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Editorial Board Chloe Liu ‘20 Natasha Girshin ‘21 Max Bogen ‘21 Belma Ibrahimagic ‘21 Sadie Projansky ‘21 Skyler Rosenberg ‘21 Samantha Strauss ‘22 Zoe Droulias ‘23 Advisor Mr. Jonathan Ruelens Special Thanks Mr. Michael Wiesenfeld Ms. Emily Chase Ms. Laurie Silbersweig Cover artwork by Chloe Liu ‘20 Featured Artists Ariana Bevilacqua ‘21 Angelica Crespi ‘21 Grace Guthart ‘22 Sophia Nuce ‘21 Mỹ Mannucci ‘21 Jacey Hootstien ‘21 Luca Daly ‘21 MinKyu Kim ‘21

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Table of Contents:

I’m Running | Chloe Liu ‘20

Found Poem | Max Silber ‘20

Infection, likely American | Alexander Baysara ‘21

For Those in Peril | Natasha Girshin ‘21

Gravestone | Sadie Projansky ‘21

Behind the Curtains | Skyler Rosenberg ‘21

The Nautilus | Samantha Strauss ‘22

The Rooster Cafe | Zoe Droulias ‘23

The Windows to Our Soul | Emma Shamieh ‘21

A Treehouse Full of Memories | Erica Frenette ‘23

The Dark Documentation of the Farm

in Illinois | Ava Goldfarb ‘21

Mom | Julia Sporn ‘25

The Plot | Alex Rich ‘21

The Manipulating Man | Michaela Gary ‘21

Alone in Rome | Sam Sastry ‘23

Image | Stacey Soh ‘21

Departed | Kelly Hicks ‘21

Python | Eduarda Kovarsky Rotta ‘24

Miss. Kirsty | Anne Luna Rasmussen ‘22

My Hero | Chaz Jackson ‘21

The Ring | Isabella Halpern ‘21

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I’m Running Chloe Liu ‘20

Through the blizzard and the snow, Through the roaring of the wind And a million frozen tears. I’m swimming against the tides of the storm. With each step, my foot digs into the ground, Steady as a root of a hundred years. But the tyrannical wind growls at me And insults me. The yellow of its eyes pierces through the murk, then disappears. I’m marching through the territory of An invisible predator. It pecks at my eyes until I am blind, then swallows my voice. I breathe my last breath. It forms a cloud and evaporates Into the night.

Endless Escape

Ariana Bevilacqua ‘21

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Found Poem

Max Silber ‘20 Batman V.s Superman was a joke So was suicide squad Hating on the lego Batman movie Is as demented as Superman pulling the trigger on his villain Lego movie was a portal to childhood Lego batman movie is a portal to madness, Hate War Anarchy Darkness . Batman’s excitable lobster dinner is as hypnotic as a Pixar and Transformers war narrated by Mr. Arnett’s hypnotically sepulchral voice There is a nuking on a lobster He is nuked deliriously The trigger is unbounded Batman is zinging and pinging through the shiny lego bats .

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Infection, Likely American

For Those in Peril

Is the nation prepared? Coronavirus will likely begin on Tuesday. It’s not a question of when this will happen, says Nancy, but why Tuesday? The American public Is out of control says President Trump. Also on Tuesday. Officials, like Nancy, reported A spike in infections, In Italy, Europe, Milan, and Korea. The virus is real, And coming on Tuesday.

A poem inspired by “For Those in Peril,” a film directed by Paul Wright.

Alexander Baysara ‘21

Natasha Girshin ‘21

The devil in the ocean Ate me up from the inside. He trapped me in his stomach where Those in peril reside. The ships cut like knives Against veins through the stormy weather. The blood is pooling with the tides. The rain makes the water deeper, the devil Is turning red. At this point, those in peril Believe they’re left for dead. I’m afraid The ships never came. Those in peril Around me cried While the devil in the ocean Ate me up from the inside.

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Disharmony

Angelica Crespi â€˜21

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Gravestone

Sadie Projansky ‘21 My feet, planted to the ground carrying the burden of history, resting and unmoved. My dense cracked body, marking the eternal imprint they now make in this world. The engravings acting as my eyes, showing me Whom I represent, beginning to lose their value as the years fade on. When I am visited I am greeted with sadness, but as night falls, I am comforted by the stars. As the years pass, the familiar faces I once knew disappear, and I am now frequently met with laughter and secrecy. No longer am I dry with tears, but coated with an evil, crisp like ice. The legacy, no longer visible under the symbols of death and torture. As my eyes become blind with color, and my neighbors are destroyed, my purpose is no longer clear to me. I might have once been used as the mark of a life once lived, but I am now an empty slab, in need of an artist to remodel my respect, into disgust.

Behind the Curtains Skyler Rosenberg ‘21

Hide your eyes behind those lids In those eyes of yours, daylight shines while the fire burns out. In those eyes of yours, you will rest under the warm sun In those eyes of yours, you become lost in starry paradise But the curtains remain closed, so what do you Need? That’s for you to choose. You were cold, but there was no sun. You wanted music, but there was no sound. In search for water you drink from the filthy puddles Everyone else seems to run ahead screaming “hurray!” So hide your eyes behind those lids But the curtains remain closed. So what do you need? That’s for you to choose.

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The Nautilus

Samantha Strauss ‘22 At night, the old Gods buffet the beach with heaving sighs, bringing the boardwalk to life. They whip up waves and eddies, wind whistling through the spokes of the Ferris wheel like the delighted screams of children on a roller coaster’s decline. The locals whisper that some old, forgotten sea god manifests from the waves when the park is abandoned and rests his weary bones atop the ticket booth, mighty feet dangling like a toddler’s. Picture him here in the tanned, wrinkled faces of the seaside residents: old men who have lost their youth to the waves, the blue depths merging with their distant stares. Both the sun and age have bleached their hair, the glint of the waves in snarled curls, their voluminous beards the image of sea foam. See him in the gulls riding the winds, in the arch of their dives, in the drop of a mollusk from their beaks to the rocks below. It seems the sea itself is alive, that the clouds pulse with the breath of electricity. Anyone who has seen the way a breeze spins the embers of a bonfire, anyone who has smelled the salt of the ocean cutting through heady wood smoke cannot discredit the existence of this feeling. There is an unconscious awareness of the sand around you thrumming with life. You feel so large and yet so impossibly small against the vast, unseen force of the current. The crash of waves echoes off of the dunes, building on itself in an unyielding steady rhythm; a pulsing heart. Out of the corner of your eye, you could swear the ticket booth’s concrete roof seems saturated with salt water; the shadowy stain all that remains of some lone immortal and his forlorn stargazing.

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The Rooster Cafe Zoe Droulias ‘23 Chapter 1

Redwater was an odd little town, yet it was simple. It was always bustling with noise from the loads of people that lived there. The Rooster Cafe was the busiest coffee shop for miles. Inside were what seemed like thousands of people. All sorts of people sat in the Rooster doing whatever they did. There would be witches, vampires, authors, playwrights, songwriters, singers, band members, you name it. Everyone minded their own business and could care less for what those around them were doing. Occasionally, they would say “hi” to their neighbors or friends and speak with them for a while. They were warm and welcoming to one another, no matter who they were. If one accidentally bumped into another, they would say something heartwarming and pleasant. They would always invite others over to their house for a “small writers party” or a “book club meeting” or something that even the whole town would enjoy. Parties were a common favorite. But if others were sleeping, the neighbors would be caring enough to turn down the music or call it a night. Honestly, this town was perfect and nothing bad ever happened, nor did anything ever go wrong. Beatrice Peterson always spent her evenings in the Rooster. She thought it was quieter in the wee hours of the night. She always sat at a table with a cup of chamomile tea in one hand and a book in the other. The waiter, Paris Strickland, would always offer her one of the finest pastries that the Rooster Cafe had or the pastry of the day, but she always told him that she was fine with the book she was reading and her chamomile tea. She was very polite about it, too. She wouldn’t just say no while still reading her book. She looked up from her book at Paris with her glistening green eyes and a polite smile, telling him that she was fine. Paris would turn around and go back into the kitchen. In there, Beatrice wouldn’t know, nor would she care what happened. She always cherished her

nightly reading in the Rooster Cafe. The dim light from the candle on one of the panes above her head and on her table was comforting and pleasing. One night in December, Beatrice walked into the Rooster Cafe and took her usual chamomile tea at her usual table that was near the window. Paris, as usual, brought it over to her. She looked up from Restoration Of Hope by Charles Johnson. “Thank you very much, sir,” she said. Her strawberry colored hair fell nicely over her yellow flannel open over a gray top and jeans. “You’re very welcome, miss,” he answered. His black button-down shirt and pants brought out his blonde hair and blue eyes. He turned and swiftly walked back to the kitchen. She looked at her page in Restoration Of Hope and continued to read. She sat at her usual table for another few cups of chamomile tea and read through numerous other chapters. Paris came to her a little while later, and asked “More tea, miss?” She considered before answering. “I’d love to have some more tea and read for another few hours,” she answered, “but I really do have to get going.” Beatrice closed her book, placed it on the table and began to put on her overgarments. “Thank you for your service again, sir,” she said as she bowed her head and left the Rooster Cafe. Paris smiled as he watched her leave. Paris got ready to leave as well. As Paris vanished into the night, the chief chef closed the Rooster by blowing out all the candles and locking the front door.

Chapter 2 Early the next morning, Paris walked to the Rooster. There was the light of the sun that just began to rise, lighting the streets. The street lamps would be turned off soon, and the bustling of the Rooster would begin at any moment. Paris walked into the Rooster to get prepared for re-

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Grace Guthart ‘22 ceiving orders and serving those who were seated at tables. He got dressed in the backroom behind the kitchen. He was one of the many waiters that worked at the Rooster. “Paris!” a voice called. It was Louis Barnett, Paris’s closest friend at the Rooster. He was dressed in the waiters’ uniform just like Paris. “How was last night?” Paris looked down at the floor for what seemed like forever, but he finally responded. “It was fine.” “Nothing special happened?” Louis asked as he did a small enthusiastic jump. “Shhhh,” Paris whispered with a bit of a laugh. “I don’t want anyone else to hear!” “Come on, you’ve got to tell me at some point!” Paris exhaled. “Nothing happened.” “Dude,” Louis said. “You’re so close. Just ask her already. Tonight, okay?”

Paris nodded in agreement, his eyes wandering from the floor to Louis’s eyes. “Good,” Louis said as he patted Paris’s back. He looked out the opening in the kitchen and saw a small group of people walk in through the door. “Here’s our first group of the day!” Louis walked out of the kitchen to greet them. Paris stayed in the kitchen a little while longer. He watched Louis seat the group. Paris grabbed one of the pitchers of water that were on the counter and waited a couple of minutes before he brought the pitcher to the table. “Tap water?” Paris asked. “Please,” the girl sitting to the right of Paris said. Her strawberry colored hair and green eyes looked almost too familiar to Paris. He filled all four of their glasses with tap water and walked back to the kitchen at a slow pace so he could process where he recognized her from.

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Grace Guthart ‘22 “Ms. Peterson is here!” Paris whisper-yelled. “Who?” Louis asked in confusion. “Beatrice Peterson!” Paris whispered again. “The girl who comes here every night to read with her typical chamomile tea. She’s the girl with the red hair sitting closest to the kitchen on the right.” “That’s her?” Louis asked. He smiled at Paris. Paris blushed and studied the floor. A bell rang, signifying the ready food. “I’ve got to bring the food out. I’ll see what I can do.” “Louis!” Paris called. Raymond sighed. “He’s a handful!” Raymond Parker was the French Head Chef that worked at the Rooster. His French accent was minor and almost gone from living in Redwater Village. “I completely agree,” Paris said, still watching Louis at the table. There were more customers now than a few moments ago. Louis looked into the kitchen wanting more help from the overwhelming number of customers for a single waiter to handle. Theodore Parker, Edward Hawkins, and Stephan McCoy began to walk out to help. Of course, there were others in the kitchen. The five of them were the primary waiters, which meant that they sat customers and took their orders. Sometimes, they would even help bring out the food with the five

secondary waiters. “Come on, Paris!” Theodore called. “Quit daydreaming about that girl and let’s work, Paris!” Edward called. “Stick with the job and quit getting distracted. Come on, Paris!” Stephan called. Paris sighed, knowing that he had to stay focused on his job. He checked his pocket for his pad of paper and a few pens, then walked out of the kitchen to help the other primary waiters seat their guests. There weren’t any hosts or hostesses as the Rooster was considered a cafe. The sign at the front of the cafe said to wait for the waiters to seat them. The line formed where some of the pastries were displayed and sold, but the line always managed to go out the door and sometimes to the corner or a little farther on the best days for the Rooster. Although customers always took a while to eat, the others on the line were always willing to wait to be seated at a table or to just buy some of the delicious pastries being sold. The pastries were always fresh, as they were made every day. Customers always bought out all of the pastries before the Rooster closed. Occasionally, there were a few cinnamon rolls or apple turnovers or tartlets that were left over that the staff shared amongst themselves.

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The Windows to Our Soul Emma Shamieh â€˜21

I am shiny and brightly polished like a star. I look out onto speckless streets with flowers hung high On marvelous residences. My surface shows off the stylish individuals That stroll past the busy shops. The charming men dash past me Everyday, glancing at their swanky watches Suits, blouses, dresses and more, but never a mouse is To be found. On the inside, I display a luxurious emporium Containing every jewel a woman would desire Occasionally, women will peer into me While fixing their lipstick or hair A few women always look closely at their skin Looking to find something substantial within Cracks and smudges are what make my vision blurry. Yet, I can always see the bittersweet man Who sits across the street This man is like my watch as he tells me when it is day and night. When it is day, he sits upright shaking slightly If it is night he lies on the street snuggling a thinly shredded sheet His small movements are like a clock ticking in the background With his voice being drowned His bearded face hides his mouth which rarely appears to smile In a way, the man and I have the same lifestyle People ignore him just like they ignore me Nobody bothers to look at us even if he pleas Yet his cup is held high begging somebody for something substantial.

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A Treehouse Full of Memories Erica Frenette ‘23

As we drove away from our house for the last time, I glanced over the neighbour’s hedge and caught one last glimpse of my treehouse’s cedar shingles and the antlers over the door. I could still smell the fresh coat of varnish we put on the week before our move. In that moment it finally hit me that the next time I would enter the treehouse would be four years from now and I would be a young adult. As I leaned against the car window, all of the memories I had made building and playing in the fort started rolling through my mind. But really I wasn’t just driving away from a pile of wood nailed together, I was driving away from four years of unforgettable childhood memories. It all started when my grandpa came to visit my family in Berlin, bringing a suitcase of small sticks of wood and a how-to book on tree house building. He and I spent multiple hours building a two foot tall 3D model. Since my grandpa had spent over forty years building hundreds of exquisite wooden canoes, he was so happy to share his love of creating things with his grandchildren. The summer after moving back to Canada, my dad and I spent the entire summer building the treehouse based on our model from Berlin. Rather than renovating the bathroom like my mom wanted, my dad spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours building us an idyllic treehouse. And a well-, or over-, built treefort it was. We started off by digging six huge holes in the ground for wooden posts that rose ten feet in the air. Then we built a ten by six foot platform, added plywood walls, and finished it off with a brown corrugated plastic roof. The exterior walls of the treehouse were covered with cedar shingles. Every summer we used to drag bags of red cedar mulch around the side of the house to cover the ground underneath the treehouse. Now, whenever I’m in the country and I get a whiff of cedar trees, I am nostalgic for the distinct smell.

As my dad drove off our street, I remembered scaling up the seven wooden stairs and looking up at the antlers given to us from my great uncle. When opening the door, I used to read all names written across the inside of the door. My younger brother, Grant, wanted every person who entered to sign their name. We had around forty names scribbled on the door. Grant even wanted to connect a zipline from our second story bedroom window all the way across the backyard into the treehouse. While my parents encouraged us to be adventurous Grant’s idea was a definite no go. Stepping through the door, on the right hand side was a navy blue hammock hung from one end to the other. There was a secret hiding spot with an opening built beneath the carpet where my brother would hide his Halloween candy. When I used to lay in the hammock and look up, I would see the Canadian map and a string of fairy lights. Meanwhile, the left wall was covered in ski hill stickers and a trap door leading to a rope ladder. The treehouse was big enough that we could sleep five kids in it and I was able to stand up inside. The treehouse had four screened-in windows - two that looked on the treehouse’s porch, one that looked into the wooded ravine behind our house and one that overlooked our backyard. We used the treehouse in every season - from jumping off the stairs into a pile of fresh snow to swinging on the tire swing during the warm summer days. However, I especially miss the summer days when I would laze on my hammock in the treehouse and read books. My cat, Poppy, loved to come out to the treehouse as well and would sit in the window admiring the birds. Even today, the smell of an occasional barbeque in New York reminds me of my dad cooking burgers on the patio next to the treehouse. As a modern touch, the treefort even had wifi. We could blast our favorite music or watch Netflix on a rainy day in the treefort

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as the rain made pattering noises on the roof. Although I do miss hanging out in my treehouse, itâ€™s more that I miss all the amazing memories that I have gained. Between designing a 3D model, building the treehouse and reading on the hammock, I had so many good times in the treehouse. The wood is not important to me, it is the time I spent with my grandpa and dad building the treehouse. Years ago, I would have nev-

er thought that my grandpa bringing a howto book about treehouses would be a harbinger of all my memories that have come. Next summer while visiting Ottawa I hope to add one more coat of varnish so the treehouse can have many more years to come. Maybe, when the work is done, Iâ€™ll even have a chance to lay back in the hammock, close my eyes, and doze off for a bit listening to the the birds in the trees around my beloved treehouse.

The Slight

Sophia Nuce â€˜21

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The Dark Documentation of the Farm in Illinois Ava Goldfarb ‘21

Galena, Illinois. Really the most goddamn boring town in the whole country. Surrounded by dull brown farmland that seemed to stretch right off into the horizon; with no escape to the rest of the world. I’ve never left the state but I want to get out as soon as I can. College in New York City or sun-kissed California. Literally anywhere but his hell hole. Our town’s revenue comes from farming and ... well, the one interesting thing in our town. The unsolved barnyard murders. Basically, in the 1950s there was this guy, Joe Harner, who owned a massive stretch of land. I mean massive like 100 acres. So with all this land, he had a “zoo” that you could pay 25 cents to get in and see all of these exotic animals. This guy had giraffes, elephants, zebras, sea lions, and sharks. Every animal that definitely shouldn’t be in an Illinois winter. So in the winter, all the animals were corralled into a massive barn and the sea creatures were taken to an indoor tank. Anyway, the whole town loved it. However, all this weird shit kept happening. Since this “zoo” was meant to be wandered through like some wild safari, kids kept going missing. Never a good sign. Well 35 kids eventually went missing and only after the 29th kid did the FBI open an investigation. Oh, but Joe had disappeared. Into thin air, there was a nationwide search. Joe was never found. And the bodies were never discovered, the case never solved. So let me tell you a really good story. Like some Scooby Doo meddling kids shit. So let’s introduce the gang. May: true-crime podcast freak, best friend since grade one, has long black hair, freckles, and green eyes. Mario: sits next to me in math and is a certifiable genius, we became friends last year, tan skin with adorable curly hair and big brown eyes. Ophelia: amateur photographer and videographer, small blonde with blue eyes, my neighbor. And me: a girl with a love for writing murder

mystery novels, crazy curly hair and a tan, about to tell you a great story. It started one day in May’s basement, all of us doing homework. Mario started the conversation on the barnyard murders “You know it’s the sixty-fifth anniversary.” “The town has such an obsession with those murders” Ophelia quipped. “Well yeah, it’s our only source of revenue for the true-crime freak visits.” May shot a look at Mario, “Freaks! How dare you.” She chucked a pillow at his face. “Well, who wants to come to the farm with me?” I wanted to write a college essay so profound NYU would have to accept me. The room went silent. “Nina, are you nuts?” May gave me an incredulous look. “The lengths this girl will go to for writing material” Ophelia had been quiet. “Well, I did want to go do a mini-doc about the farm so I’ll come.” “May come on, its a real-life murder scene you have to come.” She tucked her long black hair behind an ear and stuck out her tongue. “Fine! But if it gets too creepy I’m out.” Our attention turned to Mario, “Hey buddy ... all we need is a truck.” His eyebrows arched and he shook his curls. “Absolutely not, my mom would kill me if she knew I went to the Farm.” Ophelia, May and I started to beg. “C’mon Rio don’t be such a baby.” He gave a signature smirk and grabbed me by my middle and pulled me close. “Nina I don’t take much convincing. I really want to go, and my mom can’t kill me if I’m already dead.” Success! I had my team. It was dusk, the pale orange sun setting over the plains. I crawled out of my window onto the roof. I slid down the point and climbed down a trellis, shaking as I felt the white painted wood wobble. I let myself drop the last few feet and felt my boot thud onto the cold mud. I had to walk down my driveway where Mario was waiting in his truck with May and Ophelia. The first bite of fall tinged my lungs and I was happy I was smart enough to pile on the layers.

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The rust-colored Ford pickup stalled at the end of my dirt path. I hopped in the back seat and swung my backpack to the floor. Ophelia smiled and showed me her Camcorder and GoPro setup on her chest. May sat in the front nervously biting her lip. “I really don’t understand why we have to go at night, it just seems like the plot to a horror movie.” I leaned forward between the passenger seat and gave May a smile “stop worrying, I have my dagger.” A collective groan sprung up from my friends. The dagger had been an ongoing joke for years now. I bought a legitimate medieval knife from a renaissance fair and had used it for “self-defense” for years. “Nina I don’t know who you’re kidding with that thing if anything I have my baseball bat.” May sucked in a breath. “Don’t worry Mario won’t need to use the bat.” I squeezed her hand and she loosed a breath. “Your right, absolutely nothing is going to go wrong.” I tied the leather band around my waist and put my dagger in the scabbard and Ophelia started up her camera. “Checking, action, one, two, three, Nina with her nerdy sword.” I rolled my eyes “No comments at this time!” “Okay, seriously can you do the intro for the doc?” I smiled, Ophelia’s work was always spectacular, last summer we had gone on a road trip to a pond two hours away. She filmed the whole trip, the video made our mundane trip into the adventure of a lifetime. Mario and May got out of the car, Mario with an enormous headlamp on his forehead and a metal baseball bat swinging by his side. May smiled tentatively and took my hand. As I mentioned before, the farm was huge. We hiked through the dark, plowing through overgrown fields. I started to shiver as the cold wormed its way through the seams of my clothes. Ophelia turned the camera on May, “Now for our expert, please tell us the twisted tale of the barnyard murders.” May’s eyes lit up and she launched

into the explanation. “In June of 1951 Joe Harner opened up a makeshift farm, by August of that summer two children disappeared into the cornfields, never to be seen again.” “Ooo excellent sound bite May.” Ophelia prompted her to go on, Mario flashed a grin and took my ice-cold hand in his. “Two years later the disappearances continued but for some strange reason people STILL visited the farm. Finally on the night of November 3, 1954, the FBI raided the farm, where they found a massive barn with a tank and stables for all the animals, however, Joe was gone without a trace, and no bodies were ever found.” “Perfect, I’m using this as a voice-over when I do a pan of the farm.” “Nina looks at the stars.” Mario was gazing straight up, a big smile on his face. In all honesty, the only thing I liked about my home was the stars. In New York, there are no stars, just a weird brown tinge to the night sky. After a solid hour of trudging through the cold, we made it to the Barn. The red paint was peeling off, the roof was half caved in. It was enormous, it was at least the size of a football field. There was a wrought iron gate flung open and falling off the hinges. For the first time, I felt genuinely afraid. I squeezed Mario’s hand, he sent back two. “Mario light the entrance for my shot.” Mario let go and pulled the industrial flashlight out of his bag and shined it on the entrance.” “Okay, let’s go in.” May strode through the black iron, back straight with her head held high. It was huge and definitely dangerous, old stables and equipment, a rusty pole poking up from the ground. It really got interesting when we discovered the tank. It was huge and oval-shaped, ten feet high, made of concrete and filled with water. “Nina ... if this place has been abandoned for sixty-five years, how is there water?” Dread crawled over my skin. There was absolutely no way for the tank to be filled without someone or something maintaining it.

SCINTILLA Against all better judgment, we all climbed to the rim of the pool. Ophelia flipped on the camcorder. “Where did the water come from, it’s clean, who filled the tank”. May scrunched her nose, Mario looked grim. I watched as May stood up from a crouch and lost her balance, tumbling into the inky black water. Instantly Mario was pulling off his shoes then his shirt. Ophelia screamed and I screamed. Where is she, it’s been too long, she can swim. A splash as Mario dove in, I grabbed the flashlight and turned it to the swirling black water. Not Mario too. “Ophelia, wait I’m going in.” “Do not! I will not be left alone and Mario is a strong swimmer.” *** It had been 10 minutes. They were dead. They had to be dead. I had tried calling the cops several times but there was no cell service. This was a stupid stupid idea. I killed May, I killed Mario. All of this just so I could write a goddamn essay. “Nina, we have to go. We have to get help.” Mario burst through the inky black pit with a sharp inhale. “We have to go back down there, right now.” I had never felt more relief, “where’s May!” His breathing heavy Mario sputtered, “She’s back down there, we have to go back.” “Ophelia get ready to turn on your camera but for now put the camcorder in my backpack, it’s waterproof.” “Mario, are you insane we have to go get help.” “JUST LISTEN TO ME, just listen. May is okay, I’ll explain when we get down there.” It turns out “down there” was a secret chamber hidden in the pool. May had fallen in and tripped a lever during her fall that opened a gaping hole in the cement. The current had dragged her and Mario into a concrete chamber. “Nina, it’s new, someone was here recently.” Ophelia’s eyes darted back and forth. “We can’t stay here if that’s true, it’s not safe” and May was alone down there, by herself. “Mario, we have to go get May, she’s alone by herself down there.” “I know, that’s why we need to hurry.” He began to

shove his shoes into his backpack frantically. “The current was too strong for her to swim against, the only way out for her is through the tunnel.” “I would love to say that I could save her but here are the facts: You and Ophelia can’t drive, there is no cell service, and May is alone. If we want to get out we go together” I stood with my bare feet on the concrete, it was ice cold. “When you jump, try to sink down, the current is going to be strong, just stay calm.” He looked at me, brown eyes wild and fearful, he took my hand and kissed me. “When we get out of here, let’s stop pretending and go on a date already.” I heard the splash as Ophelia jumped. He jumped too and pulled me into the dark pool, the water was crushing, my lungs tense and suddenly this force dragged me down, deeper and darker. I screamed and my lungs burned, I needed air. Mario was gone, and Ophelia was too as we were dragged deeper and deeper. “Nina, Nina, NINA.” I woke up to see May leaning over me, her hair hanging like a curtain. The room came into focus, grey concrete, and a shelf full of ... beach towels? “Where are we?” May, wrapped in a floral beach towel, sat down next to me on the glossy grey concrete. “We don’t know, all we do know is that we - I - can’t get out from where we came.” “May there was no way I was leaving you down here, we’re going to all get out together.” Mario hefted his bat and flashed me a tense smile, avoiding my eyes. He kissed me ... and I wanted to kiss him. I schooled my through process quickly considering we are all currently trapped in a secret chamber under the ground. Ophelia flicked out her camera and started to pan around the room. A smaller pool where we came in from, sparse industrial walls, the shelves full of beach towels, and a long dark and ominous hallway. I stood up and walked towards it. A line of bright fluorescent bulbs clicked and lit up one by one illuminating the harsh concrete walls. Mario walked up to me and called May and Ophelia over. I took his hand and May’s. Ophelia took Marios’s other hand. “It looks like we are going

2020 to have to walk out of this.” “Together.” Ophelia gritted her teeth and repeated “together.” May exhaled softly and whispered, “together.” Mario squeezed my hand and said

“together.” And so we set off into the unknown, unforeseeable, life altering danger lying ahead of us.

Drowning in Silence

Mỹ Mannucci ‘21

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Mom

Julia Sporn ‘25 Now when people think of their mom the thought could vary. Good or bad to some. But my mom is a mix of both but for extraordinary reasons, some that experience is the only way to understand. When I think of my mom I see a strong, bold, amazing, thoughtful, generous, kind woman. But behind all of that, there are mountains of pain that are unimaginable. From the start of my life, my mom and I were close as can be, we loved each other like a lot of mothers and daughters did. I trust her. Later in our relationship, I noticed she would get more and more upset as the days went by. I could sense it as cliche as that sounds. By this time my mom had broken up with my dad and was starting their tortuous journey called divorce. When I saw my mom over the span of the 4 years of the divorce I could sense this tension inside of her. It was no longer light, sunny and happy on the inside and out. It was a mask now, a hard, shiny, cracked, plastic mask. Since this mask was cracked I could see holes through it sometimes no matter how hard she tried to glue it back together. I wanted to help her but I’m no artist, and I’m not great at puzzles either. And she only had one mask the one with the big grin, nothing to replace it. Behind it was the worst

thing a daughter would want to see on their precious, one of a kind mom. Aching, agony, misery, hurt, wounds. She had dripping mascara behind the perfect makeup painted on the mask. I saw the pain through the cracks. When she locked the door to her room I saw the pain through the crack under the door. I couldn’t help, that absolutely killed me. It also killed me that I didn’t know why she was so sad. So I thought I had to search for reasons. I would peak over her shoulder when she would be texting someone and she would yell at me because she hates when people snoop. But sometimes I saw things when she didn’t notice. Like when I’m looking over her shoulder or when I’m using her phone for something and a text pops up. These things conclude of damaging, malicious, nasty texts from someone who she once trusted. Blame, criticism and lies. All for authority. But the reason she wears this mask is to keep me, my brother, and my sister strong from the same person who was hurting her who we all trusted. Now the real reason I’m talking about my mom influencing me is that she stayed strong for all those years for me and my siblings even though she was getting the worst of it. That’s why she is my rock, my superhero, my inspiration, my mom.

2020

A Girl and the Stars Sophia Nuce ‘21

The Plot

Alex Rich ‘21 They shape your life to the fullest extent. They tell you your destiny in front of your face. They control all the time you spent, And you fear of becoming a disgrace. To the ones who put the trust in you, But what if you can’t and you fail, And they will never be proud of you. You don’t match with their scale, And you realize you really cannot. You sacrificed everything in your life, And destroyed your loved ones plot. You and your loved ones then have strife, And you are left alone to rot, Because in reality they are all you got.

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The Manipulating Man Michaela Gary ‘21

Joseph Stalin, The manipulating man. Joseph Stalin, The manipulating man. Stalin said the Union would match the West. ‘Socialism in one Country’ was the phrase. Stalin said the Union would be the best. The country would become Communist in their own ways. Everyone works for the Communist state. Everyone shares, therefore there is no hate. Women work too. A trend that grew. Capitalism exploits workers, Capitalism exploits women. Capitalism is male-driven, And no hand outs are given. 1929, the Union must rival the West. Increase heavy industry, make the Union the best. Concentratie on coal and oil, The state of the Union must not spoil. In 1928, the Gain Crisis left people starving. There was a dramatic increase in free market pricing. There was a dramatic decrease in grain deliveries to the state. Stalin said mass collectivism would be great. Ryutin called for the end of collectivisation, And the dismissal of Stalin from the administration. His document was signed by Kamenev and Zinoviev. All three were expelled from the Committee, And the expulsion of a million more Ryunites followed. With opposition gone, Stalin continued with his goals. Living standards improved and production rose. The union became self-sufficient in the steel and iron market. A fully socialist economy was the target. Aleksei Stakhanov helped the Union reach its goals. From him the Stakhanovite Movement arose. Model workers receive higher bonuses, and a material advantage. ‘ H e roes of Socialist Labour’ m a d e p r o d u c t i o n e a s i e r t o m a n a g e . There was a decrease in labour, so goals weren’t always reached on time. The new family law included a rising fee,

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For divorce! And abortion was allowed for medical reasons only! The Great Purge, Of 1936. There was a surge, Of trials against leading communists. They were labeled enemies, Of Stalin and the Union. Kamenev and Zinoviev were both executed. Stalin believed murder was the best solution. The Terror followed the Purge, Expulsions, trials, imprisonments and executions surged. Administrators, specialists, and workers were denounced. Some people were afraid to leave their house. Loyalty to the State and Stalin. The country works together. All in! Religion is a crime. In church you may not spend your time. No pilgrimages to Mecca, Or you will be killed by the Cheka. If one survive the Terror, They might survive the World War. Stalin signed the non-aggression pact. Assuredly Hitler would not attack.

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Alone in Rome Sam Sastry â€˜23

My body shut down and the room went into a blur as a dark realization came upon me. I peered over my left shoulder to see my dad descending down the escalators, I quickly looked over my other shoulder to see my mum giving her passport to the stewardesses. My heart dropped inside of my empty body, my mouth made noise that I was unaware of and my mumâ€™s bag dropped to the floor. The noise suddenly intensified in the room, my mum was frantically asking me questions as phones were ringing and pens were clicking. I dropped to my knees and ran my trembling hands through every compartment of my little bag, but it was nowhere to be seen. Earlier that day, me, my mum, and my dad said our goodbyes to Rome as we prepared for the long journey we had ahead of us, which was about 16 hours of traveling. We had spent a week in Rome where we stayed in a little apartment overlooking the Tiber. The time we spent in Rome had been excellent, from gazing at beautiful sights to sitting in the local coffee shop where I would have fresh blood orange juice and a miniature overcooked slice of pizza. I did not care though, because to me, it tasted beautiful. One night in Rome, something rather unfortunate happened. As we were entering the apartment we were staying in, the key got stuck in the door lock. There was nothing that could be done about it. The time was close to midnight, but luckily enough the owner of the apartment lived on the floor below. We knocked on her door and told her the problem, but she was of no help to us. All she said was that someone would fix it in the morning. She then turned around, walked back downstairs and closed the door to her apartment. So there we were, alone in Rome, with no place to stay, wandering the streets with not a clue of what to do. I was only 13 at the time, and I was quite scared. I

started shaking while sitting on a bench which was showered with light from the street lamp above. I simply could not compose myself. Panic started to kick in as my parents unsuccessfully tried to find places for us to stay, I was fearing that we would have to sleep on the streets. My mum eventually found a place for us to stay and we walked a mile at 1 am to go and find this hotel. We finally found it. After Rome, we went to an island in Italy called Sardinia for another week, where the sea was clear and the sky was bright. We spent most of our days that week on the beach, but one day, when it was rainy, we stayed in. I ate ham and cheese sandwiches and blood orange juice until my stomach hurt. We eventually returned to Rome for one night so we could get a direct flight back to New York, and we stayed in a cozy but rather eerie seaside hotel. On the morning of the flight, my dad rounded up the luggage as my mum gathered the passports, meanwhile I was half asleep trying to munch on a croissant. My parents were reflective on leaving but I was excited as I had camp the next day in New York, which I had been looking forward to for months. At the airport my mum handed my passport to me as we were walking to customs, and I placed it in the side pocket of my black Adidas backpack. After half an hour of standing in line, it was my turn, so I reached into my backpack pocket, grabbed my passport, and handed it to the customs officer. He looked at it, stamped it, and smiled back at me. I stood there for a while a little bit confused but the man eventually told me to move on. Soon enough, it was time to board. My dad handed in his passport and walked on, next I reached into my backpack pocket to retrieve my passport again, but it was not there. So I checked my other pocket. Nothing. I checked my pants pockets. Nothing. At that moment it was as if my whole body had temporarily shut down. I managed to squeeze the news out of my mouth

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only just loud enough for my mum to hear. She soon alerted the stewardesses. My dad descended down the escalator unaware while everything went into panic. The next hour was a blur, the only thing I remember doing was panicking. All that did was delay the process of finding my passport. Eventually my passport was retrieved, but I had missed my flight, as well as my opportunity to go to camp. We left the airport (without my dad who had taken off) and my mum and I were once again alone in Rome, but we made the

most of the time we had left in the Beautiful city. We dropped off our luggage at the hotel we had booked and went out. We went to a cafe which was placed outside of the Pantheon, which was an ancient round building that was famous for the way it let light in through a hole in the roof. We sat in the outside portion of the cafe so we could see the building. I ordered a blood orange juice and drank it while gazing at the Pantheon, in the back of my mind I knew I was going to miss camp, but at that moment, I did not care one bit.

Monkey Bars

Jacey Hootstein â€˜21 25

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Image

Stacey Soh ‘21 I am a square, lying on the floor. I can be found in a home or a gym where aliens come to step on me. Young and old, Big and small, Short and tall from the ground, I see them all. What I reflect is a number that fluctuates from alien to alien. All I see, are big eyes, Staring down at me. I am voiceless and weak. Pushed aside when not needed. I do not enjoy being stepped on as if I was a piece of trash “STOP!” I cry. Each alien hangs a chart above me, comparing the number I reflect to their desired goal. They leave with their head hung low “ARRETE!” Je crie (shout). Day by day they try again, being as stubborn as mules. Never giving up. “STANNA!” Jag ber (beg). As the number decreases My worry increases, but the smile on their face Grows and grows. “PARA!” Eu apelo (plea). I am as powerless as an infant. Watching in silence. Waiting for the aliens to finally accept, What I reflect.

qui sommes-nous? Luca Daly ‘21

2020

Departed

Python

Each autumn, the last leaves sorrowfully tumble to the ground as summer grieves, its complaints now drowned. Its viridescence is gone.

The Christians hunt us with hidden claws. First, they discreetly take the weak. They come to our land, our Umuofia The contrast of white in black written with uli They feast on our women And they turn to women our men They plant a seed, lay an egg Black of skin inside a wall of white Our children become His children They break us like a kola nut. Shame the devil and the father, Our blood seeps like palm wine My blood, the blood of a snake:

Kelly Hicks ‘21

As winter draws near, the leaves disappear, as fog shadows the distance. The spring approaches. Flowers blossom on branches. Yet the spring is rested in winter with you gone.

Eduarda Kovarsky Rotta ‘24

a python. The Father The Son The Holy Spirit I do not shame the deceiver But in Chukwu’s name, I thank the Christians: their decision between dark and light. For a son who betrays his name Is truly the son of God

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Miss. Kirsty

Anne Luna Rasmussen ‘22 Dear Miss. Kirsty, I’m aware that I haven’t written to you in a long time; last was probably 8 years ago. I was recently reminded of you; I found the letters you gave to me as extra English credit. The one with the British flag and the other one with the pink cupcake, with your swirly letters covering the back. I also remember the lessons we had with you and how you would read to us. I remembered the day you came in and presented yourself as the new English teacher. The classroom always smelling slightly of hot food, with our “artwork” hanging on the walls along with the alphabet. You moved your arms a lot when you talked, always demonstrating what it was you were saying. You talked about where you were from, your family and where you had previously taught children English. You, of course, mentioned how excited you were to teach us English and I remember thinking to myself, how can anyone be this excited about English? Granted I was new to the language and only in second grade plus I was learning German at the same time. Little did I know the profound impact that a language can have on you. The lessons with you were amusing and lively. One of my clearest memories was how pretty your handwriting was. My handwriting looked drunk at the time and I remember I would look up at the whiteboard, at your swirly letters I could look at all day. I especially remember the almost joyful, rounded Ys. Dare I say it is the prettiest handwriting a teacher of mine has ever had. Another specific lesson I remember with you is the day you taught me to spell because. You walked over to the whiteboard and sat down at the little stool and asked us all to come over and sit on the brown carpet. I distinctly remember you saying you were tired of children spelling because like “becase” or becose” and that you had a trick on how to spell it correctly. “In your head say, Big Elephants Can Always Understand Small Elephants and then you have because.” I have to admit I still mumble it to myself when I spell it out today. I even

passed it on to my little brother who just started second grade. An extraordinary lesson I had with you was the time you read us The Twits by Roald Dahl. I remember you had little costumes you would put on while reading a certain character. A medium length, messy, and brown beard with little flakes of fake food glued into it for Mr. Twit, a glass eye for Mrs. Twit and a monkey mask for the monkeys. Your voice would also change as you read the certain characters, a very low voice for Mr. Twit, a shrill voice for Mrs. Twit and a cute little one for the monkeys. I remember all the laughter in the room when you read to us and how you would move around and really get into character. We all looked forward to when you would read to us. A specific and quite memorable time you read to us was the day you jumped on the table. You were reading as one of the monkeys when you got carried away and you quite suddenly leapt onto one of the desks. I remember the clack sound your shoes made as they hit the wooden desk, and another one when you jumped back down. We all looked around at each other with very similar shocked expressions. At school, I remember the teachers would give out awards at the end of the week for a student who has shown excellence academically, socially or any of the IB learner profiles I remember being repeated all the time. I was much more ambitious when I was younger and did almost everything in order to win one. I was behaving very much like a front-runner. I, of course, didn’t win the award with all my teacher’s pet tactics and I lost all hope. One day during English lessons we were completing a worksheet. When I went up to get it checked, you applauded me saying I spelled everything correctly. I felt proud at that moment but it wasn’t a big deal to me after. At the end of that week, it was time for the awards. To brush off the status of them I had made sure to tell my mom they

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were ridiculous, unfair and only fluent English speakers had a chance. I wasn’t really paying attention when you got up there to present the award for the second graders. You said that this student always displayed enthusiasm in class and excellence in the content we were learning. All of a sudden I heard my name. I looked up and you were holding my worksheet and an award. I remember feeling dazed, surprised and confused at first but then the overwhelming happiness came flowing in as I walked up to obtain this “prestigious” award. I remember clutching the smooth, laminated and golden award throughout the rest of the assembly.

As I mentioned, I still have the letters you gave me. I remember being a little shocked when you gave me a letter and not a worksheet like I was expecting when asking for extra work. Little did I know I would be cherishing a big British flag and a little pink cupcake for eight years. I haven’t kept the award, it seemed meaningless when we moved, but the letters I keep in the cupboard above my closet in my room. I now understand and admire the enthusiasm you had in the beginning; your love for the English language and its abundant literary techniques.

A Girl in STEM

Angelica Crespi ‘21 29

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My Hero

Chaz Jackson ‘21 A week and a half before my eighth birthday, I demanded that my mom would take me to see Man of Steel. I wanted my dad and some of my friends from class to be there with me. My mom agreed and for the next week and a half, I stayed with my dad even though I was never allowed to be at his house. We played games, ate cake and stayed up past my bedtime! His house was way better than my mom’s and he never made me eat vegetables or do homework, as my mom did. I wished I stayed with him all the time, He was my hero. After a week and a half, it was my birthday. We went to see the movie and I had a blast. Now, I’m 18 and I haven’t heard from my dad in 4 years. Looking back on it, I realize he was never really around, and I understand the sacrifices that my mom made for me to be happy. She is my Superman.

Walking

MinKyu Kim ‘21 30

2020

The Ring

Isabella Halpern ‘21 “Oi Vovo!”, My tiny voice rang as She emerged from the steamy bathroom, to find Me already tucked into Her bed. The faded green towel She was wrapped in, Behind the Wedding ring She wore, despite her divorce in My mother’s youth, Cuffed her tan finger. Freckled skin, Marks of the sun’s kisses, Jump out around the tall White dresser doors where She stood. The deep wooden handles Blending with her sturdy grasp.

My mothers many years prior. Its cool tinge molded to My finger as it slid on Seamlessly, Resting upon my Slender knuckles. The minute stone sparking Against the dull gold band. An infinite loop, An endless cycle. Little does it know, It might end up in a box again. Only emerging to find a new Companion.

Again she emerges from the bathroom. Dull pyjamas hanging from Her body, the pattern Indistinguishable in the dim light From years of use. She once saw them tight on My mothers figure as she carried Me and my brother into the world. Perhaps, only the silky texture remained. Gliding into the bed next to me, I sat still in my cold seat, I was miles away now. The fine hand in front of me differs hers, while holding the same complexion. Hovering above the cool metal box In the harsh white light of the Secluded room, Rusty hinges whine as The hand emerges from within. My mothers grasping hand releases, Dainty gilded metal drops into My palm. The same as it had dropped from My grandmothers palm into

Scintilla 2020