader. She hated the tartness of Granny Smith apples, so Red Delicious was the best she was going to get “Sure!” Morgan, a college student who worked at school parttime, bounced eagerly to the fruit bin to pick up the order.

“Wait, red? What’s red?”

“A red apple, Morgan. You’re an art student, you should know what red is.” She was sick of having this conversation with people all day.

“Not this red thing again, Nina.” She turned around to find Ms. Moreno standing behind her, arms crossed like she meant business.

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“I’m taking you to the counselor’s office. The other teachers told me how you refused to go to therapy when you got here, and I knew it was a mistake.”

She dragged the poor girl out of the café by the wrist, shocking the students and teachers who were otherwise enjoying their afternoons there. Ms. Moreno, or The Witch as Nina had now coined her, didn’t let go of her hand until they reached the door of Mrs. Peregrine, the school counselor.

In retrospect, we can often see where the chapters in our lives ended, and when the next began. Nina could see that as she passed the threshold into that office, a shift had occurred. It was the same Nina, but a different world, one that she couldn’t recognize. But Nina hadn’t really been able to adapt to this ever moving world when she herself was trapped in one moment in time. `When Nina sat down on that couch, she offered no fight.

She did not furiously counter the questions posed at her with the sword and spear she kept on her back that consistently weighed her down no matter where she traveled. Ms. Moreno asked her why she was making up a color. She said nothing.

Mrs. Peregrine asked her. She said nothing. Aunt Jolie asked, tears beginning to form in her eyes. She told them about the dreams that haunted her, the blood on her hands, that was so vile, so repulsive, yet every night she was drawn back to it.

She didn’t know how to tell them that if red wasn’t real, then the worst moment of her life wasn’t real. The pain she carried with her wouldn’t be true. The person who she was right then would be a lie.

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Eventually they sent her out so they could deliberate. She still leaned against the thick wooden door, trying to make out what the meaning of their whispers was. Unfortunately, the guidance counselor’s office had pretty good sound proofing, so all she could hear was the noise taunting her.

They came out of the room soon after in a straight line, as if they were walking in a funeral procession. Which by the looks on their faces, it seemed it was. She noted the care in their faces as they spoke to her, trying so hard not to break the porcelain shell holding her together. They’d determined she was too far gone just to go to therapy. And keeping her here seemed to be hurting her mental state. So they decided they were going to send her to an institution where she could get better and recover for as long as she needed.

Morgan, Mrs. Peregrine, Ms. Moreno and Aunt Jolie had to make the seven-hour drive with her to the institution so that they could attest to the change in her sanity. Since she wasn’t violent, she wasn’t forced to wear the pair of handcuffs the institution had sent in the package to the house two days before they left.

Her companions weren’t allowed to go past the eerie black gate that separated the institution from the woods that surrounded it. A stout, middle-aged woman in white came to escort Nina to her new quarters inside, and they made their goodbyes swiftly. None of the women wanted a hug, so Nina just gave them one wave and walked toward her new abode.

Nina walked down that path for what seemed like an eternity. She was about to be placed somewhere where she would never be able to leave of her own free will. But what those women didn’t understand was that being crazy set her free.

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They imprisoned themselves, and they had to live with what they did to her. Oh, well. As she continued to walk down the gravel path, she had a startling realization– she had no burdens anymore.

“Do you think she knows?” Ms. Moreno watched as the girl trotted along the dirt path to the front door of the place that would be her new home.

“Well, I don’t think it matters now, Ana,” Jolie had more emotion than she was expecting, leaving the girl, but she did her best not to show it. “Her mother was so fragile, so pathetic, really, that a mental breakdown would have been expected of her daughter as well. We just caused it to happen a bit earlier than expected.

“Still, it was so hard pretending that such a beautiful color didn’t exist.” Jolie looked up and saw an apple tree just like the ones her sister used to have in her lawn. She reached up and picked a juicy one that was vibrantly, almost violently red– but she only rotated it in her hands, never taking that first bite.

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Hajin Lee, Fragments of the Sky, Photography

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Najee Young, Snake, Colored Pencil

Nell Strength, Zinnia, Photography 32

McKay Beck, Ode to the Night Sky, Poetry O Night sky Swallowing whole the light of day Putting us mortals to rest Under your blanket of darkness I embrace, The sea of endless grace Incandescent stars shining so bright To guide those who were led astray Humming silent tunes Of twinkling stars and waning moons As dark and the depths of the ocean Milkyway arcs of stars looking like a potion Your ethereal beauty never fails to amaze me Constellations branch like a tree While galaxies spin for infinity O Night Sky How small we are beneath your ever watchful eye Sun now slipping through your grasp The dawn brings forth a new day Your tapestry of dreams crawling away Yet you will return before long Cradling this world in your darkness once again

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Vivienne Smith, Flower, Charcoal

Tennyson Fitzgerald, Butterfly, Watercolor and Ink

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Matilde Robbe, Column Crossed Lovers, Photography 35

Ian Rogers, Nothing New, Poetry Your shirt on the couch Journal on top of it You love to make me think I've lost it Find a villain, Make her everything Lose myself in the shade of her blouse, meringue Nothing new, I'm still losing.

It hurts to know this is all in my head But what hurts the most is if I told you, you’ll want me dead Summer will come And you'll remember you’re stable Hold in there Dinner is out on the table Angels falling People crazy Is it selfless or is it gluttony?

Tie my shoes while you continue to avoid conflict Didn’t shoot, but your eyes tell me you thought it.

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Matilde Robbe, AmorediNonno, Photography

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Kharis Ott, Shining Through the Quad, Acrylic

Amelia Moret, Birds, Mixed Media

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Reese Bailey, Trapped In My Own Thoughts, Narration Empty. I was empty. There were a multitude of thoughts running through my mind, and yet I sat there, on the foot of my parent’s bed, feeling... nothing? In this tragic moment, my mind was telling me to scream, my heart was telling me to weep, my body was telling me to keel over and vomit, and yet again, I remained frozen, trapped in the vastness of my own thoughts.

There had been an emergency faculty meeting called following school that my mother needed to attend. When she called me to ask me to drive my brothers home, I caught a strange unease in her voice. Something’s wrong. She stressed that a meeting like this had never been called in her eight years of working at SCDS. But I brushed it off, more focused on the inconvenience of driving my talkative, bodyodor ridden brothers home.

Following the dreadful ride home, I settled into the kitchen with my father, studying Spanish vocabulary for my quiz the next day. I never took that quiz. I heard my father’s phone chime with a call and he answered the call with, “Hey baby!” This was a clear indication that he was on the phone with my mother. Normally, he would put it on speaker so I could say hello. Not this time. This time, he walked straight outside. He never does that. Something is very wrong.

He stayed outside until my mother came home. They entered together and were first greeted by my youngest brother, Oliver. His face immediately twisted with concern when he saw that my mother’s eyes were as swollen as ripe plums, heavy with unshed tears.

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She never cries. “What’s wrong?” Oliver inquired. Silence.

My father finally broke it, explaining that they wanted to talk to me first. This makes no sense. My heart dropped into the abyss of uncertainty. Why? Why me?

My mother sniffled as she waved me into their bedroom.

She couldn’t look at me without her eyes filling with tears, big and heavy, brimming with a sadness so deep it seemed to spill over, streaking down her cheeks like silent truths she was too afraid to share, fearing they might break my heart as much as they were breaking hers.

I nervously sat on the edge of their bed, facing windows with beautiful trees and flowers beyond the glass, their vibrant colors and gentle sway in the breeze doing little to calm the storm twisting inside me. My parents sat facing me, in two burgundy chairs that were placed very near to each other. My mother looked at me, her lips parted to speak, but her eyes immediately flushed out this mysterious burden they were carrying, tears spilling over before any words could escape her lips, as if the weight of what she held inside was too much to contain. My father took a deep breath and stepped in. He uttered the five words that will always haunt me. “Anne Chaddock Donegan is dead.” And still, I sat there. My heart broke. My body ached. But I remained stuck, lost within myself. Sometimes, all you’re able to do is sit within your own thoughts, and it’s okay. I didn’t move. I felt nothing. Empty.

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Agnes Brown, Fishies, Ceramics

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Nolan Watson, Yellow, Marker and Colored Pencil

Nolan Watson, Drive, Marker and Colored Pencil 42

Romey Gerlach, Fox, Watercolor and Ink Anonymous, Family, Poetry Born into a household of affection A unit that's packed together so tight Constant in our lives with no objection Relighting one another to shine bright Defining this feeling from a young age The gratitude for the cards we were dealt Sometimes the ones people love create rage Forgiveness despite how one might have felt The people we love becoming our home Knowing who to run back to for relief Open arms waiting even when we roam Saying I love you is our main belief Words so abundant they lose their meaning It’s bound to end by fate intervening 43

Hajin Lee, Monochrome Metro, Photography

Ian Rogers, Run Girl!, Photography

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Andrew Wynn, FPMC, Photography

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Kensie Glass, An Ode to the Sociotropic Sky, Poetry O’ sky, from a babies peaceful nap to the tantrum of tears You are broken in sharp, winding paths, And pieced back together in a perfect puzzle A big blue bed with fluffy white pillows, But no one rests on you O’ lonely sky u hover over cities, farms, beaches, You poke mountains with snow And glance over skyscrapers Your hue makes a beautiful pink, purple, and red before sleep In return, we suffocate you with a grey gloom We use you to voyage around the globe Where we ask you for perfect days Yet your words never reach us The ocean reflects your tones Determining loud or quiet Bringing roaring seas or calm waters Flight leaves you with patterns on your face Rain sews you with never ending threads of tints When we quit you stay If you expire we leave

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Maeve Hecht, Circus, Colored Pencil

Rebecca Kimball, Crab, Acrylic 47

n w o r B s Agne Where do you find inspiration?

Over the past few years, I've found almost all of my inspiration from nature around me.

Living on the coast has allowed me to truly connect with the essence of nature and its vibrant colors, sparking my creativity.

Who are your biggest artistic influences?

Everybody.

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Why do you think art is important to society?

Art is important to society because it adds color and creativity to the otherwise ordinary moments of everyday life. It inspires emotions and offers a form of expression that speaks visually.

Agnes Brown, Girls, Colored Pencil

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Agnes Brown, Fish, Acrylic

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Jad Danawi, Ode To Elephant, Poetry O! Mighty creature, King of lands!

The Earth rumbles in your presence, And the animals gather around you.

O! Giant traveller, you move like spirit in the wind, Though you are a giant soul passing through, And your vast shadow moves through the night.

O! Beautiful beast, your skin is as tough as steel, But your heart is warm as the sand.

Verily, you are the King of the animals.

O! Great hearer, your ears are giant machines, Carefully listening to the lands, and keeping yourself cool.

Your existence is powerful, King of the animals.

O! Fearsome warrior, your tusks that whisper ancient caliber, But sharp and fearsome as they are, tusks useful for your sustenance.

The King of animals is one who is sufficient.

O! Peaceful mammoth, the birds take refuge on your back As you wade through the great watering holes.

The King is one who is amicable with the animals.

O! Great creature, King of lands!

You are the mightiest placement of God on this Earth.

O, eternal wanderer of the land, your presence humbles all.

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Mary Margaret Carroll, Up and Away, Collage

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Ellie Northup, Smoothie Bowl, Acrylic

Ellie Northup, Gather, Acrylic 53

Matilde Robbe, Slidin, Photography

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Ian Rogers, Give Me Back My Guitar!, Poetry

you took the guitar and left in the winter last person i’d call to tell i’m a winner salt lamps and postage stamps fill my heart with rue now i pick leaves from sick trees when i think of you

Victoria Kang, Parrot, Mixed Media

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Hajin Lee, Timeless Corner, Photography 56

Ian Rogers, Mood Ring, Poetry she lingers in the Target doll aisle she smells every candle, looking for a peculiar scent her childhood home is miles away it’s smell is something she can’t put her finger on spends her last 5 dollar bill on a mood ring, adds this regret to her tons in the backseat “Tell me how to feel” she says, like a Rapunzel cry angry, amused, content, and bashful there’s no option for blasé, apathetic, or despondent she wants to know the word for her fatigue after tying her shoes, she wants to know why she feels she’s juggling everything, empty-handed she wonders why the high she’s chasing isn’t lip gloss or new shoes “tell me mood ring” adolescence has her heart her learner’s permit broke it

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Ian Rogers, Frog en Pointe, Acrylic

Ian Rogers, Amphibien Apéritif, Acrylic 58

Theodore McGuirk, Westward, Photography

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Tennyson Fitzgerald, Floral Study, Charcoal

Walker Peters, Skull Study, Charcoal 60

Charlie Glidewell, The Rising and Falling of the Sun, Poetry Vast sands cover the ancient nations who Thought to be with a start but with no end From the greats that were praised, recalled are few The ancient nations vanish by the wind Knowledge lost in the old library burned The records of discovery soon wane Names of great minds unable to be learned Known in their time but they left with no stain Structures employ techniques now forgotten Time is finite, the sun can never stay Masterpieces produced by John Doe men New works now made as the night turns to day Books and artwork all tossed atop the pyre The perished past, a dirge sung by a choir

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Ivan Lin, Bird by the Water, Photography

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Jones Lane, Ode to Rain, Poetry Blue and shiny water droplets that fall from the sky, You make such a soft noise, whispering on the ground, While hydrating the thirsty earth, Sometimes you hit the ground with a powerful pound, And help revive the plants and give them new life.

You impact our lives for the greater good, Granting us rivers and lakes, Watering the plants and trees so that we may have wood, You make grass green and create seasons through the year, While also giving us thunder and lightning that yells at us from above, But can also create a sound of relaxation and peacefulness, And showering the soil so roots can sprout, Sometimes giving us storms and hurricanes, And could impact our society.

O Rain, you can be either gentle or powerful, But also make a soft noise, While giving us peace at times, And helping plants and the environment, But can also grant us dangerous storms, Sometimes giving us good or bad impacts.

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Vivienne Smith, Rainbow Trout, Watercolor

Matilde Robbe, Lined, Photography 64

Anonymous, Women and Stuff, Poetry she wears the weight of careful splinters, fragile dreams they draped on her skin her world is a script she never wrote, lines etched deep in a voice not hers, they've dressed her as a myth one that may never be told but it's her own eyes that hold the truest reflection. her own broken pieces-the shape of her fate. she stretches, she bends, till she shatters the frame, splinters of glass singing quiet longing, and in every shard, a flicker of trutha thousand lives worn thin in her stare.

Nell Strength, Sunset, Photography

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Nell Strength, Yawn, Photography

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Ian Rogers, Her Midas Touch, Poetry Her Midas touch is fatiguing.

Her passion is believable, spills out like a wine stain, imprinting on those lured into it.

Her dialogue like a balloon, can stop it but I don’t want to Butting in only to give her a breath for once “‘We’re the same person, just with different hair” A nice gesture, but insulting I’d pluck eyelashes to mirror your good habits.

The sun still kisses her when she doesn’t feel pretty at her comments, I redden routinely she asks what blush I'm using I only turn more crimson when she’s unaware it’s her doing Her Midas touch is fatiguing. won’t turn me to gold “cause you don’t need it” I tell her the same as I watch her hold her own hands.

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Hajin Lee, First Light, Photography

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Nicholas Dunne Where do you find inspiration?

My inspiration comes from my grandfather, David Leslie. At 92, he wrote his autobiography, documenting his life, accomplishments, family, and ideals.

Reading his original manuscript sparked something within me—an unseen influence that ignited my love for writing. His words deepened my appreciation for storytelling and the power of language to evoke emotion and preserve memories.

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Who are your biggest literary influences?

Aside from my grandfather, I don’t draw influence from specific literary publishers or writers. While I enjoy reading others’ work, I see it as an experience rather than a source of inspiration. My writing is rooted in originality, creation, and belief—three principles that I feel must come entirely from within. To truly express myself, I rely on my own thoughts, emotions, and experiences rather than external influences.

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Why do you think literature is important to society?

Literature is essential to society because it embodies emotion, belief, and imagination.

Emotion is the foundation of all writing— every story evokes feelings, whether horror, joy, sadness, or anger, leaving a lasting impact on the reader. Belief gives writing depth, allowing authors to express perspectives and insights that, while not imposed on the reader, encourage them to consider viewpoints beyond their own.

Imagination fuels creativity, enabling writers to craft worlds, characters, and experiences that transport both children and adults into new realities. Literature is more than words on a page—it is a gateway to understanding, inspiration, and self-expression.

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Nicholas Dunne, The Stars Are Your Friend Short Story “This is a sight to remember isn’t it Johnny”, I muttered as the oceans waves drowned out my voice.

“Nothing like I’ve seen before man”, replied Johnny with awe in his eyes.

The late nights were a commodity to me, a value that came with it my emotions and true feelings.

“I wish the stars could talk back”, I said leaning back against the cold sand.

“Maybe they can, we just haven’t been lucky enough to hear one”, Johnny said with a grin.

These words coming from Johnny, someone I had only met that day on the beach, gave off a feeling of hope, one I had not experienced prior to this moment.

I turned my gaze upward, watching as the endless sea of stars blinked down upon us, as if they were aware of our presence. The soft hum of the waves filled the spaces between our words, lulling my mind into a gentle lullaby.

The ocean breeze carried with it a salty tang, crisp and cool against my skin, as if whispering secrets from the deep.

"You think they’d have much to say?" I asked after a pause.

"The stars, I mean."

Johnny chuckled, his breath fogging slightly in the night air.

"Oh, I bet they would. If you sit long enough, let yourself sink into the quiet, maybe you’ll hear them." Something in his voice

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made me believe him, or at least want to believe him. There was a conviction in his words, an understanding of the emptiness above us that I hadn't felt before.

We sat in silence for a while, the cold sand molding around our bodies, the sky stretching infinitely above. My mind drifted, and for a moment, I almost thought I could hear something–a whisper, like the distant echo of a voice I couldn’t quite place.

"Johnny, where are you from?" I asked suddenly, turning to face him. He smiled, a slow, knowing smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"From here, I suppose," he said, motioning to the stars.

"Everywhere and nowhere, you could say."

His answer left a strange feeling in my chest, but I didn’t press my luck. Instead, I let myself relax into the motions of the night, letting the vastness of it all wash over me.

Hours passed, or maybe only minutes–it was hard to tell.

Time seemed irrelevant here, where the stars pulsed with silent wisdom and the waves spoke tales only the patient could understand.

"You ever feel like you don’t belong anywhere?" I asked quietly, more to myself than to him.

Johnny exhaled, his breath mingling with the ocean air.

"Maybe belonging isn’t about place," he said. "Maybe it’s about finding the right moment, the right company. Maybe that’s enough."

I turned toward him then, really looking at him for the first time since the conversation began. The moonlight carved out his features like soft silver, but something was off. His form seemed… lighter, almost translucent, as if the light didn’t quite settle on him the way it did everything else.

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A strange unease crept up my spine.

"Johnny, have we met before?" I asked hesitantly, my own voice feeling distant. His expression remained calm, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable.

"In a way," he said. "You’ve been looking for someone to talk to, haven’t you? Someone to listen?"

The air around us felt heavier, or maybe I was just noticing it now. My thoughts raced, pieces clicking together in a way I wasn’t sure I was ready to accept.

"Johnny…" My voice trailed off as a realization settled over me like a tide receding, revealing the truth hidden beneath.

"You’re not real, are you?"

Johnny tilted his head, a soft, almost sad smile playing on his lips. "Does it matter?"

The wind picked up then, stirring the sand around us, and I blinked against the sudden rush. When I looked back, Johnny was gone. Only the waves remained, whispering to the shore, and the stars above, shining down with quiet understanding.

I leaned back against the sand once more, closing my eyes and listening, really listening. And for the first time in my life, I thought I could hear them.

The dim light glooming through the heavy air blinded me, the whiteness fading away with my memory, and just like they come, they go. The moon’s rays bounced off of the rainglazed dunes, the light playing and dancing in circles before my eyes. The night had passed, and with it, Johnny. He was never meant to stay, just like the fleeting glimmers in the sky. But even as the dawn approached, I held onto the feeling, the whispered words of the stars echoing in my mind.

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The morning air carried a different stillness, a quiet finality. I lingered on the beach, tracing random patterns in the sand, my thoughts in a drift. The sun rose, its golden light washing over the landscape, swallowing the silver remnants of the night.

Johnny had vanished, but the echo of our conversation remained.

I wondered if I had conjured him, if my own necessity had pulled him from the fabric of my mind and given him form, if only for a short while.

As I stood, brushing the sand from my clothes, a small glint caught my eye—a lone seashell tucked in the dunes, half-buried but gleaming under the morning sun. I picked it up, running my fingers over its smooth, cool surface. A memento, perhaps, of a conversation that existed between waking and dreaming, between the stars and the sea.

With one last look at the sky, now pale and empty of the twinkling lights that had guided me through the night, I turned toward home. My footprints trailed behind me, soon to be erased by the waves. And just like they come, they go; for once, I didn’t feel alone.

The stars were talking back.

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Robbie McCorkle, Bird of Paradise, Mixed Media

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Victoria Kang, Sky, Poetry With endless blue, big canvas spreads wide, A sphere where dreams and fleeting clouds floats, The sun mounts, with the golden ray slides, While whispers of the wind weave through the green.

At dusk, the hues of orange, pink, and gray, Paint scenes of wonder as the day must yield, The stars emerge, as twilight fades away, A tapestry of night, the heavens' shield.

Even though storms roar and heavy rains fall, The sky, a mirror of our joys and fears, It holds our secrets, answers every call, Reflecting all our laughter, love, and tears.

So let us look up and feel our spirits, Within the huge expanse, we touch the sky.

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Mary Margaret Carroll, Life’s A Circus, Collage

Charlie Hawkins, Oasis, Mixed Media 78

Nell Strength, Beach, Photography

Nell Strength, Garden, Photography

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Tennyson Fitzgerald, A Sonnet to My Mom, Poetry She's been there for me since the beginning From her I get my life my face my smile Me and her, side by side, always twinning Most any day for me she would walk a mile Her mind is strong, yet her heart much stronger The most beautiful selfless one I know She gifted to me the world to conquer She gifted to me all the tools to grow And yes although I might not always say She's done it all since before I could crawl Im grateful for her every single day I couldn't ever thank her for it all And when I'm old, a mother to my own The same love you gave me, sure to be shown

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Harlan Lerch, Runway, Acrylic

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Lauren Lewis, Streetview, Watercolor

Caroline Semones, Flower Vase, Pottery 82

Maeve Hecht, Dog, Acrylic

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Nell Strength, Bodies, Short Story Amber was driving home. She saw the green DeRenne exit sign from the corner of her half-shut eyes, but she kept looking straight at the grey road, at the black car in front of her. But as her eyes blurred and fought to stay open, she saw a flash of blue on the shoulder of the road. Her eyes flicked to her side-view mirror, for only half a second, but she could immediately tell what it was—blue feathers.

Her shoe moved between the brake and gas, deciding. Her arms tilted right almost imperceptibly, but her wheels crossed the white line and her foot slammed on the brakes.

Her head bounced forward and almost hit her sun visor as she stopped. Her heart beat, her face warmed, her hands still gripped the wheel. Why did she do that? Someone was supposed to come pick up roadkill, right? Like, that was someone’s job? It definitely wasn’t her job to disrupt traffic to pick up a dead bird without gloves and put it in her car.

But that’s what she must have been doing, because why else had she stopped? She took a careful look behind her and gently cracked open the car door like any sudden noise would scare the bird away. The Savannah heat made her skin sweat and stick to the car seat, the shoulders and thighs exposed by her tank top and cutoff jean shorts making noise as she pulled them away.

She lightly placed her Mary Janes on the asphalt, then sprinted around her car to the back, her shoes slapping the ground. She lifted the car trunk, searching for something to carry the body in. Her eyes brushed over things she had forgotten were there: her first aid kit, a jacket, and her picnic blanket. She picked the jacket. It felt like the honorable thing to do.

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Turning around, she squinted for the bird. In her hesitation, she had driven over fifty feet, closer to the turn of the exit than the bird. Step after step, she approached the body, feeling the cars brush past her and blow her dark hair into her face, mouth. She stayed close to the railing by the sewer dump, lining up her feet with the small strip of grass beside the road and sliding her left hand along the rail, grasping it when she swayed. She gripped the collar of the green jacket tightly in her right hand as the wind blew it around. She felt like a ghost, a flash in someone’s memory of a girl blowing in the wind, but she could hear herself breathing over the rush of cars, her chest rising and falling, her heart beating into her ears.

Her feet crunched over dandelions and little purple flowers she didn’t have a name for. She felt like a reaper, leaving a little death with every step she took.

The bird wasn’t blue, she realized, despite its name. Blue heron. The tall pine trees on the other side of the creek had blocked the sun, casting the bird in a shadow, reflecting the blue of the sky. It lay on the asphalt with its gray-black wings wide open, like it had been flying, or trying to. She thought maybe it had mistaken the sewer for a marsh, the tall grass, dirty water with logs and branches reaching out, and little flowers growing freely for a home. What did it think about the chip bags, empty bottles, cigarette stubs, and golf balls from the course on the other side? It was only a fifteen-minute drive to where the Truman coasts over Moon River, the water underneath the road flowing deep and wide.

She stood, observing. She looked into its eyes. She got lost in them, paralyzed with fear. What was she even doing?

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Gently, her body tipped toward the body. She spread the green jacket open in her arms and laid it on top of the bird, then scooped everything up in her arms. It was stiffer than she’d expected. She had to blindly maneuver the wings to a close beneath the jacket, trying not to crack the thin bones, before she could hold the weightless body up in her arms.

She had a vision of the jacket thawing the body, warming it up and bringing life back. Maybe if she’d put some logs in the fireplace and set out a cup of hot cocoa, the bird would slowly open its eyes and look around, like waking up from a deep sleep.

She traced her footprints back to the car, trying to stay on the already-trampled flowers. She held the body in crossed arms against her chest, and she shivered when the feathers peeked out of the jacket opening and brushed her forearm.

Once she reached her car door, she shifted to one arm and cradled the lump like an infant while she opened the door and sat it down in the passenger seat, buckling the seatbelt.

The drive home was quiet, like a dream. She kept her eyes on the road and breathed in through her mouth.

She pulled into the driveway of her little brick bungalow on Henry Street, grabbed the bundle in the passenger seat, and shut the door with her hip. Her eyes searched for a burial place in her front yard as she climbed up her front steps, but the lawn was overgrown with dandelions and seedhead stems. No dirt to be seen. Anyways, it would be pretty weird if her neighbors saw her.

Pulling out her keys, she remembered to lock her car, hearing the click, then twisted the key in her front door and creaked it open. The house was silent, waiting to see what she’d do. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket.

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She cradled the lump in her left arm as she pulled it out.

“We still on for tonight?” she read from her lock screen. She blew out a puff of air and slid the phone back into her pocket, hugging the bundle to her chest. It felt warmer now.

She couldn’t avoid it forever. Her footsteps creaked on the wooden floor as she walked to the kitchen. She kneeled and set the bundle on the floor. She lifted one side of the jacket at a time, slowly, afraid of what she might see. It was still a wild animal, even in peaceful sleep.

Her warm kitchen light cast a glow on the feathers, so much kinder than the cool shade she’d found it in. She allowed her chest to constrict, taking slow, deep breaths. She let herself feel for the lifeless bird, paying her respects. She wouldn’t let herself cry. What had she lost, what good would that do?

Her back pocket buzzed again and her heart sunk into her stomach. She took a breath, trying to fill the space, and grabbed her phone. “?” the text read.

She responded, “yes of course!”

She looked at the time. She only had 45 minutes to get ready.

“Shoot.” She looked at the body, but the magic was gone.

She looked around, eyes landing on her freezer. She reached out from where she was sitting (her house was that small) and slid open the door to check - empty, just like she’d thought, save for ice. She picked up the jacket, with the bird on top, and laid it in the bottom of the freezer. She could pay her respects later. The sun was setting as she jumped in her car.

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She watched the orange glow behind the trees as she drove down Drayton Street past Forsyth Park, which still had couples sitting on picnic blankets and flashing yellow lights from pedestrians trying to use the crosswalk.

She drove under live oaks with their Spanish moss hanging down, she passed by old brick buildings and new concrete ones, overpriced parking lots, ghosts tours, restaurants she’d never visited. But the sun was fading, and she barely noticed it all.

She pulled into the dark alley/parking lot next to Hitch on Liberty, her car slightly crossing the diagonal white lines.

She debated scanning the QR code and paying $8 for an hour. She didn’t.

The short walk to the restaurant always felt too dim, too abandoned. Especially when it got this dark. A kind soul could cross her on the street and she’d shiver, clutch her pepper spray. A ghost could pass her and she’d feel it down to her toes. But she made it to the warm orange glow of the restaurant and checked her phone. “here!” it read.

She peeked around the hostess into the restaurant, looking for a guy that looked like his profile picture. John. She saw him sitting at a tall table next to the bar. Her shoes clacked on the linoleum floor and she adjusted her collar.

“Hey!” She said a little too loudly.

He looked her up and down and smiled, “hey.”

Somehow, she jumped onto the seat without toppling over.

“So… what do you do?” she asked, pulling questions from a list she’d looked up.

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“I go to SCAD right now.” he said, “I’m an artist.”

“Cool!” she said brightly.

‘How about you?”

“Oh, I work at the Telfair right now.”

“Maybe I could get you to show some of my art.” He winked.

“Haha, yeah… I don’t think they’d let me do that…” She cringed. Why couldn’t she just be fun?

“I was joking.” He said.

“Cool. Um, would you want to maybe come to mine after this? I live nearby.” She said, trying to change the topic.

Why did she say that?

“Oh, great!” He smiled at her like they were sharing a secret.

She felt a little nauseous, nervous.

She barely ate, her leg wanted to bounce but she was sitting too far from the ground. Her hands shook a little instead, her heart beat hard, anticipating.

She texted him her address and they took separate cars to her house. She let him pass her on the road to give herself some extra time. She rolled the windows down and stared at the couples sitting on the grass at Forsyth while blasting her music, trying to live in the moment.

When she pulled into the driveway, he was already standing on her porch.

“What took you so long?”

She huffed a laugh and shook her head, pulling the keys from her purse. He stood close to her as she pushed the key into the lock. She thought she could feel his breath on her hair.

“Want anything to drink?” she asked as she pushed the creaky door open.

“Sure, just water, thanks.” He said after a moment.

She pointed to the kitchen and said “Treat yourself.”

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“Cool.”

She followed him to the kitchen, where he stood aimlessly.

She stared at him.

“Cups?” he said after a moment. She laughed, embarrassed, and opened the cupboard for him.

“Here, sorry,” giving him an apologetic smile. “Water’s from the tap, ice is in the freezer.” She stared at the veins in his hands as he reached around her to grab a glass. His fingers stretched around the cup to touch his thumb. She tried to feel something about it, about his beauty, but all she felt was her heart beating. He bent down in her cramped kitchen to open the freezer and she took a step back to give him room. Then she froze. Inside the freezer was the bird, neck bent, feathers ajar, glossy black eyes. It wasn’t blue. John would never know that the bird was blue when she first saw it in the shade.

“What the f-”

Najee Young, Owl, Mixed Media 90

Emotion is the foundation of all writing—every story evokes feelings, whether horror, joy, sadness, or anger, leaving a lasting impact on the reader.

-Nicholas Dunne, Class of 2025

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