Janus, Winter 2025-2026

Janus Winter 2025-2026

Janus Williston’s Visual and Literary and Arts Magazine Volume 76 Winter ’25 – ‘26 Editors in Chief: Addie Eakin and Zoe Simon Faculty Advisor: Sarah Sawyer

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Staff: Lateef Aiyeyemi Lily Andersen Jaelyn Luo Addison Perich Deniza Dosmuratova Douglas Warner Richard Yu-Hwang

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Table of Contents Cover photo by Anonymous “I Am Not Here For Your Comfort” by Amayaly Arias “Ode to Boredom” by Gabe Fallone “Winter” By Wynne Fitzgerald Photo by Addie Eakin “I hate winter, unless it snows” by Júlia Lloret “How do you see yourself – prompt response” by Anonymous “Wave Goodbye” by Addie Eakin “What does winter mean to you? – prompt response” by Sky Cuomo “Untitled” by Kiara Perez “Untitled” by Jaelyn Luo “Winter, a haiku” by Anonymous Photo by Addie Eakin “Monster Poem” by M. Choo “Doges Palace,” a painting by Sylvia Lynch

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I Am Not Here For Your Comfort.

By Amayaly Arias They stumbled on the sound of me, So I trimmed my name for clarity.

But let’s be honest — it wasn’t me Who needed changing. It was they who couldn’t see.

Amayaly — not a puzzle to decode, Not a burden, not a heavy load.

But you made it so. Your mouths, your pace, Couldn’t bother with the shape of my face.

So I became Amaya. Easier, neat.

A version of me built to repeat.

But I am not soft clay in your hand — I bend, but still, I take a stand.

Say it wrong. Trip. Learn. Try. I won’t shrink again to satisfy.

This name? A map. A fire. A sea.

Say it right — or speak of me silently.

Ode to Boredom

By Gabe Fallone In spare time, I don’t know what to do When I come home, I don’t know what to do When I’m done with work, I don’t know what to do So I lie on my bed and Think about something that I don’t know how to do Only then will I know what to do.

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Winter

By Wynne Fitzgerald winter to most is the lights the snow the quiet the joy to most it’s the safety the security of the borrowing snow the first fall the first sip the first movie to most it’s the sound the sound of bells ringing the sound of music filling your ears making you warm inside the sound of laughter of family coming together for most it’s simple a season but for me, winter is the squeak the squeak of new sneakers on a polished floor the dribble of the ball on the court 6

the rhythm of the pass, bounce, swish it’s the sound of victory the feeling inside lifting you up it’s the sound of loss the quiet remorse just to get back up and try again because you love it because you love the game winter is the game the game of basketball

Photo by Addie Eakin

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I hate winter, unless it snows

By Júlia Lloret I hate winter, unless it snows.

The winter chill goes through to my bones.

But when it snows the world s l o w s d o w n .

As the snow falls d o w n to the ground.

Without snow, the winter world is cold and dark.

With the snow, the winter world has a beautiful glow.

The snow brings beauty when growing nature is off duty.

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How do you see yourself?

By Anonymous Mirrors are tough because you can never see yourself as you truly are.

You are always inverted or distorted or something.

Now, how else should one attempt to see themselves?

One must think about more than appearance.

I mean, it's cliche, but "look good, feel good" is totally valid.

Appearance surely cannot show you everything, right?

What is on the inside? Sunshine and rainbows or gloom and doom?

Do you see yourself as a kind person? A loving sibling and friend? An upstanding citizen?

Or do you see yourself as a waste-of-space teenage dirtbag?

What makes you think those things?

How can you be so sure?

I know I see myself as a stuck-up, overworked coward sometimes.

And other times I see myself as a fun-loving, determined young lady.

It's a fine line to walk.

One moment has the power to shift my perspective on any given day.

But why? I don't think other people have much power over how I see myself.

Evidently, they do.

Wave Goodbye

By Addie Eakin I took her to the ocean; she didn't know how to swim.

I never meant for her to drown.

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What Does Winter Mean to You?

By Sky Cuomo Winter is to me as Moonlight is to an unlit window A hopeful one standing in the darkness And a generous one shines its light Snowflakes are but small frozen souls Of kindred spirits But eventhe kindest of spirits If pushed too far Can chill you to the very core But clouds come to you Wrapping you in layers of wisdom Keeping you warm in the coldest nights Sunlight is but a memory And that memory of years past Reminds you of warmth Reminds you of comfort Reminds you of who you can be Winter is Blackened wood Thin twigs that weave and twist Like cobwebs in a corner a swirl of snowy wind stirs your hair And rushes it through a phase Of milky-white cashmere Ancient and old But presented anew Gliding softly across the universe Like water gurgling happily As it flows over boulder and pebble alike Sharp as an ancient weapon Carved by rough hands of masters of the craft An art of tracing lines In patterns of magic Shining in the sunlight The crack of the ice above 10

The lake you have witnessed for few But ancient is he And wise as the stars Old as time To me, winter means Warmth filling your heart Sweet like sugar, boosting me up, up To the icy cold stars And snow that falls on the ground As daintily as a prima ballerina Slowly making her way To the finish When all that pain From years of grueling practice Begins to melt away Into a stream of emotion Tears from mistakes long corrected Because healing Is not always warm and smooth Sometimes It is only freezing cold And rough all over Scraping her skin But slowly pulling you out of the darkness That only the chilling moonlight can penetrate Until the sun rises and the first flowers bloom Winter is a limerick Similar but Never repetitive And though the ice and snow Can freeze your soul It can also give you a fresh start A new way of life Wake and rest in darkness But your soul remains illuminated Motivated Grateful Like starting anew Just like winter 11

Untitled

By Kiara Perez Past the withering tree branches that claw at the sky like tired hands, past the gates of the parking lot where they try to hold me captive at this school. Past the Grinch statue placed at the corner of the street against his will, guarding a neighborhood that changes a little more each year.

Past the fire department, which is covered in so much snow that I sometimes wonder—if it were to catch on fire, would the snow simply put it out? Past the festive lights that glow downtown, hanging like tiny constellations guiding people through the cold. Past the mountain I have to drive over every morning, a routine climb that has become so familiar I can almost trace every curve and dip with my eyes closed.

Past the extremely slow drivers who seem determined to test my patience before the day even begins, past the homeless veteran who is always talking to someone—sharing pieces of his story with anyone who'd listen at the intersection. Past the Friendly's where I spent my entire summer, eating ice cream and skateboarding without a care in the world.

Past the little brown house on the hill where I live now, the one that holds the quiet moments of my present life. Past the highway that hums right behind it like a restless river of engines and headlights. Past the Holyoke Mall where I spent my freshman year fooling around with my friends every weekend, wandering through stores we never bought anything from, convinced that the food court was the center of the universe.

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Past the CVS, past the kids riding their bikes in circles on cracked pavement. Past the men sitting on the corner, nodding to everyone who passes, keeping watch over the neighborhood in their own quiet way. Past the cars blasting Spanish music, the bass thumping so loud it feels like the heartbeat of the entire street.

Past the red brick walls that once felt like the borders of my childhood universe, past the broken screen door that slammed every time someone ran outside. Past my grandma always cooking in the kitchen, her hands moving with the kind of confidence that comes from decades of feeding a family. Past my mom mopping the living room floor, determined to keep the house spotless even when chaos swirled around her. Past my dad playing PlayStation, telling my mom to stop blocking the screen as if the game depended on his survival.

Past all seven of my cousins and I running everywhere, playing hide-and-seek in every corner of the place until we knew every hiding spot by heart. Past the basement that housed a couple of my family members and also doubled as a gym, filled with mismatched weights and the faint smell of detergent and metal. That basement saw arguments, laughter, late-night talks, and the kind of memories you don't realize you're collecting until years later.

And beyond all of that—beyond the noise, the smells, the clutter, the love—stands a home that is no longer filled with our hectic family but now is just a distant memory. A place that shaped me and a place that still echoes inside me when I think of the word home.

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Untitled

By Jaelyn Luo

Winter, a haiku

By Anonymous Wind creaks the treetops Fractals pierce the ashen sky Oh winter, oh mine

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Monster Poem

By M. Choo When I was a kid I promised my parents That there was a monster in my closet That stole my breath and held me in place And when they looked I promised it was under my bed that it slammed its hands on my bed frame Photo by Addie Eakin A heartbeat that drowned out words But when they checked they promised me that there was nothing there

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Doges Palace

By Sylvia Lynch

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“If you cannot do great things, do small things in a great way.” ― Napoleon Hill

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