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Forman School

Literary Arts Journal Volume 7 | May 2022

Forman School 12 Norfolk Road | P.O. Box 80 | Litchfield, CT 06759-0080 860.567.8712 | www.formanschool.org

“Every time I have had a problem, I have confronted it with the ax of art.” ~Yayoi Kusama, contemporary artist

Student Editors Letters As someone who has been an editor for the literary arts journal for the last two years and has been submitting since their freshman year, I have to say this year is one of my favorites. The submissions are so deep and it’s incredible to see all of the perspectives displayed by my fellow peers. This year's journal has given students the ability to express themselves in such an artistic manner. Coming out of a pandemic is one of the most challenging things “we” have been through. Having the beauty of art and literature to express ourselves makes us able to find a creative outlet and produce deep and complex pieces no one else has. I’m so excited to see what the future of the literary arts journal becomes and it’s my happy last send off. Thank you for having this platform to let me grow. I will truly miss it. - Stephania Bendek '22 We, the Student Editors of the Forman School Literary Arts Journal, which ironically contains works of both literary and artistic musings, hope to have served you well in the coming pages. In other words, we mean to have properly and candidly represented the minds, eyes, and hands of our peers in their pursuit to bear a fraction of their soul to the community of readers at large. Let this be a display of the manifold breeds of intelligence—independent of academe—that have the capacity to flourish and inspire. - Elizabeth Mazzarelli '22 As a Student Editor, it's an honor to read and see all the amazing work from fellow Forman students. We had an overwhelming amount of submissions and it was very difficult to pick what would go into the Journal. I wish we could include everything. Although we couldn't include every submission, we worked together to put together a collection of the best pieces from our Forman community. I hope you all enjoy the 2022 literary arts journal. - Jayme Morse '23 As a community we have unique talents that are shown throughout this journal in a wide range of creative work from all forms of art, many of which are a first for the journal this year. I want to thank everyone for submitting their work and for putting themselves out there for the community to look at and appreciate. Also congratulations to everyone who got pieces into the journal this year as your time and effort is well spent and much appreciated. - Elisa Vittori '22

Table of Contents Sunset 1 by Molly Brooks '23

Fruits of My Labor by Eleanor Mollica '23

43-44

Sunset 2 by Molly Brooks '23

Sustainable Fashion by Stephania Bendek '22

I Am by Jeanine Blakeman '23

The Satisfaction of the Star Runner by Eleanor Mollica '23

Green Bowl by Sam Fettig '24

Love Letter to the Moon by Eleanor Mollica '23

Mermaid by Stephania Bendek '22

Sunrise Skate by Ryan Langan '22 48

Letter to My Future Self by Samantha Rosenfeld '23

Wake Up to Reality by Isaiah Samboy '24

Charcoal Thoughts by Anna Mason '22 7-8

Love, Life, Legacy by Andrew Specter '23

I Believe in God by Ishbel Craig '23

9-10

Prefect Speech by Henry White '22 51

Untitled by Phoebe Langan '25

Motion 2 by Angelu Jimeno '24 52

Home by Jeanine Blakeman '23

Helpful Baskets by Elisa Vittori '22 53-54

I Was by Elisa Vittori '22

Ice Mushroom by Stephania Bendek '22

Three Looks by Stephania Bendek '22

Letter to My Past Self by Samantha Rosenfeld '23

Ghost by Ishbel Craig '23 15-16

Haunted Donner Lake Train Tunnels by Jessica Martin '24

57-58

Reykjavik Street Food by Miles Fischman '23

Male Gaze by Isabella Smith '22 59

My Best Friends by Anna Cassidy '24

This is My Family by Ishbel Craig '23 60

Curve by Isabella Smith '22 19

Home by Ishbel Craig '23 61

Flower Girl by Isabella Smith '22

Big Clouds by Ishbel Craig '23 62

Left In the Wind by Isabella Smith '22

The Blue Lions by Michael Ferris '22 63

The Clock Was Ticking by Brielle Anderson '23

21-22

Sea, Sand, Sky by Molly Brooks '23 64

The Carousel by Ishbel Craig '23

23-34

The Return by Eleanor Mollica '23 65-66

I Choose Therefore I am by Alden Steinberg '24

Holly Lights by Ryan Langan '22 67

Handmade Wood-topped Table by Sam Fettig '24

Hilltop by Elisa Vittori '22 68

I Will Be Working Toward My Goal by Elisa Vittori '22

Icelandic Punk Museum by Miles Fischman '23

Love Battle by Mariée Voss '24

Earth’s Door by Michael Ferris '22 71

Mystical Heart Castle by Eleanor Mollica '23

Brain Scan by Stephania Bendek '22 72

My Dog by Jeanine Blakeman '23

Untitled by Molly Brooks '23 73

The Tiger by Eleanor Mollica '23

Love Letter to the Moon by Eleanor Mollica '23

Fungi Close Up by Stephania Bendek '22

Alexis and Horse by Miles Fischman '23 75-76

White Hood by Ishbel Craig '23

33-36

Minds That Lurk in the Gutter by Elizabeth Mazzarelli '22

Gas Mask by Eleanor Mollica '23

Mayan Temple by Alia Berger '23 79

The Doctor by Michael Ferris '22

I Remember When by Elisa Vittori '22 80

El Faro by Miles Fischman '23

39-40

Spring Wilderness by Ishbel Craig '23 81-82

Moody Mountains by Jack Seeds '22

The Night by Anna Cassidy '24 42

69-70

74 77-78

Sunset 1 by Molly Brooks '23

Sunset 2 by Molly Brooks '23

I Am by Jeanine Blakeman '23

Green Bowl by Sam Fettig '24

I am me Me that be Who I am, Forevermore and eternally. The strong-minded Loyal, and caring one Working hard, and hardworking In the face of all that has been thrown at me. Staying strong Still listening to the same songs Making up for the wrongs Awaking the greatness inside of me Having my friends and family beside me. Laughing endlessly. Relentlessly trying to make my life worth living. Rebirthed Only have one life on this Earth Lonely no more. So much to explore. So much to do and see. I cannot help but I feel untouched. Like I can do anything. Life is getting real. Setting myself up for success.

Mermaid by Stephania Bendek '22

Letter to My Future Self by Samantha Rosenfeld '23 If you think about it, you know so much about me, but I don't know anything about you. I'm just guessing and making assumptions. Yes I know we are the exact same person. But we are in two different periods of our lives. I am a sixteen-year-old high school student just trying to survive. And you, what are you doing? Are you sitting in a dorm or apartment? Are you living in the city? (preferably Boston) You're still close with mom and dad, right? I'm sorry, I just have so many questions to ask Did you end up going to college as we hoped? Did you end up majoring in Psychology or Political science? Please don't tell me you joined a sorority We are way too introverted for that stuff. You're probably laughing to yourself About all these questions I am asking Maybe some parts of me never change I have a feeling they don't. Or do they? But most of all, I just hope you're happy. I just want you to be successful and do what you love. Life is too short to do things you don't want to do. I hope that's some inspiring advice from your sixteen-year-old self. Anyways I'm sure you're very busy Taking on the world one day at a time I hope this letter finds you well I wish you nothing but the best

Charcoal Thoughts by Anna Mason '22

I Believe in God by Ishbel Craig '23

adores so much. Why wouldn’t he lie?

Once upon a time - because this is a Story, and must start as such - there was a sea. The sea itself is not important to this story and accordingly will not be named.

They repeat the same lies: I love you. I die for you every day. I will be with you always. Your love kills me.

Unimportant things have no use for names. In this sea travels a ship, it too will remain nameless. The only reason one could consider it to be important would be the fact that it belongs to its Captain. The Story would like to note that such a connection is not strong enough for a name. On this ship remains the aforementioned Captain. They sit slumped over a table. They have sat here for a millennium and - if given the chance - would sit there for many more. The Captain does have a name, however, this Story does not want you to know it and luckily living memory does not extend far enough back to recall a time when throats gave it sound. The Story would like you to know that it does not count as it is a Story, and thus exists without life. The Captain’s name is too dangerous to hold in something as unholy as a mouth.

This Story would like to note that of the three in question, only one is actually dead - and everyone knows that dead men can not lie. All three are gone now, of course. Tossed into the storms of memory, bleeding out against the sands of time. Two perished instantly. The Captain, to moral wounds - unfortunately not even a former God such as themselves could fight the inevitability of the abyss. And the Statue, for all his human characteristics, was still just porcelain. Eager to shatter when sufficient force is applied. The God lived on for a time - as much as an entity of mass imagination “lived”. Until the children born lost His name. Until mouths that should’ve molded comfortably around Him began to stutter over His love. Eventually - like all things - He faded away, without belief, without love or the companions killed by His own hands. Alone.

The Captain writes letters, hundreds of them. Tiny birds folded carefully, containing words of worship never to be read by their muse. They read, with frantic energy:

My dear M-Do You receive these? I love You, my star (do You get the joke?). I saw You last night, shining in all Your blinding glory, so close I felt as if I could just reach out and pluck You from the sky. I know I would just be burnt, but it is nice to entertain impossible thoughts once in a while. Wouldn’t it be nice to hold a God in my hands? Do You receive these? The Statue says You do (and has yet to lie), so You must. He says You read these and watch me and love me and die for me every day, as the sun rises and You can’t see me anymore. He has yet to lie. Statues can not lie, not ones as beautiful as him, not ones crafted by You - by a God. With as much love as I have life, Captain H-The Story would like to clarify two things. One, that the Captain held nothing resembling life (not that they knew it). And Two, the Statue can - and did - lie. He was crafted in the likeness of the God our Captain

Untitled by Phoebe Langan '25

Home by Jeanine Blakeman '23 Home is peaceful. This is where I learned about myself the most. This home made me feel the worth I deserve. This home brought me out of a dark place. This home saved me. Home is My safe space. The time I get to be alone. Alone is scary. But needed. home is beautiful. Home is lively but calm. I sit in my room thinking about why I would want to leave this place. But then I remember. I can't live in this happy, peaceful, calm bubble forever. I need to be pushed. I need to live my life. I need to find what home is for me. Home is childhood. But I'm growing up. It's time to look forward to being able to find things that only I can call home.

I Was by Elisa Vittori '22

Three Looks by Stephania Bendek '22

I was… a dancer for many years From the time I was young Taking ballet and modern dance classes too The time I stopped taking these dance classes Three years ago With my ballet shoes, my dance socks, and my hair in a bun Dancing to the music, christmas, piano, or anything under the sun As I dance to the songs I have heard many times before And the dances that have been taught for many months That will be performed with the dance group I was in On the stage for the first time to the last time Though the show been done many times before Our roles change each year However some stay the same Year after year as we learn the dances That have been taught many times Though they are different They seem similar to the dances from the years before From the first show to the last show Ballet to Modern and anything in between The show is performed on the stage From the beginning to end in many parts Though these dances are still as Magical as they were in rehearsal each day.

Ghost by Ishbel Craig '23 Sweepers wear orange, neon-bright against the tunnel. They shuffle along the platform like clockwork. Each of them marking off passengers as they go, trading off bags and wipes for scanners as figures appear in the dark. There’s something rather poetic about it; dancers performing a waltz, or perhaps a swarm of bees fussing around a field.

Perhaps she exists only in this station, or maybe time is thin here. Worn like an old sweater until it frays. Perhaps she is the memory of a braver time, lost and confused. Hiding as a transfer even the transport officers forgot about. Maybe she is like the old man. Vivid only on the beach, a shell anywhere else. Only this moment is her beach; three in the morning on a platform deep underground and busking for lost tourists and drunk students and old men with nothing to lose.

It’s too hot underground, the station nearly empty at this early hour. Just the hunched shoulders of the man traveling to see the sun, his skin as weathered and cracked as the vinyl he sits on. A flicker of sequins trapped in his eye marked the return of a party running late. The old man’s watch ticks over to three a.m as a train pulls up with carriages glistening under flickering lights. The drunks cheer at the shining arrival, and again when someone dismounts. Welcoming this new arrival with open arms and waving the conductor off as they pull away. He watches the newcomer disentangle herself from the partygoers with admirable ease, then again when the sweepers descend to check her ticket. She sets up her keyboard near a closed concession stand with dead eyes and steady hands that speak of many a morning spent in this exact moment, unwinding cords and checking the locks on autopilot. Those wrinkles of hers are not like the old man’s. His speak of wide swathes of sand leading down to a crystal sea, of lessons learned and taught. Her’s a whisper of empty church halls and unanswered prayers. Lines carved into her face as punishment rather than reward. Sometimes they are nothing at all. She is the other constant in their small corner of the world. Arriving before the sun, playing past when the old man would board, disappearing without a trance. A true ghost. On the hard days, when the old man can’t smile at the youth or entertain their children, he can feel the presence of his Ma, hears her rasp old poison into his ear. ‘Child.’ She would say, ‘that thing is a monster.’ When the days are particularly hard, the woman does become the monster. The old man has never seen her shadow or heard her speak.

Reykjavik Street Food by Miles Fischman '23

My Best Friends by Anna Cassidy '24 The girls that were there When my eyes water Either With Sadness or from Laughing to the point I can’t breath Either one They were there Telling me it's going to be okay Or laughing contagusally to get me Through the rest of the day I love how we starts shows even though we know we will never finish them How we ate every meal With an ongoing conversation That would never get boring Nor would it end till the sun set And to the quiet girl that gave me a change freshman year To your judgemental looks that make me laugh Or the comment you say that makes me wonder why We couldn't have met earlier in life Never second guessing our friendship Even when I would get calls at 1 in the morning Only for you to tell me you were bored Here to the memories and the future To the girls that make my life A whole lot better

Curve by Isabella Smith '22 Flower Girl by Isabella Smith '22

Left In the Wind by Isabella Smith '22

The Clock Was Ticking by Brielle Anderson '23 The clock was ticking. And Mrs. Robertson was looking at her with an unimpressed expression. She testily shifted on her yoga ball. Mrs. Robertson clasped ring-clad fingers together and cleared her throat. "So, Mrs." She stacked her papers and looked up. "Rutherford." "Yes?" "Your son has been causing quite a commotion recently," Mrs. Robertson said with hesitation. "Oh? What has he done this time?"Mrs. Rutherford asked. "He…" She glanced at her 'Best Second Grade Teacher' mug and gathered her courage. "Do you happen to watch The Apprentice?" "Ah, yes?" "Well." She paused again, bouncing lightly on her yoga ball, "Mrs. Rutherford, your son seems to have taken some of Donald Trump's words to heart." "I'm not following." "Mrs. Rutherford… your son has decided to "fire" everyone he meets. This wouldn't normally be a problem if he hadn't taken it upon himself to fire Principal Hodgkin." "Oh, I see…" "And as we all know, Principal Hodgkin cares very deeply about his job, and he is an essential component of this school. He wants the students at this school to respect him." She cleared her throat and tapped lightly on her sunflower-painted desk. "This incident seems to have eroded his self-confidence." "Oh, I'm very sorry. I didn't know that my son was causing so ma-" "Principal Hodgkin has quit!" Mrs. Robertson wailed. "Oh, I-" "He said that if his students didn't see him fit to run a school, then he might as well just go back to working at the family hot dog stand!" She sobbed uncontrollably. "I apologize, Mrs. Rutherford, but we have no choice but to give the position of Principal to your son." "Wait, what?" "He is clearly more than qualified. He's watched The Apprentice after all." "So have I! That doesn't mean h-" "Are you trying to take this opportunity away from your son? His resume is far more extensive than yours! He has serious experience with the job's vital components, such as the ABCs and cursive writing." "He's 6!" "He's a genius! I thought as his own mother you'd understand. But if you don't,

then you can kindly exit the premises." "No, I will not! We need to discus-" "GET OUT! I have another very important meeting. Mr. Rutherford, please come in." "You really think my husband is going to disagree with me? H-" She trailed off, realizing that wasn't her husband. "Jacob?" "Mother, it seems we are not in agreement over this opportunity for my professional advancement." Jacob straightened his tiny tie and smoothed down his hair. "Sadly, I have the unfortunate job of releasing you from your position of Mother." "Jacob, what are you talking ab-" "Mother, you are fired."

The Carousel by Ishbel Craig '23

I Choose Therefore I am by Alden Steinberg '24

Handmade Wood-topped Table by Sam Fettig '24

Children rarely get to decide how to live or How to ride Only now that I’m sixteen, I know a lot about what I mean. Could I succeed, or could I fail? Every choice is mine to nail.

I Will Be Working Toward My Goal by Elisa Vittori '22

Love Battle by Mariée Voss '24

I will be working towards my goal

Choosing where to give my love

Of become a preschool and kindergarten

How can I regret love without trying

Montessori teacher when I start

Or is love an all around battle

College next year at my top school

I can’t win. That leaves sadness to linger like having hot sauce

When I took a tour of the school

Can I push my feelings of sadness or get rid of the burning sensation away and keep battling for

I just knew it was going to be The place for me to follow my goals

love or Explain to myself that it might not be the right time for love?

As I continue forward, Knowing that the end of the year Is coming sooner than I could have ever imagined As the first semester is near an end And second one is about to begin Which keeps me going each day As I go to class and do my work And enjoy each day Knowing I will be graduating and Going to college soon Too soon for reality to set in Though the only thing is That the reality has not yet set in Although I feel as though I just Started the school year last week and now The year is halfway over And I will be graduating soon Too soon to be true As I feel like my kindergarten Graduation was just yesterday

Mystical Heart Castle by Eleanor Mollica '23

My Dog by Jeanine Blakeman '23

The dog that saved me The dog that came into my life at the perfect time The dog that helped me heal The dog that gave me purpose I was sad and alone I had no one that was there for me I had no one that saw that I was struggling Until the day my parents saw that I was on the floor Crying numb alone and dying Screaming at them I’m not ok Screaming for help I’m alone. The dog that came into my life to give me a reason to get out of bed The dog that stayed by my side The only one that wouldn’t judge me for what I have done or what I do The only one that would listen He’s gone now I miss him But he can’t be with me anymore because I’m not around to be there for him like he was for me It’s a sad, heartbreaking emotion giving away the dog that healed you That made you feel safe The one that stayed by your side while you cried I miss him now he is away and I’m fine I am content I am busy making my life what I want my life to be I’m sad that we are apart but I’m thankful I got to have you in my life for a while Thank you for helping me heal and feel safe. I miss you.

The Tiger by Eleanor Mollica '23

Fungi Close Up by Stephania Bendek '22

A breath Of fresh air The new year has come He pounces He runs He moves gracefully As if smoke from a fire As if new desire Comes to fruition In his wake Here is the tiger A new year has begun

White Hood by Ishbel Craig '23 You ask so we answer In the beginning, there was just us. A garden of sorts, filled with crawly-things and creepy-things, younglings and elder-beasties. As time passed, we grew and grew. Gave life to all of you that in return gave us a name. Forest, you said. It was a nice name, we liked it. So we provided you - the clay-beasts - with the stone to build your warrens, watched you reach the heights of your Godlings only to come tumbling down when you fail to build your roots. Over and over you do this. Over and over you fall. Then, in a time that could be named the middle but should truly be the end, the Other came. It was beautiful in the way a beastie was beautiful. With sharp teeth and bloody nails and a gaze that pinned prey things in their places. We hated It.

Not this one. For there was once a time when the White Hood would visit us, would run with us through us - alongside our beasties. A light trilling laugh in the air and a warm smile on her lips. Now she only visits for the Other. She had forgotten us, chosen a greater evil. Instead of spending her precious moments hopping through our dappled shade, she had been drawn into the fire by something she would never understand. Could never understand. We must advise you that we did not blame our White Hood. Not like you clay-beasts that aim weapons alongside your words, firing the former before the latter. We have mercy. We ask you if you know what mercy is and you just turn away in shame. Don’t be ashamed, you were never created for understanding. She was just a youngling when the Other dug Its claws into our child. With no way to differentiate good from evil, we feel no uncertainty in forgiving the White Hood. She only needed to see where she had gone wrong, then she would come running back to us.

Hated the clay mask It wore.

She would come back. (Why are you laughing?)

Hated the strange tongue It spoke.

She would.

Hated the way It knew things we didn’t.

She would.

It was so close to us, so close to being right. It was uncomfortable to exist alongside something so blatantly wrong, like being so intensely aware of an itch on our back but unable to scratch it.

But for now, the White Hood walks the paths in the blinding light.

We wanted to do much more than scratch It. Wanted to catch It and tear It and consume It. Wanted to make It a prey thing.

Perhaps that was the true reason we hated It. Perhaps there was a world out there in which we got along.

Out of reach, she does not care for our greenest grass or the loveliest flowers. Her ivory cloak turns away from the most welcoming meadows, the sweetest fruits. But it was okay, for the Other was dying. Finally.

Wanted to watch Its life-stuff water the soil and nurture our younglings.

Its wrongness was ultimately going to kill It, we knew this from the beginning. You chuckle at us, at our defensiveness.

But the Other was loved, much more than we were. Loved by you. Don’t try to hide now, we see that guilty look on your face. Does our story hurt you? We only asked what it feels like to love a villain. We only asked if It hurts you.

We’re not being defensive. We knew Its ways were going to be the end of it eventually. Why do you think we never attacked It? We could’ve driven it out at any time, as strong as we are. But why expend unnecessary energy on a problem that would solve itself?

(We wonder if It would hurt us)

Isn’t that what you clay-beasts are all about?

We don’t wonder if It would hurt us, we already know the answer to that. Love hurts.

You ask if we were scared of It.

You shouldn’t look so uncomfortable with your mistake, for the White Hood loved It alongside you. Loved It more than she loved us. She was always the best of you.

Don’t be stupid, we aren’t scared of it.

We aren’t scared. We aren’t.

We accept and dash away into the dark, shedding the beasties fur as we go. His clumsy paws would only slow us down.

Stop interrupting, we’ve told our story. You asked us, didn’t you?

The White Hood takes the slower route, through the flowers and fruits. We’re aware of her vaguely, she will be a while.

It’s finally dying and the sun is setting, run along home little hunter thing. Run back to your warm fires and cold Queen. The Snow you seek can’t be found here.

Between one moment and the next, we arrive at the Others bed, slipping through the cracks of the room and filling the room.

You leave us reluctantly, but we are correct and you have a Snow cold heart to find and a head to keep on your shoulders. We begin to move as well, for now it is the true waking. The gold is fading to make way for the blue hour. The Other is on Its deathbed, and finally, we are going to be free.

It is almost laughable how easy it is to kill It. There is no struggling or whimpering. In one moment the Other lives, and the next It doesn’t.

We are going to be free.

Grandma?

It is a wonderful feeling.

Is that you?

But then-

We slip on the Other’s mask. No need to worry little White Hood.

No.

Come in Darling

Why now?

My, what big eyes you have.

We’re so close.

All the better to see you with

Please stay out of it.

What big ears you have. All the better to hear you

The White Hood stands at our edge with a basket of bread and wine. A basket of the life-stuff. No. She steps onto the path and begins to walk towards the Others cottage, determination twisting her lips into a snarl. For an instant, she seems as fanged as the Other, then she twists around as a crawly thing snaps a twig and we see it was just a trick of the light. We can not see her eyes under her hood but can imagine them full of fear. What awful thing had the Other done to convince her to provide such horrendous magicks?

How strange.

This is not the time to notice such imperfections. Let us go. She drops the matter and brings out the life-stuff. Dangerous stuff. We shudder and swipe the basket away, knocking into her, staining her White Hood. The Red Hood stares at us.

Why does It have to live?

You are not my Grandma.

We approach wearing the skin of a beastie the White Hood used to run with. Maybe a familiar face can convince her.

We talk and she challenges us to a race, who can get to Grandma’s faster. Is that really what she calls It? Are they that close? No matter.

Is she gone? Yes For good? Yes Thank you.

Gas Mask by Eleanor Mollica '23

The Doctor by Michael Ferris '22 To seek life to create life To bring light where there is darkness To breath life into the dead is my life’s goal To prove the limitless boundaries of science I believe in a world where death does not exist I seek what it is behind science I wish to grow my brain The key to creating life is all around us The key is lightning Those who call me mad are ignorant They follow societies, conformities like sheep Without breaking boundaries and taking risks there would be no growth In my younger years I study the magnificent human body My life became fascinated with it One day I will create life with my own hands With my own hands I will strike energy into the dead When that happens what was once life will live a new Time passes by I am finally making my dream reality I go forward with my dream I have created life My life’s goal finally realized But yet I am not proud of my creation I see my creature as a demon I have failed myself and my monster I have nothing left to do

El Faro by Miles Fischman '23

Moody Mountains by Jack Seeds '22

The Night by Anna Cassidy '24 When I was younger I would hope all day that it wouldn't become night But every day the night Would creep in Everyday it came back And everytime I was Surprised As if the universe ignored my wish I felt as if something come with the darkness an unknown, unstoppable evil I Hated not seeing in the pitch black there was too many thoughts racing through my head as I stare into emptiness of my room It was to much For my little head to wrap around I felt vulnerable as I hid under my blanket as if it would Protect me from the monsters under my bed Even when my eye lids would be falling shut I refused For then I would have succumbed but the blackness that is the night and The danger was to great for my little self to fight back But every night I fell to sleep with racing heart too tired to beat anymore only hoping to dream of bright colors And happiness And as my eyes opened to see the light shining through a window a smile slide across my face I would Wish for the day to stay forever But surely it never lasted And suddenly Everything went quiet and I stopped caring if I lived or Died In the darkness

Fruits of My Labor by Eleanor Mollica '23 The Fruits of my labor From here the tree does grow And from under my hands all i do is sew sow sew The embroiderers needle Plunge into the depths Of the rivers of fabric I revive my tactics Do you know the fruits of mine labor? I am the one who is pricked by the needle and bled to death The tree that once grew beautifully Is perfect kindling for the flame, It’s burning But it still grows It’s killing me instead Am i the fruits of my labor Or are they the stars just out of my reach I am short for sure But i don't think someone tall could reach the fruits i teach Do you notice the flame That burns me alive All that matters is the work The emotions don't survive What is the reason? I have been sewing these fruits for seasons People say its important But that just makes me less confident Do the dying embers hurt me Does the fire no longer grow Do I have a reason for living If I can no longer sew?

The fruits of my labor! Look how they bloom But you know they rot too? They can cook and steam and keen Just like me I am burnt but somehow they stay pristine and clean My calloused hands reach For my wants and needs But all find Is my reaching for those seeds Of desire! Of my fall from grace! Please don’t look upon my tear stained face Grasping for something that doesn’t exist Hurts much more than you could think The spring she comes And bears the earth I wish she would come ever closer And let me feel her warmth Winter no longer! Burning no more my body is no longer set a flame But my battery is pretty low Let the fruits fall upon me I have done my seasons work and need to heal my burns I yearn I ache For the sweet nectar and it’s taste The fruits of my labor I savor the flavor Of my own dream That I have come to redeem

Sustainable Fashion by Stephania Bendek '22

The Satisfaction of the Star Runner by Eleanor Mollica '23 She bolts and zips and glides Amount the biggest starry sky Faster than any track star As she streaks across the sky Comets follow her all this week Nobody can beat The star they seek And the dream they keep

Love Letter to the Moon by Eleanor Mollica '23

Sunrise Skate by Ryan Langan '22

She’s here again My one true friend. She swings the dark cape behind her Bringing in the night A halo of white A suit of silver She stands guardStronger than a quiver, Of fear you feel in the dark Oh beautiful knight She cares for the earth in twilight So gentle The graceful sway Of stars that dance the night away The moon watches them dance around The love of stars only burns But the warmth is worth it in the end Don’t go away!! Please don’t leave me here dear friend Just to come back the next day, You look worse for wear Were you fighting the dark? Have they won once more Become whole again and show me your light in the dark The night trudges on I stumble without a light I feel my flame dimming now The dark taking hold Of the place I once called home Lo! She rises! Come back to save me! The pools of light surround me Dark burning and hissing back She’s come into her power A new beginning at last

Wake Up to Reality by Isaiah Samboy '24

Love, Life, Legacy by Andrew Specter '23

Love, Life Legacy. 3 Words I will never forget. We hold onto these memories and never look back. The essence of God that rises above us. Our memories that we cherish and words that are spoken They excel high in the universe, and glimmer like the stars, shining down upon us. As we thrive and grow, the love will never be spoken. Our eyes, they will never open. The secrets will never be broken. Until we meet in heaven once more. You give me the strength I need to fight off living creatures in the night. Take a deep breath, and sleep on that. One night, I see you in my dreams, and I’ll never wake up to greet you. The beast is unleashed and a living disaster arises. That’s life. All creatures big and strong, take pity on oneself. Don’t look back. Continue fighting. Be the strong god that everyone knows. Control the pride that you know you can. My memory of you never gets old, and the lord can strengthen him by far. The one thing we can’t control is our legacy. Bye bye for now, you have given me everything I need. It’s like going to a garden, and planting a seed. As the flowers weep and time goes on, Our legacy we need to earn, and earn, and earn until the world stops spinning. Look back on those times, and cherish the fun. Love, life, legacy, fun or not. Endure the essence of this earth, where I will meet you once again At the house of the rising sun.

Prefect Speech by Henry White '22

Motion 2 by Angelu Jimeno '24

A wise man once told me that 90% of life is just showing up. It’s about being present. For most of my life my family has had a pool table in our living room. My father thought it was a pretty cool idea to have one instead of a traditional living room. Kind of like his man cave. But inevitably it served more like a place to throw coats and other household clutter. For me, I kind of thought the whole room was a waste of space. During the beginning of the covid pandemic all of us were sent home in this unusual situation. And frankly, I don't think any of us knew what the heck we were gonna do next. During this time I was scrambling around my house trying to figure out what to do with all this free time. One day I picked up the guitar and tried to teach myself. That didn’t work out great. My parents bought me a Chris Angel magician kit. That didn’t work out great. I tried cooking. That definitely didn’t work out great. My mom and dad were needling me to take out the trash and do chores around the house. I stumbled upon my living room to clean up all the stuff that had accumulated there. Upon finishing up that, my dad walked in, seeing his pool room clean, asking me if I wanted to play a game of pool with him. We threw on some of my dad’s favorite 80’s songs on the Alexa. He broke and within minutes we were both hooked. These pool games became an everyday occurrence. When my Dad finished up his work day from home, he would yell out to me, ‘rack ‘em up’, and our daily games would begin. During our sessions, we would talk a lot about life. My Dad would share his remembrances of his life at my age. I found it easy to open up in that forum, and the conversations grew into all of the topics of the time…the Pandemic, science, business, college, art, music, politics, and love. We spent the next year opening up, sharing, and dissecting life as we knew it. It has been eye opening and an education to say the least. What this experience has taught me is that there is a great big world out there, filled with facts, mystery, reason, and the unexplainable. It can be nice to put our phones down and create shared experiences and knowledge by interacting directly with others. The human experience. People can be so much more fascinating than computers, games, and websites. I am glad I discovered this. We all hope and pray that Covid becomes a thing of the past soon. As for my pool games with my Dad, and my quest for people connections, I plan on continuing that for a lifetime.

Helpful Baskets by Elisa Vittori '22

Though the baskets have the same amount of food They look much smaller each year

Since the time I was three

As I get older each year.

The white laundry baskets looked so big

As the event keeps going on

As people take the baskets down the assembly line.

But I still come back each year to give my time

At each spot more food is added Till they go to the end of the line,

After all this is one of my favorite events

The laundry baskets that are filled with all the food

That happens each year

Come to the place where I put a tin foil pan,

Though still the same only bigger and bigger

Upside down on top of the basket full of food

But my job keeps changing as I grow up

For the less fortunate people

And try new things and get more involved which makes me happy

That need the food for thanksgiving

For giving your time is a thoughtful thing

In the laundry basket that looks so big.

That will make a difference in someone else’s life.

The basket that looked so big Gets a little smaller each year However each year I grow up and gain more knowledge As the people walked down the assembly line As they come to my station I put a loaf of bread in the basket, Then to the next station next to the bread where I add a pie to each basket And watch each one get made one at a time. All the people collecting all the food To fill the baskets That will be delivered to the people in need. The baskets look smaller than ever Only now they are cardboard boxes For there is shortage of laundry baskets, However the amount of food is still the same As the line starts up once again Year after year more baskets are made As I put two can of peas in each box, As the people move fast down the assembly line. As we near the end we run out of food Though most of the boxes are made A few cans still remain to be donated to one place or another,

Ice Mushroom by Stephania Bendek '22

Letter to My Past Self by Samantha Rosenfeld '23 If I could press a button and go back in time trust me I would do it in a heartbeat. I would have told you so many things, and give you advice that I know now. I want you to know that I am proud of you, you did your best. Given that you just found out about your learning difference, ADHD, and anxiety. You hated going into the special education room for the extra help it made you feel sick to your stomach. Piece of advice, it’s okay to ask for help. you were so stubborn (still are) You thought asking for help made you look weak. You'll eventually learn that you’re not an expert in everything. I know for you middle school didn’t get any easier, the typical issues were boys, puberty, braces, and self-esteem. But the biggest issue was still your learning difference It was still an uphill battle every day for you I know it was hard with all your friends in honors classes You kept wondering what was wrong with you It was a repeated cycle of thoughts in your brain Why you weren't smart like your friends were Some advice, stop comparing yourself to others, it's honestly just made you feel worse. You didn’t realize that though at the time You'll eventually learn that your learning disability is a strength, not a weakness. I know you don’t see it right now But underneath the surface, there is a smart, kind, funny girl She eventually appears again So here we are, at last. I wanted to thank you, You made me the person I am today. I am going to make you proud.

Haunted Donner Lake Train Tunnels by Jessica Martin '24

This is My Family by Ishbel Craig '23 Male Gaze by Isabella Smith '22

This is your home. Your home. Your home. Scorched earth and charcoal awnings. Where did the great lakes go? The stunning pavilions? Gone? But not gone, not in the way that matters - never in the way that matters. Not whilst you carry your brother's love in your chest. His hope, his memories. His life, his time. His voice seems to hiss at you from under the eaves of the rotting houses.

What did you do? Brother, what did you do to me? You pay the voice no attention, your brother may be dead, but he’s not gone. Not like that. You walk through the grounds and pretend that the ashes you kick up are just the remains of the tree in the main courtyard. Pretend you don’t see the feeble attempts at burial shrouds hiding in the shadows, made by hands younger than yours. Jagged edges welcome you into the family quarters, the door a great black maw, ready to swallow you whole. You can almost hear your mother's voice ring out.

You foolish child! Look what you’ve done, don’t you see you’ll ruin us all? It is only a memory - not even your own - but the harsh crack still stings against your cheek. As if you were the one Mother refused to acknowledge. But no matter how painful the reprimand is, it is only a phantom. You push it away, you were not the ward, you were legitimate. There is a stone lodged right where your brother’s heartbeats, and you console yourself with the knowledge that he got over it, so you should too. (The feeling doesn’t go away) Passing your father's room, you bow your head in acknowledgment. You do not enter to offer respects, nor to see his burial shroud. You don’t need to see it to know that it is expensive and gaudy. Unfitting for a man who surrendered to the first porter of war knocking upon the front gate. Not even properly dead, the man roams your halls as a mere spectre, destined to never be heard. Your reach your destination, the only intact room of the complex. Inside are the only two things you care for anymore. A young maiden clothed in purple, and the machine keeping her here - teathed - to this world. ‘Sister,’ you say, ‘he is gone.' 'Sister,' you say, 'we’re safe.’ You do not say it is his heart that beats in your chest, preventing you from suffering the same fate as the one in front of you. You do not say it’s his life force keeping the both of you here. You ignore the whispered cries of your once sworn brothers and sisters as they cry-

Traitor. This is your family, not theirs. This is your family. Your family. 59

Your family.

Home by Ishbel Craig '23

Big Clouds by Ishbel Craig '23

The Blue Lions by Michael Ferris '22

Sea, Sand, Sky by Molly Brooks '23

The sun rises, The showers of last night leave their mark. The grass green glistens, The white lines shimmer in the light. The stadium is quite, The corners are blue, but never sad. The banners of the blue lion hang from all around, Painted on the walls is the Pride of London. One moment silence, in the next you can hear the roars of the masses. The once silent stadium is now filled to every corner in the color blue, Those in red and white best fear, to not be caught insight. For if the ones in blue see them, they might have to run for their life! Because the cheers and roars might drive them mad, For blues are always the proudest! As the blue army walks out, Praise is thrown out to those from the tunnel. The blue army takes their positions, The blues stare at those in red and white. As they follow their enemies, The red and white army take their stand. They do not receive the same welcome, The roars go silent as the man with the trumpet raises his hand. It felt like an instance, but the souls of all stopped. But in the next breath, a sound is blown and the two sides charge! And all corners fill with sound that will not leave. When the whistle is blown the battle is over, each side fought strong, but the one who prevailed Is the Blue Army! The captain raises his hand as a sign of victory. Blue is the Color!

The Return by Eleanor Mollica '23 Do I remember being returned like a present after Christmas Day, I dare to say the tear grows bigger than the biggest bay My stomach rumbles Is something wrong I don’t feel strong The mumble grows back upon my tongue I feel like a sack of fish hauled to shore I don’t feel comfort anymore Friends came on so scared and worried Just made me feel hurried Thoughts that race and run I couldn’t take it anymore It aches it squelches and it doesn’t rhyme My organs twist at the old thoughts coming on time

Something screams for help But isn’t heard by any or many at all That achingly painful want for them to call me back Send me a boat, a ferry, a skipper, a sailboat! I have my license, let me float! Oh lord I want to be free To tell them the fear I hid in the trees I want to make them not feel alone Like I was for all those years The only safe space was taken away Always leaving and new one brought around But do I trust it? Will it stay? Make me sure That the music is more Then an illusion on the shore

Stronger now They come around beating like the tide against a harried shore I can’t take it anymore They twist and twirl like food around a fork Or cobwebs on a duster I find myself falling short What more can I say to the dust covered chairs To the house I love But what of the people inside Where do they stand I wish to run to the beach The shore will drown me out Can I be like Aphrodite and become a trout? The old house troubles by northeastern storms Inside and out

Holly Lights by Ryan Langan '22

Hilltop by Elisa Vittori '22 The cold winter air filled the sky that surrounds us as we walked on the trail up to the tower, High up on the trail which made looking down a wonderful sight Oh how the breeze brought a chill to our bones as it blows around While the trees rustle in the wind As the sun warms us ever so slightly, though it shines so bright, Bright enough to make shadows from afar With the bushes and rivers in the distance below And the houses and buildings ever farther away As we hike to the top To the tower we go Though the path up and over the branches and sticks With the many uphill climbs to the tower that you learn is not open But knowing what you know you made it to the top With the feeling of accomplishment as you sit on the small stone wall Which makes your feet start to feel the hard days climb As you sit at the top eating an almond or two Talking to your cousins and laughing the day away

Icelandic Punk Museum by Miles Fischman '23

Earth’s Door by Michael Ferris '22

Brain Scan by Stephania Bendek '22

Winter brings joy Spring brings life, Summer brings fun Fall is change, So be the cycle of the earth, Each season is key If one is missing then there is no whole, Without winter there’d be no joyful yuletide carols Winter is key, Spring is the bringer of life It always wash’s aways the past, Spring fills the hearts of humans and plants Spring is the second key, Summer is the season of fun Summer creates relaxation, Without summer there would be no fun in the sun Summer is another key, Fall is the end of the cycle Fall signifies change, Fall is the season of transition from fun to growth-And hard work, Fall is the final key Winter Spring Summer And Fall All four seasons are keys They unlock the door to the cycle--that makes the world go round.

Untitled by Molly Brooks '23

Love Letter to the Moon by Eleanor Mollica '23 She’s here again My one true friend. She swings the dark cape behind her Bringing in the night A halo of white A suit of silver She stands guardStronger than a quiver, Of fear you feel in the dark Oh beautiful knight She cares for the earth in twilight So gentle The graceful sway Of stars that dance the night away The moon watches them dance around The love of stars only burns But the warmth is worth it in the end Don’t go away!! Please don’t leave me here dear friend Just to come back the next day, You look worse for wear Were you fighting the dark? Have they won once more Become whole again and show me your light in the dark The night trudges on I stumble without a light I feel my flame dimming now The dark taking hold Of the place I once called home Lo! She rises! Come back to save me! The pools of light surround me Dark burning and hissing back She’s come into her power A new beginning at last

Alexis and Horse by Miles Fischman '23

Minds That Lurk in the Gutter by Elizabeth Mazzarelli '22 The lone minstrel finished with a flourish, removing his unshaven chin from the rest and tossing his head back to rid his brow of the loose sweat-soaked locks that had gathered about his eyes partway through the quickstep. She paid him more heed than she knew she ought to have while tucked ‘twixt a shadow and the unlighted entryway of the butcher’s place of business. Preening ladies all about the courtyard flushed in anticipation of being the lass he selected to place on his arm as he prepared to engage in a little revelry of his own with a salute to whichever entertainer was to proceed him. Their hopes of dawdling the evening away with laughter brought about by the sweet nothings they supposed would spoon the shell of their ears if in his company were surely to be disappointed when they discovered that he had eyes for one female in particular tonight. And nothing’s wern’t the way with him. Her heated skin wasn’t visible to the eye of any passer-by, so she did not fit the profile of any such young woman. Even if she had been spotted wearing a blotchy fuschia, her thoughts were of the most pure nature. Of course, nobody could testify to this, and in fairness, the prosecutor’s argument that deviance be the cause of her unusual coloring was mounting evidence…fast. She happened upon him startlingly often, and she might only console herself with assurances that these instances by which eye or ear fell upon him were the whimsy of her subconscious. He laid his instrument lovingly against the interior of the case lined with the worn velvet scraps of a bedraggled dress that had been a little worse for wear when, once upon a time, it had actually existed in that form. The crowd exclaimed their approval once more with a second thunderous rumble of their pounding feet, which was, she realized, likely the cause of how treacherous the cobblestones had become of late. There were a few sharp whistles as well, but she chose deliberately not to identify the women who curled their tongues and forefingers to provide such vocal adulation or the way his eyes glazed when skimming the crowd for the faces of those few. He was tall and lean, but by no means slight. His bare forearms, revealed by the shirt cuffed around his elbows, boasted thick bands of muscle and tendons at attention, which isn’t to say that he looked well. Excluding the patchy places, his beard almost entirely hid the hunger revealed by his hollow cheeks. A jaw so fine and wide should not be left destitute to serve as the doormat of such a pitiful, sunken countenance owing to lack of proper nourishment. Having sealed the case shut, the violinist entrusted his beloved Lady Lullaby to another of the same breed, who was presently extracting a brass horn from its own protective leather. The pristine polish of the instrument quite regrettably juxtaposed the horrid cry of pain the horn loosed when the wielder, who had received charges from the fiddler folding quietly into the square to inspire merriment, pressed his lips to its mouth in an earnest but lackluster endeavor to appease the crowd primed to surge through the avenue. With such poor skills at his disposal, the trumpeter was unsurprisingly unable to tempt the townsfolk with music that pleased them enough to commission a partner or lift their skirts. The courtyard instead thinned some, leaving older couples to sway to the slow and offensively loud rhythm; it was the only segment of the evening’s programming raucous enough to penetrate seventy years of earwax buildup. The title of musician was a kindness afforded the replacement. He was akin to an antiquated founder of the art who plucked strings without concern

for nuances like tone. Mind you, he is also not to be accredited with music’s discovery. Therefore, his ineptitude, perfectly exemplified by the screech that rang from the discontented instrument upon the very first note attempted, only further incited the frenzy of the folk that felt abandoned by the fiddler. The safety of the fountain around which the plaza had been constructed would have been in jeopardy were it not for the fact that such fell into disrepair sometime during the National Schism. The mob had very little wit, which was compensated for by a powerful sense of will—enough to send the self-conscious suit skulking into the shadows to evade the less than fond attention. The fiddler, however, never did come round again to seek the limelight or the companionship of any of the fawning girls. No, he had keen eyes lured to the darkness where she loitered to bid him a fond farewell. Merely sighing when he came upon her ghostly visage, he relaxed against the brick. He shoved his hands inside his pockets, causing his shoulders to involuntarily raise in question and bury his neck. When he refrained from demanding an answer from her outright, she broke the inevitable silence off directly. “My father is twice the musician you are.” “I reckon I’m half as old, so I have time to improve,” he replied evenly, not allowing himself to be baited by the caustic remark even though it had been made in jest. She pushed off the wall and into the moonlight with him following suit. The soft white glow reflected off the ebony sheen of knotted hair behind which she often liked to hide, and he was momentarily stunned by the angelic facade in front of him. “I detain you from parting with others tonight,” she observed upon seeing him hesitate to join her in retreating from the crowd, “before you sail for greener pastures tomorrow. Go to them.” Taking his fidgeting hand in her own, with a twinkle in her eye, she insisted, “Waste no more time on idle banter with a wild woman on an island on the outskirts.” His smile was just shy of feral. “I fancy a certain amount of ferocity in the women who have never been so obsequious as to let me court them.” “You speak as though there are more,” she retorted in mock disbelief. He returned her display of warmth briefly before his expression flattened, and he inhaled sharply, “But I do not intend for our exchange to be idle. You must come.” This last intonement came out too much like a command for her feminist tastes, so she swallowed down her nausea but did not deign to retort. “I have silently looked on as your mother’s husband ground your spirit between mortar and pestle for years, fearing that if I intervened,” he threw up his palms in exasperation, “you’d sever our acquaintance.” “I cannot,” she bit out at last. Turning her cheek from him, she swore, “My brother’s innocence will not be entrusted to the woman who let her spouse belt me, so help me—” “Your mother loves your brother five times more than she has ever bothered to care for you. She will spare him,” he roared. He made no pause to assess the damage inflicted by the truth of his assertion before he reached out to rest a hand upon her slim shoulder, and she flinched—actually jumped—away from his touch. He had to prove to her that the defense of the boy was not among her responsibilities as his sister, but she had to prove to the long-standing ally beseeching her to flee that the defense of her childhood was not among his responsibilities as her friend. Thus, she extended a stiff hand for him to shake, which he declined with a disgruntled laugh. “Fair winds and following seas,” she whispered as he was again engulfed by the celebration.

Mayan Temple by Alia Berger '23

I Remember When by Elisa Vittori '22 I remember when spending time with my family Was time to make memories And share new adventures That will be remembered for years to come As we run and play around like little kids Never wanting to leave as we say our goodbyes That take what feels like a half an hour As we get ready to go home to go to bed And plan the next gathering Where we find ourselves Talking about school or college on a regular basis And sit on the couch with our school books in hand Working on our homework or studying for a test While the party goes on around us However we manage to get side tracked Who knows how as we start talking About who knows what Mostly likely school, theater, or family memories And laughing the day away as we sit on the couch With our school books in hand Trying to do our homework or study for a test But knowing my family Sure enough we are getting nothing done But now as the years go by And we all grow up and There is less homework to be done Family parties can now be enjoyed Like they were when we were all little And did not have homework on the weekend Or much homework at all Enjoying ourselves Making new memories as we sit around the couch This time with no school books in hand Talking about who knows what And laughing the day away

Spring Wilderness by Ishbel Craig '23