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R i ng s , St r i n g s & O t h e r T h i n g s

Norfolk Academy 1585 Wesleyan Dr. Norfolk, Virginia United States 23502

Rings, Strings, and Other Things Norfolk Academy Literary Magazine

Vol. XLIV

Norfolk Academy’s Literary Magazine

Rings, Strings, and Other Things 2025

This year’s issue of Rings, Strings, and Other Things is dedicated to:

Dr. Megan McKittrick

Staff Senior Editors

Junior Editors

Associate Editor

Art Director

Cover Artists

Editors

Faculty Sponsor

Editors’ Letter Dear Readers, There is a not-so-distant universe in which this volume of Rings, Strings, and Other Things is themed around cheese. Somehow, in our many hours of working weekends and late nights, we had found ourselves with perhaps more ideas than we knew what to do with. Many of these ideas (string cheese, gouda, and cheddar) were products of sleep-deprived and delirious minds—the same minds that now present the forty-fourth edition of Norfolk Academy’s literary magazine to you! At the beginning of the year, completely unaware of what it meant to be senior editors, we were in a period of discovery. Though unorganized at first, we began to harbor the singular dedication to writing, to art, and to its creation that necessitates the sharing of it. There is a certain curiosity in how the chaos of the mind can produce intelligible ideas—that art, though specific in its creation, is universal. It is a notion that the Litmag strives to uphold, and which inspires us to put together this compilation of ideas formulated by individual voices. Now, nearing the end of the year, we are faced with the uncertainty of the future. With leadership from our new faculty sponsor Dr. Megan McKittrick, we hope that the LitMag continues as it has for the past forty-three years: as a testament to the beauty of mundanity and the meaning we find in our everyday chaos. So we end by thanking you, the reader, for dedicating your most valued resource to us. The gift of your attention—a measure of not only time, but commitment towards this school’s community—is not something we have attempted to take for granted. Thank you for making this magazine what it is, thank you for submitting, and, above all else, thank you for reading. Sincerely, Austin Sorrell, Amanda Wong, and Emily Xu

Table of Contents Odds and Ends “The Dish of Life” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 “Ode to Popcorn” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 “Whoosh Whoosh” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .14 “Our Minds” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19 “Cities of Dirt” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 “Gamble of Life” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23 “Haunting Home” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24 “Envy’s Rampage” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25 “Forest Green” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26 “Just Another Drop” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 “Unseen Hunter” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30 “Sonnet 251: Ode to Jazz” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32 “Ink” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .35

Tangled Wires “Enough” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38 “A Bright Light” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40 “Moving” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42 “Lifeline” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45 “Cyclical Puzzle” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46 “3:00” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48 “Air Span II” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50 “Wings Once Burdened” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52 “My Cats” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .56 “To Adore” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .57 “Bicycling” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .58 “Lessons From My Garden” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .62 “Today I Am a Dreamer” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .64

Lost and Found “Out and About” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .68 “Decay” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .72 “Echoes of Autumn” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .74 “Is This My Potential?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .76 “Endless Cycle” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .78 “Green and Gold” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .80 “Why Do You Lament the Weeping”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .83 “Texts of Life”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .84 “Desire” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .86 “The Last Resort”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .88 “Whiff of the Past” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .91 “In the Silence, a Wistful Melody” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .92 “A Morning Walk / Echoing” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .98

“Every painting was a moment of destruction coinciding with the birth of something wonderful.” Heaven, Mieko Kawakami

Odds and Ends

The Dish of Life The finest dish on earth Must be the sun-baked tender rolls Of the lush hills in Tuscany Or the jagged chocolate cliffs Of Santorini, Greece A salt-and-peppered ocean breeze Sends shivers up the spine Of a nearby shrilling seagull As it flies off towards someplace With its own unique flavor profile Notes of cranberry and bergamot A hint of something exciting Spicy chili, exotic turmeric The color of honey mustard Take in the rich flavors Breathe in the zesty air infused With lemon peels and grapefruit Breathe in the dish of life And, for once, be full

Anonymous 10

Travis Carroll ’25 11

Livi Kohler ’27 12

Ode to Popcorn Oh Popcorn, without you, oh where would we be Your wondrous taste, how it sets us so free No matter the movie, no matter how sad You’re always there— You make us feel glad After a long week of school, when I come home I simply want to unwind, to be completely alone I decide to watch a movie, the type? Doesn’t matter Just something to keep me from going mad as a hatter I get all my blankets, my pillows galore, I turn the TV on, and then I press “more” But something is missing— No, something’s not right, There’s one thing that’s left for a glorious night Then I remember what’s absent from here. “Did I forget the most spectacular part?” I fear. I quickly run down, and make that wonderful snack That popcorn, with its wonderful, tasty attack Although the movie was bad enough to scar, The popcorn is what brought it back up to par For the popcorn is joy, in its purest sense That’s why I love it. It’s happiness, immense

Gabriel Hosu ’25 13

Whoosh, Whoosh Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh, Plunk. At long last, the trip was over. I felt myself nestled under the blanket of red and gold leaves. I smelled cool, moist earth below me. I heard the rustling of beetles and worms coming to investigate me—a small, round newcomer to their underbrush world. I had no idea how I ended up here. Everything before the fall seems fuzzy. I only recalled being surrounded by my brothers and sisters, and then out of nowhere, the grip of a talon followed by being plucked up, carried for what seemed like forever, and then dropped. And here I still am. The longer I sat, the louder the rustling and crunching of my new invertebrate neighbors became. Soon I heard it from all around me, and started catching bits of the whispers asking “What is it?” “Where is it from?” and “Can we eat it?” As soon as I heard this, my mind exploded in NO’s and DON’T EAT ME’s. I wanted to scream and kick and fight, to do anything to keep them away, but I could do nothing. I was inert, with no more control over my surroundings than a pebble. So, try as I did, I was unable to move at all. I waited for my imminent destruction, until I heard something mutter “Leave it be. It will be good for us.” After that, the beetles and worms seemed to stop their investigation, and went along with their lives. I felt their legs crawling over me, accepting me as a part of their world. As the weeks passed by, I felt the weight on top of me slowly increase, as more golden-brown leaves descended from the sky. One after the other—crunch, crunch, crunch—until they had settled among their fallen brothers. Soon, all of them had fallen from their lofty perches and found a resting place. Not a week after the last one fell, I felt a wave of cold. As I was drifting away to sleep that night, a damp pit, pit, pit rose up. This noise was smaller but infinitely more numerous than the crunch of the falling leaves. I awoke the next morning cold, claustrophobic, and concerned. The cold struck me. It filled every part of me. Next, I noticed the pressure. I felt the leaves and earth pushing against 14

me. The weight smothered me, compressing me into the ground. Suddenly, I realized everything around me was quiet. Strangely quiet. The usual scuttling of bugs and worms traveling through the leaves was absent. I wondered where all of my friends had gone. One voice spoke out to me, as I was drifting off to sleep. It told me, “Do not be afraid. We are here, but we are asleep. Soon you will be too.” I recognised it as the voice that declared I was a friend, not food. I trusted this voice, and drifted off to sleep. I awoke after what felt like an eternity. I felt around me not leaves, but fresh damp soil. I was suddenly aware of the footsteps of my friends, now above me. “Ah, you’ve finally woken up,” said a worm slithering by. “The cold is over. We’ve been awake for a bit, and have started our work. Now it is time for you to do yours.” I was unsure of what the worm meant. As it warmed up, water began trickling past me. It helped me feel energized. I felt tired from sitting scrunched up in a ball for all of this time, and decided that it was time to stretch out. First, I pushed out my legs, digging into the soil beneath me. Then, I extended my arms up, until the soil started to give. With one last push, I found myself on the surface. Sunlight was amazing. It gave me the energy to do what felt like anything. All around me, I could see the world. See! I had never done that before. I had never known the colors of the rainbow, never watched birds fly or ants march, and never seen the great majesty of the oak tree. That is what I was, or what I would be. One of the beetles had told me that I was something called an acorn. I was small and round, and came from adult oak trees. I would one day grow into the air, towering over all those around me. I would, eventually, be the king of the forest. That first day of growing had come! From then on, time went by quickly. First weeks, then months, then years passed, all in what felt like no time. Soon, I found that all of my first friends had died. They had gone, but left their children in their place. Their kids made me their home and lived happily between my branches and around my roots. The winters and summers came and went, each year with its snow, 15

death, and rebirth. As time went on, I began to not mind the winters. They were cold, yes, but peaceful. The spring and summers were busy and full of chaos, but during the winters, I could just rest, think about all of the chaos of the world, and find peace amongst it. And the snow was absolutely beautiful. It blanketed everything I could see, creating a beautiful, clean cover. I saw the beauty in it, and how there was joy in everything. The growth and death, even what had scared me when I was just an acorn, now all felt ok. Suddenly, one spring, I began to grow my own acorns. It felt a little bit odd, but nevertheless satisfying, to now be continuing the cycle of life. Then, on one faithful day, a robin, who had made her nest in my branches, glided down, grabbed an acorn, and flew off with a whoosh.

Ben Parker ’25 16

Anna Iacobucci ’25 17

Lidia Barros dos Reis ’25 18

Our Minds Our minds race and run and start, and they stop. They store and they grow and they ache, and they stop. They have grand expectations for the minds of others but at five or six subjects, but they stop. The art, the tales, the songs and at math and science they stop? At the start of the road you’re told to go anywhere but somewhere you have to stop. Going to the museum of those amazing minds everything tells you to stop. The other minds on the road, the structures placed by those before, the one jerk who just tried to pass you; they yell stop. The red light goes on forever telling the infinite of the mind to stop with all the rest, stop.

Leo Jones ’26 19

Cities of Dirt Anthills shift and collapse Like a thousand tiny avalanches Sending shockwaves Rippling through the soft brown earth Darting under the roads Paved between Tiny mud foundations Capped with mushrooms tops Of speckled red and brown Where the ladybugs take shelter From those and other various Natural disasters As the dew shines And takes its place Slotted between blades of grass Like many sharp stalagmites The ant Halfway up the stalk of stone Carrying a crumb of Some stale pastry or snack Marches on as the sky Starts to become overcast Soon he notices The encroaching darkness He looks up And suddenly Another city flattened They are falling by the dozens And those under mushroom roofs Or huddled in not-yet-avalanches Will be safe yet For a few seconds longer 20

Anonymous

Ellie Burnette ’25 21

Anna Iacobucci ’25 22

Gamble of Life A squirrel darts through shadowed trees, The hawk above rides autumn’s breeze. Each leap, each glance, a fleeting race, A gamble fought in nature’s space. Talons flash, the air grows tight, But luck holds firm—the squirrel takes flight. In forest depths, the game goes on, Where life and death are finely drawn.

Jack Croke ’26 23

Haunting Home What was once fiercely forging forward has fleen. Its gusts were strong yet never to be seen. Howling day and night it seems, Like a blizzard yet no snow gleams. Up North she blew, destruction followed, The East suffered while this wind wallowed. Damage visible with all lights out, Some towns are left in a kind of drought. Homes barren like a city deserted, From land to pools, rooms were converted. Many wonder when their life can return, To what it was before they had to burn. The winds of the South are brewing, With their usual target within viewing. Hit once, hit twice, it does not matter, Ian or Helene, they all end in a clatter.

Aashi Patel ’25 24

Envy’s Rampage Envy courses through the veins, Red blood, once full of love, Transforms into a sickening shade of green. The heart stops, love abandoning the body, He remembers only how to be mean, The infection reaches one’s soul, His judgment gone, kindness destroyed, Has the heart forgotten its role? Envy strengthens its hold, He wraps his thorns in cascading chains, Covering the organ of love in a sheet of mold.

David Salter ’25 25

Forest Green Beneath the lush of woodlands, Through the leaves and hills, The hush of the forest exists. The redwoods, blueridges, amazon, and more. Colors as vibrant as the forest green in my coloring box, The canopies of the jungle cover the mosses. The forest dances in shades of green, Beneath the willow’s lean. A place where birds create a symphony, And animals play. What a wonderful place to be, For only those who wish to be free.

Aanya Shah ’25 26

Anna Iacobucci ’25 27

Anna Pang ’26 28

Just Another Drop Drip, drip, drop Drip, drip, drop The raindrop falls, landing on a leaf, Just to fall again onto the muddy ground below; There it is reunited with its comrades, Lifting each other up just to fall again like a heavy stone. Drip, drip, drop The raindrop falls, This time, with fewer raindrops to watch it go; It hits the burning pavement, Rising up, all alone. Now the raindrop doesn’t fall, After all, why fall, when the way up is so slow? Next would be another fall, then a climb, then a fall, Instead the raindrop rests, resting for an eternity, dormant in a cloud, its glory unknown.

Kevin Park ’25 29

Unseen Hunter Blades of green digging into its skin. A simple melody flowing through the air. Golden-green lights cut into the night. Its soft prance gives nothing to them. The darkness seems peaceful enough for a feast. As the giant braces its limbs. The hidden become seen. The once soft pads become deadly as daggers. The fibers tense coordinated with the mood. Then, at once, there was a pounce, and the singing ended.

Leo Jones ’26 30

Travis Carroll ’25 31

Sonnet 251: Ode to Jazz A gentle hush falls as he counts to four. The cymbal tings as the bass starts a stroll. His footprints paint the pedal on the floor. He hits with his whole Body and whole Soul. The first chord fills the Blue and Green small room A smile spreads ‘round the room at that old tune Like Autumn Leaves, the vibrant colors bloom Release your strains and watch the shining moon. An ego flies from the horn’s golden bell As one winds down, another plays ahead. A solo’s vision is for one to tell. So free they play, converging at the head. Some say that you will die, but that’s not true Gleefully I give All of Me to you.

Alex Long ’26 32

Sabrina Casagrande ’25 33

Maple Murphy ’26 34

ink dear reader, by the time you find me i am merely a shard of paper torn apart like a first draft to the shredder piece me back together you certainly will try even if you lack any explanation as to why to my paper and fine print litter it with glue though regretfully my dear, it won’t bring me back to you i know you miss my story my lyrics and my rhyme but darling we all have an enemy and mine was simply time i wish that there was more to say perhaps another story for us to write i know you sit there wondering what made me stop my fight your eyes may create rain storms but oh reader, don’t you cry don’t linger on it all too long for this is my goodbye.

Aubrey Rowland ’26 35

“If you teach me something beautiful, I will name it quickly before it floats away.” Calling a Wolf a Wolf, Kaveh Akbar

Tangled Wires

enough They say time is fleeting An idea, a phrase repeated, reiterated, retold countless times within the duration of my existence. A beautiful soul— passing, leaving, forgotten, so I surrender to my bed’s tender embrace and I ask, how much love can a god spare me? Does she still have anything to offer? A response— no. Only what life has to offer.

William Chung ’27 38

Blake Watkins ’26 39

A Bright Light A chill in the air, frost on the fresh-cut grass in the morning, the smell of wood burning from the fireplace, and that unspoken feeling: death. Winter brought some of the best and worst memories. Once the autumnal-colored leaves began to fall onto the damp earth, the scramble to collect as many acorns as possible was upon us. With the cold weather on our tails, it was endless days of scavenging the yards for some sort of sustenance to keep us filled throughout the tiresome months—the endless stiffness from the cold, the drooping eyes, and fatigued bodies. Survival of the fittest was lingering in everyone’s mind. As we approached the first hunt for the day, Tony spotted the motherload of all trees. The marbled and weathered oak with a plethora of full branches and mellow leaves preparing for freedom. As the gust of wind slowly swayed the tree, we trickled over underneath the giant to prepare for the fight. This was it, the time to show what we were capable of, how much life meant to us. Would we starve this winter, or would we let someone else starve for our own gain? As I took my mark next to friends and family, something shifted in the air. That was when we witnessed Tony darting across the street to meet us. His face was red with grit and fear. Before he could make it to us, the enemy caught him. Tall and red, shiny and loud, the gnarly beast took Tony’s life in a matter of seconds. His heart pounding as he was dodging the beast to get to us, the crowd shellshocked with fear. The intense sound of the metal meeting the flesh, the smell of death wafting in the air. The great beast bellowed after Tony’s death, almost as if taunting us, before quickly retreating from the scene. No remorse. No apology. Another victim. It was as if the world stopped. The leaves ceased to rustle; the world was still. I stood in fear and shock over the murder I witnessed. Tony was gone and left me with a jarring realization: life was fleeting. Death

was not a far-off thought; it was a constant presence, patiently waiting to strike. That night everyone retreated inside. Tony’s death put a damper on many lives and forced them into solitude. Nobody wanted to go out and collect; they would rather stay in the comfort of their own four walls, huddled together as a family. They intended to continue to live their lives like that, measuring safety over happiness. They chose self-preservation over life, choosing to wait for springtime to come when things would supposedly be different and safer. But I was not like them. Once night fell, I voyaged outside to repress my incessant thoughts and looked at the sky. I saw the stars, the constellations, the endless amounts of darkness. When I turned around, I was blinded by what I saw. In the distance I laid eyes on an entire house bathed inside and out with intense and dancing lights. The various types of lights were all working together in perfect harmony, creating almost a subliminal effect. This is what I imagine life to be like. The fragile lights flickering and working as hard as they can to serve a purpose. To bring joy and happiness, even if for a brief moment, like the lights intend to do. That is the life I want to live. Waiting for springtime did not guarantee safer times; the beast would always be there. I intend to not hide in the vast darkness; I want to shine. If even for a brief flash, I would rather live than waste meaningful time on this earth.

Joji Purdy ’25 41

Moving The leaves fall from the trees. Crisp air starts to rattle my skin. Birds flap to the south to be free. For they will find a new pin. A new pin. A new home. Will they thrive in their new biome? Butterflies gently float by. From the chrysalis to flight Starting their journey in the sky Hoping to find warmer light. This is nothing new. Nature will find its home. Do they care about where they flew? Or where will they now roam? How do they manage the move? The orange turns grey and decays. Crispness to frigidness. But this is nothing new. Each day. Each month. Each year. They thrive by moving away. How will I manage the move? Will my wings spread as theirs do?

But then, The grey frigidness rises to color, And the decay sprouts to new life. The aviators plot a new course. But it is not new, only familiar. The pilots are returning to their source. It is their nature. It is their habit. Is it in myself? Is it in my will? Can I adapt? Will I set the right course?

Spencer Thompson ’25 43

Charlotte Roberson ’25 44

Lifeline Deeper and deeper I go, Falling into a hole I do not know. Why can’t I climb right out? If I did, I’d fill with doubt. Expectations live without end, So many fragments I must send. How long I’ll last I wonder, It all comes at me like a clap of thunder. Lightning strikes soon I hope, Even better would be a rope.

Aashi Patel ’25 45

Cyclical Puzzle Perspective imprisons every story, Shaping their interpretation and memory A giant monster under the bed? Or just a lie we tell to kids? History is the collection of stories, But it is dominated by the victor’s perspective As they bend the truth and scratch out “lies.” True history comes from all perspectives Of the winners, the losers, and every other person. The trouble is obtaining these perspectives. Whether through fear, manipulation, or disbelief, They seldom escape the victor’s perspective. Your personal history is unique, Different from your neighbor, boss, or twin’s; Shaped by experience, opinion, people. No history is ever universal. Is it wrong to let someone else write your history? As their creators, people dominate stories, But these stories differ for every character. Therefore, history changes for every person. Experience is the only first-hand source left, Providing unique stories for our perspective to shift. However, not everything can be experienced. Factors like time, wealth, and person

Funnel our sources down to a manageable catalog. Any story that is not your own Has a different perspective than you, Not necessarily the wrong or right one, But uniquely different and important. Our stories and perspectives are one piece— One piece of the giant puzzle of history Proclaiming your piece as the correct one, Or only ever caring for a few pieces. It never gives us the final picture Nor can any combination of pieces As our history expands into the future And the intricacies of our past expand in depth. The cell’s bars, The stone bed, The metal toilet, Every perspective begins the same, But it morphs and evolves with experience. This perspective then changes our interpretation Of stories, experiences, and histories. Which, again, changes our perspective. The cyclical nature provides purpose. Without difference, our lives stagnate.

Fletcher Creech ’25 47

3:00 The light flickers. The sounds in her apartment grow eerily silent, like the universe senses the enormity of this moment. She winds the timer to three minutes. She has only three minutes. Three minutes until her life shifts irreparably. She watches as the seconds pass by with a frustrating tick, tick, ticking noise—one that she is sure will haunt her for the rest of her life. She paces through her cramped living room, glancing around as if searching for something or someone in the piles of books and blankets. Finding nothing, her eyes shift to the television. The people on it are laughing. She wonders how anyone could laugh at a time like this. Her stare becomes unseeing as her mind wanders to the little test on her bathroom sink. She knows that, after the timer goes off, and she goes back into the bathroom, her life will never be the same. Placing a hand just below her stomach, she imagines what could be growing there. Shivers race down her spine. She cannot tell if they stem from fear or a different, more foreign emotion. A cold sweat envelops her body as she rips her hand away. Her mind returns to the ads playing on the television. She sees a woman and a man playing with their grandkids, and she immediately grabs the remote to silence their joy. Her hands begin to shake, knowing that the maybe inside of her will never have that, remembering how hard it was to grow up without it. Her pacing begins again. The carpet scratches her feet. The ticking finds its way back to her ears, and she knows that she must check her timer. A minute has passed. She is running out of time. She only has two minutes left. All of this uncertainty unsettles her. She never allows herself to be this way. Like this, she is weak. Weakness has never been good to her. If you were weak, someone stole your food. She never ate much as a child, but she was always hungry. Feeling

a pang of hunger from her reminiscence, she glances at the kitchen but is too afraid to go towards it. She knows that if she goes in, she must watch the countdown. She imagines that around thirty more seconds have passed, less if she’s lucky. She knows it isn’t less. She’s never lucky. Luck has failed her every time. She wishes that luck will help her this once. Once again, she imagines that she feels something inside her. She feels a phantom kick come from deep within her skin. Different emotions flood her conscience. She is blinded with hope while also drowned in despair. She is thankful for this torrent of feelings for they are the two she knows best. But different from the hope she is accustomed to, the one where she knows that nothing will change, this one has a new tint to it. She feels the life she could be a part of, one without pain tainting each memory, and a faint curve tilts her lips. It’s as if the ticking has grown louder, and she can no longer ignore its pull back into the kitchen. She watches the seconds tick away until only thirty remain. All of her hopes and worries die down as she listens to the repeating tick, tick, ticking noise. Lost in the simplicity of the repetitive noise, she allows herself to be consumed by the moment. Her mind stops spinning as she focuses on the constant ticking. As she watches the time tick down, however, she is filled once again with a sense of apprehension. The air around her strums with tension as the ticking stops. The bubble around her shatters with the blaring of the alarm. She knows that now she must face the truth. She walks slowly into the bathroom. The cold tile bites into her feet. Looking into the mirror, she stares at the face of a young girl, afraid and utterly alone. She recognizes her, the little girl. The little girl fades as she morphs back into the woman she has become. She looks down at the counter and sees the results of her test. She begins to sob.

Milla Avery ’26 49

Air Span II The silhouette was created twenty-seven years ago, described as having a nineties-feel and timeless style. It was bought in clearance at the Norfolk Premium Outlets by my Dad in the black anthracite colorway. A redundant name. Span: to extend from side to side of. The black bridges, that connect the upper to the midsole, gave the shoe its name. Where is its father, the Air Span I? Erased from the internet, or did it never exist? How many jokes have they heard– the constant audience. The owner’s favorite pastime.

Isaac Zito ’26 50

Aubrey McGrath ’27 51

Wings Once Burdened Behind my eyes Lies A Korean flag, Waving over American soil. Monami pens bleed ink onto SAT prep sheets, And Korean folktales whisper beside American greats; A Hanbok bookmark flutters, Lost between forgotten pages. A familiar aroma fills the air A heavenly broth, rich with flavor, Enticed, I head downstairs, Searching the fridge for leftover rice. Instead I find pizza, Cold from yesterday’s supper. All my life, I’ve been caught between two worlds, Where do I lie? Where should I lie? Korea or America? It’s normal, I think, To feel this dilemma. Often times I’ve felt caught, Like a shadow between two lights. Or better yet, An origami crane, hidden in disguise;

But I ask you this, Don’t even paper wings deserve to fly? Yet still, Wings are fragile. They break, They crumble, They only grow old. With flight feeling so heavy, What’s the point in finding gold? But I look around; The flag and the soil, The pens and the textbooks, The rice and the pizza, The shadow of my two lights. I realize, I am not caught between two worlds, I am both. Each fold in my wings holds a story, Each crease represents a verse, Each bend preserves a memory, Each line tells a tale diverse. So I begin, I spread my wings, Ready to take flight; The music hums, K-pop harmonizes with rap. A melody I claim as my own. The wings soar, No more lies.

Am I Korean or American? Once, I guessed, “Neither.” Now, I answer, “Both.”

Kevin Park ’25 54

Travis Carroll ‘25 55

My Cats Two beings— Sisters through only their eyes. A voice disproportionate to their small size One moment they tell you they love you so much, The next they declare that their food’s not enough Related in blood? One could not say! for they are unique in their every way One hides from all, but sits down with me The other calls out to any person she sees Although they vary greatly, These balls of fluff are mine And I love them both deeply– For they are always kind

Gabriel Hosu ’25 56

To Adore I think I’m stuck in their orbit I am so weak compared to them I thought I had already fallen but I just keep descending I’ve taken a nosedive into an unknown I don’t know if I tripped or took the jump I just keep falling I cascade further each time we speak Each time they smile, I get pulled closer Each emotion drawn on their face draws me nearer Each touch heaves me further than I’ve ever traveled I don’t know if I was built for this peril Atmospheric entry is a strong barrier I think I’m getting close Even the best can hardly manage Even the strongest metals barely hold I feel so frail in comparison If I break apart and crash At least let me plunge into deep waters Where they will remain untroubled Where they may forget me Where I may sink even further down

Leo Jones ’26 57

Bicycling According to my father, my grandpa had the bike first. As was tradition, he bequeathed it to his oldest child upon death, a practice his two sons immediately broke. They argued often about their childhoods, their father, and, oddly, the bike too. Or maybe it was logical that they fought over it, that remnant of him. Uncle considered selling it before he passed too, only a few short years after his father. I was twelve, maybe thirteen. The memories are hazy, but some things I remember so clearly. He asked that they only play happy music at his funeral or no music at all. It was silent, I remember. Not devoid of voices or anything. But underneath the prayer, the kind words, the chapel was quiet. Among the mass of black clothing, people huddled together on pews, no one else seemed to notice. I watched my father’s tears fall on his tightly folded hands, and I thought that it would be kinder if they played happy music for him. He did not speak at the ceremony, nor did he ever seem to look up from his lap. My sister said he just needed time. It was difficult for me to understand why; there had been no disaster, no grand announcement, and so, to me, it was impossible to mourn an absence that I did not recognize as a loss. Afterwards, people were mingling. Away from my father, I tried to mimic their nonchalance. It was two weeks—thirteen days exactly—before I visited the grave for the first time. It was small, unassuming, way too basic to be a grave. My uncle, the same person who made hot chocolate with me, who caught fireflies with me, had a plain, gray stone, same as all the other plain, gray stones. How could he have something so boring? It didn’t fit him. It wasn’t him, not at all. My father, I noticed, distanced himself from it while I was fascinated, examining it so closely that I thought I might be able to see through it.

quiet.

“Is uncle really here?” I had asked. “I don’t know,” came his reply. His voice was weak and

A few more weeks after the ceremony, I was coming home from my first day of school. For some reason, I had felt odd the whole day. When talking with my friends, attending my classes, a rift had formed, like everyone I knew was living in a world different from mine. The whole time my classmates laughed, I had laughed with them, but something kept nagging me. Hey. Aren’t you forgetting something? it said; it sounded uncomfortably like my father. I wanted to ask if my friends had felt it too, but I hadn’t thought they would. For the first time ever, I left school relieved to be alone. When I arrived home, I saw a bike parked in the driveway. The day was cold, so when I first touched the handles, that was what I noticed. I had thought I recognized it as my father’s, but the seat was too brown, the body navy blue instead of black. Most notably, there was a bell. The clear chime echoed in my ears and faded discreetly into the afternoon chill. The bike was so wellpolished I thought it was new. Perhaps I had already been aware of the fact that the bike was just a bit too tall for me, too mature, but I was used to my older sister’s bike, technically hers even though we shared it. Suddenly, I felt hopeful, light. I had never had one of my own. So I took the bike around my neighborhood; I raced down the streets, ecstatic and subsequently reckless. I rode too fast and for too long, and when I came back down to find myself on a street I barely recognized, I knew it was time to head back. That nagging had returned, and I was anxious about my thievery—I feared I had claimed a freedom that was not meant for me. Still, I had enjoyed my time, so I traveled home slowly, savoring the crisp, cool air and watching the small impurities of the road glitter in the sun. The sky had turned pink by the time I was at the driveway once again.

My father was coming down, but he stopped short when he saw me. I think now that he was looking more at the bike than at me because something in his face tensed, and he looked suddenly pained. It reminded me so much of the funeral that I found myself unable to speak. I remember thinking how small he seemed—my father, some unreachable distance away from me. He motioned for me to come to him, and I walked with the bike’s now warm handlebars under my hands. “Did you go for a ride?” he asked. I nodded. “Is it yours?” “No.” He tapped my shoulder. When I met his eyes, they were wet. “You should know that. Don’t you recognize it?” For a moment I thought I heard it: Are you forgetting? I thought about my friends at school; I wondered what it meant to forget, if my father ever would. I shook my head. At this, a small smile formed on his lips. I was surprised; he looked more like himself than I had seen in weeks, and it was only in that moment that I understood he, I, my sister, and our lives really were missing something. A moment later, I remembered that my father was the younger brother. “Do you like the bike?” I nodded again, hands still warm against the metal. “It’s yours,” he told me. “Take good care of it.”

Amanda Wong ’25 60

Felicity Johnson ’27 61

Lessons from my Garden for the first time (in a long time) i’ve found myself enjoying the world in which i live not that i didn’t see her before (in fact i saw her everyday) but every glimpse i get of her now i look at in a different way because once (not too long ago) i never wanted to see the endless trees and flowers that now hold onto me so every time i feel a weed of the past creep in (and even when i think about how easy it would be for me to let them win) i think about the daisies and what they would say when in my absence they could only fade away

Aubrey Rowland ’26 62

Blake Watkins ’26 63

Today I am a Dreamer Today I am a dreamer I think in glistening pearls Of milky white The scent of lilac laundry detergent On soft silk sheets I think of better Tomorrow I am coffee creamer I am smooth like butter Silky and succulent on the tongue In one cup I am french vanilla The other, full-bodied hazelnut I melt between hot folds Of ebony brown, bitter and bold And lighten the spaces Between them Next week I am the thin red lines Of college-ruled notebook paper I push up every weighted word Just as Atlas holds the sky So that we may walk freely Under hues of dusky mauve I see each excitement marked in ink And failure bleeding, crimson pen Next year I am the milky way I am expansive and whole I ignore the laws of gravity As I leap, full-throttle, a rocket

Thrusted off of your green Earth I glide between the petals of the galaxy And wear the perfume of the nebulae And maybe one day, some day I will be someone worth fighting for I will hear my name said in passion Held up by ants through one large crowd And not in drowsy, mumbled whispers Spoken only to downy duvets But today, I am a dreamer

Anonymous 65

“But how could you live and have no story to tell?” “White Nights”, Fyodor Dostoevsky

Lost & Found

Out and About Life is a highway, A long, long highway. Some might even say it is a thruway, A bridge to further life. Roads blend with life. Rascal Flatts said it, and I concur. First, the road takes you to day one. You are free, Free like a baby, Taking on the world One day at a time. You realize this is a life you can’t outrun. It can outrun you. Stress will kill a man, But you aren’t stressed, As you’ve just begun, Stan. The time is now. As a toddler, you start to wonder What is a car? A road? Life? Its meaning? All good questions, you intelligent elephant.

But you’re only a toddler. You know what some things are, like thunder, But even then, You start to wonder. You’re 16. You get your license. You’re so excited: you can finally drive by yourself. What does this really mean? It’s go time. You grab your keys, Walk out of the door, Get in your car, And you smash that pedal Right to the floor.

WHAM!

The sound echoes. The dogs bark. You just hit a mailbox. Are you okay? You sit there in awe. The shocks absorbed the impacts. Oh, nah. This is your mom’s car. Instead of going inside,

You pull forward. Then, you back out, Right towards the roadside. Were you right? Should you have gone inside? Internally, you’re having a fight. You decide to lose. This fight for morals Will never be right. Like Dom from “Fast and Furious,” You pull out of your neighborhood, Awful curious. The time is now. You rev your engine. You are a drag racer now. You pass by the zoo, Then go into the country With skies so blue. The time is now. You roll down your window And smell the trees For you enjoy this weather, Just like the bees. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. The wind hits your face.

You are back In this wonderful place. Yes, you are back, Back on Cowpasture River Highway, The place of summer, Where your dreams come back With your life again on track. Oh summer drives, How I love you. The time of our lives Is now. Cool breezes, Flying like the wind: They go ‘round. Right now, life eases.

Pete Januchowski ’25 71

Decay The hedges outside the building had died long ago. Their once square cut had grown out of control, and now the color had faded from vibrant green to dark brown. Maybe it was to do with the nuclear fumes or some drought that happened too long ago for me to remember; I didn’t know. Those now dead bushes surrounded an advertisement; it looked to be for some sort of hair product. A girl was pictured out on the beach. She smiled at the camera while holding a bottle in one hand. The bottle was pastel and the lettering bold. “Imagine being that young,” I muttered under my breath before turning to Eleanor who stood at my side. I glanced at her, watching her face that seemed to be twisted into a permanent scowl. Her once full cheeks now sagged with wrinkles. By now, both of us would have retired, probably traveling to a beach like the one the girl in the advertisement laid on. Instead, we were stuck using large branches as canes and stealing food and cigarettes when we could. We were so different from our grandmother who used to remind us to wash our hands before eating dinner and would scold us for whispering in church. “Imagine having teeth that white,” she said, smiling at me, her teeth on full display. Most of them were now brown, having lost their bright coloring due to obsessive tea drinking before it all came tumbling down and afterwards because of the lack of fresh water. Not that I could judge. One of my teeth on the upper left had been killing me for a few weeks now, and I wasn’t sure if I should try and do a botched job of pulling it out or deal with it a bit longer. “Well, at least we don’t have to be as skinny as a stick anymore—we can gorge ourselves whenever we want,” I replied. “If we can find something to gorge on,” she muttered back. I thought then about the lunch we had found. We had scoured one of those abandoned bunkers. It was mostly empty but in the far back

there were some canned goods. Some fruit and a bit of soup was all we had for the next couple of days. “Now that you say it, I guess we missed out. We used to be able to eat anything we wanted, and now we’re stuck with canned goods or anything else that isn’t stale or moldy.” “I guess we did,” she replied. I turned from the poster and dropped the cigarette that I held in my mouth to the ground, grinding my shoe into it before beginning to walk away. I took a few steps before turning back to see her still standing there looking up at the girl. “You coming?” I asked as I watched her trace the poster with her eyes, taking in the once bright colors and soft pastels that had faded over time. The waves in the background now resembled the sewage that seemed to coat every street of this town. “Yeah, just give me a second,” she said. Her eyes never left the girl as she gathered her makeshift cane and took a long drag from her cigarette before turning and heading my way.

Amanda Johnson ’26 73

Echoes of Autumn In the quiet embrace of October, the world exhales, a soft sigh of rustling leaves, amber and gold igniting the horizon— a symphony of change, an elegy for summer’s warmth. Crisp air dances, sharp and sweet, carrying the scent of damp earth, mushrooms emerge, shy and unassuming, life pushing through decay, whispering of cycles, of beginnings buried in endings. Pumpkins dot the fields, silent sentinels of harvest, their orange glow flickering— a lantern against the darkening sky, a promise of warmth as the nights deepen, cradling secrets of the earth. Here, in the heart of fall, the world pauses, each breath a meditation, each rustle a reminder: Let go, let go, let go. In the beauty of decay find solace, in the quiet resignation,

embrace the inevitable, the stillness that teaches us the art of surrender. So we gather the fallen leaves, crunching underfoot, a tapestry of what was, each step a celebration of life’s intricate dance, where every fading hue echoes the promise of renewal, the heartbeat of winter nestled beneath the frost, waiting, always waiting for the sun to rise once more.

Sam Light ’26 75

Is this My Potential? Luke’s days consisted of structure. At 6 o’clock, he wakes up and eats breakfast. At 6:30, he’s ready, and by 6:45, he’s on his way to work. He walks to work, and every day, he admires the view and appreciates what he has in life. His job as a coffee shop owner brings him peace, but he wonders if this is all there is to life. Luke does the same old routine everyday. He takes the same route to and from work. He doesn’t want to change the way he does things because this gives him complete control of his life. He walks into his store and sets up for the day. He waits and asks himself if he’s living to his full potential. His thought is interrupted when the first customer of the day appears at the register. She places her order and says, “I’ve seen you around the area, and I was wondering if you wanted to go out to eat.” This was new for Luke, but he said yes. Later, the two found a table at a local tapas bar. “I never introduced myself, my name is June.” “Nice to meet you. I’m Luke.” Strangely, Luke still has no idea why he went out with this girl, but he wanted to do something different today. Out of nowhere, June said, “Did you hear about the girl who was murdered down at the river?” Concerned by what she said, he tried changing the topic, but she continued. He didn’t understand why she had to keep talking about the murder or keep mentioning how women go through this. Feeling uneasy, he decided to leave the table. As he walked back home, he heard, “Tell me if you enjoyed last night. Did you live up to your full potential?” Luke wondered if anyone was following him, because this was out of the ordinary for him. He turned back and saw that it was June. “Why do you run away from the truth?” she said. “What truth?”

“That I no longer exist.” Shocked by what he heard, Luke walked to the river feeling uneasy about the events of last night. As he arrives at the river, tears of guilt begin to fall as he sees June’s face in the moonlit river.

Anonymous 77

Endless Cycle Every day was the same. I woke up, ate my bowl of chocolate cereal, went for a bike ride before school, and then suffered through the school day, eager to go home and sleep. I would always wake up before school and go on a bike ride. It was the only thing that made me feel alive and free. Ever since my girlfriend died, life has had no purpose. I don’t know how she died—one day, I just saw her on my bedroom floor, breathless and cold. When I found her lifeless body, I felt my world crumble. How was I supposed to ever live happily again? I could not enjoy my favorite things anymore—everything reminded me of her. Never again would I experience our movie nights and dinner dates, our moments of laughter or our bike rides together. I force myself to wake up early every morning to go on a bike ride before school because there is a small part of me that still hopes I will see her on her teal bike next to me. I take the same path every morning—the one we used to take together. I leave my house and ride along the road to her house, where we would exchange a good morning hug and kiss. We would ride past a garden full of roses, her favorite flower, which quickly became my favorite flower too. We rode one loop around the neighborhood, passing my childhood playground and pool. I remember one time we stopped at the playground and sat on the swings until we were late for school. Then, I would drop her off at her house and go get ready for school. Now I do all of the same things, minus the good morning hug and kiss. Today was the hardest day of the year for me—one year since her death. My chocolate cereal tasted inedible this morning, so I left my house to go on my bike ride, although I could feel sadness throughout my entire body; my head all the way down to my toes felt completely numb. I was useless and weak. I

peddled steadily past her house and through the garden, not even glimpsing at the rose bush. I stopped at the playground and sat down on a swing. Looking up at the gloomy sky, I tried to remember the moment I found her pale body. For the past year, I had been convincing myself that I did not know what happened to her. All I could picture was her lying there: her messy hair, bruises, and blood. I remember falling to the floor in misery, wondering how this could ever happen to her—how this could happen to me. Everything had been foggy until now. I pictured myself in the room, looking around me, wondering how this happened. I saw my bed, messily made, my desk covered in alcohol cans, and when I looked down, her blood was on my bruised hands.

Caroline Wainger ’26 79

Green and Gold Behind my bars, I watch my daughter unfold, Tell stories, her youthful eyes of sparkles green and gold. As seasons pass and trees phase through; The heavens shimmer painted with stars anew. Yet behind these bars that go ice cold, I can only see her face, dotted green and gold; She grows and grows with beauty and grace, But even she has no place. Trapped, we both are, by bars of Aion, Locked up, forced to live alone and undyin’; For I am a brute, locked away from the masses, And she is a loner, loved but only in ashes. I only wish that I could hold her so, Caught safely in my palm with shattered bars below; I’d cross valleys and mountains with her as my eye, A proud eagle, perchance, watching his eaglet fly. Oh father, why’d I fault her mother so long ago; If not, then maybe I could’ve had my own so green and gold.

Kevin Park ’25 80

Ellie Burnette ’25 81

Sofia Griffey ’26 82

Why Do You Lament the Weeping? Why do you lament the weeping? Why do you set fire to the vile? They burn gloriously, and their ashes lie protected. The weeping’s wet eyes are blinded. Why do you not approach the weeping? Why do you not step over the vile? Blow away the ashes, and the world will watch them dissipate. Then, lower your head, and offer your hand.

Alex Long ’26 83

Texts Of Life In his left hand, is a yellowed photograph of a young, happy couple; the corner is creased, and a date is squeaked and smudged on with a Sharpie. The image shows two young individuals with their arms wrapped around each other. The young woman is wearing a vintage-style dress with a bright blue gangnam pattern. Her hair is perfectly styled in a short blonde bob with a side part and a curl at the edge. She has a strong cat eye with bright, light blue, and red lipstick. The man has a leather jacket and a cigarette in his mouth with jet-black slicked-back hair. A small curl covers the front of his forehand, similar to Superman. The woman faces the camera with a smile, while the man looks with heart in his eyes at the woman. The couple stands in front of a red Corvette, the license plate too blurry to figure out. First Date - 1964 In his right hand, a simple white band made of plastic. There is a clasp allowing both sides to be attached, but there is a harsh cut causing the clasp to be meaningless. When both edges are held up together a small circle is formed. Around the band, there is a long thin section that holds the clasp and many small holes equally spaced apart. Then it grows into a larger piece with a sticker carefully placed. There is a small text located on the adhesive: Susan Carlton DOB: 10/17/1947 Admit: 11/04/2024 Age: 77 Sex: F

PT#: 3650026058 Around his head, a black baseball cap with thick, gold lettering. It is written in a curve that arches over the front of the forehead. There is a colored stripe including: red, blue, white, and a hint of yellow. The wear and tear of the hat is visible with the faded colors, stray string coming from the stitching, and tear on the left bottom side. His leftover white hair sticks out in small curls beneath the rim. Followed by tanned skin that resembles the color of peanut butter with dark freckles and deep wrinkle lines. Beneath that is the bruising that surrounds his neck, left by the rope that still hangs from the ceiling. VIETNAM ERA 1966 On the floor next to his lifeless form, his phone dings. On his home screen, we see another photo of a couple, however, this one is much older. Both individuals have gray hair and deep smile lines. However, the woman has a bright red bandana surrounding her head, with wisps of hair sticking out beneath. In the photo, the woman looks at the screen with deep exhaustion in her eyes, with a somber smile. The man still looks at the woman with love in his eyes, but with hidden grief. At the top of the screen the time. At the bottom a short text message. Joey cant wait to see u tmrw grandpa!

Anonymous 85

Desire Her love for the world is like a burning flame. She never wanted the fame. The chaos she brings is like a burning fire, And there I was, captivated by desire. When I see her around, It is different because now she is found. She never looked more free, but I still wonder why she didn’t choose me. Sitting from afar, I admire, Realizing now I am freed from desire.

Trey Hill ’26 86

Emily Xu ’25 87

The Last Resort My morning begins with unhooking the oxygen tank from my bed and placing an oxygen mask around my face. It’s difficult to shower since the water only turns on for five minutes on select days of the week. Today, the shower doesn’t turn on, so I resort to using my water rations to clean my body. The lights barely turn on anymore, and I can’t afford the mandatory solar panels to generate electricity. I must live in the dark. Since my fridge doesn’t work, I eat whatever is in my ration box for breakfast. I look outside the window to a dark, dusty, empty abyss. We are still on lockdown. I sit alone in my living room, plagued by questions about my future. Then I hear a knock at the door. I open it to find the government aid worker with my box of this week’s rations. “Any news?” I ask him, expecting nothing of substance in return. “The Board of Powers is making people sign consent forms for a permanent move to Mars,” he says, holding a paper that needed a signature. This is life now. My face gets hot as I choke back tears of frustration. “Well, I’m not going,” I tell him, raising my tone. I snatch the box and shut the door. I light a candle next to me and start reading a book. I open a box of crackers from the rations box and start anxiously crunching, focusing more on the crumbs that fall from my mouth than the actual text. The feeling of isolation is slowly driving me insane. I walk to the window again, hoping to catch a sign of life along the streets. Once again, I see nothingness. I know if the clouds subsided and the sun shone its natural light, all I would see is the destruction of my planet. I envision everything green turned to ash and smoke by the wildfires and the streets destroyed by the hurricanes and earthquakes. But when I look out the window amidst the devastation, I see my home. 88

Over the coming weeks, the streets are flooded with civilians in HazMat suits carrying their whole lives on their backs in preparation for the first take-off. The government aid worker tells me they practically have a rocket in each town, ready to send people to Mars. “Rumor is that our president is already there building new cities and neighborhoods for our citizens to live in,” he says excitedly. One week, the government aid worker doesn’t come with my box of rations. As food and daily resources grow scarce, I start to think I should’ve signed up for the trip to Mars. I light a couple of melted candles and pretend I am warming myself up in a bonfire: a time when fire brought people together. Over the next few months, I cannot sleep because of the constant lightning strikes and crashing of debris against my house. The water completely shuts off, and by now, the candles are nothing but puddles of wax. I haven’t eaten in days. I can feel my ribs where the body fat once was. By now, the isolation has completely deteriorated my mental state. Screaming voices constantly pierce my ears. The streets are empty again; the only semi-visible thing outside is the rocks the wind threw. Today, I am awoken by a violent knock on my front door. A strange man in an all-black HazMat suit appears before me; the words “Emergency Travel” are embroidered in gold on the top right of his suit. “You are the only person left on the planet. If you want to live, you must come with me.”

Aya Musselmani ’25 89

Travis Carroll ’25 90

Whiff of the Past A trace of something familiar hangs in the air, and for a moment, I am somewhere else— a place where the light was softer, the days unhurried, the world smaller. It leaves as quickly as it came, leaving only the hollow feeling of something too distant to grasp, yet too close to forget.

Jack Croke ’26 91

In the Silence, A Wistful Melody The soft, golden light of a lamp that sat on a stack of folders dimly lit up the frosted room, eradicating the darkness of the old, abandoned space full of decaying papers with ink splotches once in the shapes of notes and rests, where Jasper slowly lifted up the cover of a record case from underneath a stack of withering sheets, careful as to not stain his hands with the accumulated dust that softly coated the surface like ancient snow. “Looks like it’s still here,” he whispered to himself, his words reminiscing. An unforgettable vinyl record was displayed in front of him, neatly tucked in the case, unbothered—unlike its capsule, where it was evident that the disk had suffered through decades of time. Deep matte black enclosed a purple center, and although the name of the song was faded, he could still remember the font and calligraphy of the title. It was as perfect as it was when he had last seen it. He had come home from his factory job just a few hours prior, and having worked himself for what felt like an eternity, he decided to clean out his attic as a method of alleviating his pressures and forgetting about his responsibilities for a moment. It was the least he could do to allow himself escape, away from the reality of the world. That was when he came across an old gramophone, its brass horn darkened and peeled with age attached to the wooden box that had the letters “F.B.” etched into the rich mahogany. An overwhelming antique wooden smell came from the device, but it was a scent that strangely made his shoulders relax and released a sense of calming into his heart. Almost like he was Home. He brought the gramophone to his room, where a variety of his other musical souvenirs resided: posters of famous bands he enjoyed plastered the walls, several musical instruments like guitars and a piano were placed strategically around his room, and

a modern styled bookshelf held folders and folders of sheet music throughout the decades. Here he was now, staring at the disk that he banished to the bottom of his record basket. He had sworn to never open the case again, but the memory of the gramophone compelled him to give the record one last run. He felt nervous. Swallowing his fear, Jasper decided to take the reflective black disk from the case, causing an audible click to ring in the all too quiet house. He set the disk on the circular space that the wooden box provided, and placed the needle onto the grooves of the now spinning disk. Static, and then shortly after, music. A gramophone’s music is not all so clean, with dampened noise overlayed by static and a fuzziness. Yet, the sounds are quite nostalgic when one fondly cherishes each imperfection of the overlay of crackling and calmness. There was a charm to the device that made it feel pleasing to the ears. It began to play a soft tune, a slow melody that felt as if time itself began to slow to a halt, then reverse as to bring Jasper to the house in which he spent his childhood years. He remembers entering the house with his younger brother after playing out in the backyard under the clementine sun and being met with the fresh smell of baked flour and sugar. In the background, the humming of a gramophone. He set his baseball bat down by the door and ran to the kitchen with a great alacrity and peeked over the counter. “What’s for breakfast?” His mother smiled softly at him as she rolled the next batch of dough for whatever it was she was making for the young boys. “Pancakes. Go get your brother, it’s almost time to eat.” Jasper pouted. “But we had pancakes yesterday! Can’t we make something else? Like a sandwich or something?” She shook her head. “No, dear, I’ve already almost finished preparing. I can make you a sandwich tomorrow; how does that sound?” she said as she reached over the counter and

pinched his cheek with flour dusted fingers. “Okay, I can wait for sandwiches tomorrow.” He laughed, trying to pry her fingers off of him. “I’ll get Hunter.” The family ate together at the table that day. Although Jasper didn’t particularly want pancakes at the time, he had to admit, no matter what his mother made, he would feel a sense of unadulterated bliss with every bite he took from her pastries. He would never miss the feeling of the sweet, fluffy bread that exploded in his mouth whenever he took a bite. His brother would always exclaim to their mother, “This is delicious!” and then boast about how amazing their mother was at baking. She would always laugh and respond with a serene air,“If it weren’t for my two boys, I don’t know if I could be as great as I am now,” laying a calloused hand upon Jasper’s shoulder as he stuffed his mouth with the soft chocolate covered pancakes and savored his food with great awe and admiration. The gramophone played a fuzzy summer melody as the family sat in comfortable silence. Jasper, as he grew older, began to feel more fondly towards music. He picked up the vinyl that had sat enclosed in a clear record case in his room. A crème colored center, spotted with small orange leaves that reminded him of the falling autumn leaves that were beginning to detach from the large oak trees in his backyard. On the record, a signature, F.B., was signed on the label. His mother knocked on his door, and he turned around, his eyes shining with a light that even he could not have described. His mother laughed, her voice as rich as the mahogany that formed the foundations of the gramophone that Jasper momentarily stole from the kitchen counter to play his record. “I see you have taken my things,” she said. “But the joy in your soul is so pure that I cannot bear to take these back from you. If you’d like, dear, you may keep my music for as long as you’d like.” Shortly after discovering the root of his excitement, he began

to supply his room with musical instruments; he got from his mother a synthesizer and a guitar, as well as a radio. “In case you find another artist that inspires you,” his mother hummed. “You can’t stay in the nest forever, you know?” One day, his mother knocked on his door again. “Here you are, my dear Jasper. I have gotten you a gift.” She presented to him a device, which he curiously took from her hand and inspected it. “It’s a recording device. In case you wanted to turn your music into a vinyl like the ones you love.” Her arm motioned toward the stack of records he kept on his desk, which made him huff a breath of laughter. His mother smiled at him, but there lingered a trace of melancholy. Suddenly, she put her hand on his shoulder, causing him to look back up at her. His eyes were full of light. She didn’t dare imagine taking that away from him. “No matter what happens, I wish for you to fulfill your dreams. Let nothing stop you, for the only true obstacle you have ahead of you is yourself. You must promise me that as the inevitabilities of life manifest to come beat you down, you do not subject yourself to a life of unhappiness.” He swore to her a promise that he would live to regretfully break. The song shifted into another key. A somber melody began to sound from the old gramophone, and as such, the scene shifted in Jasper’s mind. He opened his eyes to find himself in a room, the walls painted a melancholic gray. A simple vintage lamp sat on a drawer, withholding the power to illuminate the space with its sole lightbulb. Next to that, a bouquet of white tulips and red lilies, a scene that almost portrayed a grotesque scene of fresh blood painting the natural white canvas that was called snow, yet it was a sight that could be described as beautiful as both colors, one objectively more vibrant than the other, brought the nature out of one another—although any color contrasting against the color white would stand out and bring itself to attention; Jasper assumed

that this was the most reasonable explanation behind the magic of negative space in artwork. However, in front of him was his mother, lying dead in an all too small hospital bed, her serenity maintained as such that it could be thought that she was merely asleep for the night. Mournfully, Jasper took the pale, soft hand of his mother—the one she would oftentimes gently caress his shoulder with—and brought it to his forehead, clutching and hoping to feel her familiar warmth one last time before she departed for good, umber wisps of hair falling gently upon her as to repay her kindness towards him from when he was a child. He was eight then. Here, now, ten years had passed, and the misfortunes of life let loose the hands of death to grip the soul of his mother and take her to a world less demanding than the one they knew. He continued to kneel, eyes shut, alone, in the silence surrounded by the insufferable gray walls of the hospital room. His mother’s physician, a short doctor with a slight limp to her gait—whose name Jasper did not have an interest in learning—entered the room as quietly as she could. “I am sorry to disturb you in your period of mourning,” she said to him. A pitiful tone. “I have the fullest belief that Miss Baratta was a wonderful woman.” The day of the funeral, he stood quietly in front of his mother’s coffin and looked at her angelic face. A commemorative note that wrote “Our loving Faye Baratta” and another set of red and white flowers that Jasper did not care to pay attention to sat peacefully by the rich mahogany. The winter breeze was slashing painfully at his skin, and he listened to the sound of a gramophone humming softly through the suffocating air.

Emily Xu ’25 96

Sallie Clarke Roberts ’25 97

A MORNING WALK / ECHOING. — and the bird calls. Somebody says this, meaning the place between one thing and whatever it isn’t. This shouldn’t be a forest, but presently it is: blackbirds singing and very still, their bills quivering and saying nothing new. A voice emerges to ask, What are the woods? and I repeat, Oak, thoroughly—but I mean a garden of headstones. The crows slide between grey tombs and empty splotches in the mist. Here, the place for things to resound and repeat; here, the place of birds, of wings. To echo there must be an object, a body that is confined, a space for the vibrations to walk into, look around, and bounce back out of—so this lack of containment is unusual. But why? The voice coos, It should be clearer, then—that one mound isn’t the same as the one beyond it. Each bronzing patch of mottled and molted dirt is torn up, and all the names always blur into the others: HERE LIES ——— / IN MEMORY OF ——— / AT REST, letters are smudged into the next, the between ripped from under the rug of hickory. I like how it sounds under my breath more than out loud: the nails shutting every coffin closed; the pins bolting new sepulchers; this act of receding inwards very slowly, as though birds are chanting, repeatedly, What are the woods?

—I don’t know. I’m looking around but I never know how to respond. I see things everywhere: wilting grass, wilted green. These images always bleed, but what are woods? To say, Cedar, nevertheless— but to mean a garden of blackwood boxes and roots. To say Pine, nonetheless—but to mean a forest of bodies and crossed-out meanings. The yard is fenced in by wrought iron. The world is chirping. Limbs are reaching out in every direction; they are confined by their rooms, but they aren’t, and I keep walking. I keep walking, and the path is sloping, but they repeat on and on until they cross the dell. I keep walking, and the birds are calling, and I can hear it: little grey stones getting lighter as they continue— little grey stones rolling farther and farther away.

Austin Sorrell ’25 99

100

Rings, Strings, and Other Things Norfolk Academy Literary Magazine

Vol. XLIV

R i ng s , St r i n g s & O t h e r T h i n g s

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Rings, Strings, and Other Things Norfolk Academy Literary Magazine

Vol. XLIV