Callithump 2016

cal-li-thump n. a noisy, boisterous parade; a mock serenade n. the Stone Ridge literary and arts magazine n. the product of blood, sweat, tears, weekend pizza parties, innumerable spreadsheets, and many eventful lunch periods in the Mac Lab

This year was one of incredible growth and change for Callithump; our staff tripled in size, our magazine doubled in length, and we received a record number of submissions. We were faced with the task of sifting through the gargantuan pile of poetry, prose, and artwork and choosing which works would be published.

When sorting through submissions, we strived to showcase a diverse array of artists, writers, and perspectives, as well as a variety of writing styles and artistic media.

We chose the theme of “duality” as our guiding concept this year and approached this theme by exploring the ways in which balance and opposition play roles in art, writing, and life. We selected the Chinese yin yang symbol as the emblem for this year’s edition, as it represents how contrary forces are inherently complementary and connected.

Special thanks to Spectrum Printing for printing our magazine, to our neighbor Ms. Gonzales for tolerating the biweekly tumult of our meetings, to Adobe Photoshop CS6 and InDesign CS5, and last but not least to our wonderful faculty advisors, Ms. Whitmore and Mrs. Cowan.

Nina Osborn ‘18

Callithump 2016 is dedicated with love and gratitude to Mr. Kevin Duffy. In addition to his role as a beloved Upper School English teacher, Mr. Duffy served as the faculty advisor to Callithump for a number of years. Our success today is largely owed to his unwavering support as an advisor, mentor, and teacher.

Mr. Duffy instilled confidence in young writers and taught them to value art and creativity in intellectual settings. He encouraged students to pursue creative writing, sometimes lovingly commanding them to submit to the magazine. He truly redefined what it means to go above and beyond for his students, and for that we share a profound appreciation.

We love, miss, and thank you, Mr. Duffy.

Alicia Meier ‘07

3

Editors

Faculty Advisors

Camilla Duke (editor-in-chief) Maryam Fassihi (art design editor) Maddie Sparrow (copy editor) Ellie Nuckolls (art design editor)

Emma Cowan Miranda Whitmore

Staff Lara Bedewi Laura Brueggeman Julia Burns Maggie Cavanaugh Grace Christenson Nicole Chu Sophia Ciatto

4

Ciara Collins Katie Connell Cheyenne Curley Sarah Davis Stephanie Devine Roxy Fassihi Dani Feller

Cece Gadina Lily Gee Claire Hansen Arianne Hennis Maddie Holt Cecilia Hornyak Rilei Johnson

Katie Kalhorn Elaine Kim Sarah Knack Carter Leahy Cameron Leonard Joyce Liu Alison Manca

Phaedra Manikas Katherine McClure Maddie Notarianni Karly Page Meghana Pai Alex Pitts Michelle Reilly

Willa Riekhof Camille Toner Helena Torres-Siclait Bridget Robey Katherine Shin Kris Turner Maya Young Kayla Simpson Sarah Slimp Naomi Steplight Briana Thompson

Table of Contents Writers this year have been very honest about their personal experiences and made themselves vulnerable through their writing. We would like to thank them for sharing their truths though it might have been difficult to write about these subjects.

Poetry and Prose

Artwork

Anonymous..................................................42, 48 Suzanne Antoniou..............................................39 Lena Bakalian.....................................................25 Lara Bedewi..................................................21, 43 Lenora Blakely....................................................19 Kelsey Brigati...............................................16, 53 Laura Brueggeman................................11, 17, 20 Mollie Carr..........................................................50 Katya Cavanaugh...............................................42 Audrey Cibel.........................................................4 Ciara Collins.................................................52-53 Katie Connell......................................................21 Kiwi Crowley......................................................41 Genevieve DiBari...............................................51 Maddy Dreiband................................................37 Camilla Duke.....................................................28 Maryam Fassihi............................................39, 43 Roxy Fassihi........................................................10 Lexi French...................................................13, 52 Delia Friel.....................................................12, 40 Cece Gadina........................................................47 Claire Hansen.....................................................50 Kate Hohman...........................................8, 29, 32 Cecilia Hornyak..................................................40 Caroline King.....................................................45 Sarah Knack.................................................27, 44 Carter Leahy.................................................31, 33 Nikki Lumbre..................23, 35, 49, Back Cover Megan Lydon......................................................35

Alison Manca..............................................................26 Katherine McClure..............................................19, 32 Colleen McMahon............18, 24, 30, 34, Front Cover Alicia Meier...................................................................3 Olivia Mullaney.............................................................5 Ellie Nuckolls.........................................................54-55 Elle Ondeck.................................................................18 Tatiana Ortega.............................................................46 Nina Osborn...............................................2, 22, 24, 51 Kathryn Paravano.........................................................9 Josie Roberts..................................................................6 Bridget Robey..............................................................36 Maddie Rodgers..........................................................48 Giselle Rodriguez........................................................14 Katie Shrout.................................................................47 Maddie Smith..............................................................46 Julie Souza..............................................................52-53 Maddie Sparrow..........................................................38 Caroline Tangang........................................................15 Camille Toner..............................................................34 Maggie Valaik..............................................................51 Danielle Vandre....................................................40, 49 Abby Weimer...............................................................39 Oleńka Wellisz.............................................................55 Cate Willing..........................................................26, 32 Julia Winkler................................................................54

Anonymous.........................20, 24, 36, 41, 42, 44, 50, 54-55 Suzanne Antoniou................................................................23 Sofie Araya.............................................................................46 Lena Bakalian........................................................................33 Maggie Cavanaugh..................................................47, 49, 52 Annelise Coffin......................................................................11 Courtney Fanning.................................................................18 Ele Grenfell............................................................................15 Caterina Guozden............................................................8, 48 Julia Harrington....................................................................27 Katherine Hobart..................................................................38 Cecilia Hornyak.............................................................22, 45 Grace Houle..........................................................................39 Christina Hsu........................................................................10 Katie Kalhorn........................................................................21 Nikki Lumbre........................................................................13 Ellen Morrissey.........................................................16-17, 43 Elle Ondeck.......................................................................9, 25 Meghana Pai..........................................................................53 Alex Pitts................................................................................32 Willa Riekhof..................................................................40, 51 Giselle Rodriguez....................................................................6 Tomiwa Sobande......................................................19, 26, 37 Maddie Sparrow.............................................................34, 52 Kris Turner......................................................................12, 14 Oleńka Wellisz.................................................................28-31 Nia Williams..........................................................................35

5

colorless & vibrant load it, make sure it catches advance once, advance twice

close it

point, aim, shoot point, aim, shoot the world is at your fingertips. your job is to try and capture it for

everyone to see. try to make them understand what

you see through the tiny hole. a perfect moment you have to freeze;

you must capture the vibrancy

using the absence of color

and a color without color.

Josie Roberts ‘18

6

a great responsibility many mistake

for idle fun.

stealing beautiful instances

and holding nature’s product for ransom;

a modern day Robin Hood where

the earth represents the rich and humanity is the poor.

breaking the law to give everyone a burst of life in an otherwise colorless world.

trying to force people to remember that not everything is bleak.

-Giselle Rodriguez ‘16

Maddie Smith ‘16

7

The Dance of the Gypsies They sang their oppression away on me With forceful kicks to my head.

Groups stomping and yelling In synchronized agony.

I carry their stories in my Scrapes and bruises, dents from The times they pounced on me in an attempt to Take out their anger, sadness and frustration with their persecutors.

With their instruments they cried about the times When they were forced out of their homes.

The clicking of castañuelas and tongues in synch With the rhythm of their Punches on my back.

-Caterina Guozden ‘16

Kate Hohman ‘18

8

winter Winter comes.

The warm blush of the sun bleeds across the cracking pavement, fatigued and frail from the throbbing fervor of summer. The metal fetters around your heart contract, stifling the vehement rush of your blood. Everything is brittle.

You are an inky sea, stained black with the gripping loneliness of the night. The stars pale, speckling the inside of your eyelids. They explode in your darkness, bursting into radiant splinters of light.

Nothing glows; light slices through the sky. The cold is a slow strangle. You remind yourself that all of this is temporary, that your neck will take root in the soil of your spine and mend the brokenness inside of you.

This weight of invisibility wanders. You are a flimsy arrangement of injuries, and the milky fog soothes the wounds on your back. It is so easy to fall asleep in the mist of immunity, but you know that soon the smoke that curls like a fist around you will seep back into the earth.

A wind strikes the dry ground, wrenching quickly away from the caked mud. It swims across the pollution of your body. Your edges are smoothed, worn away by the persistence of blind assault.

Winter softens.

There is a hand to hold. It is sudden and callused, a harsh palm with a gentle grip. Your veins bloom crimson. Light burns from your eyes. It snows that night, and the warmth from the house clouds the windows. Your fingers pull away the steam, warmer now than before.

Your body becomes a good place to live.

-Elle Ondeck ‘17

Kathryn Paravano ‘17

9

The X Beautiful brushed gold and venom emerald paints speckles on the wall, Her neck craned into an orchestra of exotic orchids– It’s a kiss that renders knees weak And blushes a riveting shade of honey on her cheek.

Burnt copper coils encase her fragile face, Turning her succulent tangerine lips towards fragile layers of Supple flesh pressed up against her shrouded form.

A blanket swathes and envelops the bodies, Cocooned in black and white and brilliant gleaming plated bodice, Liquefied shimmering jade, currant, and ornate trim.

One hand limp like the neck of a swan, Intertwined in a yearning embrace, A lingering tender caress encircles blossoms of flowers– Above and beneath.

So delicately are sensuous kisses embellished amongst luscious and fertile floral, Metallic leaves enfolds auburn suns and saffron spirals, To a submission illuminating etched love on golden thread and thimble.

Kneeling atop a bed of bloomy flush of blossoms,

Roxana Fassihi ‘18

10

Inspiring delicate lust and envy to spectators, Yearning for a union as affectionate as them.

Knot.

-Christina Hsu ‘16

Uptight Piano Replaced by the grand master, I exist below the surface.

As I sit in the cold, dark hallway I think of the joyous abuse I once received.

Three generations of welcomed manipulation.

Far above sits my replacement: newer, darker, sleeker.

Now all I do is listen. Listen and wait.

Listen to my successor pour his waves throughout the house, with or without someone to sit and direct. My successor can do it himself.

He can knock on his own strings.

Wait for company, for a party, for boredom, For someone to make the trek to greet me, to tickle my ivories once again.

I am a magician’s assistant. He himself is a magician.

He teaches the young to become a master like him, though he, too, is a baby.

I am now an accidental in the symphony of silence.

I wait. And listen.

As the triplets come trickling down the stairs, my insides vibrate.

The rich, bursting aroma of sound sparkles in my dark hallway.

Up above is the grand master.

-Annelise Coffin ‘16

Laura Brueggeman ‘18

11

I’m standing on material, money everywhere; I want rocks in my shoes and sand in my hair.

The materialist world is all I can see, if I walked out the door who could I be?

Pondering societal norms and why I should care, how many people step out of them, dare?

How many people are trying to find the great key, roaming the earth in search of the free?

-Kris Turner ‘18

Delia Friel ‘16

12

Slum Dog (Not-So) Millionaire

Tondo, Manila, Philippines. One of many slums in that country. A port city painted in smog and the blares of foghorns, the constant hustle and bustle, exporting Filipino goods and importing foreign merchandise. The winding eskinitas, or small alleyways, where you can get lost yet still know where you are. Weave your way through and you’ll find the big, yellow Don Bosco Church with kids playing on the basketball court and ladies, old and young, selling beautiful, white, fragrant sampaguita necklaces. Sari-sari stores line the streets, filling the air with savory scents of barbeque and putrid, yet nostalgic, odors of garbage. The playful shrieks of children and the booming voices of street vendors battle against the horns of jeepneys. And the jeepneys, it’s like a plethora of multi-colored nyan cats running about the city, busing Pinoys to work or school. But be careful of the sewage canals zigzagging their way through, for you may end up with a wet shoe or two.

Take care of your handbag or your earrings, because the thieves definitely do not need the darkness of night to strike.

-Nikki Lumbre ‘16

Lexi French ‘16

13

HE MOVES he moves. tendons of my heart tear blood that courses hardens fragmenting my body fails me all at once. he moves. the world stops, I wander my mind escapes this realm time freezing everything but him distant haze. he moves. my arm outstretched, yearning my astonishment fades to total fear a pathway in sight no escape. he moves. emotions dance, movements frantic, sharp quivers, a soul shatters the sorrowful beat silent sound. because when he moves he leaves and I can’t stop him.

-Kris Turner ‘18 Giselle Rodriguez ‘16

14

Found in Hide-and-Seek “Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!”

A feeling of foreboding crept through my mind as I rushed to find somewhere, anywhere, to hide! Was I mistaken, or had the seeker skipped over most of the precious few allotted seconds? I swung open a closet door, but alas my desired spot had already been taken.

My cousin’s angry shouts of “Hey! Go away,” assailed me as the door was slammed shut once again. This final rejection put me in desperate straits as I vied for another hiding place. Too late!

“Ready or not, here I come,” warned the seeker from downstairs.

As my hopes began to ebb, I spied a small door at the end of the hall.

Staving off panic, I raced down the hall, tested the knob, and cracked open the door.

It was unlocked and in I rushed! Much to my surprise, I did not find myself in another of my grandfather’s closets, but rather a small room I had never seen before.

Instead I stood in awe at the enchanting sight before me.

The draft from the open door whipped up small clouds of dust that swirled through the room like chaff in the wind.

The late afternoon sun streamed in from a few moth holes in the thick velvet curtains that shrouded a row of tall windows from view.

The familiar ambrosia of old books met my nose and I smiled to see the walls were stacked high in leather-bound volumes waiting just for me. “I found you,” the seeker’s exultant cry pulled me back to reality.

“No, I found it,” I whispered, the game of Hide-and-Seek long forgotten.

“Whatever, silly,” he said as he pulled me away.

Caroline Tangang ‘19

The door to my secret room shut behind me, but not for long, for I returned the next day and the day after that.

Little did I know how many adventures I would take, from far off Arabia to the freezing Yukon; I had found my favorite hiding place in the pages of a book.

-Ele Grenfell ‘19

15

A series of images for your consideration: Oh, there! You see her! The lady in the sky! Celestial cheekbones and an astral eye. Embroidered on her skirt are Mercury and Mars, and underneath that garment her skin is made of stars. She wears Jupiter as a gemstone on her pinky finger. With solace in solitude she vibrates through the vacuum. She is everything. She is nothing. She is manic wishes upon stars. She is wispy galaxies and scudding sun beams. She is malicious exquisite human wonder.

The statues are staring at each other across the garden again.

Over the hedges, and bushes, and topiaries desperately mimicking life, they stare. When they started: we’re not quite sure.

When they’ll end: when the rain and the wind and the snow and the sun and the moon and omnipotence itself wear their unlidded eyes and cruelly carved smiles down to the smooth stone they were born from. They stand on their rotting stages while their fingers and toes break for fear of touch. Their noses are stolen and their arms fly away and their legs snap at the knees and their bodies grow mossy and still they stare and smile.

Kelsey Brigati ‘16

16

Rumbling under sidewalks and skipping on lakes, Earth’s breath shudders through the greenery. With a hot heart and a cool head that temperate orb carries us through the stars. It longs to tap on the ancient winking light, but is caught in a violent orbit. Spinning and spinning and spinning until on its final day its mother the Sun reaches her arms and opens her ribcage and envelops her sweet little child in her scalding expansion.

A leaf clings desperately to his tree limb, quivering and afraid of those needling autumn breezes. His skin has succumbed to great swaths of yellow and red and his edges have grown brittle and he knows his grasp is weakening. He wishes to be evergreen. Soon he will fall in great swooping glides to the decomposing forest floor, all the while realizing with certain distaste that falling stars and fallen leaves and all of those well-written tragedies are so pretty in passing.

We are not infinite.

There are billions of lives and bones beneath our feet, yet we assume we will be the first and the last to bear witness to a bright pink sunset. We traverse this whirling, chaotic sphere with worn raw hands outstretched in the hopes that our fingers will whisk by something that will draw us out from our visceral restraints with murmured promises and heart shaped chocolates. Desperately we hope to find permanence in our own shivering palms in lines on paper in statues’ eyes, but forget all about the impending sunrise.

-Ellen Morrissey ‘16

Laura Brueggeman ‘18

17

Scars What if scars were like badges?

Instead of being thought of as a blemish or distortion, scars would be something you were proud of.

They would be a trophy that you would forever have with you.

You would earn a scar if you survived a hard time; Not just a physical challenge, but a mental challenge.

For every negative thought you pushed aside, you would earn a new scar.

Then, you would be able to find people like you.

Colleen McMahon ‘17

All of the scars on your body would mean you survived.

But in reality, we can’t see all the pain and suffering that people have been through.

All we see is what they show.

We are actors that hide our true feelings, opinions, and hardships.

Not all of us can act tough.

Then, our scars become visible and can’t be hidden.

How many scars have you shown?

Did you mean to?

-Courtney Fanning ‘19 Elle Ondeck ‘17

18

Fours Hours One The garish corpse adorns the city’s pavement Crimson impressions imprint his mark on the world The stench of death and pollution taint the air Of a tainted nation that targets people of tinted skin Mothers cry while children avert their eyes Displays like these no different Than the fruit that graced the poplar trees The message is abundantly clear There is an enemy who wants Us to tremble in fear Two Maggots and vultures gather; it’s feeding time I wonder if they realize that another has died Or if like society sees flesh to pull apart Swallow whole I wonder if he had dreams; Dreams so limitless, so vast Hindered only by the rain of metal, that maimed him Named him inferior, named him nuisance Pronounced him dead

Lenora Blakely ‘18

Three My emotions are all over the place I am stuck between a rock and a hard place Anger and fatigue, empathetic and apathetic Tired of being angry at an unfair system Tired of protesting, tired of caring

Or Just angry enough to feel the Adrenaline rush of revenge Feel the anger in my stomach As people begin the justification process Justify his death, the amount of bullets Call him demon, call him criminal Justify the way he went Four The garish corpse adorns the city’s pavement Crimson impressions imprint his mark on the world The stench of death and pollution taint the air Of a tainted nation that targets people of tinted skin People are holding signs and forming lines Hands up, look into determined eyes Signifying their protest, their revolution Their message is abundantly clear There is an enemy But we will not fear -Tomiwa Sobande ‘17

Katherine McClure ‘16

19

Laura Bruggeman ‘18

“This is the very ecstasy of love” -Hamlet, II. I. 114 To be in love is truly a sweet sickness Where the first taste tickles all the senses Yet eventually begins to rot the teeth Decaying the body from the inside out.

-Anonymous

20

What is a hero?

I always thought about how I wanted a life where everyone would know my name and where I would help everyone that I could, because that’s what being a hero is.

Being the next Mother Theresa.

The next Stephen Hawking.

But I realized I was wrong.

Because what is a hero?

Not what I thought it was.

A hero is someone who is brave.

Someone who is not concerned about what others think.

Someone who knows when to speak their mind and when to stay quiet, When to hold on to someone and when to let them go.

Who knows the difference between right and wrong.

Who doesn’t know that they’re a hero.

Who knows when to be confident and when to stay humble.

Being a hero is not nearly as complicated than I thought.

It’s leaving an impact on one person, not one thousand.

I realized recently that being a hero is not about the people around you, it’s about when you get home late at night and you are comfortable in your own skin.

It’s being you when everyone else is telling you to be someone you’re not.

Katie Connell ‘17 Lara Bedewi ‘19

-Katie Kalhorn ‘19

21

Catharsis There's a certain anxiety swirling in the air, the surface tension of a moment stretched to breaking point the intoxicatingly sweet-spicy scent of rain pours from the clouds promising screams in their gunmetal ridges and whorls Birds have stopped singing, waiting with bated breath And the silence echoes far louder than the cars or trucks the same rain pours on all of us, and somewhere outside of this concrete jungle is a place heavy with the same anticipation, silent and free The first distant rumble of thunder causes a sharp intake of breath people shake their heads, moving faster, an anthill that someone poked with a stick They ignore the grins of those looking at the sky, waiting for the flood to wash their emotions away Sometimes you need a storm, you need the rain lashing your window the thunder that makes you jump and your fingers misalign but you secretly love it, reveling in the fear, smiling with each white flash of lightning as it courses down.

There are things greater than us, tossing and turning each of us equally there is a certain anger and grief and power to a storm,

22

the music of the branches and the wind whipping your heartbeat into a frenzy as you watch the rain, the shadows of droplets shining on your face like tears you refuse to feel But for now the waiting curdles sickly in my stomach waiting for that distant rumble to herald the beginning the rush of wind and the first few drops of rain, and letting Nature breathe for me for a change -Cecilia Hornyak ‘19

Nina Osborn ‘18

The Old Sweater

Cooled air ruffles the few stragglers, Yet to be evicted by deciduous landlords.

Slight beginnings of a heated home spark my hope, Blind, yet feeling their swelling desire for warmth.

Goose bumps offer skin to veil in tight stitches, the painstaking work of polished wood.

Old friends heave me down from musty upper shelves.

I’m animated as ashy arms meander sharp rings through thin thread.

Craving this attention like a tumultuous toddler, But holding the frayed edges of a wise veteran.

The cold brings my warmth.

Loneliness, a foregone memory.

Then, deciduous landlords renew leases, Less biting air, More days in hot emptinessDesperate for a companion.

Never outside to be hooked or teared, Never will be before frost.

Unraveling within.

Increasingly less hope until, just ragged.

-Suzanne Antoniou ‘16 Nikki Lumbre ‘16

23

The Sculptor Bitter anger Heart-wrenching betrayal You built me up You made me strong But then You tore me down You shattered me inside and out As I lay on the ground gasping for air Taking my last breaths Drowning in lost memories of you You stare at me Watching tears roll down my sick face Staining my cheeks with permanent sadness You leave me in your shadows - Anonymous

Colleen McMahon ‘17

24

Nina Osborn ‘18

To Jimmy I’m sorry, Jimmy, but I can’t join your revolution.

My arms are not long enough to reach beyond the street and ring your doorbell, and my legs crack under the weight of your memory. I’m not a fool, but I’m playing a trick on myself every time I think you still live across the street. You are just like those teachers who forgot the weight of my heart. This plane ticket is a message that reads, “I think a plane can bear your burden,” and the message is wrong.

There wasn’t any space in my mouth for this speech, so I sat down and bled ink all over the empty pages of a notebook you bought me in our second year of high school.

You told me that writers need a place to put all of their stuff together, but you were wrong. My works will never be collected; the stall walls in the girls’ bathroom on the bottom floor have been painted turquoise, each lonely stroke sweeping away my poetry.

Jimmy, I used to love you with all of my swollen mouth and heavy heart, but now, when I look at your picture, all I see is your teeth. They are as pale and as sharp as you are, angular and hungry. If I focus my eyes hard enough, your eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I remember why we were friends.

You told me that bathrooms are the third-best place for getting nervous, topped only by hospitals and my own bedroom. But I’ve only got one bedroom, two if you count the one at my divorced dad’s house, which I don’t, and the hospital is far away, so I stash my panic in my pockets and save it for scrawling on the stall door. Usually, I would find the scratchy pencil marks I made rubbed away by greasy teenage hands, although twice somebody wrote me back. Poetry isn’t structured for correspondence. I stopped writing.

I’m sorry, Jimmy, but the memory of you is not enough of a reason to distance myself from the life I’ve been trying so hard to live better.

Things are shifting; my head is inclined to tilt up instead of floorward.

- Elle Ondeck ‘17

The librarian came looking for me once. They thought I had run and left the school, taken off. I guess they forgot that my wings are made of paper, and my heart is too heavy for flight. I stopped talking for a while, and the cavern of my mouth swelled up as pink and as red as the card you gave me on Valentine’s Day. You wanted to hold my hand.

I didn’t want a hand to hold; I wanted a new pencil to grip, the wood buckling underneath the weight of my angry fingertips. I was lonely then, and I’m lonely now.

It’s a nice thought, the revolution. I’m just too busy and too tired and too full. My stomach feels defeated. Every time I eat with a spoon I am reminded of the way you could stick one to your nose for the eternal lunch hour and pretend that it made me happy. Your spoons and your smiles and your stupid revolution don’t make me happy. I don’t need you to be happy. I learned these things when my tongue returned to its normal size, deflated and hot.

Lena Bakalian ‘16

25

They Taught Me Trayvon taught me I couldn’t wear a hoodie I don’t rep colors, yet in the policeman’s eyes I’m a menace to society, a thug in disguise Mike Brown taught me that my blackness is demonic My mother never told me I was conceived in hell Tamir Rice taught me that children are merely target practice A generation to be extinguished before the regeneration begins Walter Scott taught me that the smile of the white man holds lies Lies that corrode away at the significance of my life Because I’m disposable, my life doesn’t matter Eric Garner taught me that my voice, my cries are unheard Under the knees of the mighty, the seemingly superior

My back is a resting place for knees, knees meant to subdue me

9 ca ‘1 Man

Strings by which I am pulled because I need to be restrained

n Aliso

The McKinney Pool Party taught me that my braids are strings

They say: “If you got an education, maybe you wouldn’t be targeted.”

Lies from the lips of Eurocentric beauty, lies I tell you The stories of Martese Johnson and Henry Louis Gates taught me that They say they want the “good negro,” the “educated negro” But there is no “good negro,” only the Negro Another black face subjected to murderous hate.

-Tomiwa Sobande ‘17

Cate Willing ‘18

26

The Old Ramen I Found in My Pantry Last Night This hard brick of blonde brain sat untouched.

I watched as it bobbed around in the water Only to fall apart as it boiled.

Next went the powdery block of chemicals, Which turned the clear water into murky broth.

Poured into a yellow ramekin, The concoction swirls and splatters The slimy worms are twirled onto my silver device Then slurped and swallowed The god-like aroma veiled the stale taste Now, the remains sit only to be thrown away Or given to the dogs.

-Julia Harrington ‘16

Sarah Knack ‘18

27

Orthodontics and armageddon

There’s a point system at my orthodontist’s. The way it works is you come in and get poked at or whatever, and then they hand you a slip of paper with all these boxes. The boxes are things like “Great Oral Hygiene” or “Appointment Between 9 and 3.” Each of them is worth 5 points, and if you fulfill one of them, you get a check in that box to indicate that you deserve that particular number of points. There’s one that says “Community Service” that’s worth 30 but I never actually get checks for that because I never tell them. It doesn’t really seem right. Imagine you die one day and you’re standing before the gates of heaven or whatever, and God comments on your wonderful service to the poor, to which you reply, “Oh that. Yeah I was hoping I’d get enough points for a 50 dollar Visa gift card. Speaking of which, they never did give it to me, the bastards.”

So in a way, this check system is slowly destroying our society, one minty fresh set of braces at a time. You get your slip of paper at the end of the appointment and feel kind of bad that you don’t have the Great Oral Hygiene your dog knows you should have. But you have 5 checks!

That’s one more than last time! And you hand that slip of paper in with the satisfaction that these hard-earned checks are building themselves into something great.

Camilla Duke ‘16

28

It’s a long, tired road, at the end of which lie great riches in the form of 10 dollar Barnes and Noble gift cards or, if you’re really, really lucky, a pair of headphones.

I don’t actually believe anyone has ever cashed in his check. Everybody’s a miser there, in dentistry or whatever you want to call it. You think you’ve got enough for a 50 dollar iTunes gift card, and you’re faced with a dilemma; do you spend it, or wait till you’ve got enough for 100? You only get braces once. I guess maybe

in fifty years old men and women will be hobbling into the reception room, demanding with their last gasps the trinkets they spent their childhoods working towards. It’s terribly silly really, but I’ve always thought that when the world falls to pieces the only thing that remains will be the check system. I ought to know, because the world ended yesterday.

It was kind of unexpected. Hellfire rained on the world for five days straight. We all had a terrible time of it, and there wasn’t much of anything left by the time it had spent itself. The hellfire, that is. Anyhow, on the sixth day I went outside and found that everything was black and charred and all, and I started walking because there wasn’t much else to do. I found a couple of people, but none of them interested me particularly. I kept at it for a while, and eventually I came to Chevy Chase. I didn’t recognize it as Chevy Chase when I first arrived, of course. The creepy clay policeman was gone. I realized it in the end, though, because half of the old people’s home was still there, so to test out my theory I went to 5550. I figured it wasn’t safe to use the elevators, because they always tell you to use the stairs in case of fire. I’ve always been terrified of elevators anyhow. Once at camp I got stuck on one with a bunch of my friends and we rang the button and nobody came. Everybody else thought it was absolutely hilarious, and one girl said “I remember I saw a movie where a bunch of people get stuck on an elevator like this, and one of them’s the devil…and they start getting killed off one by one.” The timing was terrible, and I threw a bit of a fit. We got out eventually. It turned out it was one of those old-timey elevators—the kind that has two doors—and the outside one wasn’t closed properly. So we managed to drag apart the second doors in the end, since we hadn’t actually left the floor we were on.

Kate Hohman ‘18

29

Anyway, I kept climbing up the stairs because the office is in room 320. I noted with a certain apprehension that half the building appeared to be missing; little pieces of brick and mortar plunged gleefully into the smoldering abyss below at regular intervals. It was all very unnerving. The stairs at one point looked like they were about to give up on life in general and join their brethren in the apocalyptic destruction. They didn’t though, so I kept going. I eventually made it to the third floor. It looked different, so I thought maybe room 320 had been destroyed by the meteors. I had a bit of a scare because that would have bulldozed my whole theory. It was still there though. There was a bite taken out of the hallway between myself and room 320, so I had to get creative.

It’s amazing the things you can think of in moments of emergency. I was pretty thirsty by the time I’d finished, but the water fountain wasn’t there anymore, and you needed one of those keys with the lego dangly accessories to be able to unlock the bathrooms. The door to the office was missing, along with some of the floral patterns. The copies of People magazine had miraculously survived the world’s end. It’s because the dentists encased them in little plastic booklets for when patients would read them in the waiting room.

I wasn’t really interested in the magazines. I was more interested in the receptionist’s desk. And sure enough, the desk was still there. Light fixtures had burnt out and the electrical wires were tangled in ways that did not look at all safe, and the large windows in front of the dentist chairs were empty, the chairs themselves all black and burned with little bits of stuffing hanging out. But the desk was as it had always been—the Plexi panel was unmarked and the wood unsinged. The monthly contest wasn’t there anymore; the month before, when I’d gotten my rubber bands replaced, the challenge was to guess the weight of a pumpkin crouched next to a wicker basket filled with estimations. They did this because it was almost Halloween. It sort of depended on the season—in the winter it was usually snow related, like how much floss did it take to make this snowflake, and the winner would get a pair of Beats by Dr. Dre. Once I won a contest in which I had to match sets of teeth with the animals they belonged 30

Colleen McMahon ‘17

to. When they next saw me and told me excitedly that I had won a pair of Beats and asked what color I would like them in, I thought they were talking about the vegetable, so I ended up with purple ones. The wicker basket was gone, the pumpkin half-eaten. Other than that, though, the receptionist’s desk remained pretty much as I remembered it. Two of them were gone. The receptionists, I mean. The only one left was the blackhaired one. She sat typing at a computer. The edge of it burst into flames, so I kind of sat there for a few moments, watching it. She didn’t look up because she was too busy typing. The fire extinguished itself after a bit, so I went over and leaned on the desk.

“I’ve got a lot of points,” I said. “I had five checks last time. Could I cash them in?”

She didn’t reply, just sort of kept staring at her computer. I looked over to see what was so interesting but it was just a bunch of cracks.

“Do I have enough for a Barnes and Noble Gift card?” I asked. She still didn’t reply, only this time she reached under her desk and rummaged a bit. There wasn’t anything there, I guess, because she came back up looking sympathetic. “Could you make an appointment for next week? We’ll have your card for you then.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, sure. What time?”

“We don’t do appointments after five or on weekends.”

“Ok, sure. Could I come by Monday?”

“Of course. What time?”

“Can we do 10:30?”

“We sure can.” She typed a few things into her computer, then turned back to me. “It’s all set. 10:30 Monday.”

“Alright, cool. Thanks.”

“Any time.”

I forgot to come back Monday. I came later because I’d gotten lost since then. By the time I found the building again, there was no receptionist. There was, however, a bright green 30 dollar Barnes and Noble gift card, waiting at the desk.

Carter Leahy ‘18

-Oleńka Wellisz ‘17 31

Is this How to Raise Perfect?

Katherine McClure ‘16

A young girl, With an open mind and a bright heart, Stares at the T.V. With the perfect models and The diet commercials Thinking that This is what perfection must look like.

A teenage girl, With eyes of broken blue, Shines with potential, however, Oh so dim, For fear of how The world will judge her.

A woman, With insecurities wound up inside, Sitting silently, Contemplating whether Her voice will be heard or Whether it will make a difference.

Not A girl faces, but Each girl faces Pressure from others and from within chanting silently, She must be perfect She must be perfect.

She must be perfect.

-Alex Pitts ‘18

Cate Willing ‘18

32

Kate Hohman ‘18

Rainbow sherbet melts across an austere canvas of blue and gray Its mother slides down pulling each color down with her A little girl inside a room filled with lonely dusk glances up A moment of perfection in an imperfect world grazes her questioning eyes Clumsily rising, she calls for her father who emerges from an even deeper place of dusk and reservation Together, they stand, side-by-side watching the sunset, feeling the vibrant colors smear then slowly deteriorate relinquishing their worries and forgetting the world for an instant of time.

-Lena Bakalian ‘16

Carter Leahy ‘18

33

Bodies of Water and Waters of Bodies let the sea swallow me its tides dizzy me let my feeble body float atop the water let the crisp air shoot shivers down my spine let me sink let me sink there’s comfort at the ocean’s floor there is comfort in the waves of her voice let me drown submerge me immerse me let me swell and let me surge let me taste the salt and hear the silence let the sand squeeze its way in between my toes and let it stick to my wet skin let my hair trail like seaweed let my mind entangle let creatures crawl over me inside me let fish find my head a home let my fingers prune and my skin Colleen McMahon ‘17

wrinkle let me leave the ocean dripping ecstasy and let me melt into the early

morning moonlight let bitter air strike brittle bones let shells scratch skin let them carve scars let me harden like sand into shells let me be beautiful let me be solidified and let me be discovered let a little girl find me and crush me with bare hands let her feel power let her scatter my dust let my dust become specks become her freckles and let me grow to love the ocean’s monstrosity and that of my very own let me -Maddie Sparrow ‘17

34

Camille Toner ‘18

ature N n i y Dualit

Megan Lydon ‘17

ere un h the s tiful sph high hig u , a a be lies high armth w h whic ing with sky n e e glist cool blu e in th poise h t i s dw ree the t ng tall an een earth under i s r stand mossy g t what lie e a on th owing th t hearth o n not k orching h here c w s y r a e s i y ev freel e g n s i flow ody cean utsid the o et water t exists o elestial b c a w with us to wh t the dry e a io obliv owing th ulls its tid n p not k one that is the now ist on’t k x d e e s w orld sterie ings our w many my nty of th s u le while ere are p around k h and t imply loo duality s ’s if we ee nature o ‘19 g s illiams we’ll here we -Nia W w every

Nikki Lumbre ‘16

35

In Flowers Child, I want to cover you in flowers Ribbons of rose petals from the tip of your nose Right down to the soles of your lithe feet And everywhere in between Marigold and daisy and chrysanthemum As long as the girl with the name

I want to wrap you up in a tulip To send you to the ocean To mix the smells and to wish for winter I want to uncurl your tiny fists From the stems of all of my wine glasses And forget the bitter words I sip Child, I want to cover you in flowers Deeper and darker than the scarlets and crimsons The colors of my ruby lips Or brighter and lighter than the sky As forgetful and as lonely as I am Lacy doilies of Queen Ann’s white scattered Across your ankles and wrists And every soft spot uncovered To spare them from the thorny spikes Of your adulthood

Bridget Robey ‘18

Child, I want to bathe you in flowers Child, I want to protect you in flowers Child, I want to remember you in flowers Child! I want you to pick flowers The same way I want you to see hatred And treat it like the stranger it should be Child! I want you to be in love with flowers And in love with being alone And in love with life And in love with yourself s 36

Child, I want to blanket you in flowers Child, I want to cover you in flowers Because I want you to learn that spring is just another word for rebirth Child, I want to cover you in flowers So that you learn how to do it yourself.

-Anonymous

Dissatisfied There are those who are asking the devotees of diversity, “When will you be satisfied?”

We can never be satisfied as long as women are silenced by the patriarchy, their narratives and legacies forced to the margins of society.

We can never be satisfied as long as Muslims are profiled for religious preference, named terrorists while white supremacy excuses white school shooters, using mental illnesses as scapegoats.

We can never be satisfied as long as people are being subdued due to the hue of their skin. Trigger-happy cops litter black bodies, young and old, on cities’ streets.

We can never be satisfied as long as students of color’s mobility is stumped by education’s selective system.

Tattered textbooks and tired teachers aren’t tools for success.

We can never be satisfied as long as black children are seen as targets before teachable, not spared a second glance, forget second chance.

We can never be satisfied as long as Latinos/Latinas are all seen as destructive immigrants, an image enforced by rampant hate speech.

We can never be satisfied as long as presidential candidates can spread hate, threatening to “Make America Great Again.”

Greatness subject to the lens of blinded privilege, feeding and exploiting people’s fears. Greatness that bars impoverished refugees from entry and enters certain citizens into a database. Greatness that encourages the endangerment of Latinos for sport.

Greatness that objectifies America’s daughters rather than listens to the roar in their tones, in their stories.

No, we can never be satisfied, silenced, stewing in our complacency. We will be loud and unsatisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

Maddy Dreiband ‘19

-Tomiwa Sobonde ‘17

37

If Acid Clouds Were Water Instead On Venus it rains water The clouds are made of water NASA tried to land there but the Planet is an ocean There are fish that eat other fish And whales that eat bacteria And mermaids that eat fish and bacteria There is no ocean floor Every marine organism swims forever Or dies Nothing comes up for air because the Air is just rain The clouds are just rain The planet is an orb of rainwater A puddle ready to put out the sun -Katherine Hobart ‘16

Maddie Sparrow ‘17

38

I am a poet. More importantly, I’m an astrophile. I love the way people stare endlessly into the eyes of the unknown both in awe and fear. Black holes are the puppet masters: morphing time into space at the expense of matter. They are the creators of what we now know and have yet to learn.

-Grace Houle ‘16

Suzanne Antoniou ‘16 Abby Weimer ‘17

Maryam Fassihi ‘16

39

what is past?

Is it fading and uncertain?

Is it joyful memories from childhood?

Is it what happened yesterday?

Is it all of my life so far?

Yesterday was past An hour ago is now the past One second ago is the past And now a few more seconds passed Time escapes us Moves forward Becomes the past Without even trying We forget Move on Escape the past We don’t have to escape it Or even learn from it We just need to know it Remember it Understand it And savor it Because it is us It is a part of us The past might be yesterday But it is also you and me and the baby that was born a minute ago In our hearts we remember what has happened And is now past And is now us And is now our future -Willa Riekhof ‘17 Delia Friel ‘16

40

Cecilia Hornyak ‘19

Danielle Vandre ‘16

Name

Call me gargoyle The type of mangled wind That clenches its fingers Around shadows and spirits Call me werewolf The lonely melodies Of hungry music And aching howls Call me satyr The flute in my hands And the flute of champagne Are the same mischief Call me harpy The vicious and the cruel The tear of flesh and flesh Angry leather wings Call me sphinx As I devour your Oedipus Specs Proverbial wisdom as tame As steam from tea Call me dragon Flame and light and cleverness As greedy as sin and the sinner combined Selfish and protective and skeptical Call me dragon Asleep under the boil of pressure Curled up and around and alone Unafraid and unashamed Call me dragon Conceited and arrogant Temperamental and sensitive Adaptable and flighty Call me dragon Which is to say, Call me by my given name.

-Anonymous

Kiwi Crowley ‘17

41

Katya Cavanaugh ‘19

Growing Distance As I stare at my screen in blank confusion A river of tears flows from my pain-filled eyes.

Helpless, you spew reassuring words Resonating in my mind.

A hypothetical hand reaches out Drying my tears.

Though I am empty Though I am alone You make my frozen heart beat once again And fill it with your warm spirit.

-Anonymous

42

Anonymous

Sunset A gnarled swing set spins creaky tales of flowery hair and dirty soles: Pigtails bounce to the beat of the sun rays grass bakes under the sun with a cool composure and trees take the brunt of the life-giving rays The heat tries to settle its head, but the sun slips from its home in the sky it’s fallen to the earth and melted the playground A ride on the slide would surely end in an unwanted jacket of plastic and the monkey bars are bowing to the boiling asphalt “Pick yourself up, darling” a father laughs from somewhere in the shade The wood chips are sparking now the children are dancing on flames in an ancient rite, older than the wisdom thrust upon them paisley shirts and denim dresses whirl in a chaotic spiral rivaling the orbit of the earth they stomp upon

Faster and faster and it’s called the human race for a reason No time to say their prayers or cross their t’s

Lara Bedewi ‘19

Seasons stumble by in a brutish, colorful parade Ribbons slip from locks and teeth fall from lips Hands once held now crumble Feet once clean now dripping with ash

Maryam Fassihi ‘16

The rain has begun A fearsome, mundane tempest The sun’s turned blue it’s holding its breath and the once fluid metamorphosis is tangible havoc The flaming ritual is now a fading habit The children peek with scudding eyes and panicked recognition at their unnatural gestures and gaping mouths and thin skin draped on sharp angles Stagnant words plummet from rusty tongues: “Bird beaks are for stabbing not singing”

-Ellen Morrissey ‘16

43

sour tears dripping flush consuming your face drip into your toes along with the ing burn the Let time. a at One out. and In it. that’s y, Breathe. Stead d ANXIETY close in on you. Gasp for air as you feel two roughly calloused hands name in your from their ducts. Relish in your helplessness. Let it drown and fail, and try again. Silently urge the sliver of rationality Try, r. matte you you g tellin s word less voice the e believ to your feeble throat. Try feel the tension in each g; wipe your eyes. Breathe. And again. Stretch your arms, and footin your in Rega . crazy your st again coup a stage to brain your glossy eyes and the coral watercolor from their rims. straining muscle. Wait until the diamond coating fades from

carrying you further Walk downstairs, and remember that each carpeted step is

. and further away from the confines from your own mind

-Anonymous

Sarah Knack ‘18

44

Artist Hands

Caroline King ‘17

People tell me I have artist’s hands Long-fingered, spidery, chunky hands Sprouting from my wrists like a shot basil plant But they’re wrong My hands are not artist’s hands They’re made of nothing, of milk and moonlight They’re clumsy and too big, always dragging their bulk across the paper They’re a coward’s hands. A sleeper’s hands.

Your hands are not a sleeper’s hands Your hands are a dreamer’s hands Short, stubby, willowy hands Always doing something, always moving Impossible to draw because they’re never standing still They’re not milky and perfect There’s flecks of paint staining your knuckles, Walnut juice lining your palm, Scars from hot glue guns and soldering irons Marring their surface Your hands are like maps, They tell me where you’ve been, The smudges of charcoal Or pastel Or glue All clues to your continued existence Skin rubbed raw from industrial-strength soap A small callus, right where your pen rests Your hands are beautiful

Caroline King ‘17

-Cecilia Hornyak ‘19

45

Maddie Smith ‘16

The Secret Garden of Chevy Chase She strode down the cold November morning Her shoulders draped in a mahogany tinted mink fur Her blind black lab trotted loyally by her side collarless... listening closely to the sound of her shoes as they met pavement The woman dwelled in a townhouse in between conservatives and immigrants When you entered, your nose met her Marlboro’s lingering scent before her dog’s tongue met your skin

Tatiana Ortega ‘18

It was almost as prevalent as the smell of red wine that escaped her mouth as She spoke a lovely language of humor and compliments Her abode had just the right amount of clutter There was a coating of dust that hugged the wooden floor Three shoes slept on the corners of three of her steps A long carpet guided you to the living room where an olive colored couch, stuffed with stories, lied A small TV in front of the fireplace showed her ability to adapt to modern times Spice containers lined the stove of her kitchen Her garden nursed ombré purple Thai tulips So much love was poured into that garden that it overflowed with products of roses ...growing over its enclosed perimeter God was so pleased that the roses blushed a light pink hue -Sofie Araya ‘17

46

Ashes From Flames The funny thing about playing with fire is it never ends well.

You’ll be there completely in control one minute, but all balances will give out No one thing was created to last forever.

So play with your flames now and enjoy how they swirl, Because fire goes out one of two ways, it burns itself out or it gets put out, But either way, you’ll be left there, in smoldering ruins and the memories of when you were bright.

-Maggie Cavanaugh ‘19

Katie Shrout ‘17

Cecilia Gadina ‘19

47

And He Snapped Its Neck A walk to the end of the dark pier The un-railed drop-off Revealed to me how the real world worked, At such a young age.

Some fishing for enjoyment, Others casting for survival.

A selfish old woman with a metal cart and small pole competing with a family to get A silver, glimmering meal, She had one weary mouth to feed The family had five growing mouths.

The young chubby child grabs the dinner his father caught, Snaps its neck with an ease that I would Have to be taught.

Screams of horror when I felt the Tiny fish wiggle intensely in between my fingers.

And as his eyebrows furrowed and the corners of his lips turned down, Another neck snapped.

The real world where A neck might have to be snapped A slimy, smaller fish might have to Be held down against its will, While it fights its hardest battle: Survival.

-Caterina Guozden ‘16

48

Anonymous

Maddie Rodgers ‘18

Nikki Lumbre ‘16

Words In these margins are words. Written of half-baked thoughts and unsaid cries but written all the same.

Some are legible, some are not. But they are all present on this paper. Ink and graphite onto a yellowing surface, these thoughts went unsaid because I lacked the courage and the knowledge to speak, but I wrote them, I wrote them all, here in a book of the past with hope for the future. I passed the book on to a young girl and she found herself in the same way, so she wrote and wrote till ink dried up and her time came.

She passed the book down to a young boy who also found he could not speak. So he wrote his story. The book was again passed down.

Down and down the book went, cycle after cycle, round and round. Passed by field and gutter was the book, it saw every corner and touched millions of hands.

So as we finally reach the last page of a book written because so many could not speak, I sit and ponder: Who was doing all the speaking?

-Maggie Cavanaugh ‘19 Danielle Vandre ‘16

49

Mollie Carr ‘18

Tall Timbers

Walking among tall timbers sometimes has a downside. Tall trees tower over you, but they also can look down on you. They stand out among the rest of God’s creations, but sometimes accidentally and sometimes on purpose they make other things feel small.

Not being a tall timber sometimes involves a put down. It’s not about being different. That’s okay. It’s when the tall timbers act and talk as though differences equate to not being good enough.

Like judging someone based solely on height rather than other attributes or what they are like inside. What about walking in another person’s shoes?

Isn’t it what’s on the inside that really matters?

“How tall are you? Aren’t you ever going to grow?”

Being picked last in P.E. even if you were the fastest or best dribbler. Never being given a chance to capture the flag, but always used as bait. Let the shrimp be the bait. Why don’t tall timbers see what they do to others?

Funny that they knew your name or chose you first when homework was involved. Grade school can be a one way street sometimes. That was yesterday, but it won’t be every day. Tall timbers don’t weather big storms well. Remember the saying - the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

-Anonymous

Claire Hansen ‘16

50

Falling

Genevieve DiBari ‘18 Maggie Valaik ‘18

I started picking up speed Faster and faster Out of control Moving wildly toward the bottom And then I fell I fell And I fell again But I got back up Reached for the bottom And each time I gained more control And then fell again I keep falling, crashing, and burning But eventually I make it I reach the bottom I did it And I can do it again -Willa Riekhof ‘17 Nina Osborn ‘18

51

Lexi French ‘16 Photograph Ciara Collins ‘18

For Levi Write about death Write the desolation, the hunger, write the pain But write the hope too Write the love, the satisfaction, the pleasure but write about the pain Because they are nothing without each other -Maggie Cavanaugh ‘19

Resilience With tangled heartstrings She emerges from the depths of darkness Burdened by the bags beneath her bloodshot eyes Crushing the devils dancing around her corpse With trembling knees and mangled toes.

Acidic tears scald her fragile face.

With raw skin and a spine twisted by fate, She stretches lips that have kissed death And behind fading teeth She plays a crooked smile, and Will rise.

-Maddie Sparrow ‘17

52

Sketch: Julie Souza ‘17

Change Is Fluid Change is fluid, and continuous. Yet, it is the only constant. It occurs in your heart, mind, environment, and soul. A year ago I was not the same person I am today. Each day a little piece of you changes, even if you don’t notice it. It can be physical, emotional, or mental. Change is ice melting in the spring, and snow covering the earth in the winter. It is a little baby’s hand becoming a little bigger each day. It’s a mind that one minute is relaxed, and the next debilitated by stress. It is starting on the first page of a book and then turning the last page.

Change can be big or even small. It’s an abstract concept that occurs throughout everyone’s life, every minute.

What is the difference between each person? Each stage of a person? Age is but a number, not decided by knowledge but in maturity of someone’s mind or soul. The difference is the changes that occur between the stages. It is the adjustment in our character that results from dealing with inward struggles from the day before. Our eyes see differently through the adaptation of our soul when it undergoes new experiences. We go through many stages and changes, many that there are no names for. Change is fluid and is ironically the only constant, in our world where nothing can be stagnant.

Make it your best friend, because you will never meet anything that stays with you till the end like change. Don’t fight it, but embrace it, learn from it, relish it, think about it, shape it, and sometimes you can fight it, but just remember change is your closest ally and also your greatest weapon.

-Meghana Pai ‘19

Kelsey Brigati ‘16

53

And And it begins again.

I am bleeding, my throat a sticky mingling of crimson and sweat. My chest swells for air, swallowing a liquid breath.

I can hear myself dying in the steady gurgle of my blood abating a thirst I never cared to slake. The next few minutes are slow and mean.

And it begins again.

I am falling, the walls of this particular hole crudely mimicking sandpaper. As my head and hands scrape the sides, I can no longer tell where the blood is coming from when I reach up to check. I can’t see the bottom, but I watch the sky diminish lazily. I am grateful.

Julia Winkler ‘18

54

And it begins again.

I am suffocating, choking on air as my feet dangle above the ground and my god sits underneath me, a cross-legged child staring bluntly. I am reminded for a third time that I should gasp. I lamely admire the distance between my feet and their shadow, limper than sleep.

And it begins again.

I was running, and now I burn. I am consumed by fire.

It feels nice to see myself disappearing, blackened bits of my papery skin floating up.

I am not attached to the freed traces. The candle of my form is immobile, but my former possessed pieces travel away. I experience a brief moment of aching for them.

And it begins again.

I wake seven times, but each time I’m still frozen in my sleep.

A simple fool trusting her eyes returns home again, hopeful.

And I wake covered in sweat I believe to be blood.

And I swing my legs over the bed, and I rest my chin on curled fists.

And I expect death, because I bleed, and fall, and choke, and burn, and wake to meet the same fate. I fear my resting and my rising, a cycle I no longer trust.

And I wonder if I am asleep.

They say you can’t tell the time in your dreams.

It’s 3:42 AM. I stand.

And I am awake.

-Anonymous

Ellie Nuckolls ‘17

Oleńka Wellisz ‘17

Nikki Lumbre ‘16