Canticles 2026

METAMORPHOSIS METAMORPHOSIS METAMORPHOSIS

CANTICLES 2026 Page 1

CANTICLES 2026 METAMORPHOSIS VOLUME 52 THE CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL OF BALTIMORE 2800 EDISON HIGHWAY BALTIMORE, MD 21213 https://www.thecatholichighschool.org/ Page 2

METAMORPHOSIS “Metamorphosis" reflects the year’s turning point; the change in many of our lives. In the transition from spring to summer, many of us will go through change. Whether these changes are big or small, what remains after is that you are not the same as you were before. Each page is a glimpse into a lifetime we have never seen-and changes we will never experience. However, through our magazine, we will showcase the shifting and fluctuations that is described with the word “change”.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Canticles Contest Dr. Nazelrod Dedication What Makes a Black Girl?

My Bashert, I miss him Flowers Celestial Inferno Dark & Stormy Night Forever, Roxie The Penguin The World Against Marvin Friendly Bug Picnic Rabbit Running The Chime of the Clock Reflections God’s Power Longing Persephone Bleak Home of My Heart Don’t Dream Me Away Illuminate Running Wolves Wilted, Withered, and Bossomed Anew Demeter Four Years Later Farm Girl Train Ride Olympus Autumn Page 4

Kiata Foster ‘29 Kanzurnak Sasha Manowski ‘26 Sofia Biggs ‘26 Sofia Biggs ‘26 Madison Robinson ‘26 Quinn Uleckas ‘29 Kelsey Rook ‘26 Kelsey Rook ‘26 Kelsey Rook ‘26 Emily Hill ‘29 Sofia Biggs ‘26 Anonymous Sofia Biggs ‘26 Danielle Bryant ‘26 Morgan Thomas ‘26 Anonymous Caitlin Cahutay ‘28 Sofia Biggs '26 Kelsey Rook ‘26 Bridget Feehely ‘26

Pg. 6 Pg. 7 Pg. 8-10 Pg. 11-16 Pg. 17 Pg. 18 Pg. 18 Pg. 19-29 Pg. 30 Pg. 31-38 Pg. 39 Pg. 40 Pg. 41-47 Pg. 44 Pg. 47 Pg. 48 Pg. 48 Pg. 49 Pg. 50 Pg. 51-58 Pg. 55 Pg. 59 Pg. 60-61

Allison Steier Danielle Bryant ‘26 Danielle Bryant ‘26 Sofia Biggs ‘26 Sofia Biggs ‘26 Sofia Biggs ‘26

Pg. 62 Pg. 63 Pg. 64 Pg. 65 Pg. 65 Pg. 66

Rose Libertas Hidden Lady of the Harvest Where He Vanished The Harbor Monster Blackout Poem Love Poem My Biggest Betrayal Orbital Decay Personal College Essay A Letter to Senior Year Special Thanks

Sofia Biggs ‘26 Sofia Biggs ‘26 Addion Steier Scott Derosier Nia Pulski ‘29 Alison Quinonez ‘29 Hildegard B Jade Wilson ‘29 Nadia Cy’mon ‘28 Audrey Schmitt ‘26 Pamela Rodriguez ‘26

Pg. 66 Pg. 67 Pg. 68 Pg. 69-71 Pg. 72-78 Pg. 79 Pg. 80 Pg. 81-84 Pg. 85-87 Pg. 88-90 Pg. 91-92 Pg. 93

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Canticles Contest 2026 The Canticle’s contest was held in February. Participants were given a list of themes or encouraged to make their own. There were eight categories and submissions were judged by Mrs. Stephanie Leddy, the Canticles moderator.

WINNERS Photography - Sofia Biggs ’26 Essay - Audrey Schmitt ‘26 Art - Kelsey Rook ‘26 Poetry - Nadia Cy’mon Watkins ‘28 Short Story - Nia Pulaski ‘29 Combo Art/Poetry - Mackenzie Weirich ’29

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DR. Nazelrod’s Dedication

Dr. Nazelrood wanted to make sure that students had many experiences. One that had been missing for many years was Canticles, the Literary/Arts magazine. She called Mrs. Leddy who has restarted it when she began teaching at TCHS. It thrived for the twenty years she taught here, but faded away a couple of years after her retirement in 2007. Mrs. Leddy agreed to come back as an advisor to the magazine as long as there were students interested in working on it. The first online Canticles magazine appeared in 2024. This is the third and longest one. Thanks Dr. Nazelrood for the opportunity to create this magazine once again.

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What Makes A Black Girl?

By Kiata Foster There are always boxes that we check List we continue to create The endless categories to fall into Sorted by the littlest characteristics We know how to put definitions on And categorize 99.9% of everything in the whole world.

What is the .1% leftover?

You see we never really know how to define black girls What makes a black girl black?

Is it the braids she wears that everyone calls “too grown”?

Is it the way she talks back when she’s being disrespected?

Is it that sassy attitude that makes them “ghetto”?

Or maybe it’s the way her soft brown skin covers her?

There are always boxes that we check List we continue to create The endless categories to fall into Sorted by the littlest characteristics We know how to put definitions on And categorize 99.9% of everything in the whole world.

What is the .1% leftover?

You see we never really know how to define black girls Page 8

What makes a black girl black?

Is it the braids she wears that everyone calls “too grown”?

Is it the way she talks back when she’s being disrespected?

Is it that sassy attitude that makes them “ghetto”?

Or maybe it’s the way her soft brown skin covers her What makes a black girl girl?

Is it the short skirts that show too much figure?

Is it the amount of time she spends doing her make-up?

Is it the impatience of stepping into womanhood?

Or is it the fact that these expectations will soon change her?

Do I have all these qualities?

Am I truly a black girl?

Well of course not, how can I be?

I know what they’ll put me as.

That box to the left.

The ‘I’m definitely black but my shade, not so much’?

You see we’re what they call the ‘lightskins’.

I mean yeah it’s true we are lighter, but why wouldn’t you call me black?

Why am I a joke to you?

Why don’t you believe me when I say that that dark skinned man is my father?

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Why don’t I feel black?

Do I have all these qualities?

Am I truly a black girl?

You say ‘of course not, how can you be’?

Am I too tomboy for you to call a girl?

Should I wear make-up?

Is my lipgloss not enough?

Maybe I’ll wear a short skirt, be ready for woman hood.

But why don’t you agree?

You put me in this category at birth.

Labeled and named me, yet still you laugh at me.

So why don’t you agree?

Is it because I’m not girl enough for you?

Sorry, I didn’t know we had to grow up so fast.

Is it because I’m not black enough for you?

Sorry, I didn’t know my shade made me non-native to my own people.

There are always boxes that we check List we continue to create The endless categories to fall into Sorted by the littlest characteristic For every individual whoI guess we’ll never know what truly makes a black girl.

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My Bashert, I miss him

by Kanzurnak In Judaism, We do not use the word bashert lightly.

Bashert is what arrives before you are ready and leaves before you are certain.

Only later do you learn it had a name.

Hey— That was all it took.

Hey, like a knock on a door I didn’t know I’d left unlocked.

Fluorescent lights humming on, coffee late, friends loud with rules and certainty— don’t go back to his place don’t eat don’t want too much be chosen without choosing back.

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My screen glowed.

You’ve got mail.

Hey. The word sat there like a held breath.

Like consent.

We spoke through wires and pauses, through phones warm in our hands, through postcards and time zones.

A Navy man.

A Catholic.

A Reader.

I booked the train anyway.

Union Station swallowed me whole— marble, echo, motion.

Then: him.

Tulips in his hands, one black at the center, a book tucked under his arm as if he already knew how I loved.

Bashert does not announce itself.

It settles.

Like something long carried finally set down.

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The car doors locked.

I panicked.

Bathroom stall.

Phone pressed to my ear.

What if he’s dangerous?

What if he’s everything?

Remember the rules, a voice said.

Don’t mess this up.

The car doors locked.

I panicked.

Bathroom stall.

Phone pressed to my ear.

What if he’s dangerous?

What if he’s everything?

Remember the rules, a voice said.

Don’t mess this up.

I smoothed my sun dress.

I stepped back into the day.

Annapolis rose around us— stone meant to last forever.

A chapel that felt like God had not forgotten sailors.

“I hope I get married here someday,” he said, quietly.

“With the right person.”

The opening was there.

Holy.

Unprotected.

I answered with strategy.

With distance.

With a sentence that wasn’t true.

Something closed.

Not slammed— eased shut.

We walked by water.

History breathing beside us.

His hand covering mine.

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A chapel that felt like God had not forgotten sailors.

“I hope I get married here someday,” he said, quietly.

“With the right person.”

The opening was there.

Holy.

Unprotected.

I answered with strategy.

With distance.

With a sentence that wasn’t true.

Something closed.

Not slammed— eased shut.

We walked by water.

History breathing beside us.

His hand covering mine.

“Maybe some things are meant to find each other,” he said, “even if they start off-course.”

With distance.

With a sentence that wasn’t true.

Something closed.

Not slammed— eased shut.

We walked by water.

History breathing beside us.

His hand covering mine.

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His hand covering mine.

“Maybe some things are meant to find each other,” he said, “even if they start off-course.”

I nodded instead of stepping closer.

That night was not polite.

I had never woken beside a promise before.

Morning light.

A kiss that assumed tomorrow.

I had never slept in a man’s arms before.

Never woken still held.

This is bashert, I thought.

Not hoped for.

Known.

The National Mall was pale and orderly.

Promises everywhere.

“I don’t think this is going to work.”

The sentence broke the morning clean in half.

I said okay and gathered what dignity I could carry.

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The train took me north. cried the entire way.

“Come home,” my sister said.

“We’re here, Luca and I are here waiting.”

Lights on.

Arms ready.

I collapsed between them like something rescued from water.

“I followed the rules,” I cried.

“I did everything right.

And I lost him. I lost my bashert.”

No one corrected me.

No one rushed the grief.

Hands held me until I remembered I was still here.

Bashert is not always who you keep.

Sometimes it is who teaches you what truth costs when you abandon it.

Sometimes bashert is missed.

And sometimes— you live anyway.

Held.

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Celestial Inferno

Dark and Stormy Night Page 18

Forever, Roxie

By Madison Robinson Vesper Stern—a crook, a prostitute, or perhaps a disciple of Satan? Despite the suspicions of many towards the woman next door, I’d rather believe that I can trust her.

I had only moved into Allegany County two months ago, but she and I have become friendly, especially after I rescued Roxie. How such a snowy, purebred poodle turned up in a shelter here is beyond me. But I have no complaints, she was relatively cheap and quickly warmed up to her new home.

With Roxie, I share a small house in the almost equally small town of Westernport. Of course, my need for a lower cost trumped my desire for things to actually do. I’m only a stroll away from an elementary school, a chapel, and a few shops.

Anything else is quite a drive away.

That’s not to say the town is dead, however.

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Vesper is a youthful woman for her forties, and her interest in Roxie is greater than typical. It sometimes feels like my dog is the root and stem of our growing friendship.

Every weekday morning, Vesper greets her before work, then smiles at me. Her eyes, despite wearing neatly curled lashes, seem to only absorb light, leaving none to bounce back. But I’d rather not judge so hastily. You can’t always understand the past of another, and I myself only know tidbits of hers.

Vesper invited me to her home and told her story over tea. She was a model in her youth, but as soon as she matured, the agencies turned their gaze to the next line of budding cover girls.

Even in her teenage years, she never once experienced romance. Whether it was her own disinterest or reasons beyond her control, her cold and jaded affect left me unable to tell. Her one remaining spark was Roxie.

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“Why don’t you adopt a pet?” I asked. “I think it would do you well to have a little companion of your own.”

“But Roxie is one like no other,” she attested, “such a stunning poodle in the panhandle of nowhere! She is genetic perfection, as if she was bred to be a cover dog.”

Her scientific words vexed me for a moment, but I scoffed. “I doubt that’s a real thing.”

“Believe me, I know a wonderful canine modeling agency out in the city. Fido Fancy, have you heard of it?”

“No, and she’s not a decoration anyway.”

“All I see is stifled potential, which I’m certainly no stranger to. I know how it feels to be unseen, and I see Roxie.”

“Please, Miss Vesper—” “I hear her, too,” she muttered blankly at her tea, then looking up to me. “She speaks to me, Anaya. Do you not hear her?”

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I glanced up at her dusty clock, its hands still stuck at the wrong time.

“No— I’m sorry,” I replied with caution, “but I just realized that I’m almost late. I have dinner with my mother tonight, I’ll be out of town.”

“Out of town, with sweet Roxie by herself?”

She asked, finally grinning. “I could watch her, free of charge.” She brushed back a strand of her icy blonde hair. “It’s what I owe you, after all. Those muffins were delicious.”

“Well, that would be nice. It’s only a few hours, though.”

“But you never know what could happen to her.”

I shivered. “Fine, but I insist you be paid.

How much per hour?”

“Oh, please! This is my payment.”

Jack Sadowski, a lanky and cynical man of almost eighty, lives across from me. He’s especially suspicious of Vesper—and likely responsible for half of the rumors—but he is otherwise my second sense and reason.

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As soon as I returned home, I called him.

“Hello? Who’s this?” He answered gruffly. “Hello, it’s Anaya. I’d just like to tell you that Vesper is watching Roxie tonight, so don’t be alarmed if you see her in my house.” I briefly awaited his response. “Alright?”

“So you’re out of your mind, I take it?” “I trust her enough,” I maintained, “she’ll likely just spoil Roxie, she adores her.” “Far too much, I’d say.”

“You don’t even like dogs, Mr. Sadowski. Besides, she is my friend.”

“I know you see it,” his voice lowered, “the envious darkness in her eyes. God’s not with that woman.”

I did see it, but I did not want to listen. Vesper soon knocked at my door, prompting Roxie to erupt into barking.

“Hush, Roxie,” I whispered as I cracked open the door, then smiling at my neighbor. “Vesper, I’m glad you could make it!” I fumbled for my keys and purse. “I’ll let you in, give me a moment.”

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“She’s quite lively tonight,” she remarked curiously, peeking through the door.

I threw on my coat and welcomed her inside.

“Yes, thank you for watching her.”

“Again, it’s my pleasure! I’ll be sure to take very good care of her.” She crouched down to stroke Roxie’s head, then looked at me. “Have a nice dinner, Anaya.”

I drove off, tuning in the radio to whatever could quiet my mind for the hour ride until I arrived at the diner and sat with my mother, who gently embraced me.

“Are you still getting used to that small town life?” She asked.

“It’s actually very nice,” I replied, “I’ve made a few friends.”

We conversed over our Italian meals that evening. She had much to ask, not only about my upcoming work and potential “boyfriends”, but eventually, my dog.

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“Yes, a purebred poodle.” I told her. “I named her Roxie, you know, after Grammie’s old dog.

She’s such a sweetheart, you should meet her sometime.”

“I’d love to!”

“And my neighbor, Vesper,” I went on with a sigh, “she’s crazy about her, always advising me about canine style. She seriously believes that Roxie is red carpet material.”

My mother burst into laughter. “What?! There’s no way!”

“I swear it, mom! It’s just strange. But otherwise, Vesper is a good, trusty friend.”

After dinner, we bid our goodbyes and I headed home. As I parked beside my house, I noticed that the lights were already out. I rang my own doorbell in case she had fallen asleep on the couch, but not even Roxie responded. I then looked to my right. Vesper’s red Chevrolet was no longer there.

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“Mr. Sadowski!” I soon cried, banging at his door, “Mr. Sadowski, please!”

“Is that you, Anaya?” He asked, cracking it open. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Roxie, she’s gone! I’ve checked every room!” Tears blurred my sight.

His face went grim. “Where is Vesper?”

“Her— her car isn’t here either,” I stammered, “but I know where she is, I’m certain of it. I want you to come with me, please.”

He obliged and joined me in my car. We drove away as the sun began to set. “Where do you think she is?” Mr. Sadowski inquired.

“Fido Fancy, a modeling agency,” I answered, somehow with a straight face.

“For dogs?”

“Yes, for dogs.”

“Oh my God,” he groaned.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I really should have listened to you.”

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The drive was overall quiet and the air was tense. We eventually arrived at Fido Fancy, a pearly, geometric building, the kind I’ve only seen in movies. I strided for the glass doors, Mr. Sadowski keeping pace behind me. I decided that this was the final straw for Vesper and me.

She will not mold Roxie into her own shriveled dreams.

I burst through the doors. “Where’s Roxie?” I demanded to the woman at the reception desk.

“She’s a medium white poodle, purebred.”

Her expression was unchanging. “Hm, I did see a poodle named Roxie today. ‘Purebred’ is not the word I’d use, though.” She muttered, “I’m not sure what it was.”

“Excuse me?”

“Another woman checked her in, but I last saw her wandering around out back. She looks a bit off, probably sick. Poor dog.”

“That witch,” I cried, “I’m going to strangle her!”

“Calm yourself,” said Mr. Sadowski, “we’ll find her and have Vesper arrested.”

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We went outside towards the back, my heart pounding out of my chest as we walked towards the dark corners behind Fido Fancy.

“Roxie?” I called as Mr. Sadowski whistled for her. I felt every bone in me shiver when a familiar voice rang from the shadows.

“Oh, Anaya,” Vesper crooned, a monstrous gurgle under her voice, “I knew you would find me. You even brought a friend?”

“Vesper!” I growled, my head whipping around, “Where are you?!”

“Vesper is long gone, dear.”

“I don’t care. Just come out and return my Roxie!”

“But Anaya, I’ve finally achieved my prime, perfect form. I can be a star at last…” She chuckled sickly. “Because I am Roxie.”

I trembled, fury rushing through my veins. “No! You—” But there she was. There it was, emerging from the night at my feet.

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.

I nearly wretched at the sight of it, a grotesque parody of what once made Roxie a dog and Vesper a human. A breathing, crawling, but rotting taxidermy.

Mr. Sadowski had already left.

“We are melded as one, not only in flesh, but in mind.” It laughed once more. “Do you like what you see?”

I fled far, far away, and I never returned to Westernport.

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The Penguin

By Quinn Uleckas ‘29 Page 30

The World Against Marvin

By Kelsey Rook

“I just don’t understand it…” Marvin stood before his mirror, adjusting his appearance. His childhood friend, Harvey, sat propped up on a bed of pillows, close enough for Marvin to see him beside his reflection. He was caught up in his phone, evidently disconnected from the world around him. When Marvin’s words reached him, he glanced up.

“Huh? Don’t understand what?” he asked, lowering his phone slightly.

“How you do it.” Marvin kept up his self examination, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s incredibly vague. Do what?” Harvey inquired further.

“Make people, you know, like you.”

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“I dunno. I have a natural charm, I guess.”

Marvin groaned. “No, no, there’s gotta be something you got that I don’t. We’re basically the same people, but like, people prefer you.”

Harvey went back to his phone. “We keep having this conversation, and I keep telling you the same thing. What else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to be honest with me. We play the same sports, have the same hobbies, yet somehow it’s like you’re some sort of… people magnet,” He turned to look at him. “and I wanna know why people avoid me while they flock to you.”

“You want brutal honesty?” Harvey raised an eyebrow, finally shutting off his phone and placing it on the blanket beside him.

“Yes, Harv, you're my best friend. I want you to be completely honest.”

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“Are you absolutely sure? Are you actually gonna listen?”

“Yes, how many more times do I have to say it?”

“Well… it’s probably pessimistic bum.”

because

you’re

a

“Oh come on, I am not a bum.”

“Eh, debateable.”

“Besides,” Marvin turned back around, “I just say the facts. I’m realistic.”

“There is a fine line between pessimism and realism. You believe things can only get worse and that bad things happen because that’s all that can happen. You never think to improve your mindset, or yourself, or your situation.”

Harvey said with a brutal infliction. He leaned on his knees while Marvin kept his eyes averted, who then muttered under his breath, “You were the same way once.”

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“Harvey rebutted, almost offended. “Yeah, and I stopped. People don’t like it when you act like everything happens purely to spite you. You spin everything just so you can be all ‘oh, woe is me!’” he took a sharp turn into a derisive tone.

Marvin paused, finally finished with his appearance and grabbed his cap. It shrouded his eyes. “Aren’t you always saying how people should love you where you’re at?”

“Yes, but you gotta also put in the effort. You can’t expect people to love you when you can hardly stand yourself.”

“That’s just the way I am though.”

“Is it? Or do you just tell yourself that so you don’t feel obligated to change anything?”

Marvin turned far enough to obscure his face.

He quieted himself a moment, then, as if Harvey had never said anything at all, spoke cheerfully.

“So! Are you taking anyone to the big event next Friday?”

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“Really? Changing the topic?” Harvey was starting to get slightly annoyed.

“Are you still talking to that one person? I’d assume you’re taking them.”

Harvey remained quiet for a breath. It was clear that if he tried to push the previous discussion further, it would fall on deaf ears. No point in bothering.

With a hefty sigh, he nodded. “Yeah, I am. We’re not going though.”

“Really? Why?” “I would honestly rather go out and do our own thing than be cooped up in a room for an afternoon.”

“I don’t get it though. If I had a partner, I would be showing them off every chance I get. I’d be taking them everywhere, believe me.”

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“We’re not even official. You act like… nevermind.” Harvey checked the clock on his phone. “I need to get home.”

“Oh, uh… ok. What were you going to say?”

Marvin questioned.

Harvey wished he could actually say what he was thinking. To say the words he felt were caught in his throat, and have Marvin actually listen and take it to heart, instead of remolding his words into a knife against himself. That he could see himself as someone worth being around, worth loving, and see the world as something kind. If only he could look beyond this manipulated reflection of himself he had built, pry the thorns from his heart, and open his mind to the idea that kindness does exist.

That it exists and that he’s worthy of it. That once he believes himself worthy of it, others will surely ensue.

He wanted to show him how he himself had changed the way he saw life.

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Harvey no longer saw loneliness as a punishment life inflicted upon him, but as a condition of his own self-pity. Once he viewed himself in a better light, things felt softer, easier to overcome. He found his happiness, and he wished, oh how desperately he wished that Marvin could do the same for himself.

But he could never do such a thing. He wouldn’t. And Harvey doesn’t know what to say, what to do, to spark that change within Marvin.

So he doesn’t.

“It’s nothing,” Harvey says, packing himself up and making a move for the bedroom door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The sound of the door shutting reverberated around the now vacant room. Marvin still stood before the mirror, but he could barely stand to look at himself. He just didn’t understand it.

How he and Harvey could both be in the same situation barely even a year ago, yet now Harvey had seemingly pulled himself from thatPage 37

horrible pit of self-loathing with such ease. Yet at the same time it didn’t really surprise him. It was Harvey, after all. People like Harvey. People don’t like Marvin. Harvey strides where he stumbles. Harvey holds fast where he falters.

Why bother if people will always see him as the lesser of the two, if life will always configure itself so he’s a thousand steps behind everyone else? What’s the point in trying to change when that’s just the nature of his existence, when it’s coded into his being? The morosed Marvin, destined to fail in every aspect, no matter what he did, what part of himself he changed.

That’s just the way things are, how they always will be. It’s the brutal truth. The world keeps spinning. The world keeps pushing him down, keeping up its walls, leaving him out.

The world remains against him.

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Friendly Bug Picnic

By Kelsey Rook ‘26

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The Chime of the Clock

by Emily Hill

It started off as a normal day. That’s usually how most peculiar stories start, on a relatively average day when the world seems content with itself and keeps moving on in a steady motion like the hands on a clock. I was driving home from my grandparents house at 3:35pm in the afternoon because my grandmother had asked me to clean out her basement. My mother would be waiting for me at our little house in our little town, and we would continue to go about our little lives. I was approaching the edge of Timenda, the town in which I lived, when I decided to turn on the radio in my car.

As the sports announcers were just starting to recap the last football game of the season, I saw the sign for Timenda. I started to pull into the right lane of the highway so I could get off on my exit, when all of a sudden the atmosphere seemed to shift.

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The air swirled around me in sickening waves, and I struggled to concentrate on the road ahead. My consciousness wavered in and out, and the world was blurred and muddy. Crackle, crackle. The radio’s signal seemed to flicker as it struggled to hold on to its channel. I was starting to become nauseous, so I attempted to pull over to the side of the road. I was about to stop, when a car just seemed to appear in front of me! I screamed as I quickly swerved to the side of the road. I pulled over and got out of my car to see what was going on. Why was that car just sitting in the middle of the highway? The little blue mini-van almost seemed deserted. I quickly ran over to the car to check if the driver was okay, but what I found was disturbing. He was just staring off into the distance, looking as if he had a place to be. Was he dead? Sweat started to pour down my face as I quickly banged on his window to check if he was alive.

He didn’t move. I looked around him towards the interior of his car, and I noticed that his car flashed sixty-five miles per hour even though he wasn’t moving at all.

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His car should have read zero miles per hour. I slowly backed up from his car, sick to my stomach, and I looked around and realized that all of these cars were just sitting on the highway; nobody was moving. Why was everyone stopped? Did a weird accident block the road up ahead? What happened?

A little while later, the nauseous feeling had lifted, and I was about fifteen minutes away from my house. As I drove home, I saw a lot of frozen cars, and I had to constantly bob and weave through them. I looked at the scenery of my small town as I drove, and I saw that there weren’t just frozen cars, but there were also frozen people. People were standing in the position of walking on the sidewalks, but they weren’t moving. A dog was in the middle of peeing, but his urine was frozen in place like a yellow icicle. It was strangely amusing, but also very concerning. Was I going crazy?

As I pulled into my driveway and got out of my car, I noticed that one of the little garden gnomes in our front yard was half-tipped over, but still standing.

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Reflection

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It was pretty much floating while it balanced on the tip of its base. I guess even objects were frozen. The thought of my world being frozen sparked a flame of fear inside of me, but I shoved it down and pretended that I was the one in control of this eerie situation. I went over to the garden gnome and moved it back into place.

Buzz. I shrieked and jerked back from the gnome as I clutched my hand. When I moved the gnome, static seemed to shoot from it and burned my hand. The sting was awfully painful, and as I checked my hand I realized that a single, black dot was burned into it. It reminded me of a black hole, and I watched as my hand turned pale as this black hole sucked all of my blood in with it. My hand started to go numb, and I panicked; tears were flowing from my eyes. Then, I heard it. The noise was incomprehensible, but it sounded like a deep bellow from the gut of a bloodthirsty monster to some extent. Whatever I had done, I had severely messed up, and something was coming for me.

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I didn’t know what I was going to do, but by the time I stood up I felt a spine-chilling breeze float down my back. The cold air froze me in place, and the world seemed to slow. Emptiness creeped through my bones, and the ultimate chill seeped throughout my entire being. I slowly turned behind me while fighting the urge to shut my eyes. There, standing about three feet away from me, was an entity beyond description. It appeared as a black cloak with smoke and mist pouring out from it; the smog rustling the cloak in subtle waves.

My eyes widened in terror, and I tried to scream, but no sound could leave my mouth. I stood there, feeling the life getting sucked out of me. Just the presence of this being was enough to drain me of all consciousness, and no matter how hard I fought I couldn’t hold on to myself. The world started spinning, everything looking like a jumbled mess of splattered paint on a canvas. I felt my legs give way as my eyes were forced shut, and I fell.

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I woke up, my body sore for whatever reason.

My head ached with a blinding pain that I could feel pulsating through my skull. I slowly stood up, trying to keep steady. I was in a completely white void that was derived from life and movement. I squinted my eyes as the mass of light threatened to take my vision. The only thing that I could make out in front of me was a clock. Tick, tick, tick. It was just me and this old, wooden clock. I spent the next couple of seconds, minutes, hours, or years searching for a way out, but I never found one. Tick, tick, tick.

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Longing

By Sofia Bigggs ‘26

Persephone

By Danielle Bryant ‘26 Page 48

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Don’t dream me away There’s the monster out there again, dragging its hands through the rock and soot. I could see it from my windows, the red curtains, fortunately, sealing my body away. They said it would leave; some even said it was all a misunderstanding— no one would be hurt. Then, was what I was seeing a misunderstanding? Was it all made up by me? I pressed my nose against the glass to dispel that lie.

I had to be quiet, but that was never a problem. The monster’s inky black coverings melted into the night. Its face was concealed from the sickly lights shining down. Despite being a considerable distance away from me, I could hear its stomps on the ground. Its footsteps could create earthquakes that would swallow all of us whole. Would I be next in that fate? The monster became like a lighthouse in the night, though the boat would be led into a trap of rocky beaches and bloody bones.

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Sometimes, there would be a companion that pacified the monster. The only thing left to wreak havoc was the companion itself. Snapping its sharp teeth together, it would cause a chorus of screams to let loose. There was always an audience, their visages leaving behind their joy for the performance. I could never watch, but I would always hear. There would then be too many tears in my eyes and a discordant symphony filling my ears.

This time, the monster was alone on its way to God-knows-where. I looked behind from where I’m crouching, my hand keeping the curtain open.

A sliver of light from the lamp on the table nearby peeked outside. The table held my homework, screaming at me to focus again. The couches sat nearby, beckoning me to take a small nap after my long day. A cross of wood with silver detailing and a crucified Jesus looked over the space. Its presence felt like a talisman, as if it could ward off any evil.

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Maybe if I slept near it, the monster wouldn’t see me if it ever…I didn’t want to continue that burgeoning thought.

I went back to my spot near the window to continue my observation. Sometimes, the activity became fun. I could pretend I was a spy, learning about my enemy to save the day. It made me feel heroic while my classmates went missing, leaving behind empty seats. It made me feel brave when my mother trembled off her coat each time she arrived from work. It made me less afraid of the shadows that held the monster.

At least I would find a good reason for an encounter with it; I would run back home to share my findings for all to see. There, the pages of my notebook would hold the fruits of my labor. My mission would be complete. I would finally rest without dark tendrils grasping at my bedroom door in those dreams.

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When I looked back, the monster was no longer there. All that was left were the flickering street lights and the darkened houses across from mine. I cursed myself for my carelessness, realizing my lamp became its own lighthouse and I was stuck inside it with nowhere to go. The red curtains trembled underneath my hands, and my heartbeat matched what sounded like fast, firm steps. A thought came and went like a crashing wave. It’s here with me now. The red drapery was now my cage, blood soon to brighten the bars of deep-colored fabric.

I wanted to leave the window for a place, any place, to hide. The noises outside were growing louder, and the entire house became enveloped in the monster’s shadow. The lamp was now like a snuffed out candle. However, it was as if the cold from outside froze my legs—I couldn't move. I could imagine the monster's tendrils choking me; my eyes were soon to pop out and roll to the floor.

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Illuminate

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As I was sure it was now at the front door, its claws scratching it, I grasped at the cross on the wall and ran for the kitchen, clutching the small Jesus to my heart. Maybe he would come to rescue me if he heard my rushing heartbeat.

The kitchen was washed over with cold, sterile lighting. The light made the kitchen my only place of solace from the consuming darkness. There was a table with three chairs of too little space to hide under. There were trash bags near the kitchen counter but not enough to take in my height. I looked to my right to decide whether the fridge was an option; emptiness made a home in there after all, so I needed to seize my only chance.

Just as I scrambled to open the fridge, I began to hear the jiggle of a doorknob. Not from the front, but from behind me.

I was too late when something forced the back door wide open. My cross could no longer give me relief, soon to slip from my sweaty palms.

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There beyond that door was what I saw from the windows in my house, what took over my dreams that used to be so kind, and what I feared the most.

The monster stood there, now observing my shaking body. In desperation, I lifted the cross away from my chest to shield my eyes from the monster. I couldn't bear to stare into the imposing void in front of me.

Nothing seemed to happen, only a quiet inspection. Time kept going on but to no end did the monster ever stop. While taking off the cross pressed to my face just enough to see and faltering on whispered prayers, I tried to look at its eyes. There were none I could see, even as I became level with the monster's face.

I didn't realize how high I was brought to the air already. My arms and the cross were strained at my sides, tendrils keeping them in place. My neck felt tight, and my head was trapped by hands stained with dark crimson from…a recent victim.

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I didn't realize how high I was brought to the air already. My arms and the cross were strained at my sides, tendrils keeping them in place. My neck felt tight, and my head was trapped by hands stained with dark crimson from…a recent victim. How many people has it killed today? I thought. 2 people? 12? Just how much more would it take until it was satisfied? Their screams were so silent no one heard, and now, I would join in those futile cries.

Then, I realized something. Where was my mom? She was supposed to come home from work and hug me so tightly I would forget everything. I would smile again, even just a little. I would finish that homework on the table and maybe sleep peacefully like I did before. I would finally dream of a happier place and live so comfortably.

Sobs took over me and made me unaware that the sharp teeth on my head clamped down.

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Running Wolves By Kelsey Rook ‘26

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Wilted, withered, and blossomed anew

By Bridget Feehely The Greeks have the legendary phoenix– The Egyptians, the mighty Bennu, There is a gilded brilliance of renewal through wilt and wither, A human wonder in the rebirth of nature and the resilience of life– Our heroes are born again through the ages– Odysseus in the Odyssey, Gilgamesh, Beowulf, Who are eternally bathed in the light of the rising sun– As are we, and as are the seasons, and life itself There is a sliver of truth to be found in our stories, The sun will rise again, as it always has, just as the phoenix– And just as the sun rises, we are ordered to be born again; To be reborn and remembered eternally– Just as our heroes are, Page 60

Just as the Phoenix, and the mighty Bennu, And the stars we were made by, For there is nothing greater than a mother’s love– For Mother Earth who has housed us, And she, who we give back to when we wither away, Would never forget those who return to her embrace

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Demeter

By Allison Steier Page 62

Four Years Later

By Danielle Bryant ‘26

Farm Girl

By Danielle Bryant ‘26

Train Ride Olympus

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Autumn

Rose Libertas Page 66

Hidden Page 67

Lady of the Harvest

By Addison Steier Page 68

Where He Vanished

By Scott Derosier My grandmother never told stories straight. She said the truth had to be chased, like a chicken that knew it was about to be dinner. “If you run at it,” she’d whisper, “it hides.”

One summer afternoon when I was nine, she led me into the backyard and pointed to the patch of wild mint that grew along the fence. “That is where your great-uncle vanished,” she said, as if announcing a weather forecast.

I looked at the weeds, half expecting a ghost to rise up and wag a finger.

“Vanished how?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Some say he left for New York. Some say the river took him. And some say he followed a fox spirit into the woods. I suppose the truth is quiet somewhere.”

She would not answer more. She plucked a mint leaf, held it under my nose, and said nothing until the silence felt heavy enough to bruise.

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My grandmother never told stories straight. She said the truth had to be chased, like a chicken that knew it was about to be dinner. “If you run at it,” she’d whisper, “it hides.”

One summer afternoon when I was nine, she led me into the backyard and pointed to the patch of wild mint that grew along the fence. “That is where your great-uncle vanished,” she said, as if announcing a weather forecast.

I looked at the weeds, half expecting a ghost to rise up and wag a finger.

“Vanished how?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Some say he left for New York. Some say the river took him. And some say he followed a fox spirit into the woods. I suppose the truth is quiet somewhere.”

She would not answer more. She plucked a mint leaf, held it under my nose, and said nothing until the silence felt heavy enough to bruise.

Years later, I asked my mother about him. She sighed the way people sigh when a memory is too tired to be fixed. “He didn’t vanish,” she said. “He just left. People do that.”

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But she wouldn’t look at me when she said it.

I tried to imagine him—my great-uncle—with foxyellow eyes, stepping into the woods on the last day anyone saw him. Or maybe boarding a bus, carrying nothing but a suitcase full of disappointment. I don’t know which version belongs to us.

Last spring, when the mint returned after winter, I knelt by the fence and pressed my palm to the ground. I almost asked the dirt to tell me the truth.

It said nothing, but the silence felt familiar, like an inherited ritual.

Now I keep all three versions of him in my mind: the man who left, the man who was taken, and the man who stepped into myth. Maybe they’re all true.

Maybe none are.

Grandmother used to say that remembering is a kind of gardening—you water what you want to grow. So, I water the uncertainty. I tend the silence. I keep the story alive, even if it never decides what it wants to be.

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The Harbor Monster

By Nia Pulski It was August, and the air was muggy. A kind of moist and hot that made people angry at nothing. In the city, this kind of muggy was like no other. It was 1958, and the Baltimore Harbor was lively with all kinds of people. Birds chirping, children playing, workers working. All could be seen on this unsuspecting day. The harbor sloshed as the sun grew brighter, signalling the day was growing longer.

Mary Anne watched as the murky water in front of her grew rougher. She focused as its navy current smacked repeatedly against the wooden docks.

Her eyes concentrated on the depth of the water, attempting to view the very bottom. The inky abyss made it hard for a person to tell between a rock, or something more, something stranger. Mary Anne started to feel sweat on her neck, and realized the summer heat was finally getting to her. “Mary Anne! Aren't you going to join in?”

Said her classmate, Clara, jolting her out of her thoughts.

“Yeah, it was your turn like, three turns ago!” exclaimed Katie. Mary Anne grinned before walking over to the jump rope, preparing herself for her chance, forgetting all about the harbor’s mystique, for now at least.

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It was after dinner, later that same day when she had found herself thinking about the harbor once more.

“Have you seen what has been happening? More and more young children have been going missing around town.” Mary Anne looked up from her book, hearing her mothers concerned voice. The girl had remained silent as she continued, “I don't think it's right for you to be playing around the harbor anymore. It's just not safe.” Mary Anne’s calm composure dropped. Her head began to shake rapidly as her palms grew damp.

“What? No! That's not fair! I always play there! What am I supposed to do now?” Her younger brother Adam rushed in, wanting to see what the sudden commotion was about.

He stuck his nose in the air, eyeing down his older sister as her head shook furiously. “I'm sorry Mary Anne, but it’s too dangerous. From now on, you will not go near that place by yourself anymore. And that goes for you too Adam.” Her brother whined after hearing his mother’s command, but Mary Anne didn't notice. The only thing she was thinking about was what her summer days would look like now.

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No more ice cream after double dutch, no more sneakily stealing candy from her favorite shop, and definitely no more fun, at least, not in her eyes. She stayed awake that night, her mind repetitively reminiscing on her days spent with her friends at the harbor. Unable to sleep, she turned to her window, glancing out at the gleam of the moon. Her mind raced, but her eyes managed to grow heavy, as she drifted off the sleep. She didn't know it, but something else raced that night. Something sinister, something, she would quickly know all too well.

Mary Anne’s next few weeks grew more and more mundane. Every morning, she could hear her friends’ laughter, as they set off on their activities. She found herself constantly remembering the times where she had been one of them. She heard her watch ticking, her cat purring, and her brother’s constant humming, which caused her headache to grow ever so slowly.

She couldn't take it anymore. She needed to get out, to get away. She sprung off of her chair, alerting her brother suddenly. “Uh, are you okay?” he pondered.

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“Yes! I uh, I'm going to go out for some eggs. We desperately need eggs.” she said, partially screaming.

“You’re not going near the harbor are you? Mom said you and I both can’t go near the harbor.” She stated, which caused her skin to flush. “No, and even if I was, it wouldn't matter to you. Goodbye now.” Before he could respond, she was already halfway out the door, and halfway to finally being able to return with her friends and all she had missed these past weeks. Her feet were moving faster than the rest of her, and the closer she got, the deeper the sudden pit in her stomach grew.

She knew this was a bad idea, but frankly she didn't care. She could see it now, finally she was back to the harbor, to where her summer had been mostly spent.

“Mary Anne!” exclaimed her friends, excited to their old companion yet again. Before the girl could get too close, her movements stopped with a halt. Her head whipped to the sound of a sudden siren, and the sight of an ambulance arriving at the scene.

A crowd began to form near the docks, and Mary Anne felt her curiosity getting the best of her. She joined her friends in an attempt to see the event that was unveiling around them.

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She managed to catch a glimpse of the view, and witnessed something she would never forget. She saw it. The body of Ruby, a girl she had once went to school with. Her breath catched in her throat, as her eyes widened in terror. She suddenly understood exactly why her mother had warned her not to go near this area. She stepped away from the scene, furiously mumbling to her friends an excuse as to why she was leaving. She took off, and tried not to think about what she had seen.

A few days later, as she was wiping off her kitchen table, a knock pierced through her thoughts. She dropped her cloth, and stepped carefully towards the door. The knocking continued, shaking the entire house. When she opened the door, she was faced with only the hot, summer air. She looked around, searching for anybody there, but to no avail there was only herself. She glanced down and that's when she saw it. A mysterious blue envelope addressed to only her. She picked it up, examining it carefully. “Who is it?” questioned Adam. “Nobody. It was nobody.” but her thoughts remained clouded with the mystery of the surprise.

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Later that night, her mind stayed focused on the puzzling letter. She decided to put her doubts aside, and let her curiosity get the better of her. She decided to open the letter. Gingerly, her fingers lifted the seal, and began taking out the contents. She started to read the words, and as her eyes darted across the page, only five words were written, “Meet Me At The Harbor”. She felt her pulse quicken, and suddenly the only thing she wanted to do was curl into a ball. What did this mean? Who wrote this? She wondered, but she couldn't for the life of her find an answer. She did know one thing, she would have to go to the harbor that night.

Later, after both her mother, and brother were fast asleep, she left the house, sneakily retreating back to the docks. When she arrived, she was met with only the moon’s bright light, and the sound of the wretched water smacking against the wood. She looked around, for any sight of someone, but to no avail there was nobody. Suddenly, something caught her eye.

Something in the water seemed to be alluring Mary Anne into the water, something dark. She walked along the edge and glanced in the abyss.

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She could see a large figure swimming towards her.

Her hands trembled, but she showed no signs of fleeing. She crouched down, attempting to see more clearly. The figure grew closer, and closer until only a shadow stature was in frame. Suddenly, the figure jumped out, and in the blink of an eye, there was nothing left. No signs of a child out of bed in the middle of the night. No signs of a young girl being bewitched by the docks. And absolutely no trace of Mary-Anne. The breeze blew gently as the moon illuminated the ships in the distance. The city stayed still, but the remnant of evil remained looming in the air.

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Blackout Poem

By Alison Quinonez

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Love Note

By Hildegard B Page 80

My Biggest Betrayal

By Jade Wilson It was a rainy, Halloween night. I was having a sleepover with my best friend, but little did I know she would become my biggest betrayal. It was the year 2004; we were painting each other's nails, talking about boys, and all the things girls do. As Sabrina and I were talking she got an idea “Hmm I’m bored. Maybe we should go explore in the woods?” I thought to myself, How bad could that be? " I immediately said, “Sure, why not!” Little did I know that that sentence would alter my life forever. Once the clock struck three we opened the door with a creek, and slowly left the house.

The crisp cold air blew against me as we started walking down the street. It was dark, frightening, and filled with an emptiness I couldn’t describe. Sabrina was quiet, too quiet. She is usually a talkative person, which made her sudden hush quite concerning. I brushed my concerns off and thought to myself, “Maybe she’s just cold” I was wrong, so terribly wrong.

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We made it to the “Forest of the Forbidden Fruit” as the town’s people liked to call it. All the elders of the town claimed that the forest was NEVER to be discussed.

As we walked all you could hear was “WOOSH! CRACK! SNAP! CREEK!” as we stepped on the gravel below us. As I inched closer to the forest I felt a sense of uneasiness. I turned to look at Sabrina, she had a horrifying look in her eyes which I will never forget. I screamed, “Sabrina, I want to go home, you're scaring me!” As she turned around she had this gruesome and mischievous smirk on her face, almost as if she was ready to kill; at that moment I knew she was up to no good. I started to run, running as fast as a cheetah. It was too late I felt a grip, so strong I thought my wrist would break. I started to hyperventilate “Hah…hah…hah” I became breathless, as if I were a fish out of water. the ones you hear in horror movies.

It was shallow at first but with every harsh, cackling, breath it grew louder and louder.

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As I looked up, I saw it. I became frantic, terrified even. Standing in front of me was the most horrifying thing I had ever seen. Its dark deep set eyes felt like they were penetrating my soul. Its long slender fingers gripping my wrist were tipped with black sharp talon-like nails. Its lanky, slender figure smelt as if it was dipped in blood. I let out a blood curdling scream, “Aaaaahhhhh” I tried to get away, my legs digging deep into the ground. I felt drained, almost lifeless; I knew I couldn’t get away. I let the being consume my body and thoughts, I had given up. The being tore, dug, scratched, ripped, and stabbed my useless body. The being left my near lifeless body on the ground. All I could feel was the bumpiness of rocks from under me as I looked around. Sabrina was gone, it was her. She wished I were dead.

As I pulled my weak, limp body up from the cold, harsh ground I felt faint. I collapsed once again. This time I couldn’t get up, I did not want to get up. With no help around, I laid there, hoping the earth would swallow me whole. I was so drained, so hurt, and felt so much piercing sharp pain that I did not want to move.

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I whimpered and wailed but it was no use; no noise came out. A weird sensation came upon me as if I was being watched. I lifted my head to view my surroundings, it was dark like a black hole. When I went to lay my head back down however I felt the being come amongst me; it became me. As I felt the dark sensation come into me I knew I would never see the light of day again.

As I lay there, I realized something…the being had Sabrina’s eyes. My best friend had betrayed me. She was the monster all along. As the darkness took over me, I wondered how many other girls had said yes to her before me.

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Orbital Decay

By Nadia Cy’mon I keep running back like a comet on cue, No matter the damage I take from you.

You turn your back like I’m space you outgrew, A star once essential, now easily removed.

Still I trail your light through the dark you roam, Calling your gravity something like home.

I’m always the station you dock your pain, The quiet expanse where you vent and complain.

I map out your hurt like a charted sky, While mine drifts mute, passing quietly by.

You unload your storms, then vanish from view, Leaving me floating, still loyal to you.

When your temper ignites like a red giant’s rage, You scorch every kindness I place on the page.

Your words are like asteroids, reckless and fast, And I’m left collecting what’s left of the past.

I ask myself softly, “Why do I stay?”

Then answer “because I love you” and look away.

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My definition of love has warped with the years, Like light bending wrong at the edge of your fears.

I learned that devotion means taking the hit, That pain is the proof to I’m committed to it.

So I shrink in your orbit, adjust to your spin, Convincing myself this is how love lives in.

II try to pull back like a ship running low, Fuel flickering thin, systems ready to go.

I tell myself leaving would finally heal, That distance might make this hurt less real.

But every escape plan I start to design, Collapses the moment your hand’s near mine.

I’m hoping you’ll choose me like you did before, When my name was a planet you wanted to explore.

I wait like a satellite stuck in your sky, Watching you search for new stars passing by.

Your intentions drift elsewhere, cold and unclear, While mine screams your name year after year.

You say 1’m important but only when needed, Only when your universe feels depleted.

I’m your constant eclipse blocking my own light, So you don’t have to sit with the dark of your night.

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You take my devotion, consumes what you can, Then call it coincidence, never a plan.

I want to leave, I swear I do, I want a horizon that isn’t you.

But my heart’s still caught in the vacuum we made, Where love learned to linger long after it’s frayed.

So I stay in this system, breaking apart, A dying star orbiting what’s left of your heart.

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Personal College Essay

By Audrey Schmitt I hear the motor stop and the car door open. Finally!

My dad was home from work. I ran to the garage door, waiting for him to take off his boots and come inside.

It was time to feed the fish! I had been looking forward to this moment all day. It was our daily routine to toss pellets into the goldfish pond when he got home from work. At the time I was in Pre-K, and shortly after we moved and had to leave my beloved pond behind, and with it, a happy memory and motivation to get through the school day, were lost as well.

Around three years later, we got another pet fish. My dad had come home from work on his birthday, and I had been setting up the house for the party all week.

I love celebrations, and I couldn’t wait for him to see all of my hard work. But he had a surprise for me as well! His coworker had brought back baby Bluegills for us. Surprises have always been a way that my family shows love for one another.

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Learning to clean the tank and feed the fish also taught me responsibility and compassion as I learned to care for living creatures. Helping others had always been a core value of mine, and this experience only deepened it.

Over time, those fish passed on. Middle school hit. A period of loneliness and a sense of not belonging flooded into my life. I had always been a bubbly and outgoing person, I had won citizenship awards, and I was always there for my classmates when they had tough days. But switching schools was a world of newness, while completely normal, not at all easy. The school I had switched to was a Pre-K through twelfth grade Catholic school, much different than my public elementary school. Most people already knew each other, making it difficult to make new friends. Not to mention, during my first year there, the pandemic began.

Things were even more confusing and I had no source of relief from the constant confusion that my world had become. But, I continued to help others during this time, cleaning the house and making smoothies for my family every morning to attempt to distract myself.

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Those years felt like forever, yet flew by, and as I entered high school, I still felt a longing for a source of serenity. In this fast paced world, I felt overwhelmed and lost. The only place I felt calm was at the park, where my dad and I rescued a baby turtle, leading to us adopting more fish to give him friends.

Little did we know, they would not be compatible and I had to nurse the fish back to health after multiple turtle attacks.

When my fish was all alone in a hospital tank, it reminded me of those middle school years, and I knew I needed to help.

Now, after getting fish from California, Maryland, and New York, and driving four hours to Pittsburgh to purchase a tank, the journey of having pet fish has brought my dad and I closer, and taught me many life lessons I have begun to utilize in my daily life.

No matter how tired I get of the twenty gallon water changes, or the costs of daily feedings, I always find joy in watching my carefree fish swim around so peacefully. Despite how challenging school work gets or how complicated my social life may be, I know that I can always come back to my happy little fish tank, where all things slow down and become simple yet again, similar to life when I was three years old, and for that I am forever thankful.

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A Letter to Senior Year

By Pamela Rodriguez Senior year — a time that’s supposed to be met with happiness and cheer is instead met with my sadness and fear.

Fear of the unknown and unseen.

Sadness because it is time for me to leave the place I have called home for the last four years of my life, a place full of memories and laughter, a place that shaped me, broke me, and built me back up.

The walls know my secrets, the halls echo with my footsteps, The classrooms still carry the sound of my voice.

Friends have come and gone, yet their shadows linger in the corners, reminding me of the moments I thought would last forever.

What will happen when I leave this place and know nothing of the place I’m going to, nothing of the world waiting for me?

It feels like I am standing at the edge of a cliff, forced to jump into a sky I cannot see.

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Senior year, please don’t end.

I have yet to make my amends.

There are words I haven’t said, dreams I haven’t chased, Goodbyes, I am not ready to say.

This year cannot end.

I’M SCARED! — scared, that life will flip me on my back and never let me get up. scared that I will never stop drowning. scared of losing myself in a world too big, too fast, too unknown.

So please, senior year, don’t end.

Because once you do, there is no coming back.

Once you do, I am no longer safe here.

Once you do, I am forced to grow wings I am not ready to use.

Senior year—don’t end, because if you do, I may never find myself again.

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Special Thanks Ms. Leddy - Club Moderator Kelsey Rook - Senior Editor and Co-President Bridget Feehely - Senior Editor and CoPresident Madison Robinson - Senior Editor Emily Hill- Editor Dr. Nazelrod - For 25 Years of Service And a very special thanks to all our contributors!

You make this magazine happen!

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