Issuu

Canned Memories Without Expiry Dates Arijit Trivedi ’22 Photography

TAPS

by Adam Akins ’23

he bugle boy sounded off the B-29 as the drummer boy had once set off the musket men Not for us not and not for the enemy For the people that have to watch it all happen The nuptial chambers those we call “them” build for Martyrs The flag adorning the oak coffin and the men in starchy gloves that carry it to rest Pragmatism does none of these things Pragmatists do not write our stories Nor do they comfort those that had to build the chambers or carry the oak box The shadow box in my father’s office is filled with medallions Each marks a space where war has hurt and pushed our own, scaffolding out the culture in which we go about such an animal thing

He went to each place and took care of the children, the wives, and the husbands that we shipped out alongside the people who knew that they might have to be brought back in the oak boxes We went with him sometimes, tourists into the reality of thousands, laughing at the confidentiality that hid the names of the base roads from our paper maps Each place is beautiful, perfect in its isolation Foreign in the patchworks of culture that takes root Like home, with the baseball fields and sound of TAPs every night Little islands spread from Italy to Singapore Beautiful imprints, held together by the sound of those horns that set off those musket men

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Dear Reader, We present the 13th edition of The Glass Knife, centered around the nebulous concept of disillusionment. Over the last two years, many of our plans were dashed; whether on personal or global scales, illusions took their time dissolving into reality. As we took time to reflect on ourselves and the world around us, the structures and rules we took for granted began to melt into something unexpected. It’s in the spirit of our “perfect graveyard of buried hopes” that we present an edition where nothing is quite what it seems to be, and where dreams float away like lost paper boats in the rushing waters of a river, finding beauty in the flotsam that washes to shore. We hope you enjoy your journey through disillusionment and its detritus and that you return, whether to reflect on something through a newly distorted lens or simply to take a second glance. Sincerely, Samhita Kumar ’23, Literary Editor Adam Akins ’23, Production Editor Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23, Art Editor Tonye Jack ’23, Sound Editor

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Literary Beans in Exodus 04 The Forgotten Library 06 In Between 08 Our White Gold 12 Deathbed 16 The AI 17 My Crown 19 A Poet’s Definition of Love 24 All For Naught 27 Finding Divinity in Empty Palms 29 Snapshot of the Past 32 Now Museum, Now You Don’t 33 Trio in Verse 38 Third Choice C1

Juliette Zúñiga Jordyn LaPlaca Nihal Gulati Hayley Clark Emily Cook Nihal Gulati Noor Latif Emily Cook Jackson Fox Sage Spradlin Lauren Lu Samhita Kumar GPT-3 AI Ella Harbart

Sound i’ll be alright, thank u 10 is this life? 11 Sonata No. 2 (Frédéric Chopin) 26 Cover: Palais Bulles, Brynne Barnard-Bahn Inside, front: TAPS, Adam Akins & Canned Memories Without Expiry Dates, Arijit Trivedi Inside, back: Truckee Night Sky, Arijit Trivedi 4

Tonye Jack Tonye Jack Garman Xu

Art

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Charcoal Skull 07 Fun-gal 09 A Metaphor for My Life 09 still life 15 South of the Lake 16 Yueqin 18 Piano 18 Two Girls 24 A Silhouette of a Very Nice Man 25 Arjin and Ethan Long Exposure at Night 25 Redraw of Mx. Sinister 28 Yoko Oginome 30 Two Addax 31 Space Song 38 Things in Life 40

Brynne Barnard-Bahn Brynne Barnard-Bahn Nihal Gulati Savanna Karmue Arjin Claire Brynne Barnard-Bahn Brynne Barnard-Bahn Brynne Barnard-Bahn Arijit Trivedi Arijit Trivedi Natalie Park Brynne Barnard-Bahn Brynne Barnard-Bahn Brynne Barnard-Bahn Arijit Trivedi

Birds on Rock C1 The Arch C2 in mid air C2 Moonshine C3 Two Time C3 Eye of the Beholder C4 Overlooking the Horizon C4 Foggy Vista C5 Thar She Blows C6 The Empress C7 California Residency C8

Arijit Trivedi Brynne Barnard-Bahn Savanna Karmue Brynne Barnard-Bahn Brynne Barnard-Bahn Arijit Trivedi Sanjana Anand Saheb Gulati Arijit Trivedi Katie Espinoza Arijit Trivedi

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Beans in Exodus

by Juliette Zuñíga ’24

y father was a coffee farmer He picked the fruits from the trees until they stained his thumb and forefinger; he painted them across my cheeks and I ran away laughing touching where his hands had been I asked, Father, where do we come from? He looked me in the eyes, his darker than mine, and he said, Son, you and I were born from coffee beans American men like their coffee with cream and two sugars watered down light brown and never bitter I ask them how their coffee is but they don’t like how I speak, foreign and accented with hunger My father was a coffee farmer He sorted coffee beans with his back hunched over until his eyes were hidden by his dark hair and I bravely crept in to sink my hands beneath the beans, feeling how they closed around me

the glass knife I asked, Father, are we poor? He took me by the shoulder and showed me his palm, roughened and brimming with coffee beans, and he said, Son, this is a rich man’s bounty American men don’t like to see me in the elevator So I take the stairs until my skin is hot and slick with sweat and my fingers burn from holding hot cups steady but they still turn away, hiding curled lips behind coffee cup lids My father was a coffee farmer He liked his coffee dark and bitter, sipping it until his eyes squinted and his face puckered I asked, Father, why do you drink coffee? He put the cup under my nose until the steam burned my eyes, and he said, Son, coffee is the energy in the roots of the trees and the cold in the fog that touches their leaves and life isn’t real without being a little bit bitter

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The Forgotten Library

Harry Poote and the Philo Soph Stone. A strange title, I admit, but everything about the old world was strange. I recall the only other book I’d ever seen—the one that my grandfather had taught me to read from—my smile fades as I wonder whatever happened to it after Grandfather passed. Probably sold off or used as fuel for fire, like everything else of use.

by Jordyn LaPlaca ’25

y footsteps echo through the long-deserted halls. Briefly, I find myself wondering if I am the first human to set foot on these cracked tile floors in a hundred years. I grope around in my fanny pack—I had found the treasure in a junkyard, somehow spared by scavengers decades ago—until I found a box of matches.

Returning the book back to its place on the shelf, I walk betwixt rows of bookshelves, skimming my fingers lightly, reverently, from spine to spine.

I light one of the lamps I have brought with me and lift my eyes to see exactly what I have unearthed. My jaw can’t help but drop as the warm golden light illuminates my general vicinity.

Suddenly, the ground shakes. My feet come out from underneath me and I fall, books raining down around me. I feel a searing pain at the nape of my neck and everything fades to black.

Just a few feet in front of my face are rows upon rows of shelving. Atop each metal platform is at least 20 books, each of different coloring and size. I nearly drop my lamp in my rush towards the column in front of me. I’ve never seen anything like this—never thought I ever would—and my hands are trembling as I pick up a dusty tome.

I awake to heat, more intense than anything I’ve ever felt, even worse than the irradiated air of the cities. Orange and red fills my frame of vision, flickering and licking up space. It was as if the flames were alive, hungrily devouring all of the precious words.

It seems to be in relatively good shape, with no missing chunks or rotten pages. I blow off the dirt on the title page and struggle to decipher what the inscription reads. It takes me a whole minute to comprehend the title page, but when I’ve put it all together, I grin wider than I have in years.

Words that would never be known; words already long forgotten. I look around to find the source of this catastrophe and nearly scream when I spy the broken glass. 8

the glass knife My lantern, in the heart of the flames.

takes hold of me again. Savagely, it yanks me back down to earth.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, the ground falls from beneath me again, and it is as if the earth and skies split in two. I am thrown high into the air and for a brief second, I am weightless.

As every nerve in my body seems to burst in agony, I have time to see what is most likely the world’s last library go up in flames. All that knowledge, fading forgotten into the abyss.

I have just enough time to think, so, G;<F<FJ;4G<G988?F?<>8GB before vL gravity

Just like me.

Charcoal Skull Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Charcoal

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In Between

by Nihal Gulati ’22

The calendar leaves no time for time between years. Everyone knows the countdown, shouted amidst cheers. It’s one year, then when they reach zero, It’s another. An instant transition. No, I say. I’ve felt it, those times between years. Haven’t you? Don’t you feel the trailing stop? The past sealed off? The infinite possibilities of the new? The dread of the new?

Acutely aware that we’re getting older, old enough to live In a year that seems too new to be now. Time is predictable. Yet it always seems to surprise. That’s what I’m thinking in those times between years.

No, I say. I’ve felt it. Haven’t you? The acute awareness that we’re getting older, old enough to live In a year that seems too new to be now.

Before I’ve finished putting away the old. When I still write 2020 on my paper, not 2021. I’ll just have to get used to it. After all, I’ve done it every year. Wait, shoot, it’s 2022 already? 10

the glass knife Fun-gal Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Digital

A Metaphor for My Life Nihal Gulati ’22 Photography

the glass knife So I beg to please continue on like this and I will get through

i’ll be alright, thank u by Tonye Jack ’23

I’ll be alright, thank u I hope that I can make do I let out to a mic but I am everything but hateful You my staple That’s keeping me together with the spatial And when I pick and play with my own head I think it’s fatal This is take two I’ll do it again, and again, and again till I’ve fallen And even then I’ll push on till I’m broken So I’ll be alright thank u I know that I can make do And the same applies to you too I will always help you get through

oo much time up in my head I’m overthinking burdens Eyes been shutting out the light like I been closin curtains Sometimes I wonder if my time up on this earth is worthless I know my time that’s spent with you is worth and that’s for certain Touch me, feel me, hear me, see me, want me, seek me All I wants the chance to talk and hold and call you baby Normally not one to speak but as of now and lately You got me out my state of mind I think I’m goin crazy

My brain on attack I pray that my head stay in tact I’m running the races of life but emotion will constantly get me off track

I think my head is at a constant state of jumpin You ease the tension clear the teasin and the bluffin Thank you for helping me turn nothing into something And if for you I would face any repercussions

But that ain’t a bad thing How else would I have met you I been on my own Was put in the fast lane But I wanna take life slow So I’ll be alright thank u I know that I can make do And the same applies to you too I will always help you get through

I been swayin in motion Too many paths to be chosen I’ll never fall to the potions, lead to erosion In my eyes you see I’m grateful Mental stable when I’m with you

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is this life?

by Tonye Jack ’23 EXPLICIT CONTENT WARNING

The life that you imagined was nothing but oh so fictional You sit around in cubicles wasting like it’s a ritual

he birds are chirping, head is banging, I got lots to ponder But fuck the overthinking shit I’ll drown it out like water I waste away with every tick I wish the time was longer But better get your A’s in class or else your life’s a goner

Tick the times up that means it’s time to go home and go put on a show Or maybe that your soul is afloat and you didn’t reach the goal But switching now will leave you alone You might just turn him to a killer Give a fuck if I offend a n-----!

Think back! Who’s the motherfucker who decided I don’t speak facts? Hit the books to earn yourself a spot where it don’t mean jack He ain’t good in class he must be nothing but a setback Push him to the edge and with a pistol he may clap back

Get bigger or move slicker to get right! Sip liquor to kill liver and your mind! Use Twitter or be stripper that’s your life! Pull trigger to switch figure till hate dies!

Try to make a change you are delusional Go and step on others go and make yourself bountiful

He’s off the grid, he’s thinking crazy, hear it way too often But on the fritz I’d rather be than stay around the gossip And I could never bow to people you ain’t nothing awesome And bitch I live to speak my thoughts until I’m in a coffin

the glass knife laughter had filled the air, or perhaps the noise had been one of tears. Insects had jumped across the tall grass that covered the soil of the land. Or, I suppose, the land that had once been. Flat trees had bordered the lower edge of the sky, their shape similar to the ones of black clouds.

Our White Gold

by Hayley Clark ’27 ear. It is the thing that runs through the veins of every creature from sea to sky. It sweeps over grassy plains and scales mountains with ease. It can kill a voice without piercing skin and corrupt an entire population without leaving fingerprints. In my experience, I know fear comes in many forms. Animal, disease, action, element…and man. Yes, man. That is what I had learned to fear. Yet I didn’t know of their wrath until it was too late—until their aura had already sunken into my skin and left lasting scars.

That morning, the largest thing within the brush had been my mother. She had stood in front of me, her trunk gently passing through the thick brush and grasping onto the blades of leaves. I had watched her with curiosity, oblivious to the fear creeping up behind me and waiting to swallow me whole. Mother’s skin had been a leathery gray and caked with mud used to keep herself cool against the hot sun. Her ears had fanned out beside her, shading her face and trunk. Mother had grown up with two proud tusks that emerged from the corners of her face and bent inwards into a powerful point. She had swished her tail back and forth, watching me out of the corner of her eye and listening to the sounds of our home.

Man never came alone. No. Man came in cars and on foot. Man came with guns and spears and anything else they could use to pierce the thick skin of a large creature. I still question how a species with such high intelligence could have so little emotion. I suppose they left their hearts on the steps of their schoolhouses as boys. It was when you lost your heart that you became a man.

I remember the noise of a vibrating Oxpecker call that had run out from within the trees. My mother had looked down at me peacefully, a bundle of stems still visible in her jaws. She had simply swished her tail and moved forwards slowly. I had trotted behind

I saw them only once. That day the sky had been red with smoke. Fog had wrapped itself around the sun and blanketed the ground with glimmering amber light. Gentle 14

the glass knife her with curiosity, mimicking her behavior of traveling from bush to bush. I had used my trunk to collect leaves, tightening my grip on various branches and using all my strength to pluck them from their bush. When we traveled, I fastened my trunk to my mother’s tail and followed her across the plains. That day hyenas had called out to each other from somewhere far in the distance. The sunlight had faltered as birds flew through its powerful rays. My mother had looked out across the land calmly, a slight weariness somewhere deep in her heart. Everything I had learned was from my mother. Every action I made was in her shadow. I just hadn’t known that shadow would fall so soon. I didn’t understand back then why we watched out for danger at every moment of our short lives. What I know now is that I was an elephant, and so I was a walking gold mine. White gold was growing on my face, too large to hide–too deep within my skin to remove. Man came for this gold with grimy hands and wide eyes. They never thought about the source of this gold, only that it was in front of them and worth more than anything they had ever touched in their lives. They piled this white gold high, each piece from a different dead elephant; each piece

from a different dead body. Man was the only thing missing from the scene, but they arrived soon enough. They came creeping through the tall grass, their footsteps embedding themselves in the once peaceful ground. They thought only of prices and hunger, their hands greedy for the treasure growing from my face. Oh yes, so greedy that they couldn’t think straight. So greedy that they dared press down on their triggers. So greedy that they didn’t speak. The scene had fallen silent as if the whole world was holding its breath. There was a sense of betrayal that had risen from my chest. Why hadn’t the earth warned me of the things to come? Why when it had already known? A sound pierced the air, and moments later it pierced the skin. Fear. It struck my mother’s heart, sending a stream of red behind it as it sank into her chest. The moment had been so quick, almost enough to make me question if it had really even happened at all. But the line of life and death, if a thin one, had been crossed. There was no going back. It is always silence and then chaos. My mother stumbled, her eyes wide and mad. She lifted her trunk, letting out a cry of terror and desperation. I stared 15

the glass knife up at her, my mind suddenly consumed by anxiety. The sound was followed by three more shots. Two more strips of white gold. Dust clouded my vision as many others from my family gathered around me. Our rule was to protect the youngest first. When my mother’s cry struck the air, the thought of running away quickly left the scene. They surrounded me, their eyes wide and tusks protruding outwards towards the danger. They thought they were saving me. They were not. My family did not have their backs to me but were instead facing their deaths. Within the dust was fear and it filled the air, sinking into my lungs and stinging my eyes.

of light that faded into darkness at death. They would remove our faces, throw the gold in their cars and leave our bodies behind. The emotions did not process in my heart, though the world seemed strangely peaceful as if a storm had just blown over. The fear slowly settled in my chest. It did not answer my questions, only silenced them. Man. They chew us up and spit us out once we have no more to offer. My skin cooled like it never had before. I took a moment to reach out for the sun, willing it to warm my face. Extending my small trunk, I brushed over my mother’s back, scooting closer to her body and curling up in her arms. I listened to the fragile silence of the world as my heartbeat slowed and my brain silenced. I was with my family; with my mother. No fear could penetrate me as long as I was with her. I let the world still and closed my eyes as the warmth faded from my heart.

I don’t know how many shots rang out. The sounds only dulled my fragile hearing. It is a dark thing, watching each member of your family get shot down one by one. Two more strips of white gold, then four, then eight. Only a ringing was left behind. When I opened my eyes, the world was back to silence. I was on the ground, a dull pain in my side and my eyes facing toward man. Figures moved quickly through the dust, carving up my family’s faces like vultures picking over prey. One of the shadows stared at me for a moment and our eyes locked. I learned something that day. Each animal has the same eyes. Lenses facing outwards towards the world. Two globes

Somewhere far off they would pile our gold to the sky and never question where it came from. Maybe they didn’t want to think about their actions. Maybe it was something I would never understand. Little did they know, I would never grow my white gold. 16

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still life Savanna Karmue ’23 Photograph

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Deathbed

by Emily Cook ’23 Death is a parting sorrow, A sickness with no cure. A foul smell which lingers near, Immortality holds no power here. The heavy heart sits mourning. The family crying tears. “I’m sorry that I’m leaving now, but please don’t have your fears.” The breathing slows, and finally ends, The face is now serene. The soul begins its journey, Down a long winding road, Faith would say it’s heaven or hell, But we will never know.

South of the Lake Arjin Claire ’22 Photography

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Yueqin

by Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Digital

Piano

by Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Digital

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My Crown

Noor Latif ’27

y mother and I pulled up to the school building. Sleepily, I stepped out of the car. It had only been a few days since we arrived in America and the jet lag was catching up to me. At night, I was wide awake, while during the day, I could barely keep my eyes open. So at night, I took the time to learn English through online courses because I wasn’t very good at it. My mother, however, was bilingual. She could speak English and French fluently. I should’ve paid more attention in English class, I thought grimly when I arrived. Now I won’t understand anything that my new teachers will be saying! After cramming course after course and lots and lots of prayer, I could read, write, and sometimes understand what people are saying in English (if they weren’t talking too fast). The only thing I had trouble with was speaking it. I took tense, nervous steps up to school while my mom scolded me in French to move faster so I wasn’t late for class. As a freshman in high school, I had many ideas of what AMERICAN high school would be like based on movies like High School Musical. I worried that people would think that my hijab is weird. My family and I are French-Muslim immigrants. I started wearing the hijab a few years ago and everyone thought it was strange. “What’s the point of it?” they

would ask. When I tried explaining, they either didn’t care or didn’t understand. Muslims wear hijab because we believe it is important to dress modestly. So we cover our hair and don’t wear revealing clothes. The hijab allows us to focus on our inner beauty and be judged not by our outward appearance. Recently, the French Prime Minister announced that women cannot wear hijab in sports. Everyone that my family and I knew all started to drift away and ignore us, not wanting to be seen with us. My dad quit his job because the law firm that he worked for was unfair to the women in the workspace. My mother and I both wore hijab and were also facing harsh treatment in public, so Dad decided to move to America. So there I was, sleepily walking up to the school, feet dragging against the pavement. My mom went up to the man that sat at the front desk, stood at the front desk, and cleared her throat. The man’s blonde mop of hair that sat there looked up at us with an expression of disgust. It was quickly replaced with a look of friendliness, and he smiled. “Hello!” he said in a forced-sounding, friendly voice. “Welcome to Oak Ridge High School! I’m Greg, the receptionist. How may I help you?” “Hello, Greg. My daughter is a transfer student. Today is her orientation,” my mom replied in a thick French accent. He got up and said, “Oh! You’re the new transfer student! Follow me!”

the glass knife “Be good,” my mom said in French. I nodded in reply. “Then I guess I’ll be leaving then! Thank you!” my mom said quickly. With that, she rushed back to the car and in a flash, she was gone. G 4E Greg suddenly completely m 4 changed. His friendly face FG became cruel and he frowned. “Do your parents force you to wear that thing?” he asked quietly. “A child should not wear that.”

“Never mind,” he said while rolling her eyes, and let’s just say that I had a few ideas of what he could have been thinking. None of it was good.

I thought for a second, trying to remember my crammed nights full of English. I asked, “What do you mean? My hijab is my choice.”

He sighed, “I guess that I’ll take you to your advisory then.” He got up from his seat and walked me to my advisor. He led me through what seemed like a long, inescapable maze of twisted hallways and turns and doors with labels. Eventually, we arrived in a room that had gray walls. On two of those walls lay papers of what looked like student work, all with stars on them. The other walls were covered with art pieces of dragons and flowers. In one corner of the room, there was a cabinet labeled “Papers ‘n Stuff” and another one with a painting of a door with a painted sign that read “Dungeon”. The desks were all

“You’re like Sahara or whatever her name is,” he muttered, but she stopped there. This is exactly what I was afraid of, I thought bitterly. He thinks I am being forced to wear my hijab! “So?” I asked, straining to remember those nights of cramming.

the glass knife lined up in an immaculate 5x5 grid. There was a big, wooden desk at the front with a middle-aged Asian woman sitting at the desk. She had brown hair that was streaked with silver and crease lines forming at the corners of her warm, chocolate brown eyes. “Excuse me?” Greg knocked, “Mrs. Park? I’m here with the new student.” Mrs. Park looked up from the papers she was grading and smiled. “Hello, you must be…” she looked at her computer and quickly pulled up an email, “Anaya?” “Yes,” I confirmed. “Anaya,” she repeated, “What a beautiful name! And you immigrated from France, yes?” A volcano of sadness erupted in me at the mention of my birth country. “Yes,” I confirmed. “Well,” she started, then looked behind me and said “Greg, you may leave now. Thank you for bringing her here.”

thought. Inshallah1, my English will get better. She then started to explain to me how today would be like my orientation day and tomorrow, I would have classes like the rest of the students. I began to look over my schedule: With that, I headed to my English class. When I got there, Mrs. Lee greeted me with a smile and asked “Anaya, right?” “Yes,” I replied.

Greg made his way out of the classroom. “Goodbye!”

“You can take a seat between Zahra and James,” she pointed.

I looked back at Mrs. Park as she took out a paper, my schedule. She handed it to me and explained slowly that instead of taking an elective like everyone else, I would be taking a class called English Second Language, or ESL, to hopefully make me better at English. How nice of them, I

I walked over to sit down and heard all kinds of nasty comments about my hijab and some nice ones about it being unique in a beautiful way. I ignored them all. James had blonde hair, brown eyes, and small, elflike features. Zahra (I immediately noticed to be a Muslim name) wore a hijab. This

1. Inshallah means “god willing” in Arabic. It’s used as the term “hopefully” in English

the glass knife made me a little happier that I would not be alone.

“That sounds nice,” I said, dreaming about what it would be like to have an older sibling.

A few hours later, in Math, I realized that Zahra was in most of my classes. The only difference between us was that she had math and history at different periods than me. She and I hit it off immediately, instant friends.

After a few weeks, I was starting to warm up to my teachers and I discovered that I liked my advisor and my English teachers, Mrs. Park and Mrs. Lee. They were both immigrants (from Korea and Japan), so they both understood the hardships of not being native English speakers. A month later, I learned that Zahra had gotten into a school writing competition. First prize won a yearbook feature, the story on the school website, and $100!

We found out we both had similar stories. We both immigrated and English was not our first language. She used to live in India but had to leave because the Prime Minister said that the hijab is not allowed to be worn in school. Her family started to face harsh treatment too, so they moved to America as well. I also learned that Zahra was really smart and could be really funny if she wanted to.

“You will totally win!” I encouraged her as she turned in her papers. “You’re such a good writer!”

I told her my story, which was FG4m4E G similar to hers, and learned that Zahra was the youngest of 5 children. 5!

“Inshallah, you are right,” she said nervously. That night, I prayed. Inshallah, inshallah, inshallah… After submitting her story to the contest, we went to the soccer tryouts to see if I could make the team. I tried out for the goalie position, where other people were making jokes about us, but I ignored them and prayed that I would make the team to prove I can do anything! As a result, I

“Mashallah!2” I exclaimed. “You have a big family! I am an only child. What’s it like to have older siblings?” “Like someone always has your back,” she replied proudly.

2. Mashallah is like saying “Amazing!” or “Wow” in English.

the glass knife blocked every single goal. A couple of days later, as I was putting my ESL things in my locker, I saw the soccer teams had been announced. I had made the team! After school, I called my mom and told her the good news. “Alhamdulillah!3” she exclaimed. “Ayaan, did you hear that! Anaya made the team!” “Mashallah my little soccer star!” he started hollering in victory. “Go show’em what you’re made of!” On that happy note, I changed my hijab to a sports hijab that wouldn’t fall off and went to practice. There, we did drills like weaving around cones and passing. It was fun, but tiring. Our first game was in 10 days, so we practiced as much as we could. Days later, we got jerseys. They were orange with the team name “Tigers” on them. I got jersey #1 and smiled. I’m #1 I thought, I’m #1. The day of the soccer game was full of Gatorade, sweat, and yelling from mom, dad, and Zahra on the sideline with all the other families. It was stressful because the

team we were playing was good. In the last few minutes, we were tied and when the opponent tried to score, I blocked it! We won, and I left the field on the top of my teammates’ shoulders. A few weeks later, the results of the writing contest came out. It read “First Place: Zahra Baig”. We jumped up and down in joy. I read her submission once it was posted and it was about her life in India, the discrimination, and her eventual move to America. In the end, she wrote, “Hijab is my crown. The crown that I wear proudly.” This made me smile. Eventually, we made it to the finals and easily sent the other teams packing. We won 4 games in a row. When I was interviewed for the school newspaper, I told them my story and when I was asked a specific G question, “How does it feel 4E to be a Muslim soccer player, 4m after all of the discrimination FG you have received?” I replied, “I don’t need other people to tell me what to do or who to be. All that hate, I ignore. Like Zahra Baig once said, hijab is my crown. I wear it proudly.” I learned that everyone has a crown, something to make them proud of themselves. Hijab is mine, so what’s yours?

3. Alhamdulillah is like saying “Thank god” or “Yay!” in English.

the glass knife I spite found family tropes in books and TV shows because I’ve realized I could never construct a friendship like that Someone willing to die for me? I can barely convince anyone to hangout So I idealize friendship and love in hope that one day it will fill this void in my heart and this nagging voice in my head telling me I will never be enough I pretend my eyes don’t glow green whenever I see photos of friends doing everything together I wanna be liked I wanna be loved I want everyone to stop leaving me I want to be seen I want to be heard But that isn’t realistic for a third choice

Third Choice

Ella Harbart ’26

Birds on Rock Arijit Trivedi ’22 Photography

have always hated the number three It’s what I’ve always been Ever since I was little, I’ve walked on the grass next to the sidewalk I’ve walked behind a pair with connected arms I’ve sat alone in the backseat of a car full of people I’ve been shushed during conversations “I um” I would say for the first time “I um” I would try for the second time I think third time’s the charm, right? “I um” and no one even casts a glance my way

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The Arch Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Gouache

in mid air Savanna Karmue ’23 Photography

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Moonshine Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Digital

Two Time Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Digital

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Overlooking the Horizon Sanjana Anand ’22 Photography

Eye of the Beholder Arijit Trivedi ’22 Photography

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Foggy Vista Saheb Gulati ’25 Spray Paint

Thar She Blows Arijit Trivedi ’22 Photography

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The Empress Katie Espinoza ’24 Acrylic

California Residency Arijit Trivedi ’22 Photography

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A Poet’s Definition of Love by Emily Cook ’23

They spin their golden lies by day, A poet’s definition of love.

In stories, truths lay bare.

To be understood, to be heard.

Everything that’s written,

For a person to hang onto every word.

Make people brutally aware.

The burning passion for their art,

Writers can’t be choosers,

For they can never be apart.

They write what’s in the heart.

Always a sentence away from greatness,

There are no guards, no stone cold walls,

But few ever escape their darkness.

Just a castle from the start.

Two Girls Brynne Barnard Bahn ’23 Digital

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Arjin and Ethan Long Exposure at Night Arijit Trivedi ’22 Photography

A Silhouette of a Very Nice Man Arijit Trivedi ’22 Photography

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Sonata No. 2

composed by Frédéric Chopin

perform

ed by G

arman

Xu ’23 Piano

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All For Naught

by Jackson Fox ’23

he streets are empty. Abandoned cars lie on the sides of the road, their windows shuttered and their paint scratched. I look up ahead to see a building with a single light on. A library? I make my way over to the decrepit building to see the door is swung wide open. I walk inside to see the books all stacked up on shelves in a neat fashion. I scan the shelves as I drift through the towering aisles of dusty pages and worn-out fabric covers. After a few minutes of searching, I notice a small book lying on the floor. I pick it up and turn it over to read the cover. There is nothing. I open the book. Nothing. I continue flipping through the pages. Nothing but withered brown pages. You know, not every taxi driver will take you where you want to go. No, there’s one that is different from the rest. They drive a taxi cab that looks identical to any other except for the fact that the license plate is upside down. This cab doesn’t take you where you want to go, but rather where you need to go. I happened upon this car on a bleak Thursday night after work. I always took public transport to get to and from places as I didn’t own a car. That day, I took a cab; the driver greeted me with a crooked smile. I thought nothing of

it until we got to my childhood home. “Inside,” he said. “You will find it.” The prophecy was all for naught. In this fractured land where time is but a mere construct, who could think I could’ve been so foolish. They said that it was going to be me who would restore the order of peace. Now, the altar lies in front of me. I have completed my quest to get here. I’ve conquered kingdoms from the temperate North to the frigid South; from the arid West to the lush East. And yet, the altar lies dormant. So, it was all for nothing then. The souls of all of those people weren’t enough to feed the insatiable appetite of the Altar of Despair. How could I have been so foolish? Three weeks ago, I took the subway to work. In fact, I take the subway to work every damned day of the week. That’s not the strange part. The strange part was somebody I noticed on the subway that day. I remember getting on and feeling quite fatigued from work. I slumped down into the nearest seat and placed my earbuds in my ears to escape the underground buzz. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until the second stop. A woman walked in with pale white hair and a blindfold around her eyes. No one seemed to acknowledge her presence, as if she was a specter come back to haunt me for all things I’d done. At the next stop, the lights 37

the glass knife flickered as the doors to the train car opened. I could feel the weight of my sins, though the woman said nothing, did nothing. There was nowhere to hide. When I glanced back at the woman, I noticed that she was facing me now. I couldn’t look away. Why couldn’t I? At the next stop I saw her raise her hands to her face. She held them there

for several minutes. Nobody else in the train car looked bothered; it was only me that could see what was going on, only me that bore the guilt for everything that had happened. At the final stop, she removed the blindfold to reveal hollow sockets. Small voids for eyes. She smiled. I ran out of the station as fast as I could.

Redraw of Mx. Sinister Natalie Park ’23 Mixed Media

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Finding Divinity in Empty Palms by Sage Spradlin ’23

emories of her float through my mind like dawn—foggy, dreamlike. Addict. I did not understand what it meant when I was small. I remember the love, her in the bathtub laughing at my dad’s witty remarks. Pressing my wanting face to her stomach while she read me books, always needing to be closer. I remember crawling into bed with her on dark mornings, the ones when she was too high to take us to school. The bad memories feel like imposters. Slamming doors and divorce don’t belong to me. Doctor’s appointments, bleach pooled on linoleum tiles, unnerved raving, invisible worms, ripped bedsheets— they are not mine. My mother was my first country. I was born waiting for something. I came to this world quiet and hiding. I learned how to run with my eyes closed. When I was six, my brother and I went to live with my dad. I learned to love art and music and nature. As I was separated from the linoleum and late-night television, every day became a summer morning: Nerf gun battles, garden squash, spray paint, bike rides. I learned to dissect myself, compartmentalize the pieces that still belonged to my mother.

I did not miss her. I was free and was no longer hiding. I loved and was loved by everyone I met. I became my own sun. I didn’t actually understand the situation—why it was just my dad, brother, and I. I was told my mom couldn’t take care of us anymore and with the trust that can only be found in a child, I was ok with the answer. At ten or eleven I started to become curious about her. She had become an unfamiliar shadow in the back of my mind. I learned what addict meant. I was told it was what I would become one day—just like my mother, like my auntie, like my grandfather—it was written in the cards. No one said this directly, but instead in the spaces between. It was solidified in the pauses and the punctuation. I began to hate my mother. I was angry at her for leaving. I was angry at myself for not being good enough. I hated myself for being made from her body, knowing and fearing that I would become her. I became obsessed with the shattered pieces she left behind. I poked and prodded my body and decided there was too much—too much of me to love. If I was smaller, if I didn’t take up so much space, maybe she would’ve stayed. I declared myself unworthy of love and looked for company in dark places. I found sanctuary in bleeding arms and an empty stomach. I was getting older, 39

Yoko Oginome Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Ink

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the glass knife but I wasn’t growing up. I found myself drifting away from the shore, drowning in a sea of myself. I could not be saved and I didn’t want to be. It took a long time to heal; two yellow pills each morning, therapy every Monday. I learned addiction is an illness and not a choice, and that if my mother had a choice, it would’ve been me. There are still parts of my brain that remain soft and sunken, but I’ve stopped hating myself for the parts of me that are hers.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember the sweetness; I have no scar to show from happiness. I force myself to list the details over and over again; hazel eyes, yellow dress, seven stars across her collarbone. I refuse to let her disappear. I no longer remember the sound of her voice, only the empty space between us. I imagine seeing her again. She no longer appears in dreams, but instead comes to me in quiet moments. I see her in dim kitchens and empty bathtubs. I catch her in the corner of my eye in an empty hallway. She stands like a ghost; soft and smiling. In my head, she is loved.

Two Addax Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Ink

the glass knife o tohspans a ekil tlef tI :wons erup fo ml etaciled niht a ekil ecafrus yreve derevoc tsuD ns ot derad neve I fI :emit ni nezorf yllauteprep otohp elgnis a ni derutpac doohdlihc aroced xob a moordeb doohdlihc ym fo renroc eht nI :detpursid eb dluow ssenllits eht gnig dna revo deklaw I os noitnetSnapshot ta ym thguaof c sthe epirtPast s elprup dna stod aklop knip htiw :ekib a no emit tsr s‘eihciR :slebal htby iwLauren sepat dLu na s’24 DC era erehT :stnetnoc sti delaever esserppus gnol dah I taht seiromeM :samtsirhC rof god a tog ew emit ehT :yadhtrib htneves llatnem ro delaeh dah I fi erus etiuq t‘nsaw I :dnim ym fo srenroc tsekrad eht ot delixe Dust b tseraen eht morf mubla otohp a pu dekcip I tey meht ecaf ot hguone flesym deraperp covered ctaw yawa tsud fo ml etaciled eht welevery b ylhgsurface uor dnalike ecafa ym ot esolc koob eht dleh I eht no eltit on saw erehT :riathin, eht delicate otni derafilm eppaofsipure d dnasnow. demrIt of felt rettam eht fo emulp a sa like a snapshot of my childhood, captured tniap selims eerferac htiw rehtegot ylimaf ruo fo erutcip egral a ylno inrevoc elbisiv won guorht gnippilF :tnedicacsingle a ‘stnerphoto, ap ruo perpetually erofeb rehtefrozen got su fin o otime. tohp If tsaI leven eht saw tI :secaf ruo dared to sneeze, the stillness would be disrupted. In tey aiglatson lfaoitsneevrarw ot yb tih saw I serutcip yniarg elttirb dthe na scoregap gniwolley ner of my childhood bedroom, a box decorated with pink solc dekool I sA :nwod evohs t‘ndluoc I taht retsasid gnidnepmi fo gnileef polka a llits saw ereht dots deniur dna detro tsidand tahtpurple seitilastripes mronbacaught snoimy tcefattention, repmi ecitso onI owalked t nagebover I and sotohp eht ta gingerly revealed its contents. There are CDs and tape s with labels. selims ylhtraenu ruo ni srenroc eht ni dnuorgkcab eht nI :egami cillydi yreve dna birthday. The ekil ecafrRichie’s us yrevefirst deretime voc tson :udD naobike. ces gnMy issaseventh p hcae h tiw rediw dntime a rediwe w hcgot tertas odog t demees for Christmas. Memories that I had long suppressed, exiled to the darkest a ni derutpac doohdlihc ym fo tohspans a ekil tlef tI :wons erup fo ml etaciled niht a rsid eb dlucorners ow ssenof llitmy s ehmind. t ezIewasn’t ens ot quite deradsure neveifIIfIhad :emhealed it ni neor zomentally rf yllauteprepared prep otohp myself enough to face them, yet I picked up a photo album from the nearest rup dna stod aklop knip htiw detaroced xob a moordeb doohdlihc ym fo renroc eht nI box. I held the book close to my face and roughly blew the delicate film of dust erehT :stnetnoc sti delaever ylregnig dna revo deklaw I os noitnetta ym thguac sepirts away, watching as a plume of the matter formed and disappeared into the air. emit ehT :yadhtrib htneves yM :ekib a no emit tsr s‘eihciR :slebal htiw sepat dna sDC There was no title on the now-visible cover, only a large picture of our family roc tsekrad etogether ht ot dewith lixe carefree dessersmiles ppus gpainted nol dahonI tour ahtfaces. seiroIt mewas M :the samlast tsirphoto hC roof f gus od a tog caf ot hguonetogether flesym before derapeour rp yparents’ llatnemaccident. ro delaeFlipping h dah I fthrough i erus eyellowing tiuq t‘nsapages w I :dand nim ym fo f ym ot esolc kbrittle, oob ehgrainy t dlehpictures, I :xob tsIewas raenhit ehby tm orf mubwaves la otohofpnostalgia, a pu dekcyet ip there I tey meht torrential rof rettam eht fowas emstill ulp a feeling sa gnihof ctaimpending w yawadisaster tsud fo that ml I couldn’t etaciledshove eht wdown. elb ylhguor dna ip egral a ylno reAs vocI looked elbisivcloser wonateh t nphotos, o eltit oInbegan saw eto renotice hT :riaimperfections, eht otni deraeppasid dna the u fo otohp tsal eht saabnormalities w tI :secaf ruthat o nodistorted detniapand seliruined ms eereach feracand htievery w rehidyllic tegot ylimaf ruo fo rg elttirb dna segap gimage. niwolleIny the hgubackground, orht gnippiin lF the :tnecorners, dicca ‘sin tnour erapunruo erofeb rehtegot nidnepmi fo gnileef a llitsearthly saw eresmiles ht teythataseemed iglatsontofostretch selvaaiw tnwider errotand yb tih saw I serutcip wider with each passing second. ton ot nageb I sotohp eht ta resolc dekool I sA :nwod evohs t‘ndluoc I taht retsasid nI :egami cillydi yreve dna hcae deniur dna detrotsid taht seitilamronba snoitcefrepmi rediw dhncaterretsdiowt demees taht selims ylhtraenu ruo ni srenroc eht ni dnuorgkcab ons erup fo ml etaciled niht a ekil ecafrus yreve derevoc tsu:D dnoces gnissap hcae htiw ni nezorf yllauteprep otohp elgnis a ni derutpac doohdlihc ym fo tohspans a ekil tlef tI hdlihc ym fo renroc eht nI :detpursid eb dluow ssenllits eht ezeens ot derad neve I fI noitnetta ym thguac sepirts elprup dna stod aklop knip htiw detaroced xob a moordeb 42

the glass knife by Samhita Kumar ’23

Lights on, flashlight primed, and full exhibit in view, Evan doesn’t know what to make of the scene before him.

. Evan Selland, a lowly security guard at the British Museum, is not having a particularly good day. It’s two in the morning on a Tuesday, and he would like to go home. It’s raining outside, thick and heavy and cold, and Evan’s forgotten his umbrella. When he finally gets off this horrid night shift, he’ll have to walk to the subway station in the downpour.

The glass cases of the room are all as they should be. Every hanging sign, every label, every placard; all of the trappings of the museum are in order, nothing is out of place. For a moment, he can dispel the prickling fear that dances in his peripheral vision. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s—

Now Museum, Now You Don’t

He hates his job too, if he’s being honest. Night shift or not, he’s walking around a vaguely creepy museum full of who knows what. Old statues and carvings and all. Some of the exotic stuff is supposed to be cursed, too. He continues along this vein, haphazardly throwing the beam of his flashlight into the corners of the exhibits as he walks. Nothing out of the ordinary—because nothing could be in this godforsaken place. He hates to admit it, but the museum scares him a little. So much of the dark and all. An involuntary shiver crawls its way up Evan’s spine. A crash, maybe, or the smash of breaking glass. Something loud. Evan runs to the switch in a hurry, swinging his light in the direction of the noise.

ne. Everythin g in the exhibit is go 2. Delia Smith, who’s had the misfortune of being assigned the Museum Case, doesn’t know how much headway she can make. She’s had a cast of characters troop through the interrogation room already: security guard, probably-drunk passersby, the entire executive board of the museum, lost anthropology intern. Now, Delia is a qualified investigator. She takes her job seriously. She grew up on Agatha Christie, and she’s still a little bit delighted with her shiny badge. Looking at the details of this case, she wants to quit and move to the Andes. She sighs, long and drawn-out, and pushes her chair back from her desk. 43

the glass knife Maybe if she takes a walk around the office, something will click. Ten paces in, someone falls into step beside her. Liam Something-or-other, Delia recognizes, still half-caught up in a haze of artifacts and glass cases, strangely devoid of fingerprints.

She tells Liam as much, scowling as she does so.

“So,” Liam begins. “Word on the street is you’ve got the museum case. Any luck?”

Deep down, though, Delia has the feeling this case won’t be solved.

“I’ll take a look through the tapes for you,” he offers finally, looking as baffled as she feels. She accepts, of course; she needs all the help she can get.

3. Lasya walks to work with a familiar feeling of rage boiling underneath her skin. It’s almost habit, now; the surge of powerless fury almost ordinary. There’s a statue of Queen Victoria next to the office, you see, and she’s got to watch the stone woman smirk at her every day. It’s humiliating. It’s—ignominious, she decides. That’s the word.

Delia sighs again. “Do you remember the Ellingsmith case? It’s like that, but worse.” Liam looks at her with unbridled horror. The Ellingsmith case had been a thorough disaster, ending in the uncovering of a small-time mafia group and a rat infestation in the police department. The new hires talk about it the way small children whisper about the ghosts in their grandmothers’ attics.

She’s got her headphones in, listening to the BBC. The smooth voices of the newscasters roll over her; shamefully, she’s only half-listening. If her father ever asks, she’s paying full attention. When she was young, the two of them used to make a game of the different headlines each day. It’s too early for her childhood game, though. Her mind, instead, starts to drift.

“That bad? What could have possibly happened?” Delia isn’t exactly sure where to start. Nearly every artifact in a museum disappears, and there’s hardly any evidence to show for it. No DNA, no physical traces, no eyewitness testimony, nothing. All she’s got are some blurry security tapes and an executive board demanding action, but that’s not enough to build a case on.

Idly, she imagines the Victoria statue crumbling to pieces. She imagines tearing the stone to shreds herself, as if the carved marble was 44

the glass knife feather-soft. She imagines an errant strike of lightning, charring the whole ugly thing to a crisp. She knows it’s irrational, to hate a block of stone like it was the eighth deadly sin. Lasya, though, can’t shake it. One glance towards the statue, which is coming up on her left, and she can think only of the generations of her family born under British rule, the wealth drained from her country held hostage by Victoria herself, the priceless national treasures stolen to display in the museums of London. Crimes gone unpunished, and the perpetrator coming up on her left. Lasya knows that if she ever says this out loud, she’d become the crazy one in the office. She shoves the rage back down, runs a hand through her hair, but then— “Reports from the British Museum and the constabulary indicate that the archaeological pride of London has been robbed of its priceless artifacts in a mysterious burglary,” the forgotten voice in her ears blares. “More information is forthcoming, but the missing objects appear to not be British in origin.” For a moment, Lasya is incandescently, brilliantly delighted. It’s only justice, she thinks happily,

picturing the museums of the world rich with what belongs to them. Thievery of the thieves. The guilt slams into her a moment later—it’s wrong to wish ill will on anyone, after all, and she’s certainly not advocating for misfortune. It is too late, though, for that thought to be forgotten. 4. Stephen Royden is supposed to be going on air in exactly two minutes, and the set is in a state of chaos. It’s not his fault, thank goodness, but it’s someone’s, and he needs to resolve things before the clock hits 23:00:00 and his mic turns hot. The problem is entirely on set, though. The hosts are deep in argument, ratings are high, and nobody wants to cut to an advertisement. This is good for everyone, of course, except for Stephen and his airtime. He settles back in his folding chair to listen; maybe, if he coughs at the right time, he can interrupt their flow long enough to cut to an ad. “So, you’re saying that the British Museum deserved to be robbed? The pride and joy of London?” Oh, of course. They’re arguing about the British Museum. Everyone and their second cousin have been discussing it, debating whether it was truly deserved 45

the glass knife or simply the worst kind of crime. He’s not quite sure what to think.

polite and aggressively loud. Cordelia glances off-stage, towards him, for a quick moment. Something shifts in her face; acceptance, maybe, or hopelessness.

“No, not at all!” Stephen can’t remember her name, but he knows that the woman currently speaking, who’s in a red 90s-type power suit, is not someone to be messed with. “I’m just saying that it’s a little bit hypocritical to decry the stealing of artifacts when half of them are stolen themselves—”

“I believe our segment now draws to a close,” she says, speaking with obviously-forced calm. “Ladies and gentlemen, this has been 1001 News Nightly. We thank you for tuning in.”

“And now you’re calling the British citizens hypocrites? That’s a bit antinational, Cordelia,” the other host says, clearly scandalized. “Nothing can justify what took place earlier, and that’s clear to the public and to myself.”

Stephen scrambles to his feet; he’s on after the next advertising segment. He can’t get the argument out of his head, though. If it really was as Cordelia had said, maybe there was some merit to the argument. If it really was as Cordelia had said, and the British Museum was full of stolen treasures and looted artifacts, it would have been deserved, and more. It would have been a crime of the greatest magnitude for the British Museum to continue possessing those objects, and only a restoration of justice to see them removed.

“Now, Richard, don’t twist my words like that.” Power-suit woman—Cordelia, Stephen corrects himself—looks equally scandalized, like Richard has accused her of the robbery herself. “It’s just that the crimes of colonialism extend to our museums, and it’s certainly unfair to possess the relics of other sovereign nations.”

It can’t be true, though. It couldn’t have been as Cordelia had said.

“Crimes of colonialism?” Richard asks, incredulity melting into accusation. “To tear apart the history of our great nation in this manner—”

5. Delia Smith, who after fifteen days of investigating the Museum Case now embodies the word “long-suffering,” nearly cries when she sees the news report. “Stolen British artifacts,” the headline reads, “deposited at museums, embassies in countries of origin.”

The clock ticks to 23:00:00. Stephen watches the number change. After a moment, he coughs, somehow both 46

the glass knife What is she supposed to do with that? Yesterday, she’d been feeling somewhat hopeful. Liam had found someone who looked a little sketchy on the security footage, and she’d felt fairly confident about a match from Tube surveillance cameras. But now, everything was found. Delia decides she might as well take an early break. Who’s going to stop her? She’s handling the Museum Case, after all; the new hires know to get out of her way if they want to save themselves.

cycle, of sorts, playing itself out on her cluttered desk. Three days ago, she’d watched 1001 News Nightly instead of filing her paperwork, and she’d left with the unsettled feeling of figures that didn’t add up. If she were to find someone, recommend them for prosecution, throw them in jail—would that balance the sums? Would there be justice in the slam of the gavel, in a guilty verdict for the theft of something already stolen?

On her left, a statue of Her Majesty Delia lets herself Queen Victoria out of the building looms. A woman a FG4m4EG quietly, taking a deep few meters ahead of breath of the crisp morning air. It’s dark her walks serenely by it, although Delia and foggy, as to be expected, but it’s still notes that her fists are tightly clenched. refreshing. She sets off a moment later, Angry, she deduces but trying not to hoping to clear her mind of the case. show it. It’s futile. In the crush of pedestrians around the upcoming crossing, she The fog seems to lift for a moment. suddenly spots the security guard from Delia raises her head to the clouds, the Museum. A moment later, he’s gone. weighing her options. Perhaps she will Maybeher mind’s playing tricks on her. go inside and report to her superiors that this case is dead. No clues, no Fifteen days ago, a crime had been leads, no suspects, nothing. reported. A theft. Delia picks up the pace, turning the facts over in her head. Justice does not need her to find it. One hundred years ago, she’d learned, a similar crime had gone unchallenged. A Justice, it seems, has already arrived. 47

the glass knife

Trio in Verse

by GPT-3 OpenAi software Space Song Brynne Barnard-Bahn ’23 Ink

The glass knife Cuts through the night Silently it glides Across the sky Its blade so sharp It pierces the heart Of anyone who dares To look into its eyes

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I caught a fish alive, And put him in a basket, And he was glad to be there, But soon he died of thirst. I gave him water to drink, But it did not revive him. He lay there gasping for breath, Till he was nothing but bone. The moral of this story is, Don’t put fish in a basket!

The first time I saw you, I was lost in outer space. I was adrift in a sea of stars, searching for a place to land. But when I saw you, I knew I had found my home. You were my north star, guiding me back to safety. And I’ve been lost in your love ever since.

Things in Life Arijit Trivedi ’22 Photography

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Glass Knife Staff 2021-22 illustrated by Brynne Barnard-Bahn, Art Editor

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Behind the Scenes of The Glass Knife by Brynne Barnard-Bahn, Art Editor

the glass knife

Acknowledgements: The production of this 13th edition of The Glass Knife was far from a crash course in disillusionment—largely due to the support we received from many quarters. We’d like to thank the teachers of the high school for generously granting extra credit for submissions, and especially Mr. Hinojosa for helping to judge our writing contests carried out in the shadows. Ms. Melinson, your advice on creating a literary magazine was invaluable, as was your encouragement. Thank you to Sage Spradlin, Jackson Fox, Lauren Lu, and Jordyn LaPlaca for your winning entries in our staff contests, as well as to the middle school winners of Dr. Novell’s schoolwide contest. Last, but certainly not least, Mrs. Strong, this edition could not have happened without your guidance and support. We’re impossibly grateful for all of your help (and all of the worknight snacks)!

Dear ’21-22 staff, I am grateful for all of your hard work and enthusiam in bringing The Glass Knife back to print. Thank you for making my first year as your advisor memorable. I am so proud of what all of you have accomplished! Mrs. Strong

Truckee Night Sky Arijit Trivedi ’22 Photography

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