Pillars of Salt Winter 2023: Nostalgia

Nostalgia

Pillars of Salt Winter 2023

The Archer School for Girls

Los Angeles, California

Editorial Board and Staff

Editor in Chief

Ella Gray

Co-Editors in Chief (Production)

Ijeoma Nwafor

Chloe Resnick

Junior Editors in Chief

Uma Nambiar

Lucine Stephan

Editorial Board

Maddie Beaubaire

Abby Borstein

Alex Bridwell

Olivia Broock

Kennedy Chow

Shayaan Gandhi

Natsnet Habtu

Maya Hernandez

Katie Ray McKillop

Lila Morgan

Natalie London

Pasha Selig

Shanthi Seth

Mia Vosicher

Autumn Walker

Melinda Wang

Beatrice Washburn

Abigail Weiner

Grace Whitney

Faculty Adviser

Kathleen Keelty

Additional Staff

Anaiya Asomugha

Eleanor Madley

Chiara Silveri

Nicole Svendsen

A Note from the Editor-in-Chief

nos·tal·gia noun a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past.

Our staff met weekly as submissions trickled into our inbox throughout the fall and early winter. We soon noticed a pattern - a common theme - in which the submissions drew from familiar experiences and evoked a beautiful sense of whimsy. As first semester comes to a close and second semester begins, seniors often feel nostalgic, in the liminal space between the familiarity of Archer and the novelty of a new world. We often have a hard time walking forward without looking back, similar to Lot’s wife in the biblical story. Against warnings of dire consequences, she succumbed to her longing, looking back to the burning city of Sodom. For her disobedience, she was turned into a pillar of salt. This story inspired our magazine’s name, and it continues to hold relevance. Instead of being punished into a pillar of salt, we cultivate our creative works into Pillars of Salt. Being able to curate and produce this issue for the Archer community at this pivotal time is so special. Thank you to Ms. Keelty, our staff, and the incredible writers and artists who have granted us all their creativity and exquisitely nostalgic works.

Remember, whether I’m here to remind you or not, Submit to Lit.

Ella Gray ‘24

Editorial Policy Mission Statement

Our staff welcomes any and all Archer students to submit their works. Staff make make as an extra-curricular and as part of the creative writing class. Works are solicited in a variety of ways, including pithy posters advertising our email address for submissions, teacher encouragement, and word of mouth. At meetings, works are presented anonymously and members anonymously vote yes, no, or maybe on each piece. Pieces that receive a greater number of 'yes' votes than 'maybe' or 'no' votes are awarded publication in the magazine with the understanding that editors exercise discretion regarding inclusion at the time of production. Visual work is voted on independently from literary work. There are no strict limits on the number of works that an individual can have in the magazine, nor are there limits to the number of works featured in the magazine.

Through Pillars of Salt, we hope to showcase the diverse pool of writers and artists we have at The Archer School for Girls. Because of this, we accept as many submissions as possible. Submissions are subject to feedback from a panel of editors, but changes are only made after consultation and with permission from the artist.

More Information

The Archer School for Girls 11725 Sunset Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90049 archer.org. (310)-873-7000

481 Students and 144 Faculty

Published March 2024 litmag@archer.org

Sketches by Chloe Resnick

Cover photo by Sadie Long

Cover designed by Chloe Resnick

Fonts: Playlist Script, Open Sans Light, Garet, Nickainley

Table of Contents

Poetry

As Blue As The Truth by Eleanor Madley '24

Warm Embrace by Nicole Svendsen ‘27

Shadow of Memories by Abigail Weiner ‘27

Eventide by Maya Hernandez ‘27

Ink by Ijeoma Nwafor ‘24

Autumn

by Ella Gray '24

Old Friend From School by Chiara Silveri ‘27

Art Bliss by Maddie Beaubaire ‘25

Falling Through Tiles by Chloe Resnick ‘24

She Sells Sea Shells

Artifacts

Prose

Poetry

Bliss Maddie Beaubaire ‘25 (digital photography)

Falling Through Tiles

Chloe Resnick ‘24 (oil)

As Blue As The Truth

Eleanor Madley '24

The stars and the Moon are as blue as the Truth

Honesty they blink small confessions each night Wandering conversations from galaxies and nebulas find my ears

The explosion of light if only for a minute gives me Hope that I too can shine as bright as the Moon and her stars

Bathing in darkness then drying myself in the warmth and familiarity of Truth

My Truth Soft, Layered, Sharp, Rough, Sweet, Smooth, Pale, Green, Tall, Whimsical

i paint with my fingers a night sky i use my thumb smudge out indigos and blues my pinky finger dipping into the cold acrylics tiny stars

i exhale with each gentle press of flesh to paper

I am in the Art Room Release & Relaxation Childhood that was my Truth when i spoke Freely without the Borders of an Atmosphere the Fear of Falling back down to earth

I explored galaxies wandered past mars stretched my mind, my body to find whatever I was looking for My secrets spread thin across a canvas I scrape at them with my fingers The hard and tacky paste gathering under the curved roof of my fingernails long, shiny and red now I claw at my past, looking for something maybe an Answer

I want to go back to the Art Store buy some blues, yellows, creamy whites sit at home paint the Night Sky …maybe I'll be Honest with myself.

Warm Embrace

Nicole Svendsen ‘27

Wrap me in a blanket

Down by the sea

And hold me kindly

Until the breeze gets to me

Once the breeze comes And I start to get cold

Wrap me in a new blanket

That you can hold

When that one starts to fade

Bring me to our boat

Where we can sail

The breeze can become our friend

The breeze can become our friend And no one has to know That you and I combined Can be wrapped in a blanket And hold each other kindly

And when the breeze gets strong We let the sails loose take us to where our next journey is

Wherever that might be It will be ok

As long as I am with you and you are with me

Pillars of Salt - 6

She Sells Sea Shells

Sadie Long ‘24 (film photography)

Shadow of Memories

After every encounter or moment, we reflect We think about what is said and the information learned Then by the next day or week, it is forgotten.

We don’t remember every moment forever and every conversation we had Only some

But we do,

We remember all of the little times when we fell on our faces and everyone laughed or we asked a question that wasn’t ready to be asked.

Our brains remember.

We remember the times we would take back

We remember the times when we wish we had known the information that we know now

We remember the times when we wish we had someone to stop us.

We can’t go back we can only hope others have faded out those memories

But we won't

They will stick to us like our shadows

These memories and moments will be with us forever

Abigail Weiner ‘27

Erosion

Alex Bridwell ‘27 (charcoal)

Eventide

Maya Hernández '27

My sister holds secrets that leave those around her forever in the honeymoon stage

There will always be something I don’t know about; something too clandestine to speak of Sometimes you don’t get the answer until it is too late to ask Her mind and body will be left up to interpretation, and archaeologists will study what’s left of her

The cavernous folds that intertwine to make up her brain now sheltered in the museum of my mind

You can search through her journals and read page after page, but she was smart to leave things out

This ensures she will forever be spoken of When the pantry light flickers everyone will be huddled together pendulum out; trying to decipher her secret language

The words of my sister come back in whispers now “It’s time to go”, but I beg for another butterfly kiss; meanwhile, my knees bleed from waiting

There is so much I don’t know

I should have asked her questions

I should have written down her answers

Every thought of hers would be occluded from leaving her mouth

When I stop speaking to her spirit

I will finally be ready to go

Margaret Siena Ferraro ‘25 (digital photography)

Calvary

Sophia Bratman ‘24 (mixed media collage)

Ink

Ijeoma Nwafor '24

Ink, (black ink) has the same dynamic viscosity as blood at average human body temperature. No wonder it looks so similar, when dripping from your fingertips in the dark of the night, your favorite pen between your fingers.

And I wonder:

what were you writing? were you writing at all?

Perhaps you were tracing the contours of your thoughts, mapping your constellations of emotions. each stroke a silent echo of the symphony within your mind.

Or were you penning a letter?

Pouring your soul unto paper?

Words weaving a tapestry of longing or remorse, a message sealed with the ink of vulnerability.

In that moment did you find solace or chaos?

Did you feel the weight of the world lift, or did the ink become a mirror, reflecting the shadows that danced within?

The pen, an extension of your being, moved with purpose or hesitation, capturing fragments of your essence in the dance of ink on paper.

did the ink bleed secrets you dared not speak aloud?

Did it etch dreams and desires, or did it become a confessional, bearing witness to the inner workings of a soul laid bare?

As the pen lingered on the precipice of the unknown, it held the power to crystallize fleeting moments, or perhaps it was a mere echo, fading into the silence of forgotten thoughts, So, I wonder, as you held that pen in the quiet of the night, what stories unfolded beneath the moon's gentle glow?

And did the ink, like blood, carry the essence of your existence, the essence of your life, etched indelibly on the pages of time?

Autumn Breeze

Ella Gray '24

Night sky forces fog

To cling to the trees, Stripped bare by time. Lights flicker in their bulbs.

Orange glow illuminates

Your glimmering skin

As we cradle one another, skipping blissfully

Upon the moonlit grass, Tickling our ankles.

Milky starlight

Winks playfully as We float upon the Dancing fireflies, Surrendering to the Brisk autumn breeze.

Old Friend From School

Chiara Silveri ‘27

Late on a Friday evening you might run into an old friend,

You might go out with them, Get a few drinks at that bar nearby, The one with the lit up sign and tattooed bartender.

You might share everything they missed, How your Aunt has a new baby on the way, And you’re hoping for a girl.

You might lean in closer, Close enough to brush their cheek and tell them you’re sorry,

Sorry for walking out of that fancy New Year’s Eve party, Sorry for not returning their calls.

They might look you straight in the eyes and offer forgiveness,

They might tell you that you seem like an absolute mess, You might look around at nothing but blank walls, Try to say that you feel like a mess, But you don’t need to, They might already know.

Parents

Springtime in New York

Maddie Beaubaire ‘25 (digital collage)

Perennial

Eleanor Madley ‘24

Flowers bloom when the weather is right

Opening pedals, stretching their perfumed fingers to the sun

Bowing their green spines

Then twisting to find warmth

Gusts of wind carry their children

Into far away fields

They find a new home

Each year, forever.

Pushing my head, nestled between my raised arms

Up through the snow?

I want to bloom in any season

At any time

I do not have a season

Although march claims my birth as her own I want to crack through ice

To grow tall again, bloom in full color, a feedback loop of color, joy, growth, color, joy, growth

I tell myself that I will bloom when the time is right

I wait in hibernation

A seed under wet and heavy, cold and gritty soil stained by bitter tannins

Frosted over from years of waiting

Patience, I have none

Yet I am still just below the surface

Waiting

But could I be a perennial?

Bloom in the explosion of spring

In the fire of fall

The slick heat of summer

My petals vibrant, powdered with chalky pastels

“How did a flower bloom in December?”

Asks the man as he sits beside his wife

Their winter coats shuffle and rustle

Ice fragmenting in sporadic spasms below their weight

“Its a glorious miracle”

Replies the woman

Her face wrinkled with age and forgotten smiles

A tear, finds its way across her cheek

Following the slope of her nose

It freezes just before it falls.

It’s punctual, like the arrival of thawing spring…

She prays for this flower

It is everything

She is not

Ode to Dog

Natalie London ‘26

in december:

i find you, Dog. hidden amongst the dead rubble of winter, you are icy bones & skin & flesh. you are a young Dog with dulled eyes, a naive mind, and a weathered soul.

you, Dog, look at me with exhausted terror.

in january: you, Dog, begin to talk. talk of the scar on your rib, of the burn on your nose. there are some things however, you do not tell, and i do not ask. at night, you fall asleep warily in the corner. some nights, i wake and find you alongside me, as if in your dreams, you have sought me out. or maybe you are just cold, this is a brutal winter.

in february:

you, Dog, do not understand the monstrosity that is man. your ignorance is nearly impossible for me to grasp, but then again, the line between ignorance and forgiveness has become increasingly blurry throughout this month, you are constantly frozen,

.Dog

as if covered by a hearth of snow, i contemplate whether you are trapped, or just still. in march: you, Dog, do not know why you bite. i must confess, you bite with an apprehensive ferocity. you, Dog, mean no harm. this month, we see the first flower of the year; a fighter. barely vertical yet filled with unrelenting desire, you painstakingly watch the flower dance in the breeze. spring is coming, i whisper. i cannot be sure you heard me, but that night while you slept, you felt the smallest bit warmer.

in april:

winter’s grip loosens and light emerges through the smallest of cracks: a weed sprouts from the sidewalk, an oak tree heals from the troubles it has endured, and you, Dog, begin to see the earth in an entirely new way. your eyes illuminate when birds hum their sweet stories, and you realize they are calling to you. your past seems to fade with the winter, and as spring arrives with such ebullient life, i have a feeling you, Dog, are going to be just fine.

Girl’s Best Friend

Katie Ray McKillop ‘27 (acrylic)

My dragonfly

Ella Gray '24

The hum of a dragonfly brushes against the ringlet of your golden hair taking rapid flight toward my face

You laugh as I jump backward, rocking the canoe

your breathy giggle dances across the mossy lake

I’ve never been more in love with a sound.

Your pale hand reaches out to capture mine

your writer’s fingers adorned with silver jewelry

Your silky pink lips part into a crooked smile

and my heart defiantly leaps into my throat

The dragonfly returns, buzzing next to us

Its cobalt wings flutter against the august breeze and vermillion head glistens in the radiant sunlight

Its wings create ripples in the murky lake, Playfully splashing us with clouded water

You shriek, your giggle reverberating once more

The lump in my throat urges me to tell you I love you.

I swallow it, letting my hand slip from your grasp.

I wish you were a boy.

Myself in Her Chloe Resnick ‘24 (digital photography)

What are you Hiding?

Natsnet Habtu ‘25

What are you hiding ?

A Book

A Paper

A pen

A voice

A emotion

A secret

Pen, book, what difference does it make Words, opinion, what correlates Voice, secret, what connects Emotions, accidents, what attachment

Each word appearing on each page as if it was coming to you as an expedition

A voice and secret as if the genie suddenly appeared three wishes being given to you

A book holds secrets while a pen holds cause

The pen changes each time from mistake to perfect The paper is left with markings

Secret hides but voice exposes book hides but pen flaunts

Emotion spills while secrets clean up Accidents rise while cause begins to be even more covered

Artifacts of a Time Lost

Lucine Stephan '25

Grandmother’s land was the worn out couch in the living room, Intricate rugs plastered against hardwood floor, Strewn souvenirs (which she loved to collect) Around the fireplace, dancing in the sunlight.

Grandmother’s land was her messy desk, outdated phone book, Slanted handwriting against tattered sheets of paper, Tissues, falling like snow, And dusted pens, absent of ink.

Grandmother’s land were those Grasshopper cookies

Placed in a cabinet among glasses and mugs, Though strange, but not unwelcome, That she would offer, time and time again.

Unsuspecting, when the sun glinted off of her figure a shadowy halo of memories.

Misty Meadow

Yasmine Haddad ‘26 (ceramic)

Telling Time

Maddie Beaubaire ‘25 (collage)

Night So Cold

Mashed potatoes, turkey, and more

Is what we eat on this night so cold

With the snow dancing down to the floor

We are inside, safe from the roar

From the comfort of the inside, we talk and laugh

Nothing could cut our happiness in half

In the warmth of our house, we get under the covers

We fall asleep to the outside filled with color

We are woken up by a slight surprise

Up the the roof of the house, fluffy snow lies

A holiday miracle, some would say

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, at the end of the day

Chloe Resnick

Shanthi Seth ‘27

Isabella

'24 (film photography)

My Body, Your Mind

Avery Panepinto ‘27

My skeletal structure is fragile

I know I won’t last long

I can feel the blood cells starting to decay

I know I won’t make it to dawn

You slowly take over my body

I become your puppet to control

I can feel you make your way through to my lungs

I feel you flow through my bones, into the marrow

An eye for an eye

I’m breaking all my bones

Take my femur and my spinal cord

Make my body your own

You can take apart my ribs

Rearrange them into something new

Break my body, mind, and spirit

Make me your muse

You want to touch me everywhere you can

You see me for my body, not for my soul

You want me to bow down, to worship you

How long this will go on, I do not know

Peel my skin from my bones and cut out my joints

Take my brain out and examine it

Like something you’ve never seen before I’m in pain but I won’t throw a stupid fit

Tear out my jugular so I cannot speak

Rip off my skin, pull out my teeth

You can shred me to pieces, but I will not break

You can crush my lungs so I can’t breathe

I am the monster you created, the force of your gods

Seraph runs through my veins, its power is divine

I am the Flood, its rot pumps through my blood

What once was its is now all mine

Open my stomach, expose my pulsing organs

Watch my blood spill from the slash wound

Push my kidney aside, poke at my abdomen

The scalpel drawing shades of crimson and deep maroon

(An Ode to Dirt) Hide & Seek

Vivi Arnold

‘26

I’ve never been to where I come from.

The books talk about the mountains where revelation was gifted so heavily, And my grandmother talks about the mountains she grew up in, that her mother painted

To attempt to remember and hold down

One homeland, if not her own.

I’ve never met God. I don’t know what I’d ask Him if I did.

I’ve never been to my grandmother’s mountains. There are too many miles between us, Too many borders and too much disaster.

If I went, my mother tells me, I could never leave. I’ve never met the mountains whose foundation I was built on.

But sometimes

In the late afternoon sun,

In the secret peaks my brother and I found, Where the flowers run wild and the birds do not hide from us,

I can start to think--

Maybe

I’ve met the mountains that raised me.

The rough sketch was supplied

By my great grandparents, the book, my mother. And now the rocks in my hand

The grass beneath my feet

The awe trapped in my throat

Is adding the last coat of polish.

I do not trust the brick and mortar to know who I am To call my name when everyone else has forgotten it

To offer the sweet kinship I have been so desperately searching for

Since the day I learned what love was. The stories were whispered into my ear, And I hear them echoed back to me from just beyond my backyard.

The home I wished to find is not in the place--

It is in the rocky slopes that make up the world. The world I’ve longed for all my life is everywhere And the mountains will welcome me home.

Class Poem

Creative Writing Class 23-24

The snow is beautiful on the ground

Your cheeks are pink like red woven mittens

Your eyes are white like the falling snow

White in their innocence and soft grace

And pure of heart, for sharp, cold wind doesn’t scream here

Listen not to the wails of the wind whistling through the trees, Solely to the sound of your mother’s laughter echoing throughout the hills.

A sound you miss dearly as you will never hear it again

But it will stay with you, forever and ever

Close to your side and tugging on your sleeve, Reminding yourself winter will be gone soon even if you want it to stay

Illusive

Anaiya Asomugha ‘24

Star spangled tone, varied pitch

Floating on water bathing in bliss Breeze in her hair, lies on her tongue Doing with grace til the doing is done

Chewing on thoughts, your curiosity lingers Word on the street is you no longer believe her For the allure she holds on others young and old has sucked up all your love til there’s none left in the bowl

Dreams

Maddie Beaubaire ‘25 (collage)

Prose

Always the Little Things

Miya Nambiar ‘25 (digital photography)

the moon and her stars

Ella Gray ‘24

I understand why the moon and the sun are talked about to no end. Forbidden romance: they can never collide. But arguably, the moon and the stars have more of a meaningful relationship. When the daytime slips away and the sun refuses to shine any longer, they glisten in a messily enchanting harmony. The moon gazes at the stars, twinkling and shimmering, in nothing but pure awe and adoration. The stars have only recently begun to stare back. They never really noticed how beautiful the moon was, her pool of light illuminating the universe. She’s always been there, loving and longing for the stars. Now they wink at her every evening, and if you look close enough at her craters, they melt into a playful smile.

Swinging Along Maddie Beaubaire ‘25 (digital photography)

Start of Life

Miya Nambiar ‘25 (digital photography)

A Song in Solitude

Lily Savage ‘26

This piece is from the perspective of a Siren in Homer's “The Odyssey”. Taking place during book 12, Odysseus and his men have left Circe and are approaching the Island of the Sirens.

The best place to find shells is the third-highest rock just beyond the reef. Today, the shells are quite dreary. I suppose a storm has yet to wash the fine ones to me. I’m searching beneath the sharp rocks when I hear hollering from far beyond the reef. I decide to fly up to catch a glimpse of our next victim and surely enough, it’s a ship. I try to take a closer look without being seen but the fog conveniently cloaks my hideous form. I settle on a high rock that guards the cove. I observe the ship and immediately recognize it to be the great Odysseus’.

Ah, Odysseus, he’s finally come to us. We’ve heard of his whereabouts and heroic tales from Amphitrítē, Poseidon’s beloved. She told us that he would soon come about our cove along his journey. She instructed that we mustn't let him return for her husband's sake. It seems Poseidon's rage still carries on.

As I continue to spy, I see the great Odysseus putting wax inside his men's ears. One by one they await their turns to be protected from our bewitching song. They’re not yet close enough for us to initiate but are slowly approaching. I spot my sisters flying close, preparing to seize the mighty Odysseus with their simple throats. I decide to remain hidden and allow myself the pleasure of observing. I then notice that Odyseus’s ears remained vulnerable. But why? My forehead furrowed until I soon figured that he was putting beeswax in his men's ears so they could hold him down when our songs consumed him to his end.

What a pathetic weakling he is. Does he not know that he will die? Does he not care about his poor wife who sobs for his return? But I remind myself that men will never care. Every day, at least a dozen ships pass by and fail the trials of temptation. Have they no shame? It’s no secret that they have family who await their young faces, but they always succumb to our seductive songs. Our beautiful voices. It’s not until they see our ghastly forms that they face the true extent of their pride. Odysseus should plug his ears like the rest of his men, yet he believes he has a right to hear us. He’s so cocksure of his strength and wittiness but shamefully knows he can’t resist us. Weak, foolish Odysseus.

I know that I'll never fall in love–I knew so once we could no longer find our dear Persephone. To be fully truthful, I had always dreamed of love. What it was like to have your whole heart be captured by another and give yours away in return. The thought of it still pierces as I hear my sister's beginning to call out. You would think that Odysseus, so great as he is, would be sure to ignore our dreadful game. But he's just like all the other men we lure. I watch as his men struggle to contain his strong body. They try to tame his omit self similar to a wild beast. If only people could see him in this state, would they understand what is kept so secret about these warriors?

It must be nice to have everyone want you. To have everyone waiting on you. However, Odysseus, you will not be great forever. It’s almost comical, isn’t it? You, renowned Odysseus, have all this power, yet you lose so quickly to us. Our voices tempt you to your fate. So reliant on your men yet you reap all the rewards. So reliant on the gods and goddesses yet you're given all of the credit. But I’m a fool too, I suppose. I must confess that I’m jealous of you, Odysseus. I’m filled with envy from just the thought of you. I would love to know what it’s like to be loved by everyone. I would love to travel the seas but I know my fate is secured. I will remain on these rocks for the rest of my days, watching you senseless men come closer. If only you knew of my disgusting form, of my battered heart, you would do me the kind deed of never steering your ship.

Peephole Cate Childers ‘24 (photography)

Eternal/Transient

Lucine Stephan ‘25

Polar opposites, infinite paradoxes, ardent joy tainted with tinges of violence that drip down fragile glassy windows- and then secure, solid, immovable and hardly ever changing endless hues of white, ivory and snow and alabaster that beg not to break, that roar at their sudden collapse.

Desire. Liveliness. That’s what they describe when it dances, pirouettes through hopeless landscapes, burning and growing as it waltzes across rubble and charred pines, leaping, spinning as it sends smoke in the air, its dress leaving a trail of ashes that coat in its wake.

Blank. Absence. That's what they describe when it hesitates too long, when it yearns for comfort that we can’t help provide. Its breath sends gentle melodies through the air, and it sings ballads for us in our nights, howling in our ears, keeping us chilled so that we remember who we are. It preserves us as we meet our ends, coated in layers upon layers of hope that cannot be met. And once our burning embers depart, the souls that set our hearts ablaze- the winter storm leaves too, saddened and thawing.

Mirror, Mirror

Uma Nambiar ‘25

I can hear the way you laugh, the way you smile, the way you flick your hair. You try to be discreet, but I see it. I’ve seen it for years. I see every fiber of you, pulsating and humming under the never ending energy that flows through your very being. You thrive in this environment, this world we live in. You seem happy, you look happy, you glow with happiness.

Maybe you don’t know it, but I can see your deeper layer. Actually, no. Layers, plural. Surface upon surface, compressing the other until only one is visible to the naked eye. To me, it’s obvious. You want to change, to be different. I can tell from the look in your eyes when you pass girls on your street, those Victoria’s Secret skinny girls with big butts and small stomachs. I see the spark of jealousy and the quick, subconscious glance at your own soft belly. But it’s ok, because I understand you. I really do. I understand the constant pain that can engulf your very being when you feel like you're not enough for the world. I understand the self doubt born of being a girl. And most of all, I understand that L.A. is the worst place for a girl to grow up in.

Listen, just hear me out: I think it’s a simulation. Don’t you? I’m convinced that our world is just a giant dollhouse filled with plastic figures of impossible proportions. It’s not such a far-fetched idea, is it? Every girl I see has that brilliantly shiny blonde hair and baby blue eyes that get bigger and bigger with every blink, surviving only one bite, on 500 calories per day.

But you and me? We love the feeling of crispy shell tacos, the smell of greasy fries, the taste of happiness in every bite. I don’t think that’s a bad thing, but… that love for food is discouraged in our world, looked down on.

If we eat too much, we’re too big. If we eat too little, we’re sick. If we eat enough, we are not enough.

“Slim down,” they will say.

“Bulk up,” they will say.

Nothing is ever enough for them.

Them, those deceptive magazines that pull us into their addictive lure with the photoshopped “bikini body” cover. Them, the billboards on Sunset Boulevard depicting gorgeous models with perfect, flawless skin covered in Dior foundation. Them, the conspicuous mannequins in size 0 dresses.

Will it ever be ok to walk around with a natural stomach and thighs? Will there be a day where being skinny and gorgeous is not the goal? Someday, will it be ok to eat as much as we want? I don’t know, but I know that I understand you.

I understand the self depreciating look you give at me, the way you flick your hair, the fake energy you exude to the world, the performance of loving yourself. I understand when you say that you thrive in this environment, that you fit in. Because you want to, you really do. I understand you when you suck in your stomach when trying on dresses. Don’t overthink it, we all do it. I understand the tears that slide down on your cheeks and pool on your pillow at night, when you are tucked into bed and safe from the harsh criticism of the world.

Don’t think that you are the only one. You're not. I see millions of eyes glancing at those billboards. Even the Barbie girls are insecure, trust me. I know that every girl out there is eyeing those skinny models that walk the runway with envy. So don’t worry, you are not alone. I understand you. You think I will tell you what needs to be changed about your body, what looks ugly, why you’re hated by others. Instead, I will tell you how beautiful you are. Trust me, you are safe with me. I won’t deceive you, make a fool out of you, a mockery of your very existence. I only reflect the truth.

Class Prose

Creative Writing

Class 23-24

This is a good world. A place with new possibilities. A new world, unlike anything we have seen before. I will craft a snowman. One round and short. He will have pebble eyes, a pebble smile, and a stick nose because I cannot find a carrot. He comes alive once the children have gone to bed, and roams the streets looking for his carrot nose. Slipping down alleyways, and skating over ice, he visits old friends: the red robin, the cat, the mice. He doesn't see them often, but when he does, he feels like nothing has changed. Same old kitchen and iron stove, warm. Though archaic, harboring delight, I can’t help but bear witness to joy.

Big Blue Bowl of Blueberries

Mia Vosicher ‘25 (acrylic)

Snake-Grass

Beatrice Washburn ‘27

I remember the dusty red bricks in rectangles and how they covered the floor of the patio and the curve of the patio stoop

And I sat on the patio stoop, on the red dusty bricks, and I thought and thought and thought.

The grass across from me was untrimmed, and a snake was slithering through the stems, except there was not really.

I thought some more, about a ballet that could take place right there, in front of the snake-grass, where all the dancers turned and jumped and curtsied, and at the end of the dance they all leaped across the stage, and how beautiful, crazy, talented it was, to be able to leap like that.

Amber Waves Farm

Chloe Resnick ‘24 (film photography)