nc
2021





www.maristmosaic.wordpress.com
maristmosaic@gmail.com
3399 North Road
Poughkeepsie, NY 12601
Cover Design and Interior Layout by Raquel Lekic and Ethan Joyal
Cover Image: Cinque Terre by Lidya Sezer
Opinions expressed in Mosaic do not necessarily reflect the views
held by Mosaic staff, students, faculty, or the administration of
Marist College.
©
Mosaic 2021







Mosaic
Editorial Board
Editor-In-Chief
Amanda Roberts
Art Editor
Sarah Kelly-O'Donnell
Fiction Editor
Lindsey Dolan
Nonfiction Editor
Nicole Formisano
Poetry Editor
Tim Ganning
Design Editors
Raquel Lekic and Ethan Joyal
Lead Copyeditor
D'Avion Middleton
Copyediting Team
Eve Fisher and Kirsten Mattern
Mosaic
Advisors
Mr. Robert Lynch and Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons







4
Letter From The Editor
The spring 2021 edition of Mosaic was created by a dedicated group of
students with an interest in continuing a Marist tradition of amplifying
.
student voices through a student-run literary and art magazine.
In a time of social and physical distance, we sought to create a space for
students to connect through art, fiction, nonfiction and poetry. This maga-
zine is the product of that mission.
Mosaic submissions went through a rigorous blind peer review process in
which student section editors evaluated submissions for publication and
ranking of 1st, 2nd and 3rd place in the categories of art, fiction, nonfic-
tion and poetry. For many of our editors, this publication is the first time
they are seeing students' names associated with their work.
The Editorial Board and I would like to extend our sincerest gratitude to
Bob Lynch for inspiring the Editorial Board to publish this semester's
edition of Mosaic. This year's magazine would not have been possible
without his support and passion for providing an outlet for students to
express their creativity and gain credit as a published artist. Bob brought
the editorial board together and grounded our work in Mosaic's legacy as a
staple on Marist's campus.
We would also like to thank Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons for her enthusiasm,
support and guidance throughout this endeavor.
Thank you to Alex Podmaniczky for helping us print Mosaic and Dr.
Marisa Moore for her guidance in presenting the content. Thank you to
Dean James Snyder, Dean Martin Shaffer, Professor Ed Smith, Dr. Carolyn
Matheus
,
Dr. Eileen Curley, Dr. Lea Graham and the entire English and
Art departments for helping us find the talented students that are featured
in this semester's edition of Mosaic.
We want to thank all of the students who submitted to Mosaic! We were







overwhelmed by your interest and are proud to publish your work.
I
would
personally like to thank the entire Editorial Board for working on
such
a tight
schedule
and attending every meeting with
a smile.
This mag-
azine
is a product of all of your hardwork and I am
so
glad to have had the
opportunity
to work on this with all of you.
Finally
,
thank
you
to you, the reader, for opening this book
and
taking a
chance
on us.
If it was not for you, Mosaic would not have the ability to
make an
impact. We hope you enjoy the
spring
2021 edition of Mosaic.
Sincerely,
Amanda
Roberts
Mosaic
Editor-In-Chief
5











--
6
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cinque Terre
Lidya Sezer
Orbital Tension
Kat Bilbija
12
The Myth of Stars
Gabriella Amleto
13
Twenty-Twenty
Saoirse Maguire
14
Masked
Song of Love - De Chirico
Jessica Hawkins
15
The Revelation
Heather Brody
16
Mallet
Sophie Bouza
19
Moth
Miranda Schindler
20
Untitled
Heather Millman
21
Thinking of the West
Ethan Maslyn
22
Ode to Yellow
Kelly Unanue
23
ur into rhymes and i'm into u
Hoor Eid- H
24
Overheated
Bernie Siebel
25
*
*
*The Year of Dying
Bridgette Goss
26
Nighttime Silhouette
Michael Reginella
27
Our Lady of Sorrows
Miranda Schindler
28
Songs of the Cicadas
John Brandon Fiorino
29
The Summer We Searched for Mermaids
Michaela Ellison-Davidson
31
Serene Sunset
Michael Reginella
33
Through the Eyepiece
Miranda Beyer
34
My Blue
Jade Polanco
35
***
=
Content may contain themes of abuse, sexual assault, suicide, death, a
violence.








The
Arc
Nicole
Juzzolino
36
Venetian
Lion
Emily Yen
39
Red
Brittney Sicotte
40
Red
Fox
Hannah Gnibus
41
***
Triooer Warning
Heather Millman
42
bb
The Girl
and
Her Oyster
Natalie Garrison
43
Tigres
s
Emily Yen
46
Starved Tiger
Saiorse Maguire
47
High Society Damsel
Alexandra Messina
48
Viaggi: Bologna
Mei Mei Heipler
51
what
is it like?
Kaylee Miller
52
Steel Trees
Gabriella Amleto
55
Sea Other People
Haley Giancaspro
56
Quito
en
un hilo
Claudia Molina
57
Tarni
s
hing
Cassandra Arencibia
58
The
Approach
Sydney Kysar
61
Train
s
Big
and
Small
Jesse Vengen
62
s
he
Kaylee Miller
64
Medusa
Nora Nucullaj
65
ode
to
gree
n
Kirsten Mattern
66
7








Vegetables on Fabric
Jamie Goodman
67
Visages
Christina Levi
68
The Reproach of the Common Man
August
Boland
69
Where History Comes to Die
Heather
Brody
70
Untitled
Dominique Baduria
72
Pack it
Julia
Kisilinsky
73
This Year
Margaret Roach
74
Morocco Blue, You
Jessica Cordes
77
The Unachievable
Gabriel Castillo-Sanchez
78
Self Medication
Yvette Bien-Aime
79
Women aren't like Flowers
April Y ~arack
80
Things We Lost
In
The Flood
Lindsey Dolan
82
Respect Our Mother
Gabriel Castillo-Sanchez
89
What Do You See?
Abigail Koesterich
90
Planet
Jessica Cordes
91
Still Life Basket
Michael Reginella
93
The Day Wright Died
Carley Van Buiten
94
The Sound in Silence
Michael Reginella
96
Microscopic Cell
Jamie Goodman
98
Salt, Sand, Tide
Alexandra Messina
99
8









1 am not in that
year
Kaylin Moss
100
The Goddess Within Me
Deborah Jenks
101
Outdated
Nicole Formisano
102
Shqiptari
Nora Nucullaj
103
Shovels
Jessica Hawkins
104
The Canticle of the Night
August Boland
105
Rainbow
Lidya Sezer
106
/
*
**
Ashes, Ashes Everywhere
Carley Van Buiten
108
Beacon of Light
Miranda Beyer
115
10:00 PM
,
Dylan's Bed
Jessica Cordes
116
Behind the Glass
Bridgette Goss
118
An Origin Story
Margaret Roach
119
Born Blue: Fortitude Page
Bridgette Goss
124
I Thought You Should Know
Michaela Ellison
-
Davidson
125
CBGB
Nora Nucullaj
138
43 Earle Street
Bridgette Goss
139
Untitled
Elizabeth Roberts
140
A Woman that is
a
Black and a Black
D'Avion Middleton
141
that i
s
a Woman
Chry
s
alis
Miranda Schindler
145
A Book for Wear
Yvette Bien
-
Aime
146
9





Dreamy Ice Creamy
Bernie Siebel
A List of My Childhood Nightmares Nicole Iuzzolino
Daijia
Lidya Sezer
Metal Fishes (A Weird Dream I Had) Jesse Vengen
Bus to Interlaken
Look
Fallen Angel
All Four Seasons
Fire Foxes in the Tundra
A Night in the Rain
Flight of the Harpies
Mirror
Gigi
Glossy Black Pools
ARIES
Map of Broken Friendships
Icarus
Brief and Never Ending
Untitled
Reagan-Bush
'
84
Jesse Vengen
Brittney Sicotte
Tara "Baz" Murnin
Carolann Adipietro
Hannah Gnibus
Sara Rabinowitz
Tara "Baz
"
Murnin
Alyssa Borelli
Hannah Gnibus
Jesse Vengen
Julia Kisilinsky
Maggie Helenek
·
Tara "Baz
"
Murnin
Sara Rabinowitz
Heather Brody
Rosemary DaCruz






Untit
l
ed
Hea
th
er Brody
192
*
*
*
Brui
s
e
s
Cassa
n
dra Atencibia
193
Leech
Miranda Sc
h
indler
194
G
ro
s
Piton
J
esse Vengen
195
L
u
cifer
Tara "Baz" Murnin
198
Cherry
J
ulianna
B
uchma
n
n
199
Leis and Le
ss
on
s
Ethan Ma
s
l
yn
200
Con
s
tellation SMi
l
e
Heather Millman
206
Curiosity'
s
Compass
Kay
l
a Sexton
207
D
o
u
bt
s
at Night
Maggie Helenek
208
Earth Stained Worms
Michaela Ellison-
D
av
i
dson
209
Findin
g
Time
Kayla Sexton
210
H
a
ll
ow
Yvette
B
ien
-
Aime
212
hu(man
)
Kaylee Miller
213
***
Mi
ss
hapen
Yvette Bien
-
Aime
215
I do not remember my roots
Kaylin Moss
2
1
6
Incredibly Dead
l
y
Julia K
i
silinsky
218
Invokation of a Muse
Kevin Pakrad
219
Iron Butt
e
rflies
Debora
h
Jenks
220
J
u
s
t A G
az
e
Chloe Monroe
22
1
Leap
Ethan Mas
l
yn
223
Ma
s
k
Olivia Mangan
224
Ec
l
ip
s
e
Abigail Koesterich
226
l]





12
Orbital Tension
Kat
Bilbija
'24








The Myth of Stars
Gabriella Amleto '24
Stars,
I've heard of those.
I read about them
,
long ago.
I never saw them though.
I heard they were scattered dots,
Like dust on wood,
But were much brighter.
I heard they shone,
Like little quartzes,
All over the sky
,
But in patterns .
.
I heard
·
these patterns were imagined,
Created by us,
·
Representations of myths,
Much like the stars themselves to us,
But these myths were orderly.
I heard that they were organized by the way they would appear
,
Zodiac every month,
Constellations every day,
They represented great heroes and every day silver ware,
They guided sailors through storms,
And people predict their futures,
They were everlasting,
Inspiring all with their beauty.
Stars,
I wonder if they're really that great
As I've been told they were.
1:







14
Twenty-Twenty
Saoirse Maguire '22
It means
great
vision, perfect
sight.
But the
year
itself; a halting red light.
A monotonous loop, the same day repeating.
We looked for things to blame,
People, countries, conspiracy theories
.
What's life without a purpose?
Why learn a new hobby without the circus?
Bottles pile up in the recycling bin.
An alcoholic secret-keeping us
sane.
Not a plane in the sky, not a car driving by.
Silent Spring became a reality.
I lost a year,
But I gained more time.
To be with myself
,
To understand why.













Masked
Song of Love
-
De
Chirico
Inspired by The
Song of
Love
by Giorgio
de Chirico
©
2021 Artists
Right
s
Society
(A
RS),
New
York
I
SIAE,
Rome
Jessica Hawkins '22







16
The Revelation
Heather Brody '22
Third Place, Fiction
Happy memories are the
only moments we
wish
to capture
with
a
camera. The times when no
one is crying
or
arguing or worry-
ing about the difficult things going
on in the world around them. These
photos represent a past that seems
so
enjoyable and fulfilling that one
could argue they
seem a
little too
perfect. No one's life is ever that
happy.
As Anthony shuffled
through the photo albums that were
kept in the attic, a feeling of delight
overcame him as he jumped back to
his childhood and relived the days
when he had no responsibilities,
when he lived a carefree life. He
closed the final photo album, sad
that the memories ended there, that
photo albums are now nothing more
than folders on a
smartphone.
The
electronic era ruined the classical
era in which Anthony grew up. He
sadly
mused how the word
"mem-
ory" now refers to the amount of
information a device could hold, not
the items that make up one's past.
Nonetheless, Anthony was
sitting
in
the attic of his childhood home
sort-
ing through those items. To have
t
clean out this attic all on his own
was
something
he never dreamed
would be doing, nor was
selling
house he grew up in; however,
his
parents had passed away and there
was no one left to help him.
With a long sigh, Anthony
gathered the boxes filled with ob-
jects from his past and
stood
up to
make his way back downstairs.
As
he walked towards the staircase
he
tripped over a loose floorboard, lo
ing his footing and falling onto th
floor with a thud. A groan of pain
escaped his lips as he turned over
and looked at the mess he made.
Photos were now strewn across th
floor, out of order. He grunted in
defeat, sitting up and looking over
to see what he so clumsily tripped
on. Crawling over to the loose floo
board, he inspected the damage th
his foot may have done.
If he was going to
sell
this house h
might want to fix the attic floor a
little bit. He would rather not have
someone fall over at the open hou
like he just did.
Just as Anthony was about







t up to retrieve a hammer and
toge
.1
he saw something wedged
na1 s,
between two boards that caught
his eye: the white corner of an old
photograph. Thinking that one had
dropped from the box, he grabbed
the corner and pulled, careful not
to rip it. When the photo was fully
revealed he picked it up to exam-
ine
it.
The picture was black and
,
white, dated 1926. Scratches now
embedded themselves within the
once smooth ink, and Anthony was
slightly disappointed by this. He
must have not been careful enough
while pulling it free. The photo was
of a young smiling boy with wispy
blonde hair, a freckled face, and
squinted eyes. Suspenders clung
to his shoulders, holding up a pair
of shorts that revealed his knobby
knees. A newsboy cap sat on his
head
.
He looked quite familiar to
Anthony, and upon further inspec-
tion
,
he realized that the young boy
in the photo was no stranger.
It was
an exact copy of his childhood self.
Shock overcame him, but
he quickly pushed the idea away
.
Anthony was born in 1987 so this
~;oto cou~d~'t possibly be 'of him.
hen agam, he thought to himself
as he studied the photo, 'the re-
s_emblance is uncanny.' The short,
light-colored hair, the slim nose, the
crook~d teeth he had before correct-
ing them with braces at fifteen. The
boy in the photo couldn't have been
older than ten years old. Anthony's
heart pounded as he looked back
at the crooked floorboard in antic-
ipation. Were there more of these
photos under there? Was this pic-
ture possibly of a distant relative?
Why were they hidden? Was he
not meant to find them? Questions
flooded his mind as he kneeled
again and lifted the floorboard.
It
creaked as he pried it back, and it
soon broke free of the grime, dust,
and nails holding it down. Anthony
moved the board to the
side, the heavy scent of old age
filling his lungs.
It was the type of
smell you would find in an antique
shop, which Anthony knew quite
well since he worked in one.
Reaching a hand through
the new opening in the floor, he
grabbed, hoping to find anything
that might relate to this photo.
After minutes of aimlessly reaching
around the dark space, he finally
started to give up the idea of finding
anything to give him answers. Just
as he was going to retreat his now
spider-web-covered hand, he felt
something deep within the hole. He
strained towards it and his fingers
grazed the smooth surface of a
17









18
manila folder. He slid the object
closer until he was able to wrap
his hand around the edge and pick
it up. When pulled through the
hole, Anthony revealed a manila
folder much like one that would be
found in a doctor's office.
It
was
thick with all the pages that filled
it, and as it opened the dust that sat
on top clouded into the air around
him, resulting in a sneeze. When
he recovered, he shuffled through
the old papers
.
None seemed of any
interest to him, so he skipped to
the pages in the back which looked
new and more recent, as opposed to
the ones on top which were faded
and yellowed
.
Anthony picked up
a page to look through it, and what
he read made his heart beat like a
drum in his chest. The page had a
picture of Anthony as an infant
,
and
underneath was a copy of his birth
certificate. The next page in the
folder contained his parent's infor-
mation and the orphanage in which
he spent the first few months of his
life.
It
was as if the rest of the
pages held his entire background,
like someone had taken notes on
everything he ever did. There were
recordings of his behavior as a child
( things like "light sleeper", "big
appetite", "continuous crying"), as
well as all his medical records an
results from yearly physicals.
Th
were pages on his pediatrician,
teachers from each year of school
report cards, babysitters, and eve
all the names of his childhood
friends
.
The notes appeared to st
when he turned ten or eleven, so
Anthony flipped back to the very
first page about him, reading ove
the first line for what felt like
the
thousandth time, trying to work
out its significance, its meaning,
its relation to himself. In scribbl
writing it read:
Name
:
Anthony Sullivan
Test Subject: #98
Cloning successful
Suddenly
,
Anthony's past didn't
seem so happy anymore.




Mallet
Sophie Bouza '23
19



20
Moth
Miranda Schindler'22








Untitled
Heather Millman '24
Some days I want to strip
The feelings you gave me like
Snake skin
So I could go as a different
Beast.
J
want
to
soak
the places
You've
touched
in an
acid bath
Let the burn of it run down my back
Until
all
I
can
recognize is
Myself.
In
silences
I want to scream
Affirmations
Of
all
the things that I could
Never
say
.
I want
to
let go
Simply
Let
all
that happened
To tear down my walls
Brick
for
brick
Not define me
And finally
see
the sun.
My lungs raw in declarations






22
Thinking of the West
Ethan Maslyn '22
Third Place, Poetry
Through the window across the room
The mountains split the sky like a roadblock to heaven.
Just outside the back door,
There is a wide field of well walked, sun-kissed grass.
It scratches at the feet, but not unpleasantly.
Moving further away from the door,
The edge of the cliff this sleepy home sits atop draws near.
Nothing but guardrails separating me
From free falling into the dark, sparkling water below.
I would join the fish at the bottom.
All of them moving like people in Times Square,
Mingling indiscriminately with each other.
Turning and leaning on the rails behind,
Looking once again to the beautiful stone walls
Basking in the day's last hurrah.
There is an ethereal haze in the air,
The one that occurs right before twilight;
When the glow from the stalwart traffic lights
Is the brightest thing in view.
Soon the moment has passed,
And the chorus of the night begins.
I look down to see my footprints in the grass
And I'm reminded of where I came from.













Ode to Yellow
Kelly Unanue '24
My
fa
v
o
r
ite color is totally bananas. Sweet as honey but burns like lem-
onad
e
on the soft walls of your throat. My favorite color is the yolk of a
guard
e
d egg, protected by a shell.
If I were to ask someone what comes to
mind when they see the rays of sun, they would probably say something
alono the lines of "happiness" and "warmth." It makes me want to laugh
.
e,
.
If
only they knew you like I did. But instead, all they see is the Broad-
way Pl
a
ybills
.
They line up and watch as the spotlight illuminates your
exaggerated gestures
.
Critics praise you, a Hollywood star with countless
golden Oscars. Only I know you never stop acting, kind of like me
.
They
used to tell me I was such a yellow girl, that they never met someone as
happy a
s
me. Little did they know how much I was breaking inside. How
the sunflowers in my soul were shriveling and the sun was scorching hot it
made me want to scream out. But instead, I gave them my best big yellow
smile like the cartoons
.
Never quite there like a bruise that is healing or
a
signal telling the cars to slow down
,
we are almost at a stop. Almost.
Almo
s
t. Almost. Yet with the uncertainty of where to go next, I trust your
wi
s
dom, following the yellow brick road to wherever it is you long to
take me. You cry out caution
.
Stop! A crime scene lies ahead, guarded by
yellow police tape
,
barricading the chaos inside. I always wondered how
a flim
sy
piece of tape can keep people away but I now realize it is because
of you. They listen to your warnings but unlike others, I am attracted to the
mayhem and uncertainty you bring
.
I cross the line and into your world of
madn
ess
where you cleanse me of all things sane. Take me to the yellow
hou
s
e
,
an asylum for the looney, where all the walls are leaking shades of
cream
,
canary
,
and cyber. You fill up the room, my mind, my whole being.
You
s
cr
e
am from the wallpaper and I scream back. They call me insane,
but I
a
m only crazy for you. Undeniably, crazy for yellow.
23





24
or into rhymes and i 'm into u
Hoor Eid - H '24
not gonna ask stupid questions
to cure the overdone tensions
like "how can i fix this"
because I'm out of tricks
you manipulate me sometimes
and honestly fuck the rhymes
lets talk about all the lines
- that i 've crossed
all the shit i have caused
when your kindness n sharpness combine
it feels like you're telling me to drown
not sure which i 'd apologize for
me making a scene at an empty dance floor
or calling another woman a whore
and meaning the demeaning even more
or the shit my brain cant recall yet
even your angry tone gets me wet
how come i cant feel your anger
are you hiding it so badly
or am i too intoxicated
to feel the frustrated
tone in you, but i bet i can be educated




Overheated
Bernie Siebel
'
23





26
The Year of Dying
Bridgette Goss '23
In the bowels of the building
there is a little place.
And there we stowed behind the shrouds
that hid emotions of the face.
Before us
stood
white mannequins
ensnared in plastic tarp.
Their bodies, bare, emaciated,
ribs and features thin and sharp
.
Amidst the echoes of my mind,
synaptic
static hummed.
The white noise of the
speaker
buzzed
and lulled my bony body numb.
I
should
have
shivered, should
have cried
I
should
have quaked in fear,
or
else,
I
should
have heard, again,
the pop of gunshots in my ear.
But there beneath the recesses,
we huddled with the crowd.
Our bodies formed the nucleus
encumbered by this global shroud.
Now in the nights I'm tortured,
for though we did escape,
my mind has thawed, but still, I dawn
the cloth to mask my haunted gape
.
Here, tattooed, both body and mind,








I'rn
b
rande
d
by
the
year.
But
I
know
too,
today will bring
rnor
e
shoo
tings,
sickness,
death and fear.
Alas
, we
hi
de, afr
aid and weak,
from
that
w
e
can't
control.
Thou
gh
so
meday
soon we'll breath again,
the
s
e
nigh
tmares
we cannot console-
In
th
e
bowe
ls
of
the mind
th
er
e is
a li
ttle
place.
And
here
w
e stow
, forever plagued
from
horror
s we
cannot efface
.
Nighttime Silhouette
Michael Reginella
'23






28
.,
Our Lady of Sorrows
Miranda Schindler
'22








f
Songs of the Cicadas
John Brandon Fiorino '22
The arrival and departure of
eas
on
s
in nature is often met with
:h
e
b
ea
utiful actions of her inhabi-
t
a
nt
s;
n
o
inhabitant's action is more
di
s
tin
c
t than a chirping cicada. The
Hud
so
n Valley i
s
known quite well
for i
ts i
nnumerable amount of cica-
da
s, w
h
e
th
e
r they may be hiding in
bu
s
h
es, s
prawled out on the grass,
or hi
g
h
a
top the trees. But why does
th
e s
m
a
ll and mundane cicada have
the mo
s
t important and distinct
s
ound
a
bove all the birds in the re-
gion
?
The Hudson Valley hosts all
s
ort
s of
beautiful and adorned birds,
wheth
e
r they may be bluejays,
robin
s, o
r even crows. The answer
to thi
s
question is simple yet pro-
found
;
the cicada mark
s
the closing
of
s
prin
g
and the arrival of summer.
The un
i
que songs of the cicadas
remind u
s
of the beauty of nature
and th
e
le
s
sons mother nature has to
offer.
On a nightly walk near the
Hud
so
n River, I hear the buzzing
and chirping of bugs echoing in
th
~
ni
g
h
t.
The consistency of their
noi
se
r
e
minds me of the tune of the
s
o?
gs
the cicadas once sung in my
childh
o
od. Growing up, I was fasci-
nated by the chorus of chirping that
would be outside my open window
as I slept in my bedroom. The songs
of the cicadas could be described as
continuous chirps, with
s
olo vocal-
ists of cicadas joining in at random
moments to raise the volume of the
song
.
The sheer amount of noises
was often dizzying, as
I
would try
to pinpoint the location of a single
cicada by listening for a chirp in
the dark. Often,
I
would find my-
self sneaking out of the house late
at night and crawling in the grass
for the single vocalist I had set my
ears on. As
I
would near the nois-
es that piqued my curiosity
,
the
night would go silent for the cicada
would notice my loud and inter-
rupting presence
.
The long hush
of noise would frustrate me and I
would go back up to bed once more,
but aware of my departure the
cicada would continue its song and
the cycle would repeat itself several
instances a night.
My late night adventures
were not meant to capture the cica-
da
,
but just a simple boyi
s
h attempt
to locate the odd insect and to learn
more about it. The elusiveness of
29




30
the cicada would only elevate my
interest even more as a child. How
is it that a noise
so
collectively loud
and immeasurable be so hard to
find? I would look forward to the
arrival of summer and saddened by
the arrival of fall, as the cicada song
would abruptly stop until summer
arrived once again.
It
was not until
several failed summer attempts, that
I came to the realization of how to
locate the creature I was so eager
to find. Time and time again, I had
failed to be patient. Whenever hear-
ing the noise of the cicada, I would
get out of bed more frustrated by
every failed encounter. Determined
to locate the cicada, one night I
waited silently in the wet night
grass for its song to continue, and
it did. The small winged insect
was perched on a singular blade of
grass, almost snapping the blade of
grass with its weight. Every chirp
the cicada made would force its
small body to move side to side, as
if it was dancing to its own
song.
The lesson the beautiful cicada
song taught was patience.
The lesson of patience
reminds us that the individual who
is most patient will reap the benefits
of their determination. In a world
full of instant gratifications, it is
hard to remember that the virtue of
patience is vitally important to a
complish our ambitions and goa]
Often when I find myself strugg ·
with patience or filled with frus
tion, I remember the little boy
w
would wander out alone at night.
If
the season is summer, I even
find myself on that
same
journey
was on years ago. The challenge
locating the cicada is no longer
difficult, but the message of pa-
tience behind the song still holds
true today.


























The Summer We Searched for Mermaids
Michaela Ellison-Davidson
'23
fternoon at the Met
I
stand
before
a
piece
of artwork
.
one
a
.
.
.
mennaid bru
s
hing her
red
hair
,
It
I
S
a
.
with
her
w
i
s
tful face
turned
away
,
no
sailors on
her
shore.
Year
s
from
now the painting
will
be
in a different city
and I
will n
e
ver visit
.
Let
's
sear
c
h
for
mermaids my
sister
.
said,
her
voi
c
e
c
our
s
e like
the
sand
under
our
toes that
s
ummer
on Coney
Island
when we ran
,
white dre
ss
e
s
ballooning
around our
legs
,
my hand holding
down a ribboned
hat
,
the
ta
s
te
o
f
s
alt and taffy on
my tongue
,
her
copper
hair
a
bright flag behind
fog.
She
is not
behind
the marble
statues,
the French tourists, the bronze ballerina.
I
would rather see
her
again
then anything
in
the MET,
even
the Monet's
,
even
the Rembrandt's.
I leave
the museum
,
the mermaid
,
my sister
'
s ghost.
I
stand in front of a
taxi
with
tinted
windows,
there is my
face,
my painted mouth
,
the
crowd
s
under the
Corinthian columns
,
the pearls
around my
neck
,
my
trembling hand
reaching for
the door -
Where
are you
g
oing
?
asks
the
cab
driver.
1 think
of the
ho
s
pital
room with white walls
and
a view.
It
wa
s
not the sea
but
we called
it the
sea.
That
w
as w
here the mermaids were.
Wh ·
·
at
i
s
II
y
ou
s
aw at
the museum
?
asks
the
cab
driver.
be
l
am
s
u
s
p
e
nded
between now
and
then,
tween
th
· ·
·
h
e
pamtmg and
my
sister
'
s
freckled
face,
er copp
h
·
e
r air
I brushed
when she couldn
'
t.
3







32
•
I tell the cab driver about the mermaid
,
about the fairytale
He says
,
with art we are voyeur
s,
we are meant to see something of ourselve
s.
There i
s
the painting and then there is my si
s
ter with her feet far out
in
the sea,
white wave
s
lapping around her leg
s
, her b
e
ckoning me forward
,
arm
s
wide open
,
dre
ss s
oaked through at the knee
s.
Come on
, s
he
s
ay
s,
can you
s
ee the mermaid
s?
and I think I can



Serene Sunset
Michael Reginella '23



34
Through the Eyepiece
Miranda Beyer '24












My Blue
Jade Polanco '21
An
unc
o
ntrollable burst of emotion escapes my lips through a grin.
The
un
fa
thomable joy terrorizes me into oblivion
.
The
fe
ar
i
s
enough to bring a single tear to my eye;
A
s
in
g
l
e
tear is more than a stampede of them because it's all alone.
The un
fa
miliarity of thi
s
is not the only concern,
But th
e
possibility it will be ripped
_
away and once again
I
will be ostracized.
The sol
ac
e I find overshadows the terror in my core.
It
doe
s
n
o
t change the conundrum I created by my inability to speak.
My
h
ea
rt has no plan to be torn apart but the power is no longer mine;
It
ha
s
b
ee
n relinquished and all I ask is for is you to proceed with caution.
My
condolences are sent for the confusion.
All I know is one thing.
Into a
sea
of blue I find my peace.
35








36
The Arc
Nicole luzzolino '22
The Arc de Triomphe stands
with a sense of nobility in the cen-
ter of the photograph; screaming for
me to come back again soon. That
March day was a cold one, even
though I dressed for comfort over
fashion. The Arc stands very far
behind my best friend and I as we
pose for Lucas, giving us the smile
that means,
"
you look beautiful."
Yet, the sculpted limestone out-
shone us easily. We were posing
in
its shadow, as its arms encircled us
into a world of history and wonder.
I felt honored to be posing in its
darkness.
I was supposed to be here
years ago. But in 2015, a terrorist
attack shattered the safety of Paris
to bits. The headquarters of
Charlie
Ebdo,
a weekly satirical newspaper,
was cruelly bombarded by a terror-
ist seeking destruction and death.
Almost halfway across the world, in
Allentown High School
in
central
New Jersey, a small french class sat
at their desks waiting for the news.
Even in the early morning hours
of the day, the class felt heavy as
we listened to the death toll raise
higher, and higher. For the safety of
the students involved in the Fren
Exchange Program, the trip was
called off. This left the seniors
w
would never be able to go to Fr
in a state of sadness
.
Megan and
accepted the waiting period, kno
ing in three years we will be the
Our countdowns began
.
The darkened clouds had
no interest in making the day su
for us, despite the tremendous
wait. The day was bleak and rain
yet that beautifully sculpted ston
made us forget the miserable
w
through the crowded streets of
Paris, and the dark puddles on
th
way to this picture destination
.
sped by us, driven by the French
who see the monument almost
ev
ery day. Running down the middl
of the street for the quick photo
op was encouraged by the beepin
of car horns and the ticking of th
light until it turned green again
.
froze in the center of the narrow
strip that separated us from the
ing cars flying by, driven by
peop
on some sort of adventure that w
probably not as exciting as ours.
When we struck our pose,
Megan beamed at the camera, a











.1
that was loaded with hap-
sJ1lJ e
.
.
ess
from
just meetmg her host
pin ·iy
and
for being in a city we
faJ1lJ
.
I
ly dreamed of gomg to. twas
oo
h
.
.
a
fairytale moment appenmg m
real
life.
Yet, all was not dreamy as
the wind
slapped
her
curls
against
her face. She would murmur un-
der her breath, pleading with the
tendrils to cooperate for once;
she
needed that picture
.
My
smile was
just as bright,
yet
my eyes painted
a different picture. They were tired,
and
shadowed
underneath. This
was mainly due to the late-night
stroll at
4
am
before heading back
to the apartment I was
staying
at
to
sleep.
I was insistent on
seeing
everything this glorious city had to
offer,
even
if it meant losing all my
much-needed rest. The bags under-
neath
only
grew darker as we left
the apartment with all our bags in
tow, due to our relocation to another
part of
France.
My back was dying
to hunch over in
agony
from the
weight
of
my backpack filmed to
the brim
with
clothes
shoes
and a
bottle
of wine
given t~ me b~ the
fa~her
of
my host family as a gift to
~nng back to America. He claimed
u
wa
"
F
,
s
ranee
s
finest." Every
step
1
took I heard the bottle clink and
ev_ery
abrupt
turn I heard the ~ed,
thick
1·
·d
1
qu1
slosh.
If
only I could
stop
to taste it for one moment.
However, I would
very
soon;
wine filled many days of our
journey through France. I danced
and twirled with my host Enora,
through the narrow Paris
streets
one
night. It was Saint Patrick's Day af-
ter all, and the English were piling
into the
streets,
not tired at all from
their 2-hour journey from England.
We entered many bars, where Lucas
seemed
to know almost everyone.
The English and French danced
around the bars. Beer was
spilling
as mug after mug was being passed
over my head. Baskets of fries were
distributed around the groups of
people, satisfying
all
of their needs.
The bartender
approached
me at
the bar and from the little French I
knew, asked me what I wanted to
drink. I responded in English, and
he gave me an excited expression.
He filled three wine glasses to the
brim for me
and
my travel compan-
ions. He
slid
them
slightly
down
the bar and cheered,
"We
have an
American for with us tonight!"
But before that moment, all I could
think about was how
sore
my body
was going to be because of the
wine on my back. It was not just me
suffering;
Megan winced with the
weight of the candy boxes in her
backpack, as her host family owned







38
a local candy shop in town. They so
graciously filled her bag to the brim
with delicacies you could only get
in their part of France.
It was a dream come true for
Megan to be in the city of love with
her best friend. In 5th grade, she
hated me for copying her project,
which was a mosaic of different
shapes cut out from different col-
ored tissue paper. Now, we were
standing in the Louvre, marveling
at the artwork all full of colors and
creativity, the tissue paper fiasco far
behind us
.
The wave of exhaustion and
achy backs blew away as the cars
raced by, now leaving us not tense
with pain but tense with nervous-
ness, as one wrong step would leave
us in the car's path. They would not
stop for us, everyone had a place to
get to, no matter what the conse-
quences.
Lucas held my camera
steadily
,
trying to get the perfect
shot of us. He was very particular
about us having the perfect day;
he was a local after all and knew
the best places to take American
teens. Enora stood behind him,
ushering with her hands on where
to stand, and when to stop so we did
not get plummeted by cars. When
smiling
for the camera, my heart
was smiling back at them. I was
grateful for the moment to have
people that I just met become m
best friends for life. They opened
our hearts and eyes to things I
would never even dream of bein
fascinated by. Who knew that ea
mustard with french fries, a Fren
tradition, could be so captivating
Who knew that parties on Satu11
nights were full of tangos, croqu
monsieur's, and conversations o
cigarette smoke?
We ran back to Lucas in
hurry, narrowly avoiding a bicyc
who yelled French slurs in our
di
rection while clutching onto his
of baguette and cheeses. I look
down on the picture displayed
on
the camera in Lucas' s hands.
He
and Enora looked at us, waiting
a response on if they did a good ·
I smiled at Megan, and my heart
swelled;
I was taking on the
worl
with my best friend.




Venetian Lion
Emily Yen
'21
39


40
Red
Brittney Sicotte '21
wings of the cardinal
illuMinated lady bugs
lively koi fish
sweet cranberry fields
vivid spotted mUshrooms
rare Red diamond
muddy autumn leaves
outrageD octopus
burrowing foxes
flourishing rose bu
rotting watermelon
heat of the fires
dulled poinsettia
fEisty fire ants
hungry corn snakes
boiled lobsters
endangeRed corals








11111
Red
Fox
Hannah Gnibus
'2
4
4








42
Trigger Warning
Heather Millman
'23
When I tell you my eyes are brown it's because I'm terrified of hazel
how someone had unkind hazel eyes and
once upon a time I loved hazel
it was familiarity something
I
s
ank into like how now I cannot stand
the
sight
of purple
if you have purple hair I'll run faster than anyone with arachnophobia
I'm purple-phobic and it isn't a choice
when all my muscles freeze and I shake fall on my knees begging
please
because
someone
had abrasive purple hair and
once upon a time all I wished was to thread fingers through it
and
sigh at the
scent
of comfort
someone
exuded and
when I tell you
'no
I can't watch that it'll be too good'
I mean my excitement will set off my anxiety like
a
livewire
and
I'll be attempting to breathe while you attempt to watch
when I tell you
'no
I don't curse'
I mean curses have been hurled at me and someone meant them
and I'll never allow anyone to think I mean mine
when I say
'no
I'm a vegetarian'
I mean that someone used to drag, force me into eating another food I didn't
want
and I'll never look at meat and think it tastes good
When I
say
'no I don't like the cinnamon eggos'
I mean someone ate them and shared them with me on the bus
and the night before
someone
physically hmt me without any warning
and it was fine
when I
say
'I
don't know'
'I'm sorry'
'whatever'
what I mean is for several years I didn't have a choice
and someone stole that
when you tell me to get more comfortable saying no
I laugh at the preposterous idea that anyone would listen










The Girl and Her Oyster
Natalie Garrison '22
Som
et
inies I feel like one of those
killer
w
hales at Sea World. It swims,
somb
e
rl
y
around the perimeter of
a po
ol
too small for a creature of
that
s
i
ze.
There is not mu
c
h in this
w
hal
e's
pool
,
but there is so much
outside of it
.
People are every-
w
h
e
r
e.
Some are taking photo
s
with
their
s
martphones, while others are
postin
g s
aid photos on social me-
dia. The whale watches the world
mov
e a
round while it's stuck in its
tin
y
sal
t
-water one-room apartment
,
w
onde
r
ing when it is ifs turn to be
free t
o see
whatever part of the big
blue o
c
ean it want
s
.
Shelly put down her pen and closed
her notebook. She glanced around
her
s
m
a
ll bedroom in her tiny, air-
filled apartment. It's not the first
time
s
he's felt trapped, held against
her will by the universe itself. The
pandemic surely increased that
undeniable feeling for here
,
con-
s
iderin
g
the only human contact
s
he could have is through social
media. Shelly cradled her phone in
her hands like a dead fish she meant
to to
ss
back. This little inanimate
device contained the lives of thou-
s
aud
s
of people; a window to the
outside world.
"Always on that phone."
Shelly snapped out of her own
thoughts and looked up to find her
67 year old roommate Marilyn
dropping her handbag on the table
like it weighed fifty tons.
"If
you had instagram
,
you would
always be on your phone too, you
know." Shelly said with slight
amusement. Marilyn shuffled over
to the retro overstuffed sofa and sat
down, ready to give her one of her
famous "Back when I was a girl"
stories.
"Back when I was a young woman
,
"
she began.
"We didn
'
t have these high-tech
gadgets to let us see what everyone
else was doing at every moment
like a magic mirror.
If
we wanted to
know what someone was up to, we
either called them on the telephone,
if they were a friend, or got our
information through gossip
,
if they
weren't a friend." Marilyn chuckled
.
"All I'm saying, is that focusing
43





44
all your energy on what hundreds
of different people are doing, isn't
doing
you
any good, Love."
"I know, Marilyn, but you don't
understand. What else is there to do
right now besides live vicariously
through others?"
"Exactly my point." Marilyn con-
tinued. "Why are you living vicar-
iously, when you can go and live
your own life? I know it's hard with
this mess of a pandemic, but you
need to go find joy and fulfillment
in whatever is available to you right
now. The world is your oyster, my
dear, even if that oyster is closed
for the year." The two friends both
chuckled at that statement.
"Okay, you're right." Shelly said,
her whoa-is-me mentality begin-
ning to lift.
"I'm going to open that oyster." She
said with a newfound determina-
tion.
"That-a-girl!" Marilyn exclaimed in
her signature encouraging tone.
That night, Shelly booked a dis-
counted flight to Alaska. She had
always wanted to go since she was
a girl. Her suitcase was packed
and ready to go in an hour and
the
next morning, she said goodbye
t
Marilyn and headed on her way
to
the airport.
Once Shelly found her seat on
the
plane, she rifled through her car-
ry-on to find her phone. She un-
locked it and went into instagram.
Just as she was about to post her
trip's status, Shelly looked up, and
smiled. She thought to herself,
Why do I need to tell the whole
world what I'm doing?
Shelly
put
her phone back into her bag and
grabbed her journal and pen in-
stead. She began to write about
everything she saw through the
lit-
tle plane window. Many hours
and
terrains later, the untouched beau
of Alaska was now being reflected
in Shelly's notebook pages.
The plane landed, and after shelly
dropped off her luggage at her
Air
B and B, the first thing on her
Al
kan itinerary was a whale watch.
Shelly made it to the pier and
boarded the vessel. Never had she
felt so liberated yet so grounded.
As the boat traveled further out
in
sea, Marilyn's words rang through
Shelley's head, The world is your
oyster.







The
sound of
a whale breaching the
surface of
the
waves
tore Shelley
'
s
attention
away
from her own head
and
to
the
beautiful
site
before her.
The
whale was
not just
any
whale,
as the
captain
pointed out.
"That i
s
a
Killer Whale!" He an-
nounced over the microphone.
Not
once
did Shelly even think to
take
out
her phone.
4:



46









Starved Tiger
Saiorse Maguire '22
Ask him
if
he cares, he'll
say
he cares, "a lot."
But
ask him if he'll stay, and he'll
say,
"I'd rather not."
Tell him that you love him, you may even
start
to cry.
But
don't accept his pity, you
~now
it's just a lie.
friends
will
comfort
saying, "you've
dodged a bullet."
You'll just laugh along and hope he grows a mullet.
Songs
and
movies begin to murmur the
same
echo,
That
it
'
s
time for you to move on - just let go.
Like
a starved
tiger, you're on the prowl.
Searching for
something
seditious and
shallow.
Muscle memory with a new
skin,
You learn to never let anyone in.
4












48
High Society Damsel
Alexandra Messina
'24
First Place, Poetry
He doesn't wake up as, just as the sun begins to rise, I slip out of bed
smelling
like my champagne and his cigarettes,
hoping Manhattan forgets what I wore last night
hoping my husband forgets when he sees me return home
after
storming
out of the club just hours ago, only to find myself here, with another
I grab my prized No 5.
second
shelf
in the bathroom mirror
above my gold-plated hairbrush and his broken plastic comb,
between his drugstore cologne and my diamond studs,
'
below his watered-down mouthwash and my backup
set
of pearls
Dressing in last night's clothes, I sneak out of the run-down apartment
Chanel on my wrists, Tiffany around my neck, Dior hugging my body,
I
make my way down the street; I know people stare; they're always watching.
I'm not shallow! I want to shout at them: I'm no liar, I just stayed the night with a
girlfriend
How dare they look at me like that!
I don dark
sunglasses
and a wide-brimmed hat to guard my face.
My spouse's sleek black car pulls up to the curb, but he's not there;
the driver
says
a
simple
hello as I slide in,
handing me a tall stem glass.
We have an understanding, he and I.








MY mind wanders as I stare out the window in a daze ...
Bas he woken yet? Did he reach for me, think
i
ng I lay
content beside him? I see him sigh finding me gone;
he lon
g
s for me as I do for him
but he knows my rules, and I never stray from them.
I made them crystal clear so long ago:
Tell no one
Expect nothing from me
Neve
r s
peak of my other life
Never touch my No. 5
He lau
g
hed at my rules that first night, months ago, as he
he
s
itantly slid my fourth glass of champagne across the bar.
He taunted me then, thinking me vain and condescending,
s
o different from the lowlife rats he gets in his bar;
Little did he know he would grow to adore that about me ...
M
y
s
pinning head jumps to last night-
watching the husband get plastered off top shelf scotch,
hearin
g
his snotty group of friends torment a bartender
,
who
reminded me so much of my own bartender that I stormed out without a second thought,
makin
g
my way to the soothing, secret comfort of that lowlife bar and its loft apartment.
1
s
wall
ow
the rest of my champagne, thinking of
him;
letting the bubbles soothe my worries.
My
dr
iv
er hands me another, smirking;
1 Wink back at him, knowing he won't tell the dreaded husband a single thing.
49




50
His loyalty lies with me and
why shouldn't it?
Watching the sleek silver of my building appear in the distance
I flip open a golden mirror,
checking my appearance is flawless-
despite all the other flaws, the hidden flaws-
but it's true, I look completely unsullied
.
The husband still sleeps as I creak open our door,
slipping out of my restraints--
Dior back in my too-large closet, Tiffany and Chanel on the nightstand.
Sliding back into bed beside him, I keep as much distance between us as I can
He smells of perfume
,
it
'
s not mine,
I don't mind
He doesn
'
t deserve my No. 5 anyway





Viaggi: Bologna
Mei Mei Heipler
'
23
51













52
.....
what is it like?
Kaylee Miller '22
"What're
you thinking?"
I was thinking about a lot of
things: how nice it
would
be if the
sky,
when the
sun
finally
set,
faded
into that perfect blend of all the
best hues of blue and purples, how
the breeze was just cold enough to
make me feel
sleepy
but not shiv-
ering, how looking at the boy next
to me made my shoulders tense and
my heart ache at the same time. I
wanted to
say, 'You
first', dreading
what would pour out of my mouth
instead. But
something
in me was
screaming to be
set
free, and
so
I
continued to look out at the field
below us, waiting and waiting for it
to
slip
out. ..
.
And then:
"A
thought for a
thought. I'll go first." I could feel
his body adjust
slightly
towards
mine, our thighs almost brushing.
"I
think if I could, I'd spend every
moment, just like this, here with
you."
My breath caught and I
fought the urge to turn towards him.
He knew, he knew and was trying
to make me feel less crazy than I
was. But then there was
silence,
the comfortable kind, and I could
see him in my mind's eye s
the trees in the distance, givin
the time to formulate words ·
coherent sentence. Somethin
was not always so easy form
"I'm thinking about
h
anxious I am. And how anxi
get when you say things like
me." I wasn't expecting to say
of it, but there it was, the two
things about me spoken alou
if they were now etched into
miniscule space between us.
The former he kne,w ..
the only person in my life
wh
to weather the storm alongsi
and not completely run away.
knew I hated speaking to
peo
was unfamiliar with, exposin
feelings and risking the judge
that I was not acceptable, do'
less than exceptional on ex
quizzes and assignments.
He
I
sometimes
hated being aro
any and all people for no P
reason
,
would rather spend
m
sleeping or pretending I
didn'~
And he knew that some
mo
would wake up and be
disgus
the way I looked, would
refu
get dressed or eat anything
for

























tife
day.
On the best days, I would
t one particular song on
· ten
°
.
•ust to feel somethmg
,
dance
iePfatdJ
my room like I was the
aroun
be3dline
of a sold-out tour
,
harmo-
aiz.e
in
the shower and in the car
.
And
on most days I wouldn't. On
st
days I would cry and make
JOO
.
sure
I locked my car twice, want
to
peel
the very skin off my bones,
want
to
scr
e
am and throw things
just
to see and feel them break open
too.
But
every single day, he was
there.
He didn't know about all of
it,
but
he could tell, and chose to
stay
anyways.
He certainly didn't know
that
I went to bed thinking about
him.
The sharp slant of his nose, his
llrong
fingers
,
his pursed lips. The
way
his laugh traveled through my
bloodstream like electricity, the way
that
one curl hung along the top of
his
head. The way he would bite the
inside
of his lip before he let him-
self
smile at me, and how lucky I
felt
to
be able to be in his presence.
he
How utterly all-consuming
Was.
tbi
And that was the very worst
ng
about me
.
"
What's it like?"
the
I tore my eyes away from
orange h
•
0
nzon, my eyes burn-
ing a little.
'What is it like?'
my
mi?d whispered as I took in his
hands clasped in his lap. He was
looking down, so I allowed my gaze
to linger, tracing the gentle planes
of his face.
What is it like to look at
someone
y
ou know will never look
at
y
ou the same way?
He glanced up at me, and I
quickly shifted to viewing my knees
tucked into the warmth of my body.
What is it like to be stared
at by someone you wish you could
look at for every single second of
the day?
"What's it like being me,
you mean?" I finally posed back to
him. When I chanced a look at him
again, he was still staring.
"No, not really. I don
'
t think
it defines you." He sighed
,
turning
his gaze to the sky that was slowly
fading to that cool blue I craved. "I
just wanted you to know that I'm
here
,
if you want to .... talk. About
anything. And everything. Or noth-
ing at all."
And that was why it hurt - I
knew I could spend eternity talking
about anything and everything and
nothing with him.
"It
'
s ... .like an amusement
park ride
.
Like the scariest one at
the place, the one that everyone's
5









talking about when you get there.
That's how I think it is. For - for
me, at least. The anticipation, the
waiting, the pit in your stomach. All
of it. Even the car ride there, the
dooming silence." I sighed, toying
with the laces of my shoes. "And
then there's joy, fleeting, but over-
whelming. And then it's coming
back down to reality, being ground-
ed and waiting for the next one, and
the next one, and .... " I allowed my
eyes to meet his finally. "Your turn,
though - a thought for a thought."
"Okay. But I think I owe
you
.
.
.
.like at least six thoughts
, now." My lips quirked up at their
corners, waiting for him to say any-
thing, anything at all.
54
"Six works for me."
"Well, one - I think you're
brave. Not like roaring into a battle
brave, but steady. And loyal. And
smart." Four. That was four, and he
was grinning at me in the best way
possible.
"I'm
thinking about how
every day I wake up and you're still
my best friend, my beautiful best
friend who's all of these things and
so much more. And I'm thinking
that every time I look at you, my
heart
sort
of
stops
for just a second
to remind me of it."
It was twisted, sick, really,
the way my whole body was attuned
to him. How much I wanted
him
feel it too.
"And I'm thinking that
it'
breathtaking."
'I adore you.'
That's
what
lingered beneath the
surface,
tm
ened to ruin me.
But I knew that he was
s ·
staring at the sky as the edges
sue
cumbed to a soft purple, so I sai
"I
think that's eight."
And when my head hit
pillow that night, I dreamed he
facing me instead.








Steel Trees
Gabriella Amleto '24
They are twisted,
Limbs reaching towards the
sky,
Attempting to drink in the
sun
.
Their bark
shines
,
Gleaming in the light
The limbs where
small
branches grow like knots,
The knots of barbed wire
.
While they
shimmer
and gleam,
They tempt those who fall victim to get closer,
Luring them with their
shimmering
limbs
.
Their bark is smoothed and polished,
Their limbs are cold and
sorted.
They give shelter to nothing,
They off er nothing,
But take everything,
Flesh, feathers, fur, blood,
Hangs from the thorned bark,
Like trophies of
what
they've taken.
If you
see
a forest of
steel
trees,
Do not give them the chance to take,
Do not let them lure you in,
Instead, walk away,
And do not look back.
55




56
Sea Other People
Haley Giancaspro '22





Quito en un hilo
Claudia Molina '23
5
'.


58
In the beginning
Nothing
And then
A fleeting memory
Tarnishing
Cassandra Arencibia '24
That at the time you couldn't even remember
Mother's hands and swaddling clothes
Everything being involuntary muscle movements
And then childhood
Full of braids and clothes and growing
Having blind faith
In teeth collecting fairies and gum that stays inside you for seven years
And experiences
Lovely experiences of love and intelligence and pain
Broken bones, bruised knees, skinned elbows
And you were proud of the Band-Aids
Becoming gangly and hunched over was never a part of the plan
And then a child in the body of an adult
Changes and changes and changes
Feeling as if you are the first and the last to experience this
Pimples and hatred and feeling ugly, no, being ugly
Baby birds thrown from their nests
A shower of feathers and stones
Finally realizing you are a muse of Renaissance art
Power and youth and gold running through your veins






feelin
g
invincible
But th
e
re's run off
That
's
slowly dripping into an adult
wax
fr
om a candle
Becoming smaller all the while
Other things, other things, other things
On y
o
ur mind
Forgetting what your face loo½s like
And b
e
ing tired
Havin
g
children
And b
e
ing tired
Working till your hands become raw
And b
e
ing tired
And then more changes
Your
fi
rst wrinkle
Your first gray hair
But th
e
re are no memory books for these
Cele
s
t
i
al skies dig into your shoulders
Soon
Dust
Basements
Irrele
va
nce
Watch
i
ng Renai
s
sance women dance and remembering
Remembering brui
s
ed knees and feeling invincible and slowly becoming
s
maller like wax from a candle
Fold
'
·
m
g
mto yourself like a swaddled baby
Du
s
r
finding new crooks behind your ears and in the hairs in your nose
55



60
Becoming older
,
becoming older, becoming older
Feeling nothing but nostalgia and the feeling of being watched
The freedom of knowing you are a dead man walking
And then
Nothing
In the end




The Approach
Sydney Kysar '21
61














62
L
Trains Big and Small
Jesse Vengen
'22
First Place, Nonfiction
I passed quickly through the office
,
giving the man in the bed a quick
hug then untangling myself from
the tubes and
wires
to move into
the hallway where I could breathe
again.
Grandpa was dying. My
mom's father, the
young
CEO, the
golfer and Na Pali Coast hiker and
big drinker:
she
often said he
vol-
unteered himself to
go
first because
he couldn't live without his wife,
dying of ALS
.
Fuck it.
It
didn't matter to me
.
I
was young- no greater torture than
having my legs confined to a tiny
space
for a five hour car ride from
Jersey. I would spring from the back
seat
like a jack in the box, smelling
the
saltwater
air and ready to dive
into the bay and Cape Cod
sand.
I'd tug on my mother's shirt as we
entered the old red-shingled and
stucco-plastered
villa,
asking
when
we could go to Whistle Stop to eat
ice cream and look at the train
sets
whistling in the rafters.
If that was the debt I had to pay for
being born a grandson, then fine.
It
was only a minute, and while the
adults clung around the bed
like
sorry statues,
I'd urge my
brothers:
onto the side-yard, a whiffle
ball
and bat
in
my hands.
Grandpa died from the little
black
spot
in his lungs that
scared
him
half to death and out of a smokin
addiction thirty years back. He
w
only
sixty-six
.
"What
a waste," m
mother's voice cracked. I agreed.
No longer could I run on the roe
shores
,
search
for crabs, bike do
to the train-bridge or
spend
an
h
digging my hands in the hot sand.
I've heard
stories
all across my
life of the man who
'
s house on
th
coast I was an unpaying renter
in.
From my mom
'
s
ex-boyfriend
wh
interned me in his divorce court:
funniest dude I've
ever
met. I Jo
a river
on
the Na Pali Coast with
two naked women in it. I
wouldn'
go near,
you
know, with
your
mother right there and
everythin
He said,
'
Well, then I
will!'
as
yo
grandmother rolled her
eyes!
Years later in Rome, embarking
on my
study
abroad and drinking







first legal beer in a little tav-
rnY
. T
0
tucked away m rastevere
:ith a strange, goofy Sicilian who
y
room and aunt talked about
:roughout my childhood. He had
rnore stories to tell than I did: /
met up with Suzie, your aunt, in
Barbados while I was running my
chart
e
ring business. Talk about
a
w
eek-long bender! Then ya,ur
grandfather flew me up from the
island for her wedding
.
I was un-
derpr
e
pared! He offered me a suit,
not to mention all the liquor I could
possibl
y
want
,
and I showed up in
that suit
,
three si
z
es too big for me!
The older I grew, the more frustrat-
ed I became. I remember fighting
back a frown from my smile as I
watched Danielle laugh and gestic-
ulate stories of my own grandfather
.
I remember being in awe at Judge
Rumana's stories, but feeling a bit
worse when they ended.
Every time my mom drinks now, he
come
s
up. Grandpa is the moon. It
started being only when it wa
s
full,
but now she feels it whenever its
in the
s
ky
,
whatever shape. Every
month i
s
only so many months
U?til an anniversary. "He would've
picked up guitar again for this,
"
she Wiped her eyes
,
nursing a wine
glass as my dad and neighbors
played "Friend of the Devil" at one
of our family jam sessions.
For the first time in a while, I
thought about Cape Cod. I sat down
and began writing this piece, the
blank page more of a therapist than
another human for some things.
But, I didn't think about running
along the rocky shore, trains big
and small, burning my skin on hot
sand, or fishing crabs out of the
shallow waves. I remembered bum-
bling into the kitchen in my tiny,
toy-story sneakers and the feeling
of nausea as I was spun through the
air by a great big monster, hiding
in its cave behind the refrigerator.
I remember seeing my face in his
bright black irises and him holding
me tight against his chest.
6








64
I u
s
ed to fear death.
Now I just fear dying
alone.
No one by my
s
ide
she
Kaylee Miller '22
but the mon
s
ter who greet
s
me each morning.
Sometime
s s
he is shy
but mo
s
tly
s
he is pitiful
for her bones do not fit
within her ghostly skin.
s
he i
s
the unsettling creak
of depravity
,
a knot of a creature.
s
he doe
s
not soar
,
but
s
hrivel
s
and shrink
s
until there is nothing left
but chipped nails
a
nd fur.
A be
as
t of the bleak
and the weak.
Some day
s
, though
,
she i
s
the flame
Igniting
.
The phoenix
Crying
.
She is a man
'
s
Fruit ripe for the taking.
She
s
ings her song, again and again,
until instead
,
she is shrieking
into the mirror
.












66
ode to green
Kirsten Mattern '24
green has the glory of being associated with nature. i won't deny green her
ownership of grass
,
her underappreciated stems presenting technicolor petals
her four leaf clovers and their subsequent good fortune that i have never found.
green provides her maple tree seedlings that my sister and i crafted into poly-
noses
,
splitting them open and gluing their sticky sap middles on our faces to
celebrate spring.
my sister's green eyes capture the light in a way my blues could never, planting
sisterly seeds of envy. they blossom into viridian vines, interlocking with the
seams of a bright yellow-green softball escaping her grasp on our town's old
field. i dive to reach her throw and am gifted with a grass stain on my white
softball pants
,
in place of the satisfying clap of the catch.
but years pass, sisters age
,
polynoses wither, grass stains wash out, and
lonely
untouched softballs gather dust in the garage.
green now rules a new realm. the joy of flying through green traffic lights
just
before they flicker to yellow. the crack of the cue ball igniting tamed chaos
on
the carpeted green billiards table. the sign behind the bar illuminating neon
rays through transparent glasses. the bright lime on the edge of the pretty
girl's
cocktail, the nearly empty heineken her boyfriend will shatter over her head
later tonigh
t.
and of course, the most important green of all; the crisp color of money. over
time, my eyes have grown to adore tracing the faded green ink on the flimsy
bills. the desire of delicate dollars brushing along my fingertips is dangerous,
and toxic green pools fill up inside me as i crave more of my favorite deadly
sin
.
what once was a bright springtime color signifying innocence of nature,
bas
transformed into the innate power of greed. after all, consider two slim snippets
of green: the plucking and perishing of blades of grass simply cannot compare
to the horror of a shredded dollar bill.
if i could
,
i would not hesitate to drain the pigment out of a polynose to make
a
dollar bill just a little greener.





'
23
Jamie Goodman
67





68
Visag
es
Christina Levi '
22








The Reproach of the Common Man
August Boland '24
Wh
y
do thou abandon thine only child?
Wh
o
would believe what we had heard of this?
That
a
man would leave his son to the wild
And do
s
o while retaining hi
,
s great vis?
Tha
t
boy whom thou nursed, day by day by day
Wh
o
giggled while you smiled; and glowed and grew,
Sim
p
ly because thi
s
progeny is gay
Tho
u s
eek to leave, as infanticides do?
Thy descendant is thy descendant, yes,
Not
hi
ng thou can do on earth will change that.
Simil
a
rly, thy son likes men; no less
Ha
ve
thou the pow'r to alter
,
to be flat
For
t
hy crime, to which I hope none do hew,
I c
an
only say to thee, thus: Screw you
,
65





70
Where History Comes to Die
Heather Brody '22
The room was on fire. Gold-
en
light poured through cracked
windows; the world kissed by the
rays of a
setting sun.
Broken glass
littered the floor, crunching un-
der my heavy boots as I took one
careful step after another
.
The walls
were composed of vibrant colors
creating both artwork and obsceni-
ties, all coming together as the most
unique gallery I had ever seen. The
old paint cracked and peeled off
the walls after years of neglect and
abuse. My heavy breaths formed
clouds in the cool air, battling the
heat of summer just outside the
deteriorating walls.
"Are you
sure?"
He asked,
voice muffled by the mask protect-
ing him from the poisonous air.
"I
know I heard
someone.
There were
voices
at the other end
of the hall," I sighed,
stopping
in my tracks as I turned to him.
"Let's
just listen," I whispered.
We remained
silent
and unmov-
ing, statues in the museum of rot
and decay. My ears strained to
hear anything resembling a voice,
struggling
against the distant
sound
of dripping water and the crackling
of shattered glass under our feet.
The weight of my backpack began
to make my shoulders ache and
sud.
denly
standing
still became incredi-
bly difficult.
"I'm
telling you, no one is
here," He broke the
silence,
placing
a hand on my shoulder. "We were
careful, I guarantee no one saw us.
Trust me when I say we're in the
clear."
"We're
never in the clear.
The
second
you think you're safe
is
the
second
you get caught," I shook
my head, taking the lead once again
as we moved down the hallway,
further away from the voice I heard
earlier. Looking around for a wall
that wasn't too vandalized, my
hands itching to get a hold of one
of
the many colorful cans in my bag.
I heard the familiar clicking of
Ja-
cob's camera behind me. No matter
how comfortable he felt, I knew I
had to remain on edge.
"You know, you should real
ly wear a mask once in a while."
He
called to me, abandoning his sense
of self-preservation as his voice
ventured above a whisper. "You'll
regret it in the long run
.
"
"I
guess I just like to be-
come one with the asbestos and
lead paint." I joked back, dodging





.......----
collapsed pipes that hung from the
ceiling like broken bones. I turned
another corner, relying on my men-
tal map to lead us out of here after
the
sun
disappears.
Fallen ceiling tiles crunched
under our feet, soaked through by
rainwater collecting in puddles,
small islands of mold forming
where the wall met the floor. Vines
broke through the windows on our
right
as
nature took back what was
once
its
own.
In
the small spac-
es between the graffiti, I saw the
silhouettes of photos and posters
that
were
no longer there. Items that
hung on these walls for years before
they
were
taken down forever, leav-
ing behind nothing but a memory.
A ghost. This place seemed frozen
in time, and yet, as I looked around
at the debris on the floor, collapsed
ceilings, and broken windows, I
understood that time has inevitably
taken its toll. It's places like this
where history came to die.
71





\
Dominique Baduria
72












Pack it
Julia Kisilinsky '22
1
knOW
what my mission is, I've known it for quite a while
Yet
all
I tend to do is just lay back and stare at the pile
Of
clothes scattered
about my room.
I keep telling myself
"it's
too
soon
.
"
Though it appears to be a hot mess, much like the beauty
That peers through the leaking windows of her soul,
It
'
s
the sanctuary for a visionary born far too bounteous
For her own good;
she
gathers another bowl.
Feeling alone in my endeavors
For hardly anyone, interpret loose,
Wishes to do the
same
things I do,
Therefore harder I must search. It's a lifelong adventure.
Prison has become my home.
I ju
s
t want to move freely.
Why is this
so
difficult
To live this life of mine own?
I
spend
my waking hours
Observing what I'll surely forget
,
it
seems
I'm
just
living out my life
Like how I live out my dreams.
7:



74
This Year
Margaret Roach
'22
In middle
school,
I was a
big fan of John Green (the writer,
not Bigfoot researcher) and John
Green
was
a big fan of The Moun-
tain Goats (the band, not the goats).
It
was an easy connection for an
impressionable preteen to make.
I completely fell in love with the
band, whose music became the
required
soundtrack
to my adoles-
cence. Their music reminds me of
the kind of
songs
that would play
during a
scene
from
a
quirky indie
movie.
It
is cinematic in a Wes
Anderson
sort
of way; being played
over a bad decision,
symmetrical
car chase, or the melancholy ending
credits.
The Mountain Goats, led
by John Darnielle, are a popular
band-or at least I feel like they
are. They are beloved in certain cir-
cles of the internet, but I have never
actually met
someone
else who
liked them. This, by hipster rules,
should
make them cool. But I've
always found their obscurity to be
frustrating because they've been a
defining part of my existence. Most
of their music has
some
place in my
life, but I have listened to their
song
"This
Year" innumerable times.
"This
Year" is the third son
on the album
Sunset Tree. Sunset
Tree
is not their most popular al-
bum, or even my favorite, but I still
like it a lot.
It
was first Mountain
Goats album that I had ever listen
to because it comes up first with a
google
search.
Sunset Tree
focuses on
Darnielle's relationship with his
abusive stepfather and his trouble
youth. The album is all about feel-
ing trapped, rage, and, at the end,
kindness. All of the
songs are
inte
esting and musically appealing, b
"This
Year" is one of the best
son
that the Mountain Goats have ever
written.
It
focuses on the narrative
of Darnielle's poor decisions and
the things he has done to cope wi
his crappy home life. This is noth-
ing unique for a Mountain Goats
song-but
this one does it well.
The musical elements of
"This
Year" are its best quality.
It'
catchy and upbeat, and it includes
the excellent chorus of "I'm going
to make it through this year, if it
kills me." Darnielle is not a good
singer
in the traditional
sense,
but






his voice has c?ara~ter; in this ~ong
in particular, his voice sounds hke
a wail. The piano plays the same
little melody over and over again,
forcing it in your head
.
Even though
the material is dark, it is a dancing
song
.
It's not one that makes the
listener want to dance well, but in-
stead hop up and down in rhythm.
"
This Year" combines a
mixture of optimism and despair
that I appreciate. It's a good song
for te
e
nage angst-not too depress-
ing, but just angry enough. At the
height of my angsty period, I played
it almost daily. Nothing made this
period for me particularly special,
except for the fact I wanted to be
an adult instead a high schooler.
It would always be blaring in my
headphones as I made the trek to
the library after choir, or muffled in
the background as I worked my way
throu
g
h failing geometry.
My high school years are
defin
e
d by insomnia. I have never
been able to sleep; it's like my brain
doesn
'
t know how to turn itself off
even though I'm always tired. My
inability to get to sleep has been
Part
o
f my life, but it was at its
Wor
s
t in high school. There would
be ni
g
hts when I didn't sleep at all
and I would just lay in bed tired, but
unable to do anything about it. The
Mountain Goats became a compan-
ion
.
to those sleepless nights. "This
Year," in particular was a song that
became tied to my insomnia.
"This Year" is a song about
getting through
,
and the feeling of
stagnation that comes from wait-
.ing for the next year. Many songs
focus on the optimism of beginning
a new year, but "This Year" focus-
es on how the current year sucks.
"This Year" is a song that meant
so much to me because I was not
looking towards the future as much
as I was focusing on where I was
and counting down the days until I
could leave. Over the years, "This
Year" has become more nosta~gic
as I've reached a place in life that I
didn't want to leave and I started to
be able to sleep at night. I had been
listening to it less, or at least I was
until the pandemic hit.
The Mountain Goats played
on The Late Show with Stephen
Colbert in July of 2019 to promote
the band's new album. "This Year"
is not a song from that album, but
Stephen Colbert asked them to play
it because he loves it. I did not see it
when it was first performed because
I do not watch late night shows, but
I later found it on my YouTube feed
when the quarantine first began. At
this point of quarantine, I was get-
75





76
ting into my first slump of many.
At night I would stare at the ceiling
just like I had in high school. Hav-
ing finished binging
30 Rock
in over
a week, I had nothing to do except
watch television shows that I did
not care for as much, stare at my an-
cient Boxer's face wondering "when
did it get so grey?" and worry.
Listening to "This Year" on
Colbert was a revelation. It is my
favorite version of "This Year" by
far because it captures the joy and
anger of the song. John Darnielle's
voice is as high-pitched and a little
bit unpleasant-like always, but it
works. He practically yells the song.
The instrumentals are manic com-
pared to what appears on the album,
with the piano
seeming
to play a
crescendo every chance it gets. Dar-
nielle doesn't actually sing all of the
song because Colbert sings about
half of it-getting all the lyrics
perfect. Colbert appears almost as
an alternate universe Darnielle, in
his perfect suit and weirdly similar
face. He is not the typical put-to-
gether Late-Night host; instead, he
is just a fan. When he's not singing,
Colbert dances rather aggressively
in a way that is too enthusiastic to
be faked. It's an absolutely exuber-
ant performance.
My favorite line was, and is,
"There will be feasting and danc-
ing in Jerusalem next year." It's
the
only time the song outright men-
tions next year, but it's a line that
i
filled with hope for what is comin
It's more impactful than it used to
be. For me, the Holy Land used to
be no longer being in high school.
Now, the Holy Land is the literal
hope that there will be "feasting
dancing" in the new year. The
Lat
Night
performance has become
m
daily pandemic song because of
way this line is sung. I play it as I
walk to class masked, when I
look
at the rising infection numbers,
an
before I go to bed at night just
like
used to in high school.
It hasn't been a good year.
might actually have been the
worst
year. My dog died in the middle o
quarantine. The school where
my
dad taught closed. My cat died
the
week before Christmas. There's a
global pandemic. "This Year" is
th
song for what this year has been,
bitter and frustrating. The album
version no longer cuts it anymore
because it's a little bit too sweet.
The song is angrier than it used
to
be, but still a little bit hopeful for
what's coming. It's a good senti-
ment for what has not been a good
year.












►
Morocco Blue, You
Jessica Cordes
'21
undone happiness shifting
now like turquoise tides
in Rabat, we played soccer
just
for
fun the way
you liked it
and u
s.
Hostel Funky Fes:
the only week to plan ahead
spring
break monkey
tattoo
s
sapphire
sex
,
but
then
we
said
goodbye
in Heathrow International
come visit
me in Burlington
when this
is over,
boarded United
we flew to a new
storm.
Back home,
social
distancing,
twisting moods,
closed eyes no longer
see
the deepest blue
neare
st
to your pupils,
that's how I know
I've lo
s
t you.





78
The Unachievable
Gabriel Castillo-Sanchez '24
Somewhere, way out there
It floats high in the air
Try to attain it if you dare
You'll probably end up pulling out your hair
It
poses as
something
most ideal
Yet rising to it is a huge ordeal
As close to it as you may feel
It
is obstructed by an impenetrable seal
Attempting to achieve it you will lose all control
And on your livelihood, it will take a toll
As a matter of fact, it is an impossible goal
One that will always haunt your soul
It
laughs at those who try to get close
Because seeking it is futile to most
It
snickers as you
spend
all your time engrossed
You will get failure as a daily dose
It
basks its flawless world in glee
And is as bothersome as an unfair referee
But open your mind and maybe you'll see
Flawlessness is not a reality
Be resentful no more ... you'll never reach perfection




Self Medication
Yvette Bien-Aime '24
79





80
Women aren't like Flowers
April Yearack '24
"Women are like flowers" is what they say
They say we are dainty and we are lovely
They have always pictured us that way,
I say we ought to grow thorns
However, thorns do not stop
The blood red roses from being picked from their spot,
We are damned if we do but more so if we don't
After we blossom a certain age,
We learn to fear growth
Plucked once ripe
Like the fruits on trees
Say "yes", say "thank you", now down on your knees
Only used for decoration
As we gather others praise
A trophy, a wife, a rose in a vase







>
We are owned for our beauty and known for our grace
But
when
the week does end and we wither away
We
can
'
t help but sit there and wait to be exchanged
Of course, flowers still have their beauty
and th
e
y
also
have their grace
But they ultimately teach us we are easily replaced
So do
not
call me a flower,
No
don't
y
ou dare
say
Becau
s
e
I am not a flower,
in oh
s
o
many ways
81


82
Things We Lost In The Flood
Lindsey Dolan '22
Everyone assumes now that
the camera in her face was what
got to her and didn't let go. The
"spotlight,"
even though the
spot-
light was really nothing more than
friends and family congratulating
her for a while or sharing
support-
ive posts to
social
media, always
eager to be tangentially
associated
with someone experiencing their
fifteen minutes of fame.
Helena knows that it isn't
that at all, it's just the opposite
actually. She'd rather the discomfort
of
all
that than the lingering feel-
ing that
she
really did die when the
fictionalized version of herself did.
Sunday dinner at her par-
ent's house this week is chicken
and
sweet
potatoes. It's months
after her minutes of fame now, but
when that faded, it took more than
itself along with it and left a kind of
depreciating existence in its place.
Each week that
she
and her brother
and parents congregate for dinner
and table-talk,
she
feels the kitchen
table become an even greater abyss
to make her voice reach across, like
they're
secretly
replacing the center
leaf with one a few inches longer
before
she
knocks on the front d
"How
are classes?" her
mother
asks
her brother with as
much genuine interest as can be e
pressed in the three words. "Do
y
need to bring anything back? To·
paper? Soap? Pasta
sauce?"
He talks about his History
of Latin America presentation an
how the professor had kept him
hind a minute to say that he'd sp
ken well. Just that, nothing more.
"That's
one of the best s ·
you can have. That's incredible. I
good to have someone like that o
your side already," her father say
They don't so much ask
about Helena as ask around her.
"How's
your roommate?"
"Good,"
she says.
She's not usually one for
perfect posture and firm eye con-
tact, but she's going heavy on it
t
night hoping they' 11 stare back
an
notice something. Anything -
th
she's looking a little tired lately,
that
she
needs to brush her hair,
o
maybe even that there's
something
in her teeth.
Whenever she's back at
bet
childhood home, Helena always










1
nces in her old bedroom on the
gay down the hall to wash up. It
'
s
wa
h
.
always the same unc angmg por-
ait of her at twenty, exactly how
tr
.
C
it had been before movmg out 1or
ood save for when she grabs a
:ook or old piece of clothing to
take back with her. The bed went
unmade for years and there are
posters that she cringes at now, but
about a month ago she noticed the
comforter straightened out and a bin
on the floor
.
There were less things
strewn around, the box of pens
she'd spilled beside her dresser was
all picked up after years.
In the bathroom she won-
ders if
s
he's just grown vain, a little
too in tune with herself.
If
she is
actually that much less interesting
than her brother, if she's washed up
,
or the conclusion that she fears the
most -
that some of the grieving
her family had done for Helena the
character on screen had a materi-
al effect. That suspicion has been
wearin
g
at her, the overwhelming
sense that she no longer exists be-
yond the ubiquitous little digital file
of the film. She feels less opaque
lookin
g
in the mirror. Maybe just
for lack of sun.
.
At home, her roommate has
JUS
t finished packing to leave for
a finance summit in the city in the
morning. She's sitting on top of
her suitcase, zipping it underneath
herself when Helena appears in the
doorframe of her bedroom.
"I watered all the plants for
the week, I know you'll forget,"
Lucy says. "The ficus in your room,
too."
"That's a ficus?"
"Yes," she says from atop
the suitcase still.
"You should sleep in my
room tonight before you go
.
"
They'd done this more
often during the first year after they
signed the lease on the apartment,
having been closer friends fresh
out of college with more to relate
about and more novelty to the situ-
ation. There has been less common
ground recently between the banker
and the schoolteacher.
"One of my clients filed for
bankruptcy today," Lucy would say
.
"One of my eight-year-olds
blew a snot bubble today,
"
Helena
would say.
Tonight they lay silent on
their backs, watching the ceiling fan
with the lights still on
.
"Can you face me?" Helena
asks.
They fall asleep like that
,
faces almost pressed together like a
8'.








84
new couple.
She still can't work out
if
she
regrets it or not. When the
journalist reached out about doing a
piece on the damage from the hurri-
cane a few years ago,
she'd said
yes
without hesitation. It was to be a
big research piece calling for better
disaster planning and infrastruc-
ture and grid modernization by the
shore
.
As the survivor of a wrecked
house where
she'd
been living with
a group of college roommates, Hel-
ena was just one among those asked
to help provide the human element,
the accessibility element for more
readers. Even just this had been big
for her, but there was an initial high
to being asked about herself, to
someone
being
singularly
interested
in her experiences.
And then months later Sam
came along with his plans for a
neo-neo-neorealistic feature on the
topic. He'd read the original piece
and wanted to create a kind of cine-
matic portrait of the torn landscape
through the story of an older wom-
an down at the shore. The whole
thing was going to be her sifting
through things -
sifting
through
the wreckage of her own home and
through figures in the community.
She was to be played by a house-
hold name and the the rest of the
cast would be locals; people from
the area, people from the article.
The first time Sam
spoke
to Hele
on the phone he'd
said
to her can
you read it back to me, what you
said
in the article.
"Verbatim?"
"More or less."
"Okay.
I'll have to pull it
up online." That was a lie, a
PDF
of it was saved right to her desk-
top. Its own little icon in the grid.
Also a lie because
she'd
practic
memorized each word and every
bit of punctuation by now, too,
after months of reading back and
overanalyzing. She had read it b
enough times,
some
aloud as
well
to already have experienced the
embarrassment of reading back
h
words made concrete in serif
font
and the secondhand embarrassme
come from reflecting on that -
then third, fourth, and so on as
we
She'd flexed this muscle enough
t
feel the necessary detachment fro
it to recite smoothly now. So she
clicked around at nothing for a bit
and made some typing sounds in
case that was something Sam coul
hear over the phone for a minute
and then said,
"okay,
got it."
"Great."
"Should
I go?"











••please
.
"
She was silent for another
few moments and then plunged into
her statement.
"It
sounds dumb, but the
most important thing I lost in the
storm was my journal. More than
one, it was everything I'd written
between the ages of fifteen and
twenty-two gone.
I
used to b~ con-
sumed with journaling and writing
down
everything
that happens to
me
.
If
I missed a day -
it only
happe
ne
d a handful of times in that
whole
span
of time -
I
wrote two
pages the next. Now it feels stu-
pid, but I had it in my head that it
would one day be my own kind of
Unabr
i
dged Journals.
It
got to the
point
where
I associated my hand-
writing with what's real. If
I
kissed
someone
and never put it into writ-
ing in that journal,
I
never kissed
anyone as far as I was concerned.
So when it was lost, I was lost.
It
took a while for me to be able to
live
without proof of living
.
Sorry,
this feels too much about me." She
stops reading. "Do you want to say
the interviewer's part?" she asks
Sam over the line.
"Oh,
yeah," he says and
r~ads the line: "No, not at all. Con-
tinue
"
,
"Okay,"
Helena says, con-
tinuing. "I was lucky anyhow
.
"
Helena hesitated a bit at first
before consenting to the project,
but mostly because of the way he'd
been overzealous with the
"neos,"
it
didn't sound like the realest.
Only after agreeing did
she search him up online to scroll
through his credentials. Most of the
buzz surrounding Sam's name came
after his directing a music video for
a decently well-known pop artist.
Helena didn't care for the video
much, it was full of landscape shots
on the beach and kind of boring,
but after some clicking around she
.
felt an incidental surge of self-im-
portance to find out that
singer
had
been nominated for a Grammy (best
packaging; lost). He'd also done a
perfume commercial and a
short
documentary on synthetic meat
alternatives
.
She decided she liked
the things he threw himself behind
well enough and agreed to the tiny
part.
Luckily they'd filmed during
the summer.
It
was shot close by,
just down at the shore, but the
stipend was less than
she
would've
made otherwise; nannying and tu-
toring as
she
does during those few
months off each year from teaching
third graders. A speeding ticket
85







86
would have sent her into the red.
Sam ended up deciding that
the script was missing something
halfway through the shoot.
"Helena -
Helena the char-
acter, not you Helena, has to die.
Don't worry, it'll be poignant."
So her handful of scenes
were reshot, but this time she was
dying all along. Helena the char-
acter made it out of the collapsing
house too
,
but much more narrowly.
Not without a fallen beam to the
head and subsequent hospital-
ization. Sam asked her if she had
any way in particular she thought
she might like to go out, what she
would want the grief to look like.
They'd brought in her family for
nothing more than a sweeping shot
of their mourning faces and every-
thing had been off from then
.
"How did I do?" She'd
asked Sam on the last day on set,
though there was no real set, it was
just the beach town. They stood
on the boardwalk together eating
cookies someone had brought to
celebrate the wrap.
"Oh, you were great."
"My acting was okay?"
"Your acting?" Sam put his
hands on her shoulders. "Helena,
honestly, if you were trying to act,
your acting is not great. But that's
perfect -
you're playing yourself
'
right? You're playing someone
who, in a hypothetical situation
where she'd be asked to act,
would
not be able to. That's okay. No
one's asking you to do that. It's
reat
You're a timid girl speaking her
truth
.
"
"Okay
.
" I'm twenty-six,
she
thought, but okay.
"Okay?"
"Yes."
So it was shot and edited
and released and made a little bit
noise, but only to those attuned to
such low profile cinematic efforts,
and so now remains inconsequen-
tially out in the ether
.
Inconsequen
.,
tially to everyone but her. The
ether
and Hulu, deep down the indepen-
dent page.
All this and her little col-
umn in the local newspaper have
made her kind of a diva in unseen
ways now, though. Just in ways
th
ensure the only person repulsed is
herself. One of her favorite feeling
in the world is standing in a fitting
room where every wall panel is a
mirror -
being able to see how
she looks when caught off guard
or downcast or from that backward
three-quarters angle otherwise etef




nallY a mystery _to her (photos don't
capture things like that the same). It
does repulse her, the pleasure feels
indecent.
When she goes out to eat
with Lucy, a banker, Helena pays.
It's an investment in the little thrill
she receives from signing her
name on the check the way she's
been developing in the margins of
her le
ss
on plans, with the tail of
the A in Helena swooping down
into the loop of the lowercase F in
Finnerty. This is how she's been
signing notes to students' parents
for months now anyway, but it's
more exciting on a check for some
reason. She hopes the waiter will
associate the healthy tip with the
unique shape and maybe even feel a
surge of goodwill should he see that
name anywhere again.
She keeps a playlist with the
instrumental score that appeared
behind her scenes on her phone and
walk
s
around listening to it some-
times
,
trying to understand what
about her as a person inspired the
melody and the little grace-note
heavy motifs.
Further, she's ashamed to
acknowledge the little flame of a
thrill that flickers within when one
of her third graders has it in their
head that she
'
s a kind of movie star.
Sht has taken to wearing a large,
flashy pair of sunglasses each morn-
ing on her commute and only taking
them off when she's settled behind
her desk to take attendance. She
does this slowly, taking them off,
hoping the effect will be subliminal
on them
.
Sometimes she pairs them
with a patterned scarf and slowly
unwinds it from around her neck
while the class readies itself. Eight
and nine year olds will not call her
a try-hard.
"Miss F., my mom watched
your movie," one of the boys says
to her on Thursday .
.
Instances of
people telling her this continue to
grow fewer and further between as
time goes on. Lucy has been at the
financial summit for four days now.
"Oh." Her cheeks flush.
"I saw some parts.
It
was
boring."
"It's a bit slow. You might
like it when you're older"
He lingers in front of her
desk, looking distracted. She lets
her fingers hover over the keyboard,
unsure of whether to shift her eyes
back down just yet.
"I still liked it. You looked
pretty
.
It
was sad when you died but
it was pretty."
"Thanks, Matt."
87




88
"I thought I was going to
cry but only for a second."
"It's okay, Matt."
"And I just spilled glue all
over the chapter books. I'm con-
fessing so please don't be mad."
While driving back from
the school late in the afternoon,
Helena slows for a deer in the road
.
It doesn
'
t hurry on out of fear, so
she comes to a complete stop before
its unmoving frame. She lifts her
foot off the brake in little spurts,
inching closer and closer until
she's
afraid of tapping it with the hood
of her car, but the deer doesn't even
acknowledge her. It always seems
like the deer grow bolder and bold-
er every year around here, but this
one is uncannily ignorant. It's like
it doesn't see her at all. Another car
slows at the scene. The driver lays
their heavy hand on the horn until
it scatters, pulls ahead of Helena,
and speeds off. The image of the
stoic deer stews in her mind for the
remainder of the afternoon and into
the night, and by the next morning
she remains unsettled.
Propped up in bed, she
looks around the room for signs of
life. There's a ticket stub for a mov-
ie she'd gone to see with Lucy last
week on the nightstand and a
half-
drank disposable cup of coffee on
the desk. She wonders for a secon
if that's really all, if after a ticket
and a paper cup that there's really
no evidence of her continued bein
But then she remembers some
recent prescriptions in the bathro
and produce in the fridge and fee
about as much better about that
anyone could.
She gets out of bed and
puts the stub in her pocket. In the
bathroom, she pours the rest of
coffee down the sink and throws
the cup and the medications. She
knows what the mind can be tric
into believing, she's seen it first-
hand. All she's doing is prodding
that mechanism a bit more. In
the
kitchen, she considers tossing th
celery and strawberries in the
tr
as well but instead carefully
wash
them, dries them, wraps them
in
paper towels, and puts them in a
tote bag. She slips the bag onto
h
shoulder
and leans with elbows
o
the counter, thinking of what
else
she
might need. For what? Uncl
even to herself. She decides on s
glasses and sensible shoes.
Outside, the
street
is emp
It's quiet enough to hear her shoes
against the pavement as she choo
a direction and walks.








Respect Our Mother
Gabriel Castillo-Sanchez '24
perhaps the dearest person of all is a mother
So why hurt the mother we all share?
You
'
ll probably say,
"I
wouldn't dare"
But it'
s
our actions that really say
,
"
I
don't care"
She i
s
in pain as
I
speak this verse
And it
s
eems that all society
'
wants to do is make matters worse
Energy we burn polluting the air
Chemi
c
als we use polluting the ground
Litter we throw polluting the sea
If
you take a moment to listen, you can hear her wheeze, "Please help me"
It's our own actions that compromise the trees and the bees
It
'
s our own actions that give us unease and lung disease
We are even tainting the water in which we bathe and drink
Meanwhile
,
our mother is asking herself, "Do they even think?"
But as bad as we have scarred her
,
we can make things right
With modern technology, we can harness wind, water, and sun
Yes, renewable energy is the way it's done
So be a good daughter and son
Reducing, reusing, and recycling is better in the long run
Now, don
'
t sit there and remorse, it's time to react
Action
s
speak louder than words, and that's a fact
Yes
,
e
v
ery human being can make an impact
To keep our mother from being ransacked
If
We continue down this path there will be no going back
Son
· ·
ow
It
1s our duty return the love she gives and never detract


















90
,..
.
w
w
Vl
:::,
0
>-
0
0
I-
<(
::c
3::
Reach out,
let's be friends.
?
What Do You
s
ee·
·
h
'
2
4
Abigail Koestenc














Nothing is the
same:
you
never
saw
~udson
blue river blowmg
curly hair
to hurricane,
ooodnight
navy
e
.
denim drags
attent10n.
Saturdays I
sit
inside
with my
mother,
blue
fleece
blanket thick
Planet
Jessica Cordes
'21
of
summer,
watch
This Is Us
for hours until
we
are silently swiping
our
own
tears-did you know
early
traditional
Blues
verses
consi
s
ted of
a
single
line
repeated
four
times:
I love
y
ou
I love
y
ou
I love
y
ou
I love
y
ou
spoken fast enough,
the
I
begins
to roll over itself
,
eventually forgotten.
1 am
blue
to no longer love you.
Met the me who left
half
of
herself in New York
91




92
beside her favorite orange sweater,
flew Jetblue
,
landed
in a different hemisphere.
One night, years ago
I dreamt of blue planets-
icy giants, fast
floating by my window,
each one more brilliant
more consuming
than the last.
When they vanished
,
magic lingered in the dark.




Still Life Basket
Michael Reginella '23
93








94
The Day Wright Died
Carley Van Buiten '23
It is 3: 14 on a Tuesday
I walk the Rail Trail as I do every day
I walk past the
steel
doors
Of the
storage
unit,
"Storage
Depot"
People's lives are
stored
away
in
those tiny units as I walk by
Dumb name for a
storage
unit, I think.
The
sun shines
through the trees
Perfectly to make me
squint
I've been walking for 35 minutes
I
am sweating
now.
I will finish this walk in the hour
Then go to class and eat whatever I find
But before then it is Eisner Brother's Recycling Center
I couldn't miss them if I tried
They are loud and obnoxious
Opposite of what I walk for
I wonder what the Eisner Brothers are doing at this
very
moment
If
they're even alive.
A man rollerblades by with padded knees
The twigs on the ground ache to catch the lip of his
skates
perfectly enough to put those knee pads to use.
I walk past a graveyard
Neat, organized rows of headstones
Most have freshly planted flowers
But one is overshadowed with a dead bush
Is it neglect or is his
sacred
ground poisoned?
It is weird to think of coffins under those headstones.
Even weirder to think of the bodies inside.





1 check the time on my phone, 4:04
1 have to get back for class, I think
The Chicago Tribune
takes up my
screen
My eyes scan fast, my legs walk on autopilot
Daunte Wright, black male, pulled over for air freshener,
gun mistaken for taser, fatally shot.
I read
,
"holy
shit I
shot
him." A trained professional, I think.
I wonder how easy it is to mistake a taser for a gun.
Mistake
,
I think.
Tragedy, I correct myself.
95








96
The Sound in Silence
Michael Reginella '23
I traveled down by the Hudson
River with the intent to photograph
anything that caught my eye. Many
people were there to enjoy the beau-
tiful weather and watch the imminent
sunset. I sparingly took pictures,
searching for some subject matter that
would be a good fit for my portfolio. I
proceeded to take pictures of trees, the
river, and animals, yet nothing real-
ly was too profound. As the sun was
setting I sat near the dock on the river
and simply waited while observing my
surroundings. It was then that I noticed
two geese. Hurrying along the river,
I pointed my camera and waited until
they came closer. I needed to be con-
scious of how many pictures I would
take as I was running out of space on
the memory card within my camera. I
waited and observed them through the
lens. They were pushing against the
flow of the river, and slowly but surely
making progress. One behind the other,
they moved forward for some time,
then traveled to the right near the dock,
and serpentined along. As they moved
closer to the dock, they turned to stop
at some rocks along the shore. I slowly
moved onto other rocks about thirty
feet away and just stood there observ-
ing them and waiting for the right shot.
While aware of my presence, they were
not startled by me as I kept a bit of a
distance and remained still and quiet.
As I waited, silently observing them
'
noticed something that I hadn't con-
sidered throughout that entire time
by
the river; the little things found in
the
silence.
This silence took over the
311
and allowed for me to become fully
aware of all my surroundings. I re-
mained still, reflecting upon everyth·
that I was noticing and all that I felt.
listened to the water and how it cal
and quietly flowed, the sounds of the
birds just like Burroughs observed,
and the calm wind and how it flowed
through the trees. These are the little
things that you don't notice, but that
which truly makes up the river. Thes
geese knew the feelings and sounds,
it's what guides them in the area,
what they are used to and happy
with
Yet while finding peace within these
elements found in the silence, I could
hear a loud group of people talking
as
they walked near me and sat about
fi
feet away. They continued to talk and
discuss the issues of their day and
Iiv,
Too preoccupied with their own
lives
notice anything that is in front of
the
within the area, just as I was. There is
an irony to this as they come down
to
this river to observe its beauty and
yet
miss most of it. They don't notice
that
which is found in the little things
that













►
ake up the experience. They come
111
to see the beauty, but can't help
here
b t complain about work, people, or
uher i
s
sues, contrasting the beauty
~~at they should be taking in with ~uch
eoati
v
ity. Every other group I noticed
n
e
h"
d
similarly talked over everyt mg an
missed the full beauty. So much talking
about various things
;
drowning out
that silence that allows for the birds or
the flow of the river to be heard
.
No
wonder these geese moved away
,'
even
struggling against the flow of the water
just to find a quieter spot. Perhaps they
could tell that in my silence I contrib-
uted to this landscape they call home
and didn't obscure it with that pointless
noise
.
There is so much noise that
disrupts our lives today and not enough
of that
s
ilence. It mostly stays in the
negative and consumes us, taking over
every a
s
pect of our days and who we
are. It is relentless and many require
a break, yet they won't take the time
to go outside and observe the silence.
They put it off, thinking things will
becom
e
better on their own and pass
their
w
hole live
s
without ever noticing
the little things. It's a shame
,
as that
feelin
g
of observing those geese made
?1e feel more at peace than I have felt
~n awhile
,
because in that time noth-
ing el
s
e mattered. I didn't care about
the
s
mall issues or worries and only
concerned myself with the silence and
ca] ·
ming sounds of nature surrounding
rne. Th
e
se geese that I was watching
lived their lives in that silence, moving
to i
_
t when provoked by the noise of our
society. Yet, people can't live in that
silence. It's as if we are tethered to that
noise and need to go back to it even if
we manage to find a way to break free
to the silence. We can't live completely
aware of everything that our surround-
ings offer, but people don't even try to
observe the beauty of it every once in
a while. They're too preoccupied with
their lives and adding to that noise of
our society.
We
waste our whole lives
in that world and yet when we reach
that end point
,
isn't the silence what we
ultimately seek? We navigate through
the noise, with an ultimate goal of
finding that peace, which isn't achieved
until we don't have enough time to
·
truly enjoy it. Yet, the silence we waste
our lives finding is always there, always
around us, we just don't stop and care
to notice.
97





98
Microscopic
Cell
Jamie Goodman '23













Salt, Sand, Tide
Alexandra Messina '24
The breeze hugs me from behind,
warm
and comforting and playing with my hair, but
it
'
s
the
river
breeze, not the ocean, there's no ocean here
1
can
'
t feel
it, it's not the
same
rm
here, not
there,
not
Home
Home
,
where
the breeze is so much colder, so much fresher,
no less
comforting,
no less alive
It
smells
of
salt
there, and
of
sand
,
and
of tide
My
mind wanders to him, it's running
and
can't
stop
He
smells
of the ocean,
not the
river,
not here
He
smells
of the
salt,
and
the
sand,
and
the tide
He
'
s
not here, he's there
He's home
With the
salt
and the
sand
and the tide
w
·
1th
the ocean
not the river
the
•
'
'
re
s
no ocean here,
1
can
'
t
feel
it
99






100
Is hindsight 2020?
I have astigmatism
A year?
Clocks malfunctioned
I am not in that year
Kaylin Moss '22
I
am somewhere between losing track of every hashtagged name and a dead grandm
I am not in that year
I can
'
t be
,
repress or I cannot be, I cannot be that daughter binging Westworld with her
I cannot be that sister refusing to yell in streets, I cannot be that friend ~inging in
the
car,
I cannot be that granddaughter baking with
her
grandmother for the
last
time
I need a casket for the year's tears
I need a
lobotomy
for the year
'
s headaches
Memory. Does. Not. Serve. Me.






The Goddess Within Me
Deborah Jenks '22
Even though my father i
s
n
'
t the king of the sky
Or who transforms into an eagle soaring high up above ...
I do search for peace when no one else will.
I also speak of wisdom when no one else dares to.
I wasn't born from my father's head; however, I was born from the
womb of my mother, ready to change the world.
I h
ave
the spirit of a warrior, swinging my sword at the challenge that
I must face ... using my shield to protect myself from the face of
darknes
s
and fear.
I
s
lay my opponents and seek victory with every war I encounter.
E
v
en though I'm no Aphrodite, I do possess beauty inside and out
revealing that I'm both strong and beautiful.
My body reveals curves from every angle, showing that I'm a
masterpiece itself.
Th
e s
un at dawn kisses my skin as the clouds from above reveals the
,
softness of it.
Lik
e
cotton my lips are soft, gentle and packs a powerful punch when
s
omeone dares to kiss me
.
My eyes listen to those who seek help, when no one else will.
M
y
hair blows in the wind like a compass, pointing me in the direction
that I shall go.
M
y v
oice calls to others who are in need
,
even when they don
'
t ask for
it.
W
a
r is never the answer in solving any of the problems we must face
.
I
s
how mercy to those who deserve it and never give it to those who
abuse it.
I, like the horse run towards something
,
never away.
Within my blood, I'm a goddess and the goddess within me is Athena
.
10
]






102
I go to an antique store
to try to imagine
how old ppl lived.
and under it all,
the dusty hats
and old brooches,
I find a Wii-
a fucking Nintendo
Wii, w/ Mario Kart
n everything
& I'm fucking horrified
be we got one in 2008
Outdated
Nicole Formisano '22
when it was new and amazing,
and so was I.
It hasn't been so long.
Yet here it is
sitting for sale
like it had been there
all thi
s
time.
Bold
,
it lets itself
be seen, and collect dust,
and watch it all go by.
I'm so embarrassed.
I leave as
s
oon a
s
possible
,
and don't buy a thing.








I
•
,-£·-
&,
{
..
Shqiptari
Nora Nucullaj
'
22
10:




Jessica Ha
104






The Canticle of the Night
August Boland '24
The ni
g
ht i
s
our guardian on this cruel earth
It
brin
gs
us secrecy and with it trust
It
promi
s
es joy, goodness, and great mirth
It
brin
gs
us love and hope and pride and lust.
The da
y
is our demon on this fell world
It
pur
ges
all it touches with its light
Villain
s
against us lies and slanders hurled
In the
na
me of this weapon so all-bright.
The gl
oa
ming i
s
our wild card in this sphere
It rem
a
ins an unknown to us and them
Many
ra
ise their ears, in it, death they hear
Or trea
s
ures uncountable, like a gem.
So, my
s
on
,
do trust the piercing light not!
Many t
he
ills from the sun have been got.
105



106




Rainbow
Lidya Sezer
'24













108
Ashes, Ashes Everywhere
Carley Van Buiten
'23
When people ask me about
my childhood I tell them stories
from pictures and home videos I've
seen
as if those memories are my
own. Growing up it was me, Jackie,
my sister, Corey, my mom, Mary,
and my dad, Charlie. My family
calls me Jack. My parents named
my sister
and
me boy names either
because they wanted us to have a
really hard time in middle school
or because my mom was trying to
be progressive and androgenous
when she named us. We lived in
Connecticut most of my life until
I graduated from Brown, got a job
for
The New York Times,
fell deeply
in love with my boyfriend Steven,
and escaped as fast as I could to
Manhattan. We had a pretty normal
childhood. We lived in a modest
New England home with our last
name,
Astoria,
hand-painted by our
mom on the mailbox. If I'm being
completely honest I don't remem-
ber too much of my childhood. I do
remember riding bikes with my sis-
ter, Corey, and coming back inside
with scraped knees every night for
dinner. I also remember not seeing
my grandparents much growing up.
I was always jealous of those
kids
who would come to
school
with
stories about the amazing times
they had being
spoiled
by their
grandparents. Mary, my mom's,
dad died when
she
was young
an
her mom lived in Oregon where
i
never stops raining and was ap-
parently too far for us to ever
vis
Charlie, my dad, had a complica
relationship with his parents.
He
never talked about it much and
weren't allowed to ask
.
We just
knew there were another set of
grandparents out there somewhe
that we would never meet.
Charlie died in 2001 in
the bombing of the Twin Towers.
Before you get all sappy on me,
he wasn't a heroic firefighter who
died saving those in need. He was
corporate asshole who was unluc
enough to be in the office on the
exact day one of the worst terror-
ist attacks on America ever took
place. Just like every other Amer-
ican, the day the Twin Towers fell
is seared into my memory forever.
will never forget sitting in the ofli
of
The New York Times
and havin
one of my coworkers run into
my







ffice to tell me the news that one
0
f the towers fell. I was in com-
oJete shock. I didn't understand the
~agnitude of it until we got word
that th
e
second tower fell. I'll never
forget how it felt to wait for each
snippet of information, holding on
to every word to find out more
.
As
The N
e
w York Times, we had to get
story
a
fter story out as each sqjppet
of information came in. It wasn't
until I got the call from my mom
that I actually took a second to stop
and think
.
She called me to say, "Your
father was in the office today and
·
they don't think he got out in time."
I didn't hear anything else
she said because the phone slipped
from my hand as I collapsed into
the nearest chair. They sent me
home that day along with every-
one el
s
e who had loved ones in the
bombing. It wasn't until five days
later h
is
body was confirmed. It's
the waiting, not knowing. That's
what eats you alive.
Around three months after
We scooped my father's ashes from
the rubble of the Twin Towers I
started having severe insomnia. I
~ent to doctor after doctor listen-
Ing to them all tell me the same
thing
'
N h.
,
ot mg came up on the
tests b t
·
·
u 1t 1s very common to
have sleep disturbances after the
loss of a loved one.
'
I felt like I
was losing my mind. Every night
I would have this recurring dream
in the basement of my childhood
home that would begin with the
sound of footsteps walking down
the stairs but end before I saw who
they belonged to. I would wake
up drenched in sweat every time,
unable to fall back asleep. Final-
ly, I saw a psychiatrist and after
weeks of therapy sessions with
her and trial and error with differ-
ent sleeping pills, we discovered
my father had molested me as a
child. She told me that my brain
had compartmentalized the abuse
to the point where my conscious
self didn't even know it happened.
The death of Charlie triggered the
subconscious trauma and presented
itself through insomnia. Apparent-
ly, sleep disorders are common in
childhood sexual assault victims
.
It
is amazing the lengths your brain
will go to protect you. Hearing this
felt like he died all over again. Or
at least the version of him that I
knew was gone. The hardest part of
the whole thing was telling my sis-
ter and mom
.
I didn't want to have
him die again for them too. He nev-
er touched Corey. I'll never know
why it was just me. There must
10






110
be
some
Freudian psychology to
back it up but I don't like to think
about it too hard. My mom didn't
take it very well. I still don't know
if she knew at the time but when I
told her she started crying and told
me she was sorry. That was all she
said, 'I'm sorry.' We haven't talked
much since that. They say you go
through the five stages of grief but
I believe I went through them twice
and I don't think I ever made it to
acceptance.
I have created a life for
myself in Manhattan with my
boyfriend Steven. He is like my
walking angel. I don't know what
I would do without him. We met
working at The New York Times
when I was an intern and he was
a full-time employee. I've worked
my way from spending
summers
interning there during college to
becoming a full-time employee
myself. Steven has a little hobby
of collecting vintage bicycles and
his prize possession is his Schwinn
tandem from the 60s
.
It
was our
love for antiques that started the
conversation that led to the bar and
five Cosmopolitans which led to
well you know. We share a lot of
interests but it's the antiques that
started it all. That bike is the only
one allowed to stay in our one-bed-
room apartment, hanging on the
wall above our bed
.
The rest are
exiled to the storage unit down
th
street. Steven grew up in the fost
care system and was adopted at
th
age of six. He doesn't talk about
it much but I know it was hard
on
him
.
He is without a doubt, my
best friend. I might even rely on
him too much for too many things
but I need him. You would think
what he went through growing
up
in the system would have harden
him but he is one of the kindest,
most compassionate people I kno
He knows me better than anyone.
He can read me better than anyon
and he accepts me like no one ev
has.
Steven has been an amaz-
ing support system through all
of
this. I have to admit I haven't
been
the nicest to him. I sometimes
fin
myself taking my frustrations
out
on him because I know he loves
too much to ever leave. I know
it'
unhealthy and it's not fair to
Ste-
ven, I'm working on it.
Tonight is movie night.
We watched Harry Potter and
the
Sorcerer's Stone.
It
just came
out
and it's all the rage. After the mo~
ie, we lay in bed. I run my hands
through his black curls. I feel
my
eyes getting heavy as they trace










1. nes of his thin back.
1
The next thing I know I'm
in a d
a
rk basement. I'm laying on
the c
o
uch and there's a nostalgic
mild
e
w odor filling my nose. I feel
rela
xe
d as I listen to the washing
machine rumble on behind me. As
I go t
o
close my eyes I hear the
door
t
o the basement open and the
sound of footsteps walking down
the
s
t
a
irs. I know these footst
e
ps.
I feel a pit in my stomach as I turn
to se
e
who it is. It
'
s Charlie. He
come
s
to the end of the couch and
rests his hand on my leg. I freeze.
As I
be
gin to look from his hand
up to his arm to his face he turns
.
gray. His hand becomes cold on my
leg and then it is ash. He is ash
.
He
is di
sa
ppearing before me into ash
and I try to scream. I try to scream
but nothing will come out. I know
my mom is upstairs if she could
just h
e
ar me scream.
I feel hands on my
s
houl-
?ers
s
haking me. It's Steven shak-
in
g
m
e
awake and I am screaming
.
I am
so
relieved I can scream. I
don
'
t
s
top for a few seconds even
thou
g
h I am awake. When I stop I
fall
in
t
o Steven's arms and cry.
.
He holds me there strok-
~ng m
y
hair saying, "It was just a
ream. You're
s
afe You
'
re safe."
"
I'm so sorry I woke you,
it was just a nightmare," I say with
tear-streaked cheeks looking up at
him.
Before he can reply I say
,
''I saw him. I saw him and we were
there."
"Who, Jack? Where?" He
says wiping the tears from my eyes.
"We were in the basement
and I couldn't scream. He died
right in front of me and I couldn't
scream," I say, the panic building
.
.
mmyvmce.
"Who Jackie? You're scar-
ing me," Steven replies, sitting me
up to look at me straight on.
"Charlie," I say the panic
rushing over me. I begin to sob,
falling back into him.
Steven absorbs me into his
chest and asks in a tone above a
whisper, "You saw your dad?"
"I think it was a flashback.
I think it was the first time my
brain let me remember specific
details," I say in a panicked tone.
"It happened in the basement and
I could feel the fear. I heard his
footsteps and I could feel the fear I
must have felt as a little girl like I
knew what was going to happen,"
I say turning to look at his face for
reassurance.
He can see the desperation
in my eyes as I search his for some
11





112
sort of solace.
He pulls me closer to tell
me, "You're safe now. He can never
hurt you again."
I feel safe in his arms and he falls
asleep holding me in a grip no one
could break through. I listen to his
snores and feel the heave of his
chest as I lay awake staring at the
clock. I watch it turn from 3:00 to
4:00 then from 4:00 to 5:00 until
finally at 7 :00 Steven wakes up and
I no longer feel alone again
.
I'm seeing my mom this
morning running on little to no
sleep. This should be interesting.
I haven't seen her since I told her
what Charlie
·
did. I feel obligated
to check on her after all, she did
lose her husband. I know she's not
doing well with losing Charlie,
but I need her. I need that hug that
only a mother could give. I need
to hear her call me "baby" even
though I'm twenty-six and tell me
that she loves me in that motherly
protective way. I'm nervous and
my expectations for today might be
too big but I'm willing to try.
It's about two and a half
hours until I'm there. This is my
childhood home. The blue paint on
the outside with the white shutters
screams "New England". I can't
decide whether or not to ring the
doorbell or knock. I feel like a
stranger.
While trying to decide
,
my mom opens the door. She mu
have heard my car in the driveway,
I start to say, "Sorry I was
just about to knock but..." when s
interrupts me.
"Let's meet at a coffee
shop
instead of staying here." Her eyes
refuse to meet mine. "I feel like
I've been inside all day." I know
she doesn't want me in the house.
It's too much for her and maybe
too much for me. Baby steps I
remind myself. We get in the car
and I can't help but notice she
hasn't hugged me yet. We arrive
the coffee shop after a 15-minute
ride in silence. Thank goodness
for the radio. We go to a coffee
shop called "Coffee Pot."
Tacky
I think to myself. She chooses a
table by the window looking out
at
the street. It's surrounded by leafy
green plants all in planters with
lit
tle smiling faces painted on them.
Despite myself, I like it. Mary
starts with about three minutes of
small talk as we both politely sip
our lattes. I got chai tea and she
g
pumpkin spice. Typical. Finally, I
can't take it anymore and I address
the big fat elephant sitting in the
middle of our table staring at us.
"Mom I had a dream about




dad l
as
t night
,
" I say in an even
wne
, t
e
s
ting the waters
.
"
That's sweet sweetie pie. I
hav
e d
reams about him most nights
wo.
I know we all miss him," she
say
s h
olding her latte up to her
chin.
"I wouldn't exactly call it
swee
t.
We were downstairs in the
ba
s
ement and ... " I start.
Before I can finish she
interrupts, "Now I'm going to stop
you r
ig
ht there Jack. Whatever that
psych
i
atrist filled your head with is
not true. I knew your father better
than
a
nyone and he never laid a
hand
o
n you."
"Mom, dad molested me,
that'
s
the truth
.
It's not your fault
you didn
'
t know. No one did," I say
reaching my hand over the table to
touch hers.
"You are lying," she says,
pulling her hand away. Her voice
begin
s
to rise. "I did not raise you
to be
a
liar.
"
"
I am not a liar
.
You're
convincing yourself it
'
s not true
becau
s
e you can't face the reality
that
yo
u didn
'
t know the man you
claim
e
d to love for twenty-five
Year
s o
ne goddamn bit.
If anyone's
a liar here it
'
s you, Mom," I say
,
tryin
g
hard to stop my voice from
shakin
g
out of rage or sadness, I
can't tell.
"You have no idea the sac-
rifices your father and I have made
for you. We gave you everything
and you have the audacity to sit
here in front of me like a little un-
grateful brat," Mary spits, her face
beginning to contort with anger
.
I know at this moment
when my dad died he took my
mom with him. I stand up out of
my chair, bent over the table look-
ing down at her. At this point, most
of the cafe has turned to look at us
but I don't have the capacity to care
right now
.
"You really want to
s
it here
and talk about sacrifices?" I begin
to sob and I can feel the snot from
my nose dripping down to my lip
as a child's would. "My childhood
was STOLEN from me," I scream,
despite myself. Now everyone is
staring, even the cashier. "He took
my life from me while you sat there
and did nothing,
"
I call out in a
broken shriek as if I'm throwing a
temper tantrum
.
I grab my jacket
and purse and walk out to my car,
leaving her there with that con-
torted expression still stuck on her
face. This is my nightmare from
the night before except for this time
I can scream but she still can't hear
me. I find those who aren't heard
11



114
tend to scream the loudest.
It's been years since that day
in the coffee shop. My mom has
never accepted the fact that my dad
molested me and I have wasted so
much time carrying anger for her
around with me. I have been search-
ing for that tender motherly love
from her. For her to just give me the
validation I so desperately desired.
To tell me it wasn't my fault and I
was just a child. It took me a long
time and a lot of tears to discover
that she will never give me that
validation I yearn for. Her denial
will always keep her from being the
mother I need her to be. My healing
can no longer rest in her hands. She
is battling her demons as we all are
.
Who am I to tell her how to fight
them?
My abuse will never leave
me. The trauma will get better
with time, as with anything
,
but it
will al ways be a part of me. It is
my decision as to whether or not
I allow it to define me. My father
took my childhood from me and
there is nothing I can do about that.
But it is now in my hands whether
or not I allow him to take the rest of
my life from me too. People always
say, 'I'm sorry for your loss.' What
I want to say to them is I'm sorry
for my loss too. I'm sorry mainly
for the loss of who I believed
my
father to be. I miss that ignorance
and despite everything I miss him.
He died without ever having to
loo
me in the eyes and face what heh
done. He left me here to bear this
burden alone and it is so heavy
but
luckily I am strong.





Beacon of Light
Miranda Beyer
'
24
11









10:00 PM, Dylan's Bed
Jessica Cordes
'21
I am
studying
a World Map
on the wall
116
of his dorm room
which is less
about the map,
&more
about anything
that is not him.
Right hand
restless
to his chest,
one
leg
trapped below
a navy blue blanket,
the other burning
for the door.
The map is black
like
soot
or oil, clusters
of bright
lights
in the world's
biggest cities:
Shanghai Mumbai
my eyes fly to New York
and I am
somewhere
amongst
them.
Warm
light
on the wall
s
hine
s
bright








sunlight on the
eastern hemisphere.
His
chewed
fingers
trace my
skin.
I
wander:
half-open
dresser drawer,
bodies in his
mirrored closet
door
,
a once-white sock
on linoleum floor, his
hand
s
move
south
to my
pretty nice hips.
I waver,
he whispers
you're such a
tease.
Somewhere
there
is a
beautiful woman
boarding a plane
taking flight
to anywhere.
She i
s
unafraid.
He
a
s
ks
me why
I
am
s
o focused
on
the
stupid
map as if
I have never
seen
one before
and without
looking at him,
1
think
I
need
to
go
home now.
11'




118
Behind the
Glass
Bridgette Goss '23





>
An Origin Story
Margaret Ro"ach '22
Third Place, Nonfiction
Elektra
is a film that has
been
completely
erased from the
public consciousness. I think about
it once every day, but never at the
same time.
Sometimes it comes
across
my thoughts when I brush
my teeth in the morning. Some-
days,
(especially
on Tuesdays) it's
when I throw a tennis ball to the
dog
in
the late afternoon. Most of-
ten,
it
'
s
the last thing I think about
before I drift off into sleep.
I dream of
Elektra.
It
is my white whale, some-
thing to chase and understand.
It
is
a thankless task. The film is, by all
accounts,
terrible.
It
isn't
evenfun
bad
like
The Room;
it's
boring
bad.
It's
Cats
if there was no fun mu-
sic.
It's a Nie Cage movie with the
exclu
s
ion of Nie Cage.
Elektra
is the worst movie I
have
ever
seen. I need it
still.
I've
~asted
hours watching and think-
ing
about
it. It takes up the
space
Where
new knowledge should go.
It's
a
s
much a part of my life as
the fi
l
ms I love, forcing itself into
my memory like a parasite.
Elek-
tra
is one of the first films that
disappointed me and it will not be
something
I will move on from.
To understand
Elektra,
you
must understand the pitfalls of
growing up as a young girl loving
superheroes. My origin story as a
comic book fan is not exciting. I
watched
X-Men
when I was ten and
decided that superheroes would be
my identity until I die.
It
was an
obsession; I drew the characters,
I wrote my first television script
about the X-Men, and I tried to
get my tiny hands on any piece of
superheroes that I could.
Superheroes were on the
cusp of being cool back in the
early 2000s, but they were
still
not
entirely mainstream. Comic books
belonged only to the people who
loved them; not to the masses who
were looking for air conditioning
mindless blockbusters. Superhe-
roes were
something
that had to
be
sought
out. Every comic book I
read felt like a discovery, and every
film felt like lost footage.
My experience as a young
11







120
female comic book fan is well sum-
marized in the action figures I own.
The male ones have cool poses and
costumes. The female ones have
boobs. They are defined by this
fact, and often they take up most of
their little body. The action figures
I own were not made for preteen
girls; they were made for an entire-
ly different demographic - young
men or older men who never grew
out of their comic book phase
.
Superhero media is some-
thing that many young girls love
,
but the fact is: it is not made for
them. This is starting to change
with animated shows like DCs
Superhero Girls and Marvel Rising
,
but historical misogyny is some-
thing that is hard to get rid of.
It
'
s not just that comic
books were not made for young
girls, it's also that you are part of a
fanbase where girls are an oddity.
As a girl you are not the same as
the rest and that means that you
must not actually belong
.
Older
men would try to flirt with me,
explaining things I already knew
about superheroes. It would happen
in line at the comic book shop, or
when I referenced something nerdy
in conversation. There was an
assumption that I did not know as
much as I did based entirely on my
gender.
As a girl who loved comics
I was constantly being tested to s
if I was actually a fan or if I was
pretending to be a fan to get a date
.
,
like I would actually want to date
any of these men. The most harass-
ment came while wearing
.
clothing
with superhero images on them.
A
Captain America shirt I own
lights
up men's faces, be it at the mall,
walking down the street, or at
the
fish counter. But, I don't want
that
attention
.
I want to be a person
who likes superheroes
.
Once, when I was fourteen
I was helping to set up a booth at
the county fair for the store where
my mother worked. I wore my
Wonder Woman shirt, because
I liked Wonder Woman. A man
stopped me to explain Wonder
Woman to me in a tedious conver-
sation, but I was polite because
not being polite could end badly. I
thought that was the end of it, but
he called the store more than
once
to "inquire about the young wom-
an in the Wonder Woman shirt."
He wanted to bring me a gift. I
was fourteen
.
He was an adult-
didn't wear that shirt after that.
Onto Elektra, which is the
point of this.
Elektra
is the first
Marvel movie to be made about a








woman, but it is rarely mentioned
• the conversation. Captain Mar-
JO
.
vel is often considered to be the
first marvel super-woman with her
own movie, but no, unfortunately
enou
g
h, it was
Elektra
.
Twelve movies based
around Marvel Properties came
out between 2000 and 2008 that
were not part of the Marvel Cine-
matic Universe (MCU)
.
I grew up
on th
es
e films, because they were
what was available. I would watch
them on Saturday afternoons with
my dad, and even though most of
them were of a lower quality,
I
loved them.
The early twelve Marvel
film
s
were my film education
.
From these films,
I
learned about
the hero's journey, how color
make
s
a film more exciting, and
how
s
tyle can make a bad movie
bette
r.
These movies taught me to
love movies in a way that others
had not. I love these films, even
with all of their faults and silliness.
It
's
ea
s
y to appreciate a great mov-
ie lik
e
Citi
z
en Kane,
but it takes
time to see the joy in
Spiderman 3
.
It
wa
s
not a great education, but it
gave me the ability to look at things
critic
a
lly-because the majority of
them
s
uck.
Elektra
was born from one
the worst atrocities of the pre-MCU
er-a --
Daredevil. Daredevil
is the
worst film possibly ever made
.
It
is so bad.
It
begins with the com-
pletely serious lines
,
"They say that
your whole life flashes before your
eyes when you die. And it's true,
even for a blind man."
It
declines
in quality from there. Elektra is the
only bright spot in this film-be-
sides a young John Favreau
.
She is
a slightly interesting character, and
she can fight well. Unfortunately,
she dies at the end of the film. That
is all the matters about
Daredevil.
The reviews for
Daredev-
il
were bad, but they were good
enough to make a spin-off film
centered on Jenifer Garner as
Elektra. She was raised from the
dead to become an assassin and
fight an ancient evil. Along the way
she becomes a mother figure to a
teenage girl (woman= mother),
falls in "love" with the girl's dad,
and obsesses over her own moth-
er
'
s death. This is all
I
can explain
about the plot, because it is non-
sensical.
It
reaches a point where
it descends into complete drivel. I
have seen this movie at least seven
times and it is still hard to under-
stand.
It
is bad, but it is still better
than
Daredevil.
I watched
Elektra,
like
121




122
many films on a Saturday after-
noon. I sat on the floor of the
living room with my sketchbooks
and art supplies strewn . My dad
fell asleep halfway through the
film and left me to watch it alone. I
didn't hate it yet back then, because
I so badly wanted to like it.
Tlie reviews were not as
kind to the film as I was. In fact,
they were cruel. A review by the
still working David Edelstein
includes the line:
"I'm
bound to
say that I see the allure ( of Jen-
nifer Garner). That face is really
strange-long and fish-lipped, with
different planes going at different
angles. She's like a Picasso guppy.
I dig her slinky dancer's torso, too;
it keeps her supple in her stiffness."
He did not like the movie
even if he dug Garner's torso. This
is a continuing theme of reviews
and critical writings about
Elek-
tra.
Reviews were focused around
Garner's looks rather than the fact
it was a terrible movie. Terrible
movies from this time, like Dare-
devil
and Ghost Rider received
much better reviews, even though
they are equally as bad.
Elektra is a disappointing
movie. Elektra has no personality,
she dresses
in
mainly red leather
lingerie, and her narrative revolves
around the men in her life. The
.
~am era of ten focuses o~ her
body
m a way that has to be mtentional·
often the angle is low with Gar- •
ner's butt always in frame.
It was a film that I so badly
want to like, but it is impossible
to watch. It is plainly boring and
mind-numbingly stupid. It has a
copy-and-paste plot of a generic
action film, but it's far worse than
that.
Elektra
simply does not care.
Pre-MCU films are some of my
favorites, because they take so
much care with the characters.
S
Raimi's Spiderman is a film
about
Peter Parker, not Spiderman. It's
a completely brilliant method of-
making action films. Elektra
didn't
care about its main character at
all,
and that makes it irredeemable.
Elektra
is the film that
made me realize that most su-
perhero media doesn't care about
women. The reason why
Elektra
i
meaningful to me is because it is
the film that taught me that acc01~
ing to superhero media; women
don't matter. They cannot be
the
hero, but instead the girlfriend
or
the girlfriend with less cool pow~
ers. They are reduced to items to
possess and give away. Women
often serve as plot devices rather
than people.







Elektra bears no resem-
blance
to
me at twelve and me now.
MY li
fe
doe~n't resolve around the
men in my hfe. Of my many flaws,
absolutely none of them are cute
or useful. When I go out to fight
s
upernatural assassins, I don't wear
red lingerie
.
As a kid, you want
characters that you can relate to.
The women in superhero movies
wwered over me with their grand
rom
a
nces, high heels, and perfect-
ly m
a
de-up faces
.
Perfect women
,
like these women, exist I'm
s
ure.
That'
s
not the issue here, the issue
is th
a
t Elektra is an ideal. She isn't
a per
s
on.
Elektra
is a film that is has
no le
g
acy except for its sins. They
are r
e
peated again and again even
if things are better than they used
to be
.
Marvel takes the stance that
having women in films means that
they have solved
s
exism and ev-
eryone can go home. What people
igno
re
is the fact that only one of
the
se
characters actually had their
own film
,
and most of them only
had
s
mall roles. Even the best the
Mar
v
el of women like
Wanda
+
Vi
-
s
ion
a
nd Peggy Carter are banished
to tel
e
vision or streaming.
The legacy of Elektra is
Blac
k
Widow
,
who I wish I loved
.
She
's
a
ppeared in every Avengers
movie and yet, I cannot remember
her first name. Black Widow and
Eiektra are nearly the same even
with their years difference. Black
Widow isn't allowed to grow. Her
big plot beat is a romance that is
ignored in later films. She fight
s
and moves beautifully, but she ha
s
no real narrative weight. Black
Widow's film existence is inconse-
quential, just like Elektra.
I think about Elektra when-
ever I watch the newest superhero
movie. Elektra is a ghost. Look
- you can see her in the faces of
the superheroines as they go about
their business of having no real plot
lines, speaking their three lines,
and making memorable entrances
only to be forgotten by the next
film. The history of my relationship
with superheroes is a history of dis-
appointment, but like a fool, I still
hope for the next movie. When the-
aters open again, I'm going to be
at that theater opening day hopeful
that this is the one. It's like a curse;
I won't be released from Elektra's
because she haunts me.
Until then, I'll be here
watching comic book media
,
like a
caped crusader
.
123











































































































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Born Blue
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Fortitude Pag
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Bridgette Goss '2
3












I Thought You Should Know
Michaela Ellison
-
Davidson '23
Second Place, Fiction
1981
You asked me once why we
cannot all be artists and I told you
that
so
me people are only meant
to
be h
a
lf of a whole
.
But I lied. I
knew
t
hat when you asked I would
lie
to
y
ou. I lied to you because it
felt m
o
re realistic, like something
a man would say to a woman to
s
ooth
h
er inexplicable examination
of hi
m,
and I'd come to the odd sat-
i
s
faction of liking you, and maybe
s
ayin
g
what I did would make us
feel b
e
tter about the situation- the
underlying emotions that clouded
our
judgments when I left for New
York
a
nd you for Rome.
Years ago I read your novel.
The one that you'd written about
the w
r
iter and the painter. I had
walk
e
d past a book
s
tore and seen
it di
s
played behind the window,
s
helved next to that year
'
~
debuts,
and I
r
ecognized your name printed
at the jacket's bottom
.
You always
s
aid y
o
u would write a novel and
for
a moment I allowed myself
to feel immensely proud of you.
1 alm
os
t didn't want to read your
Work
,
turning each page as if I was
violating a private part of yourself
I didn't deserve to touch
.
But I read
it anyway.
I think of you now, again,
while I stare out this window.
There is a car parked below me
and it's lights flash bright against
the shallow street puddles
.
People
stand around a convenience store,
speaking, smoking and I imagine
them as vagabond pedestrians in
an Edward Hopper painting their
desolate loneliness outlined by a
blinking cityscape of life.
I go to my desk and take
out your novel, mold my hand
over the black and white cover- the
photograph of the girl at the end of
a long boating dock, her feet gently
grazing the rings of the water be-
low. I wonder about all the people
who have read through its contents,
who have been changed. And I
remember our last day in Naples,
when I'd boarded my plane and left
you at the gate
.
In
the end we had
simply said goodbye- a casual see
you again soon as people do when
they are nothing more than strang-
ers who'd met briefly and now wish
12







126
..
to move on.
Christopher Wren, when
visiting Paris and spotting Berni-
ni's sketching for the East Facade
of the Louvre, put into words what
I have never been able to. For what
we were, Daisy, I had only time to
copy it in my fancy and memory.
That would make for a wonderful
story, but you're the writer and I'm
the painter.
It is snowing in the Hudson
Valley, the kind of snow that shuts
down the entire city, you know.
You always preferred the summer-
time, the hot cobblestone sidewalks
of Vienna
;
Roman sunshine on
hotel verandas; nature
'
s swimming
pools
.
It was a different kind of
summer that year
,
something that
could erase the memory of winter
and it's white devastation
.
I sold
the painting to the art museum. The
artwork I'd done of you. I thought
you should know.
I think of this now, wonder
if this makes me a bad person, but
you wrote a book about me. Didn't
you? I suppose this makes us even.
I was in New England last
month
,
at the middle of the term,
and I saw a magnolia tree- it re-
minded me of you- with it's blush-
ing pink color you u
s
ed to like
in
my art. These were the things tha
I would think of during my after-
noon lull, when office hours were
quiet, when no student longed
for
my help on the history of contem
porary art.
There was something
bizarre about teaching so far from
the city, being so far from my so
who was older now and indepen-
dent and making art at a profoun
college with poets and sculptors
and tennis players.
Elliot would call on the
I was worried after weeks of his
silence. One day, while it poured
outside of the classroom windo
I spoke with him on the telephon
about his upcoming studio assign
ment- the art block on his mind,
and the inability he seemed to ha
when it came to making friends.
"Well, you see, Dad," he
said after a while. "You know ho
I'm coming home for Thanksgiv-
ing?"
"I know," I replied
.
We
still had the apartment in New
York City and it wouldn't be mo
than two weeks before I saw him.
"Don't tell me you've changed
yo
mind?"
Elliot laughed, a painful







h I knew was forced and would
Jaug
h.
b d 1·
only lead to somet mg or er me
criminal.
"I-''
he took a long time
to
continue.
"I
really need to stay
and finish my assignment for the
oallery. I'll be staying with some-
~ne though, so don't get worried or
anything."
"Elliot-"
"No,
I know," he said,
-
"l'm
sorry and
I miss you, but this is
important."
I knew it was important. I'd
forgotten what it was like to be lost
in a work of art, to focus solely on
painting and nothing else.
Elliot was bolder than me, more
confident, more understanding of
contemporary tastes and change.
When he showed me his art I
couldn't help but long for the pas-
sion
he held, wishing that I could
have had
such
a talent at the age of
twenty.
As a parent, you never envy
your
kid,
never see them as better
or less than yourself. I wanted for
him
all
that I could never have, but
I Was
still
selfish, I still wanted my
son
home
.
"Who
are you staying
With
?"
I asked after what felt like
a
significant
passing of time- just
enough to assure him of my dis-
pleasure, but also my undeniable
support for his artistic endeavors.
"Oh, a friend of mine."
"Does
this friend of yours
have a name?"
Silence. Then:
"Yes,
his
name is Laurence Harper, but I just
call him Laurie."
"Laurie?"
"Laurie, dad. He is a real
person. I'm not making this up."
"Is he there?" I asked,
watching the rain hit the tops of
cars and wash over into puddles.
A few of my students saw me and
waved, and I waited for my
son
to
answer me.
"Dad,"
he said,
"No,
well,
yes. Just stop."
"Put him on the phone El-
liot."
"You are honestly insane."
There was a long pause and a shuf-
fle of sounds, voices whispering in
the background.
"Hi, Mr. Taylor," said Lau-
rence Harper.
Elliot took back the phone.
"He's real. He's alive. He's going
to be a lawyer. I'll talk with you
later. You know what, I' 11 be home
for Thanksgiving. Don't worry
about it. We'll talk then."
And, without warning, my
son hung up on me
.
127








128
Elliot is on the sofa eating
a sandwich and I watch him almost
carefully
.
I can't explain why I do
this and I force myself to stop. Lau-
rie
,
the boy he was supposed to be
staying with, is sitting in an arm-
chair. He is older than Elliot, but I
can tell he's never shaved before.
The dark skin on his face is clear;
smooth
.
He is dressed impeccably
and I know the sweater Elliot is
wearing is actually his.
I can tell Laurie is uncom-
fortable- we don't know each other-
but as usual, Elliot is unfazed
.
"Have you called your mother?" I
ask my son.
He sets down his sandwich
and wipes at his mouth with his
sleeve. "I will," he says and I give
him a look. "I will." He repeats.
"You know how it is. I'll go see
mom and Frank will be all, go cut
some wood Elliot, let
'
s go fishing
Elliot, you dress like a bum and
smell like the interior of a bar bath-
room Elliot."
Frank is Freya's husband-
Elliot's stepfather.
"What does Frank do?"
asks Laurie and by the way the two
of them stare at the other I can tell
they've attempted this conversation
before.
"He's a police officer in
Clarkstown," says Elliot, "He
thinks I have no potential."
Elliot leaves the room
wi
his empty plate and I'm left
with
Laurie. It's such a bizarre feeling,
the need to know who he is and
influence on Elliot.
"You're studying law?" I
ask and I almost laugh at the qu
tion; it's unoriginality. Laurie
n
"I'm finishing up my masters
in
criminal justice
.
"
At this I do laugh and
ma
be I startle him, because he leans
forward and covers one side of
hi
mouth with his hand.
"I'm sorry," I say and he
says, "I know. Elliot and I make
odd friends." "And yet orange an
blue go together."
Elliot and I drive out to C
ney Island the Wednesday before
Thanksgiving. We don't say muc
I know that he believes the silen
will prevent any conversation he
doesn't want to have
.
Sometimes
can admit that I don't know him
well anymore. Sometimes I can't.
"You're cooking tomor-
row?
"
asks Elliot and I tap my
hand against the wheel. "You're
funny, El. You must get your hu~
mor from your mother
."
"From Frank," he replies.




He tells me a little about his
fall semester, his words rushing out
f him in nervous segments.
0
There was a girl, but that
didn't work out (too clingy). A
failed math exam which was twenty
percent of his semester grade (he'd
cried and moved on). New ideas
about his art (he thinks he is medi-
ocre). He smokes a little too much
now (I warn him of the health
effect
s
and he starts laughing, says
I'm
a hypocrite, and that he could
be doing lines of cocaine)
.
"
So you and Laurie?" I ask.
He makes a face. "Serious-
ly? That
'
s really uncool of you to
assume something like that." "Oh,
my bad
."
"Yeah, but no, we are dat-
ing."
I tap five fingers against
the steering wheel. "Is he aware of
this?
"
I
mean it as a joke, but El-
liot frowns, fumbling with his shirt
sleeve
s
. "I'd say so
.
Considering-"
"
Well
,
alright," I say, "That's nice,
Elliot.
"
He's mostly unhappy with
sc~ool. He's always been unhappy
WJth
s
chool. He isn't a scholar he
isn
'
t a planner, he's a mess lik~ I
~as back then. I'm reminded of the
Intoxicating fear that I'd felt before
leaving for college in the city. The
appeal of being away from home
and my step father and the chance
to study art in a way I'd never had
before. I wanted to find myself.
Everyone thinks they'll find
themselves in college, but it only
prepares you for later.
Elliot and I meet Fitz by the
boardwalk. He's holding his easel
under an arm and Elliot runs over
to hug him. I do think- there is my
dear friend and my son.
They walk ahead and speak about
things I can't hear. We paint the
river and the people and the air
is warm for November. I take off
my shoes and stand in the sand.
Fitz joins me and we watch Elliot
squint towards the sun and contour
the edges of a landscape with his
brush.
"Did you take my advice?"
Fitz asks (he is a clinical psycholo-
gist). "Are you writing the letters?"
"Yes."
"To who? God?"
"No," I say, "To Daisy."
"You can call her, you
know," says Fitz, "You're dying.
She'd like to know that." ...
It was the summer of 1965
and I was in the backseat of a taxi
cab, the sky bright, reflecting off
the windowpanes and the sunglass-
12





130
es of the passenger I would split
the fair with. He leaned out the
.
open window, hair caught up in the
wind, eyes watering a little. He was
American. So was I. Besides this
we had nothing in common.
He faced me, measuring
my appearance through his tinted
shades and said: "What is it you
do? Where is it you're going?"
I was going to Palermo,
Sicily
,
a town I'd never even heard
of until two weeks prior when my
brother Dexter had called. He was
an American studying in Italy, a
philosophical theologian
,
whatever
that was anyway.
"I paint," I told my com-
pamon.
"Do you actually?"
I smiled despite my displea-
sure. I had been half of myself for
so long I couldn't remember there
was kindness, beauty even
,
in curi
-
ous conversation.
"Last time I checked
,"
I
replied. "You know
,
always and
forever."
The driver parked the car,
pulled up right to your house, and
there was Dexter with hi
s
arms
wide open
,
his feet bare on the
dirt road. "There he is
,
" he called
out, leaning through the open cab
window before I could reach for the
door. "The prodigal painter."
·
I pushed the door open,
stepping out and taking him by
shoulders. "How I've missed yo
annoying face.
"
I started to walk up the
road, turning to take in the land-
scape, the blue lake.
It
was so
undeniably beautiful, the
prettiest
thing I'd seen all day, and then
there you were. You stood out
on
the balcony, one hand over your
eyes, the summer sun drowning
you in light. You dropped the
hand to your side- shyness in yo
smile- and I felt it. I'm going to
f
in love with you
,
I thought, I
don'
want to
,
but I will.
From the moment I met
you I wanted to know you. This
was my immediate realization a
my preferred form of explanation
when it came to you. I remember
was only a week after I had arriv
when I called back home and
my
friend Florence answered. We
ke
our conver
s
ation light, mentioni
nothing relatively important, an
eventually I a
s
ked her to put Fitz
on the phone.
"You don
'
t want to talk
with me?" she asked.
"It
isn't that," I said
,
"Th
things I need to talk about-"






"
ls it a girl, darling?" in-
upted Florence. "Because I'm
terr
.
ch better at those thmgs then my
mu
'
1· .
I "
brother. He s so c 1mca -
"
Florence."
"
Alright fine," she said. I
caught her quick sigh. "I'll put him
on
.
Be
s
afe
."
When Fitz answered
he asked me what was so wrong
that Florence had to wake him. "It's
a girl
,"
I said.
"
The horror."
"
Fitz."
I took a seat on the chair
your mother had brought over for
me
.
It wa
s
getting late, the sky dark
and humid, and I knew I wouldn
'
t
be asle
e
p for another few hours.
"
So tell me
,"
said Fitz,
"
What
's
happened?
"
"
She
'
s very fond of art.
"
"
Oh, no
.
Your weakness."
"
Do you treat your patients
with
s
uch indignity?"
He was silent. Then: "You
like h
e
r
?
"
I nodded
,
knowing he
couldn
'
t
s
ee me
.
The action felt
ea
s
ier than word
s
. "Nothing will
come
of
it,
"
I replied. "I don't want
anything to come of it."
And yet it did
.
Do you remember the
s
umm
er
night we had been invit-
ed to that party? We had danced
to.gether holding each other in the
finely sculpted living room with the
marble countertops and expensive
hardwood imported from a country
such as Spain. You were barefoot
and I was drunk and somehow we
had found ourselves alone and hap-
py and so insanely fond of one an-
other, that the thought of the song
ending and your body being torn
away from mine was enough to kill
p
me
.
You were a horrible dancer, so
was I, but somehow our rhythm felt
perfectly articulated
,
unexplainably
euphoric.
That night
,
as I was in-
troduced to person after person, I
would catch your gaze from across
the room and you would smile
,
shrug in your sympathetic way
,
and
wind your body through others and
take my hand discreetly, conjuring
up an excuse to end my conversa-
tions with models and bank tellers.
I didn
'
t mind the conver
s
a-
tion
s
, the questions about my art
and why I painted, what I painted.
It wa
s
so easy to get lost in the
moment of the room. To drink
too much and eat too much and
laugh too loudly, but in a gallant,
sophisticated way men tend to do
when they are intoxicated, but also
educated
.
131


132
The house- as big as it was-
was cramped and hot. A lady had
broken her fake pearl necklace and
beads rolled around the hardwood.
Half full glasses accompanied ev-
ery table space, every ledge,
nook, corner. People went outside
to
smoke,
they came back inside
still smoking, still holding a refilled
crystal glass.
That was the night we
kissed one another- kissed with
startling tenderness, something that
turned wild- like kids who had nev-
er kissed before and never wished
to stop now that they had.
I've been trying to find the
right place to begin my recollection
of our time in Rome. I could start
anywhere. Such as the moment I
looked over my shoulder on the
crowded bus and found you look-
ing up at me with such passion,
such undeniable admiration in your
eyes. Or maybe when you took my
hand as we walked around the Col-
osseum in the Piazza del Colosseo.
I could even
start
with the
moments after Rome- the taxi
cab to Naples, the argument you
got into with the driver about his
fair between the Napoli Centrale
station and our hotel where we
found a woman sleeping. You
said
her bare, dirty feet reminded
You
Caravaggio's Death of the
Virg"
the small detail which offended
numerous critics when he'd first
displayed the painting.
"This is where Caravaggi
spent his exile," you said, becau
when you were nervous you st
reciting history and I listened. I ·
tened because you were happy
I wanted to remember that happi-
ness later on.
Perhaps even later then
that. The afternoon where we
m
a vendor with a tattoo you said
y
hated because it was too fascist.
"But it's about Julius Cae
sar,"
I countered and you glared
at me, never wishing to be prov
wrong. You explained it and we
bickered. We bickered because I
was so insanely in love with you
and I couldn't tell you I loved
you, because speaking it out
loud
seemed harder than never loving
you at all.
It isn't in Naples that I w·
to begin, but Rome: The Galleri
Borghese.
Scipione Borghese's coll
tion is magnificent, it's breathtak
ing. The Villa itself encompasses
everything that is Baroque and
classical art. We went during the
time of day when Italy was shut







the time right after lunch
down
,
h
shop
s
were closed
.
wen
d D h
.
"
The Apollo an
ap ne 1s
. ma
s
t
e
rpiece," you said,
"
But his
bis
f
I,
David i
s
a true work o art. t s my
favorite.
"
A
s
a young boy I studied
marble
s
culpture in textbooks. I
knew the vague details of Berni-
ni- I am a professor of the arts- but
hearing it from you
,
seeing you
react to every portrait and painting,
it changed me. I began to feel what
you felt and in that came a more
subtle appreciation for intimate
detail
s.
We stood in front of The
David, his twisted torso and tow-
ering body on a pedestal. There
was a
s
ense of dynamic movement,
the interaction between viewer and
sculpture. We were all alone in the
room and you took a step forward
,
reachin
g
out a hand, reaching out
your he
a
rt to
s
omething inanimate,
but
s
o
ve
ry much alive. You were
mimicking his facial expression
,
~ou had no idea you were doing
It
,
but
y
ou
r
lips were sucked in
between your teeth and your eyes
Were
s
quinted and there was so
much b
e
autiful concentration on
Your fa
ce.
.
You turned to me, said: "It
IS
a
"f
s
1
they know they are rendered
'w'.ith beauty, alluding to the provoc-
ative desire to fall for something
that can never be real."
For a long time I was too
stunned to reply.
"It
is an inexpli-
cable emotion, isn't it?" I ended up
asking.
"Perhaps," you said, "defin-
ing it would ruin the appeal."
You and I sat in the Basil-
ica of San
G
lemente on one of the
last days we were in Rome. I didn't
think much about it at the time
besides the admiration I had for the
frescos on the ceiling or the com-
fort of your warm body pressed
against mine
.
I like to believe that I'm an
atheist
,
Daisy, I like to believe that
when I die I am gone and when I
am alive I am universally insignif-
icant, but as we sat in San Clem-
ente, I believed in more than I ever
had.
"I want to live
in Rome,
Atticus," you said, "It
'
s here that I
want to be." And I knew then that
I wasn't included
in the
s
e dreams,
the dreams you've had since child-
hood.
"You'll be happy here," I
replied. "I can see it. I can see you
here."
"You think?"
"I know
.
"
133








134
You told me a poem that
night on the Roman veranda.
There is a line from that poem that
you did not say and later, when I
returned to New York, I read the
line over and again until it was
memorized. "So close that your
hand upon my chest is mine, so
close that your eyes close with my
dreams."
Slowly, carefully, I un-
dressed you that night. Leading
you back into the room, your hand
loose within my grip and your
body shadowed with light from the
open windows. As you kissed me,
as you touched me, I forced myself
to memorize you, to walk the thin
line between sorrow and sweetness,
to drag out each and every breath
with you.
We laid close to one anoth-
er and you asked me to check my
watch
,
to tell you the time and it
was maybe three in the morning.
You said: "I'm so tired."
And I whispered. "Go to
sleep
.
I'll be right here."
I have mentioned to you
my departure from Naples. The
last time we saw one another that
summer was then
.
I looked down
at you, your face flushed pink at
the cheeks, your eyes glossy and
brown, your hair curled softly
at
the temple- I had never in my
lifi
seen anyone as beautiful as your.
self. Not until that moment. Nev
after. I reached out and held the
side of your face; my pulse bea ·
against your skin.
It
was when I boarded
my
flight that I began to miss you.
though it came in small, transient
waves, ones that were reminded
me from ordinary things throug
out the flight. There had been a
young lady seated across from
She couldn't have been anymore
than my age, and occasionally s
would glance up from her maga-
zine and hope for my eye contact
We never seemed to stare at the
other at the exact moment and I
was grateful. I wouldn't have b
able to bear it. She was wonder-
ing why I wasn't flirting with
her,
corning to her own conclusions
that wouldn't particularly flatter
me, but I wanted to step off the
plane and find you.
It
was use-
less, those thoughts, and when
th
woman asked where I was from
in New York, I told her and whe
she asked why I had been
in
Ital
I lied. I missed you and I wished
didn't.
When I returned to New















York
late that night I went to the
11
laundromat across from my
sma
.1
d·na the sign out front faded a
bUl
1 e
•
fluorescent blue, and
I
was grateful
find it empty except for an old
to
.
woman
s
itting
m
one of the plas-
tic chair
s
behind the dryers. Her
face was shadowed with the traffic
lights and the persistent presence
of the moon
.
It was almost dream-
like,
the atmosphere of the laundro-
mat. I
thought vaguely of Edward
Hopper
's
painting
,
The Automat,
with
it
s s
ubsequent loneliness and
single woman drinking a coffee in
a
cylinder of limelight. We spoke
hardly at all for the remainder of
my clothes washing
,
but there
was a comfort to her casual pleas-
antrie
s.
I
told her
I
was a painter,
showed her a photograph of my son
I
kept in my wallet, and listened
as she talked about her daughter
who wa
s
a nurse over in Vietnam.
One tends to forget the necessity of
speaking with strangers
.
We tend to
be revolted by them
,
when in truth,
they off er us the most honesty.
Of all the times we had
s
een one another after that first
s
ummer
,
we never spoke of who
We Were back then. You moved to
Rome, Wrote your novels, lived in
happine
s
s. I don't like to think that
th·
is was my fault, but it was
.
I'd
failed with Elliot's mother, and the
thought of failing you-
I
couldn't
risk the chance. You were too dear
tome.
"How long have we been
friends?" you asked.
We were drinking tea. I had
just gotten a divorce.
all."
"Almost eighteen years."
"Not very long," you said
.
"No,"
I said, "Not long at
1982
Elliot is in my studio. He
is on the floor, his arms stretched
over his eyes and I stand over him,
kicking him lightly with the top of
my foot.
He removes one arm and
reveals his open eyes. I get down
on the floor with him and cross my
legs. Elliot smooths hair back from
his face.
"Mom says you have can-
cer.
"
I stare at him for a moment,
letting the pulse in my throat die
down. I don't answer right away
and Elliot says, "Do you?" and I've
never wanted to walk away from
him before, but now
I
do.
I
want to
walk away and pretend to be fine.
"I
do,"
I
say, and I'm so
horrifically angry at his mother for
135





136
telling him. 'Tm sorry.
"
Elliot pushes himself up
and wraps his arms around his
knees
.
"Why are you sorry? he
asks and I know it's rhetorical. I
know he is trying, despite himself,
to be kind. "Were you ever going to
tell me?"
I shake my head and he
nods. We talk for a while about it,
the disease; the time leftover. He
tells me I am too young and I don't
know what to say. Eventually we
open the window in the studio and
sit on the ledge, watching the city
come to life over the course of an
afternoon. He puts two fingers to
his lips and I light a cigarette, pass-
ing it between us.
"You'll still come to my
exhibition tonight, won
'
t you?" he
asks and I nod ..
.
.
I stand in front of my son
'
s
art and feel, for a moment, an
undeniable amount of pride for
who he is and what he has accom-
plished. My own regret, my own
career
,
my own success no longer
concerns me. I am simply a man
standing close to a canvas that has
been painted by a boy I raised and
loved and feared for every morning
that I wake up. I see not his art, but
his passions, his soul, his love.
It is Laurie who finds me
before Elliot does. He tucks his
hands in his back pockets and
smiles at what we both saw- the
portrait Elliot has done of him.
"He's very good," says
Laurie, "Not that I have to say
it,
but I'll say it anyway. He's a go
artist, Atticus."
I nod and place a hand o
his shoulder. There is a moment
when we simply look at one an-
other and it is in that moment
th
I consider Laurie as important as
Elliot in my life. It isn't the same
sort of importance, but it is a lev
of companionship and love that
one could never return from.
He ·
undeniably, an outstretched defi
tion of a son and I know then th
Elliot will never care for anyone
he does Laurie and you for me i
the same.
Within this admission th
is no sentimentality, no affection.
I am not speaking of divine love.
love you selflessly- in earnest-
if
held the words I would say
them.
For so long I considered
love to be romantic. That love
itself was not platonic
,
that it
w
resigned for two people who
we
supposed to be more. I was wron
What had begun as infatuation
turned into love
.
What was love
was nothing more than needing











.
life needing that connection
1n
mY
'
.
.
. an intimate, physical way, but
not
in
motional one. It was the casual
ane
.
.
d
"
mention of
s
omethmg remm mg
me
of y
o
u
.
It was falling a
s
leep on
your
s
hould
e
r. It ~as a song or a
joke
or a line of literature that made
me
ach
e
for your hand once more
.
Some people are a lesson
,
not
a lo
v
e
,
and others are undefin-
able.
I was in London when I saw
you la
s
t.
I'd gone to a bookstore to
purch
as
e a French language manual
for Fit
z,
who was honeymooning
in Monti Carlo come spring. It was
suppo
se
d to be a joke. He alway
s
butchered hi
s
languages.
Walking into the shop I saw
you
,
your body bent over a stack of
book
s
, one arm around a man I had
never
se
en before. I recognized you
immedi
a
tely. You never did change-
only
y
our hair shorter, your eyes
needin
g
gla
ss
es. You were wearing
a wool
s
weater and my footstep
s
Were loud a
s
I approached
.
You turned in my direction
,
placin
g
down the novel you held
,
an~
S
mil
e
d. "I
'
ve missed you
,
" you
s
aid
, "Ve
ry much."
I
a
m going home today. A
drive from New England to New
York City which has never failed to
be peaceful. I feel like myself again
,
not sick, and I wait for your visit
with the knowledge that I cease-
lessly adore you
.
That after all this
time, I alway
s
will.
You
'
ve seen the portrait I
did of you in the art museum
.
I have
read all your novels
.
I think in the morning I will
paint. I don
'
t know what yet, but
when I write to you again, I will
s
ay
.
13'.






138
CBGB
Nora Nuculla
j
'22













There
is beautiful house
43 Earle Street
Bridgette Goss '23
Built
by eternity- aventurine walls
And
gold chandeliers. This w
,
as a house that
was large
And
ripe with the life that coursed through its
curious construction
.
In
the room where children once played,
dwelled mirth and imagination.
Heroes were grown here, planted and free:
thrumming with breath
and
good hope
.
Today that same house is a
trifling
s
ize
and smothers its host
in
a
blanket of death.
I
cannot return
to the room where we grew,
for
it
n
·
ow
,
1s
the place that took me from
You
.
13'






140
Untitled
Elizabeth
Roberts
'24















A woman that is a Black and a Black that is a
Woman
D'Avion Middleton '22
Second Place, Nonfiction
I
am
a person, a normal
one
,
with
ten fingers and toes
respectively. My body works as it
should,
my mind is as scattered as
the
next
college
student and my
morals
are sound.
I am a person
but
I
am a
woman
so
in the eyes of
many I
am
automatically lesser but
I'm
smart enough
to be in college
so maybe I'm worth a little more
than
an average
woman. I lose
points
again,
however, when my
skin color comes into play because
I am then a black woman. I get the
side
eye
whether I am in sweats
or Chanel. A
second
glance lets
wandering eyes know I have the
"nice" curls
so maybe I'm mixed.
Less black, more worth. There's
a lingering disappointment when
I give non-black people my back-
ground but it's something that I
have
gotten
used to over time. At
th~
risk of sounding
like any other
nudctle-class young adult I love my
fa
·1
·
nu
Y
but hfe has been unkind and
they
deserve more.
.
d
My
grandparents on both
si
es lived their lives like so many
other black-Americans, which is in
poverty and working odd jobs or
life-long but low paying careers to
give their children the best possible
lives. They were happy to a point
but stuc;k and my parents both rose
up, however, and settled in the
·"
middle-class content enough with
their lives. You could say where
they are now is a key part in what
functionalism is and how it works.
They're (my mother mostly) the
stepping stone that floats in the
uncomfortably in-between every-
thing. Too high for the lower-class
but far enough so that you don't
brush the upperclass. So while my
family resides in the middle-class
we can struggle as much as those
who have less and splurge like
those who have more, depending
on the day that is.
While financial status is
very prominent in everyones lives
I would like to focus on race and
gender inequality from here. I will
speak about how private financ-
es take part but one of the most
important aspects of every single









142
person is only at the surface level.
As mentioned I identify as two
things; black and a woman. Neither
of these words are overly inter-
esting on their own but when put
into the identifying phrase "black
woman" there is much more to
unpack. My status value as a black
woman stems from what someone
sees when I walk into a room. I
work ten times harder than the
white woman next to me because I
am put under a microscope. I code
switch as easily as I breathe be-
cause I refuse to be a stereotyped
because of the color of my skin.
At nineteen I have already
done several job interviews, all
of which I am proud of but I look
back at often and analyze myself.
If a friend or family member saw
me in that interview they'd know
that wasn't myself but they would
also understand the need to assimi-
late in a world governed by people
who prosecute you if you "act too
black" or point it out when you
"act too white" but there must be
a common ground. I believe that
it is very possible to have harmo-
.
nious relationships between races
and ethnicities but there is so much
hate and anti-black culture rooted
within so many that it is not an
easy feat. However, I will say I do
have an easier start than most
ple of color because I did grow
in more diverse areas, I can get
bearings quickly when faced wi
new groups or places and come
as likable and honest. Like eve
other black woman, however, I
have a "know my place" men
ity which is only useful in some
instances because no matter ho
well I conduct myself discrirni
tion by others is sometimes un-
avoidable.
In the cases of both my
mother and her mother they
are
black women but my mother is
about three to five shades light-
er than me and
-
on somedays
m
grandmother could have passed
a white woman in certain ligh ·
This is where discrimination
is
seen in the black community
u
the label of colorism or shadeis
two words that my computer is
attempting to autocorrect becau
most people avoid them so acti
ly that they aren't heard enough
to be added to the dictionary.
M
mother's lighter skin and strai
ened hair give her more face-v
because her skin and more Eur
pean-leaning features make her
more attractive in the eyes of
th
masses, people are more prone
t
listen to and take orders from
he




















.
st have also been true for
fh1s mu
.
dmothers career seemg as
y
gran
rn
a popular student counsel-
she
was
.
d Eno-Iish teacher dunng a
or an
o
1·k d"
.
.
•n
which things 1 e 1scnm-
ume
i
.
ination
,
prejudice, and ~egregat~on
were
prominent. So while colonsm
. dangerous it can be used to the
IS
"f
h
advantage of black women 1 t e
opportunity is presented to th~m.
To go more in depth on the
dangers of not just colorism but
prejudice and segregation I will
give the
example
given to me by
my
mother when I was young. In
the late 70s my mother was just ap-
proaching her teenage years, civil
rights had
shook
the states to their
cores and my grandfather -
who
had
always liked the finer things
in
life -
took my mother and uncle
to
a restaurant in the south to give
them
a chance to branch out in
their
pallets and tastes while giving
them
a piece of his own home.
Before the could even sit down
however
,
they were promptly t~ld
that the
restaurant
"didn't serve
blacks
"
and
were told to leave.
My
grandfather was always well
mannered, well dressed and well
11
'
1
ed by
anyone
he met, and not to
mention he was also secure in his
s_pace of lower middle class at the
time Th
·
ough
when it boils down
to it none of this matters when
history and culture is rooted in dis-
crimination and hate, he cold have
been the richest black man in the
world but it didn't matter because
they didn't severe blacks.
Now that I have touched
on what it means to be black I will
speak on what it means to be a
woman. Yes, I am young but I am
not nai"ve or sheltered, I am aware
that the real world hates a worn-
'
an in power no matter how many
womanists stand
r
up and say men
and women are equal. For instance,
I used the term womanist because
feminism is rooted
solely
in the
progression of white women and
not all women while womanism
encompasses women of all colors.
However progressive either of
these groups neither of them do
much good in the grand scheme of
things because society isn't set up
in a way that women can achieve
their goals without working twice
.
as hard as their male counterparts.
Arguments to this statement can
be directed at the fact that women
and men are
.
not paid the
same
amount for the exact
same
job and
while this
seems
to be on its way
out no efforts have been made by
the government to make this a
federally mandated change. As a
143



144
woman looking to go into the film
industry things like this scare me.
I can win an Academy Award just
like any other man but Hollywood
paid me less for my script because
of a sex that I cannot choose. Like
being black, being a woman has an
unfair advantage from birth.
I
am
less than in the eyes of many even
if black women are on the up and
up.
Though I am not white I
do believe that I have more life
chances than most that I have been
grateful for. I went to a catholic
high school and I am able to attend
a private four-year institution and
study
subjects which I truly love
and enjoy. My quality of life has
improved because I had parents
and grandparents that strived to be
more than their
skin
color, their
sex,
and their situations. They have
passes that drive onto me and one
day I hope to pass that on to chil-
dren of my own. I believe that life
chances are given to you but they
also have much to do with your
mindset and how you want to live
your life. To be given a life chance
is to have a head start that many
don't get and if you don't use them
to their fullest potential then they
are wasted
so
as I fight against the
odds I will take each and every life
chance I am given and give
the
my all.
I
will take these cards
I have been dealt and transform
them into a winning hand.








Chrysalis
Miranda
Schindler
'
22
First
Place
,
Art







146
I'm confused.
A Book for Wear
Yvette Bien-Aime '24
It seems that I always choose
The ones who want to peruse
For mere moments
Scanning through my potential like a book for sale
My heart has become a library
With too many withdrawals
The readers never have any intent
To read through or return me
I'm meant to sit on a shelf and collect dust
An impulsive buy
Based on a thought that they must
Try out my binding and smell my pages
I guess we both have in common that uncertainty within us all rages
And yet still I cling to shelves like an unwanted lover,
Hoping that their minds change before the summer
That their desire for me comes crashing back in
Like a wave against sand
A beloved sin
But in this waiting my pages begin to mold
Sitting on rusting shelves
No love
,
Ice cold
I go through my own pages and try to edit myself out
Hoping that one day maybe
My edits will help me make it out.




Dreamy Ice Creamy
Bernie Siebel '23
14~



148
A List of My Childhood Nightmares
Nicole Iuzzolino '22
When lying in bed, I swiftly enter my dream state.
It does not take long
for the creatures to slither out and make their way,
into the real world.
In my dream state, I am trapped.
My legs are tied with an invisible rope.
My neck is frozen in a brace I cannot see.
My body feels cemented to the bed,
but my eyes are like wild stallions as they move across my dark bedroo
My bedroom door creaks open,
and the bells I have hanging on the knob let off a soft jingle.
Someone,
or something,
has made their presence known.
What will it be tonight?
A man with no torso clawing his way to my bed,
His nails dragging across the wood floor,
trying so desperately to reach me
,
to reach my torso?
Will it be a ghostly woman
gliding into the darkness with her feet just above the floor?
A glow follows her,
appearing to be an angel in disguise
.
Her dress appears to be in stained tatters as she comes closer.
The eyes are replaced with black, pea sized holes.
Her skin is peeling, and dirt spills from her mouth as the woman sere









Will
it be the man in black?
'fhe
man that has no face,
eek arms legs or body.
non
,
'
nothing except his hands clearly curling around a knife.
'fhe
faceless man taunts me,
waving the knife up and down my stiff body.
My
mind screams for somebody,
But no one comes and disarms the man of the night
Suddenly,
my
body snaps back, and my muscles are no longer tense.
I sit straight up, and I see my door is closed once more.
It's
over.
Still, sleep does not come easy.
I lay and think about these nightmares.
Why do they plague me?
Why
must I be victim to their torment?
Yet,
they come night after night
Warning me of the darkness,
that hides on the other side of the light.
This darkness lurks around corners
'
just waiting to grasp its hands on the innocent.
On the ones who least expect it,
on the ones who don't deserve it
and
on the ones who don't see i/








150
Daijia
Lidya
Sezer
'24
Second Place,
Art





















Metal Fishes (A Weird Dream I Had)
Jesse Vengert '22
"Desmond,
you have to stop
. Not
everything
ends in joining
it.
.
h
h
the
Navy. Not knowmg w at pat
you're
on doesn't mean there is no
h
"
pat .
Desmond tightened his
,
fists.
Of
course everything
ends in the
Navy
.
Of
course,
though
,
that was
all
he had
ever
known.
Don
'
t
worry,
all the days
bleed into one another, eventually.
It'll happen for
you
too. When?
Different for everyone.
Could be months before it all
starts
to
go numb. You'll be like me and
the
others
soon enough.
Don't wor-
ry.
Desmond couldn't remem-
ber
one
day
down there in the bar-
racks
,
but there were a few things
that he could. His first conversation
on
board
with
one of the more sea-
soned
officers whose eyes seemed
to
be
seeing
without ever seeing
much
at all-
he could remember
th
at. The
feeling
of helplessness
and
getting
rid of bits of bent-up
energy through shaking feet and
balled
fi
.
s
ts through the mght- he
could remember that.
And his father's old eyes,
so unreadable, watching him walk
down the driveway to fulfill this
sort
of new family tradition of
spending
half your youth on sea.
Except Desmond would be under,
watching radars and scrubbing
barracks while his father shot down
Nazi ships for years to earn those
wrinkles beneath his eyes and to
earn his disappointment in his only
son.
That officer was right- it
all bled into one
.
Hyper-exhaustion
and routine turned it all to mush.
But since then, not one morning
has gone by when he hasn't spent
part of the day in those barracks,
waiting for Carol to tap him on the
shoulder and tell him it was all just
a bad dream.
"I
am not going to let
Stephen make the same mistakes I
did. For Christ's
sake,
Carol, he's
throwing his college away."
"He needs time. He's been
through
something
traumatic
."
"Like what? He won't talk
to me.
"
"I
don't know. But it's his
151












152
business."
"You want to know traumat-
ic? Try spending your life in a metal
fish. We've given him every oppor-
tunity, and he acts like he'd
rather
be 3,000 feet below sea."
"Stop
it with the Navy talk,
you know I don't like it."
"I have a life too, Stephen."
"Is this not important to
you?"
"I like Matty too, but I'm
just trying to be realistic."
"What are you trying to say
,
Jack
?
"
"I can
'
t spend my nights ex-
ploring homeless shelters or check-
ing every motel in every town
.
I
have a life too.
"
"
He's still out there.
I'm
just being realistic
.
Make a turn up
ahead ... No, the other way."
'Tm taking you home."
"What?"
"It's been months."
"We're
not
done looking
.
"
"I know you lost someone
,
but you have to let go. He's not out
there somewhere." "You don't know
what it's like to lose someone like
that.
"
"I've lost you, Stephen.
When am I going to get my friend
back?
"
Jack was his only friend
with a car. Jack was his only fri
really, besides Matty. But her
to think that Matty was still his
friend, and if that was the case
knew Matty would want his fri
to find him.
Maybe it made Stephen
·
a bad friend, but Stephen didn't
believe those things Matty told
that one night over the phone
.
didn't believe he wa
s
on top of
parking garage. He didn't belie
that he had been mixing pills
wi
liquor. He didn't believe some
random man had followed him
there and forced Matty to act
r
he was just looking for his
keys
or something. Matty had
alway
been a sappy over-dramatic,
an
always got attention for it. May
Matty just wanted a little
more.
That's why he didn't
beli
Matty when Matty said he coul
get over her. Matty was just a
sappy over-dramatic. Stephen
di
believe anyone could care about
someone that much
,
really.
But Stephen cared now.
God, did it hurt to care, especi
when it was too late
.
He had
t
it upon himself to take the sprin
semester of hi
s
junior year off.
didn
'
t care about it then. He
bad










d writing short stories and
stop~ea music because he didn't
P
)aylfle
.
.
bout those thmgs either. He
c~ea
.
.
d
'
t
care that he was changmg
di
n
1 H d"d '
.
something sta e. e
1
n t care
into
when
old friends moved awa~ or
h
missed out on an opportunity to
ek
a pretty girl out. He figured if
: didn't care quite enough about
anything
,
then life would be easiest
that way.
That's why caring was so
hard to deal with now. He was new
to it.
Caring had driven Stephen
to the streets with a flashlight. He
went to Ryker Lake where him and
Matty u
s
ed to sneak beers beneath
the bridge before Stephen's father
found out and put a lock on the
outside of his door at night. Nothing
there. He went to their old middle
school where their donut marks
still reigned supreme before Ste-
phen
'
s mother found out and sold
his car. He checked random corners
and even under stones or in bushes
lik
·
e
It
wa
s
all some type of jo
_
ke:
~ope oft
e
ntimes exists in imagina-
~n;,rea
l
ity just laughs as it dies.
ho a~ s what his mother would say,
Ping Desmond would step off the
subrn .
h
anne for enough time to be a
Usband and a father.
.
Sparta was cold in the
late-fall, and Stephen's shoes were
soaked through to his socks. He'd
walk until it exhausted him enough
to go home just to sleep and it
would be really late so he could
sleep longer the next day and see
less sunlight by the time he couldn't
sleep anymore. Then he'd take to
the streets. He liked Sparta in the
dark: the long, forest-encrusted
roads and bits of town here and
there. It was nice- way too open
and wide in the light.
He wasn't sad, he wasn't
depressed. Depressed, his father
·would laugh because who could
be depressed who hadn't spent his
youth in a metal fish keeping your-
self up all night because you can't
stop your hand from shaking?
He wasn't sappy and
melodramatic like Matty. He just
couldn't sit still, nevertheless sit at
home, or be in one place for longer
than an hour before he found him-
self headed someplace new. The
lock on his door was put in place
every night, but there was no lock
on his window, and the screened-in
porch was just the right height to
climb up and down. He'd be back
before sunrise each morning.
Stephen's hand couldn't stop
153




154
shaking. Maybe it was in anxious
anticipation of something his hope
had dreamed up: some night he
walks into a motel or park and sees
Matty's curly black hair and green
eyes.
He'd laugh the thought off
himself, and keep going, telling
himself it wasn't just because he
couldn
'
t stand the silence: at least
the sound of his feet beat it back.
Matty had never gone to
college. Maybe, that was what
started it. His life was Sophia and
working at the CVS in town they
used to lift drinks from as kids.
Sophia, the goody-two-shoes that
wore sundresses and hairbands and
was a star cheerleader. Matty was
always kind of out there, like the
lead singer of an alternative rock
group: it was one of the weirdest
relationships Stephen had ever seen,
but she made him feel at peace,
maybe even a little too much. Matty
always let off that he was damaged,
by the way he drooped his hair and
the black clothes he wore and the
way he sat in silence in the back of
.
the lunchroom until Stephen made
him snap out of it. Maybe Sophia
was actually damaged
.
Maybe, that
made them need each other in some
weird way.
Matty would call Steph
sometimes, but it was so much
ma with Sophia- she said
he
growing boring but Matty said
hadn't changed one bit since
hi
school. Stephen hated drama,
he'd listen to Matty complain
complaining got to be too
much
to listen to and Stephen wouldn'
pick up sometimes and he'd ju
Matty he was studying or
writi
and actually doing things
with
life because he couldn't stand
at home any longer. Stephen
w
dered if he would have found
1
·
home somewhat peaceful if
he
a Sophia of his own, but he do
edit. He wasn't like Matty, aft
It was funny, in all hon
that Stephen still thought they
friends: Stephen had told Ma
one night, telling Matty he alw
liked to make it seem he was
aged but that Matty had never
through anything. Stephen said
missed the kid he used to sneak
beers with under the Ryker bri
but that that kid had chosen de
sion like it was an outfit and
th
depression made him stay home
while Stephen went off to colle
do something with his life. Ste
told Matty he didn't know what
meant to suffer, and he told him












dl
·no- his youth stuck in a
trY
spen
o
eta!
fish. Matty was confused by
111
.....
n1ent but understood the
the
couu,.
ao-e That garage-top phone
111
ess
o ·
call
was the first after months of
silence
.
Stephen found Sophia one
night. She had dropped out of col-
lege recently,
she
told him, apd she
was
still figuring out how to tell her
bard-ass
father.
Stephen thought she
looked
like a dried-up sunflower:
that
twirling, golden-locked cheer-
leader
that brightened Matty's side
now
infected with that same illness
that
must have
sat
inside of Matty.
"Come
with me," she took
Stephen by the hand and led him to
her father
'
s
car. She had hotwired
it earlier
and
was using it to go to
her friend's house for secret club
meetings, the purpose of which she
wouldn't
say.
Her father wouldn't
find out until a couple days from
now when he got home from one of
those business trips he was always
on.
Stephen let her take him
~here, even though parties and meet-
ing
t
.
s rangers were not things he
often looked forward to doing. She
Was
st
ill
sweet
under it all J. ust like
sh
'
e Was the few times Stephen talk-
ed to h
·
er m high school. She had
just stopped being sweet to herself,
that was all, and Stephen could rec-
ognize in her eyes the same dullness
she
must have recognized in his.
Emily's house had a cool
basement: lamps with colored bulbs
switched
in and a dirty pair of
couches and a lot of weed and half-
full bottles, but it wasn't much of
a party. Sophia began with a joint
and washed down the taste with
an old beer. A kid with half a face
tattoo sat in the corner, rocking
because of the tabs Sophia said he
had been on for the last hour. Emily
sat in the corner like it wasn't her
house and she just smoked, releas-
ing deep breaths.
"Make
yourself at home,
Stephen." He managed to catch
the beer bottle Sophia had tossed.
"What
are you doing home from
college anyways?"
"I
took off."
"Why's
that?
Hey, Emily,
check on Beanie back there, alright?
He's been nodding his head since
we've gotten here."
Emily wasn't listening. She
relaxed into her seat as the drag
she
had just took flowed through
her veins and kept her hands from
shaking
too much.
"I
don't know, just grew
kind of tired of it," he rubbed the
15






156
dust off one of the cushions and sat
down and rubbed his knees.
"You? You were always a
teacher's pet."
"My parents were very strict
about me getting good grades and
getting into the best college."
"And?"
"Fordham. Full ride
."
"Must be nice.
"
"Why'd you drop out?"
"Why not?"
"Seems like a flimsy reason
to base something so serious off
of.
"
She rolled her eyes. "Col-
lege is not serious, at least, not any-
more. Nothing is that serious now,
after all."
"What are you talking
about? You don't care about your
future? What about a career, stocks,
401k's? Sustainability?"
"Gosh, you still sound like
such a nerd
,"
she laughed a bit. "I
never knew why you and Matty
were such good friends."
"I can barely remember,
either."
"Want a hit? Something
harder to drink?"
"
Oh
,
" a nervous laugh
escaped, "I don't smoke, or drink.
"
She gave him a curious, slight-
ly-concerned look. After all, she
knew he used to drink with
Ma
beneath the bridge during their
high
s
chool years. "My dad wo
kill me
.
I could get problems
r
did and fail my classes and
hav
enlist in the navy. I think addic ·
runs in our genes, maybe."
"But,
you took a semes
off? Doesn't bode well for mo
·
and daddy's little valedictorian
~
"I
had some personal
p
Her ear perked
.
"Matty.
"Have you seen him?"
realized he had just shouted
the
question. Emily
s
hielded her
f;
"What's wrong with
you
You
'
re like a robot, all stiff
and
scared and you're knees must
raw with how much you
'
re
rub
them."
Stephen told her every
Matty's pills and partying and
garage-top and the last phone c
and his one-man search since
J
had given up. He was
s
urprised
his own voice, so free and flo ·
like clear water. His words
were
always ice chunks cracking
in ·
throat. His emotional life was
ied behind straight A's and sch
ships and he
'
d never have any
to be upset about as long as he
never had to step foot in a metal
and see the sunlight die away
.












Stephen asked Sophia how
ected to get away with hot-
she
exp
.
.
. .
the car, with droppmg out,
w1ong
d
.
ki
Sh
with
the drugs and rm ng.
e
said
it didn
'
t matter. What about
mom?
Stephen asked her. So-
your
·
phia
just laughed.
.
Beanie seemed like he
would
have been nice.
He's sweet,
•ust
shy and always kind of loopy.
~pparently
,
LSD had fried his brain
bad.
Emily was scared by her own
shadow.
Paranoid and ridden with
insecurities beyond belief, Sophia
clued Stephen in
.
Stephen asked
why
she
was hanging out with
them.
They understand what I'm
doing
,
she said.
What's that? He
asked.
You wouldn't get it.
'Tm
not going to hurt you,"
he
reached out to shake Emily's
hand.
She looked up from her
seat
and just touched the tip of her
ever-shaking pinkie to his before
going back into her
shell.
Strange,
he thought.
Beanie was looking at Ste-
phen as he nodded but not really
I
.
'
~king
at
anything at all.
"Come
With us tomorrow?"
"
Where?"
"
To find Matty. If anyone
I
~ouJct know where he is, it's me.
m .
gomg to help you. We'll all
go."
The hot-wired car passed the
Pennsylvania border
.
Stephen asked
how she knew where Matty was
after all these years. She told him
based on how it sounded, Matty was
in the
same
place her mother had
been in for the last twelve years.
It was beginning to become
clear, maybe
,
unlike the road ahead,
a fattening layer of mist sweeping
over the highway.
"We all have things that
cause us to suffer. What's yours?"
she asked as she drove. The ques-
tion caught Stephen off-guard.
Everything about the last 24 hours
had. ,
"You first."
"Beanie's
been homeless
since he was young. Found him
scrounging around behind the
CVS. Parents left him at a home but
he ran. Emily has bruises she won't
say where came from, but she
won't go home. She rents that base-
ment from an old boyfriend who
charges her highly. She sits in that
seat
all day, waiting for her money
to run dry
.
"
"What
is this secret club
you're all in? Seems like you all
need help."
"You
did too
.
That's why I
157







158
brought you along."
"Where
are we going?"
"To see Matty. Isn't that
what'll fix things for you? Isn't that
what makes you stale? Your guilt
and regret that eats you up?"
"I
don't
have guilt or regret,
and nothing's eating me up. It's just
what a friend would do."
"Do you really care about
Matty that much?"
"What? Of course I do!"
"He never really
seemed
to
think so. You sure you're chasing
Matty? Not running from other
problems? Not distracting yourself
from other things that need to be
addressed?"
"I don't have problems
.
I
can't have problems. What's so bad
about my life, except how ungrate-
ful I am for my parent's funding my
college career? I've never had to
suffer like my father has. And what
have you been through? You're just
like Matty. You act like you're all
damaged for attention. You all are,"
he looked back. Beanie was nod-
ding and Emily looked out the win-
dow, biting her finger-skin where
the nails had been bitten off.
"What
is everyone's issue?
Where are we going?"
"To
see Matty."
"I don't believe you. How
do you know where to find
hirn
Why would you want to find
You're the one who broke his
heart."
"Pfft,
because I didn't
w
to
stay
in my hometown and
w
at that CVS with him for the
r
of my life? Or worse, end up
r
my father? Late-nights and bus·
trips to keep his mind off the
fl
he knows he's losing? I'm sorry:
you might think it's cowardly,
I'm not spending the rest of
my
fighting.
That's no life at all."
"I don't understand.
At 1
I don't think I do."
"Haven't you gotten it
already? We're going to see
M
You know, better than everyon
else, as the person who's searc
high and low for him, you
know
only place he could possibly
be
this point."
"You're serious? But,
h
"I can pull over. It's not
late to get out."
Stephen thought about
Sophia's mother, her mother
and
Matty being together, and Sop
laugh as though it all wasn't ab'
deal.
"You
know, I had to pla
a part too, for my dad's sake.
M
mother was a cheerleader. She
always bright and outgoing. I h














• t'.
his
sake.
But then I decided
do it
.or
.
h d
ak
my life mto my own an
s.
tot e
k
f
,,
I
decided
to
brea
r~e
.
It
was
becoming clear. The
road
ahead was losing itself to a
dense
fog.
.
"Beanie
is breaking free
from
addiction, and from the two
blurry
faces of the parents he
sees
when he's tripping. Emily is
breaking
free from fear. What do
you
want
to
break free from? Of
course
,
"
she
giggled,
"I
can already
guess."
Stephen thought about the
lock
outside his door and his first
and
only car his mother
sold
.
He
thought
about
praying for
straight
A's
so his parents would be proud
of him and he thought about all the
nights chasing a degree he nev-
er
cared much about. He thought
about
staleness,
staleness that
made him not care about all the
friends he never made or the girls
he
never
asked
out. He never cared
about the friends he had let slip
away like
sand
through his fingers.
He
thought about Matty and he
th
'
.
ought that maybe Matty wasn't
JUSl
faking it for attention. Stephen
lhought that maybe he envied Matty
n_ow. Matty was, if Sophia was
right, free.
"I can
stop this car. I can let
you out."
Stephen buckled his seat-
belt.
Sophia nodded.
"No
one's
ever really lost. Only when you give
up hope of ever
seeing
them again
do they really go away."
The road was lost in white,
and the car began shaking. Sophia
lost control. Stephen held her
shoulder
tight. Emily
screamed.
Beanie
closed his eyes and stopped
nodding for a moment. As the car
ran up against the railing, Stephen
thought about the metal fish, and
he thought about breaking through
its metal skin and swimming to
the surface where he could finally
br~ath and float freely in the cur-
rent. He thought about doing what
De
smond
could never, what Matty
had done, and what the others in
the car were prepared to do.
When Stephen opened his
eyes, everyone was getting out of
the car and walking towards some-
thing in the mist. A heavy
snow
was
coming down now, even though it
was mid-spring, and the
snow
fell
but never piled
.
on the ground. As
Stephen followed, the hazy silhou-
ettes of others emerged, all headed
towards a large neon sign breaking
through the mist, reading
"
Di
scount
Store".
159











160
"What are we doing here?"
"Matty works in there. They
all do. I like to think my mom is a
manager. She deserves it. She was
always so
sweet.
I can't believe I
can hear her voice
again."
Stephen
took a large gulp.
There were a hundred others
in the
snow,
and they all condensed
into a line, eagerly heading into the
store.
Sophia hopped across when
it was her turn. There was a sweet
voice echoing out of the
store's
speakers
that tickled Stephen's ear.
And Beanie nodded one last time
and stepped through.
When it was Stephen's turn
to cross,
·
someone was waiting
for him in the crowd. There were
dark curls tickling his forehead
and bright green
eyes.
He stared at
Stephen from the hazy white light
in the
store,
from amongst the faces
of lost
souls
filling
its
aisles.
It couldn't be. Matty was
still
alive. Stephen knew it couldn't
be any other way.
In
no way could
he have let his only real friend ever
get
to that point.
"Come with me," he
grabbed Emily's
shoulder,
waiting
impatiently
in line behind him.
Emily did as
she
was told.
Stephen walked back
through the darkening mist until he
found a car that looked like So
..
phia's.
"Where's the car?" hes
ed. Emily
covered
her face.
"E
Where
is Sophia's car?"
"That
is the car," she
po·
ed weakly at it. Something was
right. The car in front of him
mangled and bent. The airbags
were deflating and the wheels
popped.
"Sophia
tried to tell y
You didn't want to get out."
"Stop covering your
fa
I'm not going to hurt you."
"I know, but I can't get
rid of this fear. Until now. Sop ·
showed us how. It's really not
hard. It's just like the
sting
of a
needle." She
stopped
covering
face. Her hands were still: at
"I
hate needles, but it's already
over, just like that. You didn't e
realize."
"What?"
the
store."
"What
are
you
running
from? Why this?"
"You
chose it too. Ask
Y
self."
T
he mist was darkening.
was running out.
"What
happens if we do
go in?"














"We wake
back up.
It was
1
,,
)ike
being
as eep.
"What
about the others?"
"I'm
happy for them:'
Stephen
stared at the car
.
h
.
1
;>"
"What
is t 1s p ace•
,
"Where
we break free. Are
you
coming? We're so
close:'
He thought about metal
fishes.
He
wondered
if it was better
to be fighting out of one or out of
one
and not fighting at all.
I
,,
ong.
'Tm scared;'
Stephen said.
"We
don't have to be for
The
snow
was falling heavi-
er.
Emily
was
a speaking shadow.
The
store
'
s white,
neon sign lorded
over
the parking lot.
"Please stay
with me,
EmilY:'
161












162
Bus to Interlaken
Jesse Vengen '22
I have loved the idea of a
good old fashioned road trip
since
I was a child; a young, bobbing
kid in my parents' back
seat,
read-
ing comics and playing on my DS
long past when the sun had run
its course but our rattling little car
hadn't. But my fascination with
such
an idea is not like Paul Ther-
oux's in his tales of The Great
Railway Bazaar. Whereas Ther-
oux 's enthrallment with the open
rail had to do with the possibility
to be met with every aspect and
walk of life within a rumbling en-
closure of class and comfort- the
babbling Russian short stories,
the delicate meals and perhaps a
deep
sleep
on the unrolling coun-
tryside- the reasons for which the
thought of travel perks my ears
like that of a wolf's is entirely
different. I could go without the
intermittent meals and the occa-
sional conversation; in fact, any
human interaction past the polite
gesture becomes merely a distrac-
tion. For my 5-star review of any
bus or train, I need only a
seat
I
can sink into and a view. It doesn't
need to be much.
The Italian countrysid
was
shaped
like a
slightly
cru
pled blanket, pierced gently h
and there with lights. My wan
dering mind could create stori
out of the small details: a lig
on a mountain- solitary, beat'
through the heavy branches
leaves. It's orange and warm,
unlike the head-throbbing
fl
lights that pass on the other
si
of the highway and threaten
interrupt my stupor. Through
window I catch a quick glimp
of a red carpet, a
small
table
on the left, and a doorway
tha
leads into a kitchen with a ch
pulled out. Who sat there ear
that afternoon? Was there
ano
chair pulled out just beyond
view? Or maybe a bunch of
li
chairs? How was his meal?
Di
he put enough time into it to
something? Or was it a quick
to eat, the labor of a chore?
C
he pass the nights comfortabl
in this little
shelter?
Or does
h
wish he was elsewhere? Even
knows not where that is? Is
light a
sanctuary
or a warning
his passing time, that little
tab










Pulled out chair the inevi-
that
one
.
?
d·rr1ensions of his tomb.
ble
Ju,
ta
We passed suddenly
h a brightly lit tunnel. My
thfOUg
ti. on was forced from the
arten
.
)led out
chair
and mto the bus
pu
escape the blinding lights
.
I
:set myself, a little disturbed_
even
with the thoughts my mmd
bad
entertained. The bus lulled
along the highway, except for the
occasional bump that shook the
water bottles, sending little ripples
across their tops that caught bits
of
the tunnel light in their unfold-
ing.
A
clock at the front blatantly
declared the time in a red light, as
though
scared
we would forget it.
Midnight. I checked the time on
my
phone as though in disbelief.
Had
it been two hours already?
I
grew nauseous at the thought
of
it. Only
six
hours left until we
arrive in Interlaken, Switzerland.
My
time was passing quicker than
I
thought, this bus rolling clock-
wise against a counterclockwise
~olling night. The
stars
were pass-
ing above me
.
It will be morning
soon.
I returned to the window to
fix
?1Y
attention
upon new sights,
letting th
:
e constant rumblmg hum
of
the bu
s
levitate me in a
sus-
Jlendect
e
-
1
-
b -
.
.
qui
1
num lettmg the
una
'
ges be canvases to soak up the
dulled colors of my imagination.
I
was still
as I was in motion, in
between travel and repose, seclud-
ed in my two feet of leg room. I
turned up the music on my head-
phones.
Another student emerged
from the back of the bus to use the
bathroom in the middle. When
he finished, he struck up a con-
versation with the girls sitting
across from me. I could smell the
1-euro boxed cooking wine in his
breath. Suddenly he turned with a
hungry look in his eye to the rest
of the passengers, trying to make
out which ones were still awake.
"Man,
I just want to talk to ev-
eryone here. All these people!"
he announced. My skin shriveled
into itself as I tried to disappear
from his view. After a few mo-
ments he passed by my seat and
sat down next to a couple of girls
and began asking what school they
go to. "What are you going to do
in Interlaken? I signed up for the
snowboarding trip!" I turned the
music up even louder, partly an-
noyed, partly envious of his stupid
demeanor, of the conversation.
I checked the time on my phone.
12: 15. Great, 15 minutes wasted.
We stopped painfully
for a 45-minute break at a gas
163


164
station somewhere around the
4-hour mark. I couldn't tell if it
was a good or bad thing that the
stop had delivered me from the
precipice of a deep sleep. I could
feel it pulling at me as I made my
way through the raging crowd
of students whose names I didn't
know, all jumping over each
other to purchase disgustingly
large bottles filled with popcorn
or strange versions of American
foods. We finally returned to the
bus and I to my window. Another
few hours passed. The mountains
grew larger, their peaks contesting
the heavenly heights of the early
morning sky.
It
was still dark out.
3 AM flashed on the sign at the
front. It wasn't until the humming
bus made its way down a valley
to a flat little stretch of land in be-
tween two of the most precipitous
mountainsides I had ever seen that
my attention was grabbed once
more. As we slalomed down the
path my gaze became fixed on a
light that seemed so out of place.
Up the insurmountable walls of
the far mountainside, miles from
the little town below that looked
like the North Pole from The Polar
Express, though a bit smaller, sat a
little light so high up it could have
been just another star. Though
it let nothing be known but its
own presence, I began to pie
a little cottage behind it. A b
room, with one window facin
tree line in the back and ano
one allowing a simmer of the
stars in. I imagined a night in
bed. The seclusion, the heigh~
and the numbness of the dee
sleep imaginable. My eyes
heavy, but I had not yet drunk
my fill. My mind raced, thi ·
about my stay in this most re
hotel for one. The noiselessne
no people- the light of the to
only present if I so choose to
cast the line of my gaze down
that way- the darkness, save
stars checking up on me, and
light out front announcing p
that this is my little sliver on
boundless continent.
It
brou
great ease to my mind, a
profi
unawareness of anything else.
a moment I had reached equi-
librium, and my problems we
not there. The homesickness,
the isolation, the culture shoe
of living in a strange and forei
place the unfamiliar language,
the labyrinthine roads, my
in
net provider cutting out on
me
my junior housemates who
n
left a clean plate in the wake
o
their late night cooking sessi



























. d
s
I had left behind, the
the
fnen
ld
.
ends I
was
nervou~ I cou
not
fri
the times I rmssed- the
make-
·
mes that had not happened, and
u
ould not happen for at least
that
w
tbfee
months. I sat and stared
this one heavenly light the
on,
h
·d
f
sole
of my
existence,
t e
1
ea o
that
deep
sleep
the most comfort-
ing
thought in th~ universe. B~t
so
cruel is my mmd. I began to
think:
what of the man who enjoys
such
sleep in
the morning? When
the
sun uncovers the night and
sleeplessness
draws him from his
bed,
what will he do? Who will he
talk
to? The
silence,
the walls, the
windows
that
seemed such
a
sanc-
tuary in the night now an enclo-
sure during the day when the sun
feels the need to expose every inch
of our
surroundings;
to creep into
every comer, nook, and cranny.
Not even
this
cottage is spared. I
leaned back into the curve of my
seat
and
peered
around the bus.
Is this man
alone?
Is he home, or
trying de
s
perately to make one?
Why
would
someone
choose
such
a
closed off
location?
I
.
finally
co
nceded to my heavy
eyelids.
But before I allowed the
rem
·
·
·
ainm
g
hour of my bus trip to
be
swallowed
in sleep I shuffled
through
1
.
a
p
ayhst
on my phone.
The first two chords of a song
began to play.
Somebody Else,
The 1975. The cadence rose in
its somber, lullaby hum as high
pierces of guitars and synths cut
through the top. It was a
staple
of
David's summer playlist. I could
see the cool
summer
nights on
Ortley Beach, Jack, David and I
standing in the
sand
and watching
the
sun
set, listening to the eternal
crashing of the waves- beers in
our hands, open Hawaiian shirts
swaying in the breezes lifting off
the ocean's rippling
surface.
A
tiny
speaker shoved
into a bowl to
raise its
volume-
this
song
play-
ing, us
swaying,
the
stars
coming
out. Suddenly I look over and
see
my roommate from college to the
right of me. He has never been
to David's
shore
house with us-
that was a plan of the summer,
when we would introduce him to
the lifestyle we had accustomed
ourselves to. I walk over to him
and in the drunken buzz of com-
radery I put my arm around him.
Jack joins in and we
start
moving
to the music in a way that imitates
a lazy Rocket's dance,
swinging
back and forth dramatically and
raising our legs, right
and
left and
right and left as
smiles
overtake
our faces and David downs his
165





166
Rolling Rocks. I am harbored in
their arms, my bare feet anchored
in the crisp grasp of the sand. I
am in motion, feeling the familiar
beat of the music swell within and
around me. I have reached equilib-
num.
As a voice comes over the
loudspeaker and instructs us to
begin preparing our bags, I wish
for nothing more than to be under
those stars. A different night may-
be
,
a different place. For now, the
lakes are growing more numerous.
They reflect the lights of small
towns on the far banks, making
them appear doubled in size. The
Swiss Alps are sleeping like stone
giants in the dark blue of the hori-
zon, but look, the sun is beginning
to rise. 5 :45 flashes across the
front of the bus.
We come to a stop in a
blood-orange Interlaken, and I
am forced to face the reality that
I must now get off the bus. As
I haul my luggage to the Youth
Hostel
in
the biting early morning
cold, I take in my surroundings.
The mountain peaks are dipped
in snow. The sun rises in the
V-shape of the end of the valley
where the two ridge bases meet.
My mind and body are still in two
places as I check into my room.







Look
Brittney Sicotte '21
1,o0k
up. Skyscrapers once an unbelievable thought. Reaching up to the sky to touch the
I
O
di
sc
olored clouds of smog. What a sight! What a beauty! Oh to fly up there
on,,
intertwining through the smog and the birds falling from the carbon
monoxide poisoning. Oh how they dwindle through the dead
branches of the trey on their descent to rot into nothing
but more dust to
sit
atop the dehydrated soil.
To lay outside and listen to the
diminishing buzzing
of the bees.
To close
your eyes
and breathe in the
refreshing odors of burned
oil and pumping gasoline. And to hear
the thrilling music of
trees
getting cleared and
animal homes annihilated
.
Dance around the carcasses
of
them who died and hope for a glimpse of the colorless world
that progressively comes your way. Enjoy and look forward to the fast
omnipre
s
ent diminishing life that is ruling over every part of you. Just look up!
167





168
Fallen
Angel
Tara
"Baz"
Murnin '21















All Four Seasons
Carolann Adipietro '23
No~hk
wint
e
r
s
now
s
torm covers the ground much like a big
,
white blanket
~:ie
scurrying home to their families yearning to sip burning hot cocoa around a
bUfJling
hot fire
Pu
gentl
e s
nowflakes fall from heaven and land on a lucky infant's nose
A
~~e
snowman guards the block as children play
South
,
8
bright
s
ummer sun beaming down on all living creatures- casting an extra ray of light
00
the
people I love
Warm
sand p
r
essed against one
'
s body
fresh
,
s
we
e
t watermelon after the salty ocean
A pink
,
ombre summer sunset shared amongst two lovers
East,
colorful
s
pring flowers emerge from the soil, g~sping for air
A
yellow dog chases a butterfly through a maze of thorns
Birds
soar through the
air,
free of gravity and outside forces that bound us to the ground
Pollen
swarms the air
,
clogging the nose of an unwilling man
We
s
t
,
a
westward
a
utumn breeze sweeps through the trees, rustling each branch as it passes
a
toddler crie
s
at an unfriendly scarecrow lurking within the woods
the
sun
s
et
s
at four, stealing every drop of sunlight as it goes
dead
lea
v
e
s
cover the ground almost like a blanket, but a little different this time
169




170
Fire Foxes in the Tundra
Hannah Gnibus
'24


















A Night in the Rain
Sara Rabinowitz '24
h
ar her
echoing
calls
1
e
ding
at
the
walls
inside my head
poun
.
d
Yet
so
light
a
tap on my wm ow
Stay
inside, little one
.
She
warns me as
she
descends down
Do
not
come
to meet me in the world
Yet
there is a lingering behind her voice
She
does not mean all that she says
I know
she
hides
secrets
in her cold quick taps
Onto the
earth
is where my feet find their way
My
skin as
bare as the day
I
was formed
Exposed to her mercy,
I
emerge
You
come
against
my warnings
She
pelts me with her icy words
I
feel the pleasure from her piercing knives
Bow
to me,
she
says
Her
voice now a thunder that consumes me
Sink
into the earth beneath you and bow your head
1 do
as
I
am
told
My
knee
s
meeting the
soaked
earth beneath
And
for
a
moment, my head is lowered
~e World is quiet, despite her taps
nd
my breath
Barely
ct·
au 1ble against the world
171




172
Yet to me, never have I heard a clearer sound
The quiet hush of each breath is a whisper against my ear
You are alive
,
you are alive
I count each droplet that lands against my neck
Exposed as my head rests between my hands
My spine arched through my back
What a scene it must have been
Had I been born a painter I would have captured the moment
And named it so, the Submission of All
I do not wish to anger her
As I raise my head to face hers
Repeating to myself what my breath has promised me
I force my eyes open
For an even greater disrespect it would be
To try to blind myself from what she is
I would never wish to defy her
I lift my head to give her more of me
More than she would ask for
She descends down upon me with a force only seen by the gods
And my last thought before I am revealed tci her true and raw form
I am submission, yet I am free




Flight of the Harpies
Tara "Baz" Murnin '21
17'.






174
Mirror
Alyssa Borelli '24
Sometimes, I wished I was
human like Erica. Don't get me
wrong, I was stunning. I had a gor-
geous
silver
frame with engravings
of delicate flowers and constricting
vines, and I was large and oval-
shaped,
the best shape for a mirror.
I was always polished to perfection
with no smudges, no scratches of
any kind. My glass was a
sheet
of
clarity, a smooth
surface
of water
for Erica to gaze at. I was flawless.
Erica made sure I was.
Even though I prettier than
Erica ever would be, the idea of her
leaving this bedroom and showing
herself off to the world stung me
with
jealousy.
I was meant for more
than just hanging on a wall.
I hung over a spotless white
vanity, on a dull blue wall. I hated
that dull blue, it was so depressing.
The vanity contained every type of
makeup imaginable. Foundation,
eyeliner, eyeshadow, and hundreds
of lipsticks. The bright pink lip
gloss was my favorite.
All the furniture in the
bedroom was pure white. The
nightstand, the closet, even the or-
ganized desk. Erica had made sure
that every pencil, paper, or
boo
the desk was in their proper
p
She ordered the utensils aroun
like
soldiers,
cursing at them
if
they ever fell to the floor.
The
painting in the room was
one
hydrangeas. The pretty
flowers
been colored in with that
dull
That repulsive, depressing
blu
The bedspread was also
white.
Erica made the bed every
mo
ing. She would obsess over
it,
it had to be entirely smooth
be
she
could leave.
Erica was obsessed
wi
everything. She would spend
hours vacuuming the fluffy c
and
she
dusted the furniture
wi
powerful concentration.
Some
I'd catch her washing her ban
the attached bathroom. She wo
scrub her fingers until they bl
The air tasted of expen
perfume, cleaning supplies, an
nail polish. It smelled like fake
.
roses. The air was fake.
It
was
fake, Erica included. But, I was
real. I told the truth. I knew
th
room like a book. A book I've
a million times. Nothing chan
The only excitement I got was





















Erica looked at me.
when
She
'
d stare at me for hours.
he went to work
,
before
Before
s
.
she
went
to
bed. She'd pract1~e
.1.
g in front of me even with
srru
10
.
.
,ears
sprinkling her eyelids. Other
.
s her
s
tick like arms would
tlllle
'
swing
around her as she would
smooth
out the wrinkles
in
her
dress.
You
c
ould straighten that
dress
for hours and that still
wouldn
'
t fi
x y
our figure,
I tried to
say
to her
,
though I knew she never
answered. No one can hide that
much
fat.
Erica pressed her hand to
her
stomach
,
and sucked in a breath
to
flatten it. I'd huffed a laugh
.
F
ee
l better now? You 're thin
for
one se
c
ond
, c
ongrats. Good
luck
breathing.
Erica's brows
scrunched in disapproval, and she
bit
her lip down hard before rush-
ing
to the bathroom
.
The sound
of
puking echoed throughout the
bedroom.
She did this everyday. I
became
u
s
ed to our routine until
s
he
broke it one day. She brought
home
a man. It was the first person
besides
Erica who had ever entered
this
lonely bedroom
.
h
H
e
was gorgeous with ma-
ogany hair and a pair of sapphire
eyes
that h
'
1
s
1mmered
in
the dim
cUnplight. He was a few inches
taller than Erica and his broad
chest tightened as he drew closer
to her, yet he stiU carried himself
with strength and confidence. His
pearly teeth showed a grin that
stretched across his jawline. So
that was what real joy looked like.
I would've liked a painting of him
to hang up in this sullen room.
Erica led him toward
s
the
bed with light giggles. It was a
foreign sound that made me cringe
but the man joined her with a
chuckle of his own.
Then, his calloused hand
touched the crook of Erica's neck
as he drew her into a kiss. I sud-
denly felt a burning feeling cas-
cade down my frame
.
There it was
again
.
That jealousy that often cut
into me
.
They began to undress,
and I caught Erica glimpse at me
to scan herself in my reflection. I
hissed at her, How could he want
y
ou? Do you see the width of your
thighs? The flatness of
y
our chest?
Your bod
y
,
y
our face .
..
She turned away from me
and began kissing the man again.
She ignored me the rest of the
night.
Months passed and the
man would visit often. Erica threw
up less now
,
and barely looked at
175






176
me. I was constantly irritated with
her, astounded at the silent treat-
ment she gave me. That didn't stop
me from shouting the occasional
criticism at her. I was merely trying
to help her, trying to have her look
her best, but that didn't interest her
much anymore. I
felt
my control
over Erica slipping away.
Then suddenly one night,
she studied me very intently. She
wore a short, fitted dress that was
the color of pine needles. Why was
she wearing such a fancy dress?
Maybe she was going on another
date.
You 're going to wear that?
I asked her. You look like a trash
bag.
Using her giant heavy
brush, Erica pulled her scarlet hair
up into a tight bun. Not a hair out
of place. I've told her a thousand
times to dye her hair a different
color. Maybe blonde. Anything but
that fiery red.
She moved on to makeup.
She applied a light brown eyeshad-
ow and outlined her amber eyes
with black eyeliner. Then, she put
on a pound of mascara.
Stop, that is way too much
mascara!
Ignoring me, Erica
stroked
blush onto her lunar skin. She
really needed a tan. Last but
n
least, she painted her lips
With
lipstick.
Use the pink one! I
screamed at her.
Erica left after
another
minutes of staring at me.
Later
night, I heard her enter the
h
but she wasn't alone. lrecog ·
the voice of the man, and
they
seemed to be in the middle
of
heated conversation. I strained
hear them.
"I
don't understand,"
said.
"I
thought tonight was
it.
brought me to the restaurant
had our first date and--"
"I'm sorry, Erica,"
the
returned
in his deep tone. It
I
its usual sweet coating.
"Tho
I don't know where you got
th
idea of marriage. We've only
going out for a short amount
time."
"Well yes, but timed
mean anything when the conn
tion's there." The desperation
her voice was disgustingly piti-
ful, but then the man went qui
"There's
still
a connection
be-
tween us, isn't there?"
"Listen, Erica, I've bee
thinking--"
"Woah wait a minute--
,
.
.
"I'm not sure this is go
















work out.
"
to
Erica hesitated before an-
.
"
Work out? How ... how
s
wenng
,
,
b .
Id
ou say that?! You re emg
cou y
"d'
"
stUP
1
.
"
Thi
s
is exactly why, Er-
•
1
,,
the man exclaimed in reply
.
1ca.
. . . .
"
You
'
re alway
s
cnt1c1zmg peo-
le
wheth
e
r it
'
s me or others we
!ndounter. I feel. .. I feel bitte
i:_
and
negative when I'm with you.
"
"Wow
,"
Erica scoffed with
a
dry laugh
.
"
I ju
s
t feel like you're
trying to ch
a
nge me," he argued
.
"
Nobody
's
perfect."
"It
doesn't
mean
you can't try to be a better
boyfriend!
"
Erica yelled. "Would it
kill
you to give me a compliment
every
once in a while? Just to say
I'm
beautiful!
"
Silence.
"
You-you do think I'm
beautiful
,
right?" Erica stammered
"
I
s
that all that matters?"
the
man qu
es
tioned defeatedly.
More silence.
"
You know what Erica?" he
Whispered
c
oldly. I almost didn't
hear
hi
s
low voice. "You're not
beautiful.
I finally realized just how
ugly
you r
e
ally are
.
"
A
door slammed. Erica let
out a c
f
h
ry o
s
hock and pain. I heard
er
stom
.
bl
.
P up
s
tairs, and she stum-
ed Into the bedroom her hair
'
spilling out of her bun. The pound
of mascara poured down her lunar
skin
.
No wonder why he said you
were ugly
.
Erica collapsed on the fluffy
white carpet. She sobbed uncon-
trollably, barely gasping for breath.
Her manicured nails clawed at her
face
.
"I am beautiful," Erica
cried to herself.
"I
am beautiful."
She shattered.
I told you, I
said.
What did
you think was going to happen? He
was bound to dump you once he
got a look at that dress. He prob-
abl
y
' hates your hair. He probably
likes blondes. It sure did take him
a long time to notice how hideous
you are.
Her head shot up to look at
me as if she finally heard me for
the first time. She collected herself
off of the floor, and stood to face
me.
"I
am beautiful," Erica
growled at me.
No you're not
,
I replied.
Suddenly, Erica grabbed the
silver handle of her heavy brush,
her amber eyes fueled with fury.
Then before I could even think, she
hurled the bru
s
h at me with all her
strength. I shattered.
17'.




178
Gigi
Hannah Gnibus '24





















Glossy Black Pools
Jesse Vengen
'22
1
made my
way
down the
d floor
of
the Lorenzo de
secon
d.
h
Medici
building nestle mto t e
k
of the
square.
As I leapt onto
baC
1
s
.
the
large
s
tones of Pa a_zzo trozz1,
1
bad
nothing
on
my rmnd but the
Advanced
Italian I quiz
on
Wednes-
day.
I cro
ssed
a street,_
not waiting
for
the
little red man m the traffic
light
to turn
green
or checking for
speeding
vespas and
taxi cars ( they
were
known not to
stop
or
slow
down
for
pedestrians
-
especially
tourists).
In my head, the Passa-
to
Prossimo
,
L'Imperfetto
,
and
Trappassato
Remoto conjugations
jumbled
about
like the
spinning
bowling
pins
of
a clumsy juggler.
Trying
to
make sense
of the morn-
ing's
lesson, I rounded the corner
of
a
small church
onto
a slightly
less
busy
road where
a woman
sat
With
a
dog
on an
outstretched piece
of
cardboard.
My home back in New Jer-
sey
is filled
with
five
shedding cats
and
two howling dogs (plus one
Stray Wh
..
fi
o
v
isits our front porch for
OOd).
I
felt
the burning
sensation
in
~
~and to reach for the anti-theft
g
In
my pocket with my
spare
euros. Not for my unfamiliarity
with the country, I might had given
in. Despite the intention I had made
to ignore the woman and her dog, I
found myself peeking back over my
shoulder.
It was an unfortunate
sight,
but not one uncommon for Italian
alleyways and the 50
,
000
senzatetti
that called them home
.
Hunched
over into the crisscross of her legs,
she
peered upwards through her
tattered, grey hood and held out a
cup in her hand
.
She shook it with
a
weak volition, and I could hear
the soft chinking of a few euros. To
her right, the dog, a brown plush
toy
,
sat
without a collar or leash.
My heart
sunk
when it looked at
me with its enormous eyes. I could
have tripped and fallen into those
glossy black pools.
Shame
snaked
its way up
my body, and my fingers began to
tap the anti-theft bag, tucked safely
in my front pocket. I almost tripped
over the curb as annoyed passersby
pushed past me. I
slipped
into their
herd and crossed the
street,
trying
not to let the
scene
be a dampener
onmy mood
.
17














180
Wednesday morning came,
and so did a sense of dread when I
made my usual route out of Pala-
zzo Strozzi and around the church.
This time, there was no woman or
dog to be seen. I walked by the
spot where they had sat the Monday
before. The piece of cardboard was
folded carefully and tucked into
the small space between a rusted
electrical box and the church wall.
The next Monday, I was
surprised to find the dog back in its
usual spot, sitting on its cardboard
·
home. This time, a man in a bright
green jacket and with short, gelled
black hair held out a cup. He shook
it at people and squinted his eyes at
them when they ignored him.
Wednesday came, again.
Same short-haired dog, shaking in
the early morning cold- a blonde
haired man besides him. His wrist
was weighed down with the euros
filling the cup- that was the last
time I took that route back to my
apartment in Palazzo del Mercato
Centrale.
I traveled to Bologna that
Sunday with two of my house-
mates to celebrate the beginning
of our study abroad experience.
We enjoyed paninis underneath
red umbrellas and olive-green
tree branches and opened dusty
windows to see views of the
piazza. I was even bold enou
points to practice my Italian
the locals we encountered.
As we hurried back to
station to make the 4: 10 PM
Prato, we turned onto a wide
full of locals, tourists, the D
and Arlecchinos ( and, for so
reason, the Disney characters
Carnevale's trickling days.
We
swept into a strange current o
tling tourists and locals- they
avoiding large circles of emp
space on the road. I pushed p
two men and entered one, eag
to see one more interesting si
before leaving la cucina d'It
I realized that in the center
of
circle was a man or woman,
tightly in dirty quilts and
bent
with their faces on the
cement,
as though locked in a
moment
of worship. Resting against
th
tops of their heads were
little
holding pictures of Jesus,
Mar}'i
Gabriel, and all sorts of religi
figures. I listened close and
h
the old man in the center of
m
cle praying, though, I couldn't
what for- it was hard to hear
o
the locals, who raised their
h
banged their palms together,
told them to get the hell out
of
road. A brave, brown haired Y
·























entered and dropped a coin
lfl8ll
f the cups. The old man
. one o
.
.
iD
d
up interruptmg himself to
tooke
,
hort prayer for his patron. I
aive
as
.
.
,,. the burning m my hand begm-
(elt
.
to
come back, and my fingers
::ing against my pocket, but I
couldn
'
t move. All I could think of
was
the shivering dog with many
owners
;
one of whom was greed.
How do you learn to trust
in
charity when entrepreneurs use
the
worst of human suffering for
monetary gain? When people use
God
to execute ulterior, selfish
motives, it does a disservice to
those
who are actually in need. I
looked
around at the angry locals,
understanding their frustration. I
bad
been briefed by school officials
and
family members alike not to
listen
to anyone on foreign streets
who
asked for money.
Good tip:
many
locals make use of tourists'
unfamiliarity to scam them in the
guise
of charity. Still, are we just as
guilty
for u
s
ing that as an excuse
t .
0
ignore actual human suffering- to
choose
ignorance when we know
our
small bit of help can mean the
World
to someone?
~
II
Thinking back, I wish I had
,o
ow
d
.
foot
e
in
that brave, young man's
th
steps. All I could think of at
at
moment was a dog's small,
shivering face, glossy black pools,
an9 a tail that never wagged. I
looked down at the man's wrinkled
face.
I
listened to his prayers
.
Over
the shouting I could hear Brendan
and Joe's voices. My roommates
had clawed their way back through
the crowd, sailing against the
current, searching desperately for
me ( the train was leaving in a few
minutes!). I felt my shirt pull back
over my shoulder and heard Joe say,
"Are you crazy? Come on, we're
going to miss it!"
18












182
ARIES
Julia Kisilinsky '22
0
°
s
11,
<
30
°
THE RAM
March 21st-April 19th
Fearlessly fercrious, a fiery force; no wonder why you are
first-a
true leader
by
You are confidence; a blaze of courage
that
parades about a dismal
district,
enthusiastically encouraging all who you encounter
,
pushing for the p r o f ~
that
you have realized resonates inside everyone, though they may not show
it
Being the
first
brings forth the
rebirth
of
the
colors-so vibrant just as you
are,
the light-almost as brilliant as yourself, and the lives of all the reings
that
had
donnanted
into the deep, dreary doze amidst the frigidly unfriendly
fiDst:s
of
the ·
The
sun regins anew, a new cycle of the
zcxliac. And it
is
you
that
is
to lead us into a
overflowing passionate
optimism
Honesty, bravery, determination, and leadership
these
are the qualities that, when combined,
create
the concoction of the honorable
Admired for your devotion towards your fascinations
,
though you
will
occasionally
flaming passions with your aggressiveness and competitiveness.
You may re
quick
to grow initably moody when faced with a situation that sets
off
your extremely short temper. Your lack of patience in certain scenarios ignites
that infem>
your soul; pity the idiot
that
stands in
that
line of fire.
Yet when it comes to moments of confiding, supporting
,
and uplifting
,
you
exure
in
undeIBtanding
,
compassion, and tenderness. This leaderability
is
revealed not only in large
but
at
times
when someone needs to re heanl the
most
Do
not
disregard this
;
do not put this
gift
to waste; do not allow your firestorm to
Continue to courageously conduct
creatures
of concealed capability towards complete
Ram,
may you ram this advice into your often-leveled head and engrain it into your


















Map of Broken friendships
Maggie Helenek '22
rth
holds
a
dirty beige armchair
No
.
l d
with
a broken arm that gir
s
ance upon.
North,
where they
see each
other as lone street lamps
Ji
hting up the darkness of the night;
:ow
shining in
their hair like confetti.
East
sits
a
table
with initials carved into it;
gone
like the
snow
beneath a plow
East
,
pulling an empty heavy cart
through
a neverending crosswalk
and
dodging cars and emotions on a bike.
West
paints
girls
with cartoon faces
smiling
and waving; a crowd of people
surrounding
an
endless performance.
West,
where a
river
flows back and forth-sometimes nowhere:
where
people and bikes have no path to walk or ride on.
South
stands
a lone
statue;
motionless,
as
people travel past it without glancing.
South
is a lonely food stand with no line;
Where
intersections lie empty and
tbere
are too few footprints in the snow.
18




184
Tara
"Baz"
Murnin '21
Third Place, Art




















Brief and Never Ending
Sara Rabinowitz '24
d of the clock makes its way
'Jbe
ban
d the small enclosure
AfOUn
.
d
'Jbe
tick of each passmg ay
Affecting my composure
1
see
it everywhere I go
In
classrooms, homes, and stores
It
stares at me as like a foe
And I
stare twice as more
The
pesky clock that rests upon
Each
wall
I
seem to pass
Reminds
me with each breath that's drawn
That
this one may be my last
I see
my future coming quick
Before
my very eyes
And
so with each passing tick
Tune
brings me closer to my demise
I
cannot help but let it sink
Deep
inside my mind
That
as my days begin to shrink
My
life will soon be left behind
But I
will not sit by and waste away
A
pawn in Time's sick game
I
set m ·
Y
sights on my new found prey
And
set to perfect my aim
I'll
.
A-
np
that damned clock from it's hook
nud
thr
.
It•
ow it to the o-round
SgJ
.
b
A-
ass will shatter until
I
look
nud
see wh ' 1
at s eft to be found
185







186
The deed is done
,
the enemy dead
It's body shattered well
But as I go to lift my head
Something in me will not quell
This haunting feeling that will brew
Within me until I'm gone
That no matter what I try to do
Time will always persist on
Untitled
•22
Heather
Brody























Reagan-Bu~h '84
Rosemary DaCruz
'21
First Place, Fiction
It
was a
day that
seemed
a)DlOSt
unremarkable. I stood at the
ter as the cashier scanned my
coun ,
.
.
.
s
pushing them aside without
item,
.
thought.
Until he paused tentatively
~r
the box of Trojans
.
A
smile
a
.
played
on his lips. He was gomg to
say
something.
Please, please don't.
"Be safe.
Wouldn't want
that
gay cancer, wouldja?"
He laughed. I laughed too.
It
was warm, because it was a joke,
and
he didn
'
t really expect me to
go
and use them with a guy only
moments
later. My
stomach
twisted
into
knots.
All I could think about was
that
sickness
I had kept reading
about.
The
vomiting.
The cold
sweats.
The
sores
and the lesions.
My parents.
The number so far was over
12,000.
In the car, I mulled over the
:ds
I'd
just
heard. I was thinking
Ut
how the world I lived in had
C\'eryth'
ha
lllg
against
me. I was ex-
Usted
I
·
.
·
cned.
Silently. I couldn't
\\'ork
u
h
\\'h
P
t
e courage
to tell Johnny
y.
He
probably already knew.
It
was September 17th,
1985 in Tuskegee, Alabama.
I started thinking of telling
my parents that day.
I leaned back, examining
my work. My dad was some kind
of bigshot executive at General
Electric,
somewhere
pretty high up
in the ranks. For his last promotion,
he bought us an Apple Macintosh.
These things were
crazy
expensive,
and absolutely incredible to write
on. I'd been the premier writer on
Soviet-American relations for my
university's newspaper. They kept
me on board, despite the com-
plaints of my "apologist views"
towards the USSR, because I was
the only one who wanted to write
about it. This article was a good
one though, I thought to myself,
and good journalism is worth the
scrutiny.
Just then, a car honked from
outside.
It
was Johnny.
I pushed aside my mom's
fliers
and
pamphlets, searching
for a newspaper.
"MY BODY MY
CHOICE
,
"
"PROTECT ROE" and
"DEFEND WOMEN'S RIGHT TO
CHOOSE"
all looked back up at
18'







188
me. Since she'd stopped working,
all she did was activism and ad-
vocacy work. Maybe it's because
she grew up in the 60s. She would
constantly try to convince me to
come along with her. No, mom. You
can drag me to church or drag me
to NARAL meetings. One or the
other. I don't know, I'm not partic-
ularly passionate about abortion or
anything. Doesn't matter to me. I
would rather go to church.
Maybe, even if my dad
wasn't okay with it, she would be. I
thought of just telling her, at first.
I scanned through today's
paper, quickly looking for an
article. I stopped at one and quick-
ly read through. "The president...
White House press conference ...
AIDs .. .insisted he had been funding
research ... refused further com-
ment." Now this was something
Johnny and I could really get riled
up over. I dogeared the page and
rushed out the door.
Johnny had his cowboy
boots coolly kicked up on the dash-
board. An LL Cool J song hummed
slowly from the speakers. He had
a cigarette hanging out from his
mouth, hair cowlicked against his
forehead, and today's newspaper
in his hands. His eyes scanned the
Politics section. Just like me, he
was searching for something
to get angry about together
as
drove me to class.
Despite my friends'
w,
ings, I brought up politics
on
first date
.
I started to talk aho
article I wrote: Thaw in the
War - Problems with the
Rea
Doctrine. He laughed and as
"Ain't you afraid talkin' bout
on the first date will make
me
you're a commie?" I shrugg
said if he thought that, then I
things wouldn't work.
He found that funny
And he didn't think I was a c
munist.
We talked and talked.
just never stopped talking,
an
never got tired of listening.
"Fuckin' Reagan man!
see this shit?" Johnny tossed
newspaper towards me.
"He'll
ly even utter the word AIDS!"
"Can you quiet down.
said in hushed whispers, my
darting towards the windows. '
can probably hear us."
He chuckled. Our 19
election signs were still scat
across the lawn. He knew wh
was doing. It was always diffi
shut him up about whatever
was in the news that day. I re
ed him: there's a time and pla























nt of my house is not it. On
frO
h one occasion, my parents
re
t
an
beard and grilled me about
bid
0
1
ver s associating myself with.
fiho
wa
.
'd
already
started
accusmg
: ! f
being
"
a
damned Mondale
"
voter.
Well
,
I
did vote for Walter
Mondale,
but they didn't need to
tnow
that.
.
I waited to speak until we
left,
and drove past the familiar
green
sign
with
Bethlehem Drive in
big
white letters.
"Okay.
Yeah. We
have
the
same
exact article. Fuck
Ronald
Reagan."
He just laughed.
"If
ya
can't
even tell your parents you're a
liberal,
how's you supposed to tell
em'
you're with me?"
I
shrugged.
"Easy.
I
don't."
Johnny shook his head,
taking
another long drag from a
Newport
100.
"Can't
hide me from
em'
forever, Chris. They're gonna
know
you like dick someday."
Sure, maybe someday. But
today
wasn't that day.
Ytl,
It
was
October 23rd, 1985.
e
d
been fighting that day.
About what? I don't even
rtmemb
p
pid .
er. robably something stu-
or '
hke
about
school,
my parents
anyth·
'
Could'
i_ng
else
just as mundane
.
ve even been a political de-
bate, an argument about the middle
easf if
I
were to guess. All
I
know
for sure was I finally decided that I
had to break the tense silence.
"You know what? Forget
it. How about we pull over at this
7
/11? I'll go pick us up some candy
and some chips. We can hang in
your dorm and watch The Dukes of
Hazzard."
Johnny smirked. "Grab
rubbers too, then. A lil' bit of make
up se~ will make my Chris smile
again, yeah?"
Make up sex. Thewords lin-
gered in the air between us. John-
ny's grey eyes pierced right into my
heart. An image of our amalgama-
tion of bare skin and sweat replaced
whatever irritation I'd felt at the ar-
gument before. I felt my heart skip
a beat, anxious to taste the smoke
on his lips.
Even now, this scene plays
over and over in my head.
I grabbed two cokes, Dor-
itos, and Trojans, and meandered
over to the counter. The cashier
paused over the box of condoms
before scanning them.
Please, please don't.
"Be safe. Wouldn't want
that gay cancer, wouldja?"
He laughed. I laughed.
I thought about AIDs again.
189






190
angry.
night.
I felt scared.
And I felt sick.
And I was angry, so fucking
We didn't have sex that
My parents found some-
thing I wrote on the computer. I
didn't know they even knew how to
use a computer, much less navigate
the Mac Write program
.
I tried to
explain it away, talking about it just
as an assignment for school. But
they weren't buying it. That night,
at dinner, they really started really
laying into me this time about my
political views
.
"You can't be writing things
like this, what will people think?"
and "What are you thinking?" and
"I don't understand where you got
these ideas from."
The tension in my head fi-
nally broke me
.
I shot back at them
"I don't know what business you
have in what I think or who I am!"
They went silent.
Finally, my mom said "I
don't know who that boy is that
you've been hanging out with, but
it's time that we finally meet him."
I'd been dreading hearing
that for a really long time.
It was November 19th,
1985.
In my driveway, I wo
up the courage to continue
to
I was astutely aware
0
everything happening in
this
ment - I don't know why.
Ma
because this was a moment
everything changed and my ·
psyche recognized it was so
I should remember. The soun
of Sugar Hill Gang and
Joh
engine murmured quietly
in
ears. The smell of a freshly s
cigarette filled my nostrils.
moment felt so intimate,
we
ti
close, despite being fully ex
in front of my house. I guess
I
really explain it; there was
so
on my mind; but with him,
I
ti
carefree and safe. With just
him, it always felt like the
rest
this stupid, fucked up world ·
even exist.
Johnny clasped my
h
running his thumb over
mine
comfortingly. "Do you think
Y,
actually ready to tell em'?"
I scoffed. "No. But
w
choice do we have anymore?
They're asking so many
questi
Johnny ... "
"Y'know ya' don't
n
say anything that you aren't
to
,
Chris. You can tell them
W
just friends."
He'd been pushing
me



































complet
e
ly unashamed of who
Who we were. Now that
was.
. h
really going to do it, e was
I
~
t
Thi
s
wa
s
on me. It was me
1ae5
ttan
•
.
H
as struagling. Not him
.
e
•
how
o
,
.
was
okay
.
But I wasn t. I was tired
of
biding who I was. I was tired of
fee
ling
like I needed to. And maybe
tha
t
was a mi
s
take. But I couldn't
let
who I wa
s
be trapped inside
dlis
rusty Ford anymore, contained
wi
thin
hu
s
hed whispers and silent
teaJ'S
.
Walking through the house,
I
bad a million thoughts rushing
through m
y
mind. What would I
sa
y?
How would I say it? What
wo
uld
they
s
ay?
Moni ... no, I know you still
lov
e
me ..
. yes,
I know ... / know what
the
Bible sa
ys,
but
..
. Dad, I know
w
hat
A!D
s
i
s
...
y
es, I know how
bad
it
is
,
bu
t
..
.
no, I don't think you
ha
te
me ...
yes
, I understand. .. / know
o
u
'v
e
ne
ve
r met him, but we've
be
en
tog
e
th
er
for awhile, and ...
Thi
s
i
s w
ho I am.
Thi
s
i
s
who we are.
We p
e
ered into the living
~m
where my parents sat watch-
In
g
NBC,
R
e
agan and Gorbachev
\\'
ere
di
•
s
cu
ss
mg
s
omething about
a n n
ij
..
1..
s
00
th
e
television and a low
6-'ll
fi
l
'
,1
ft..,
he
_
1 o
ve
r my parents faces. My
'"GU
ad a ·
ci
g
ar in one hand, my
morn had a cup of coffee in hers. I
couldn't tell if it was the lighting,
or
the personas I'd concocted for them
in my own head, but something
about them looked so intimidating
even though it was the most famil-
iar scene imaginable.
Johnny and I stepped from
·
behind the awning into the open-
ing. They both looked up. My hand
twitched, aching to clasp Johnny's
familiar fingers in between mine.
And that's when I decided
I didn
'
t give a shit what Reagan,
or dingy gas station cashiers, or
anyone else had to say anymore.
I took a deep breath, and I
reached over to squeeze Johnny
'
s
hand.
"Morn? Dad? I have some-
thing that I need to tell you."
19








192
Untitl
ed
Heather
Brody
'
22
























h!
't
touch me there!
)liss.
t
you
grab
my
wrist
Bruises
Cassandra Arencibia '24
prod
and poke and twist
some
more.
aces.
am
a quivering female.
do
you
like it?
I
grin
and bear it
ghting
back tears to make you feel guilty.
hurts
but in a different way.
Ugl
y
purple and blue skin, egg yolk leaking across my arm.
W
alking
dead
arm.
Dead
arm
walking.
Jus
t
chop it off now.
Or
better
yet,
Take
me out to the back of the shed.
Ump
limb that
's
a good-for-nothing.
leave
or make
yourself
useful.
Rast
ridden joints scream
But
I shove
it back with a
serious
face
w·
1th
a male
face.
~ping
the
egg
off has made my fingers numb
Ut
look
how
s
hiny and new I look!
l'




Miranda Schindler
'22
194

























Gros Piton
Jesse Vengen '22
our adventure began in the
·cal gardens. The tour guide
1,ot811
1
1
d us down the winding trod-
fi)l
o
e
.
den
path sported a white polo shirt
cov
ered
in
s
tains. The more rugged
that accompanied the tour as
;JD8ll
·1
we
ll
held on tight to a s1 ver ma-
che
te
,
a tool I later learned ( to the
case
ment of my conscious) he used
t,r
backing coconuts from short,
stu
mpy
palm trees
.
Ne
s
tled throughout the
llru
sh
sat tiny fort-like structures
.
Fro
m
outside we could hear the
cho
pping and juicing of fruits with-
in
.
From one cottage children ran
ou
t
and cros
s
ed the path in front
of
our
herd
,
chasing each other in
shro
uds
of screams and laughter.
In
what
we would call squalor I
bad
never seen smiles so bright. It
llee
med
they traded in riches for
~
mething that could not be bought.
1
seemed
they wanted not to own
lbe
mountain, but for the mountain
!°
make
disciple
s
out of them lead-
m
,
g
0th
ers to a treasure they would
oth
erwise
never find.
the
V:e m
a
de our way through
b_
1
~XotJc
plants- Schefflera vines,
QC
ICO .
nia (lobster-claws), brome-
liads and begonias- swirling towers
of gnarled greens bursting into
brilliant petals of oranges, reds,
and purples. Above it all lorded
the Gros Piton
.
If
we squinted our
eyes and held our hands up to our
foreheads to block out the sun,
we could just barely make out its
misty frame against the blue sky.
Its sides were frosted in velvety
vegetation, except the cliffs which
showed off its colored minerals.
Its build resembled a sort
of man-made staircase, constructed
with the purpose of reaching the
heights of Heaven itself before its
architects must have realized the
futility of their crafts
.
Perhaps
that is what we were chasing, my
mother and grey-haired father, my
older brother, Evan, who had just
survived chemotherapy, all these
tourists, and me.
A sudden rainstorm turned
the early trails into running riv-
ers, but we carried onwards up
the steadily curving hill until we
reached the amber light of the
upper mountain. Like molasses
the sun dripped through the trees in
heavy globs, pooling on the ground
19:





196
and on the leaves of giant green
ferns
.
I still cannot tell if the sun
climbed down to us or we climbed
up to it, on some celestial ladder,
rising above the storm to that sunny
realm that one sees through the
occasional pockets piercing dense
rain clouds.
The trek up the piton was
trickier than anything I had ever
done. It was more like rock climb-
ing than hiking. With each step I
surveyed the ground to find a flat
space in between the moss, out-
crops of rocks, and the tree roots
shooting from the ground in all
directions. We are no longer soaked
in rain, but rather sweat as our legs
roast in pools of lactic acid and
our feet begin to ache. I turned to
observing my surroundings to take
my mind off of the pain. The firm
smashing of boots and walking
sticks into the mountainside served
as a sort of percussion underneath
the choir of breathing, chuckling,
and the melodies of light conver-
sation, punctuated with the occa-
sional staccato of an "ouch!" as
someone bangs their foot against
something hard
.
Birds swoon to
their tunes from their vine-tangled
branches and the air is sweet.
A few hours in and we had
forgotten where we were entirely
,
being enclosed so tightly by
a
gle one would never have be ·
could thrive at such an angle.
alas, the illusion was broken
our guide ran ahead, his
smile
er than ever, announcing
that
summit was within our reach
pointing at a pile of stones
into a bright light. I held
my
firmly in the dirt as I scaled
0
stone, then another- I could
t;
thudding in my chest- anoth
more.
behind you like theatre cur ·
The ground in front of you
to droop, steeper and steeper,
you approach the precipice
r
layperson approaching the
al
before being forced to your
grasping desperately for an
The hair on the back of your
freezes stiff, your breathing s
and you dare not open your e
and you dare not close them.
But the wind whispers
through your ears and tussles
fully with your blond locks
.
vertigo subsides like a recedi
wave and your breathing
finds
rhythm
.
Stand up now, open
eyes, you are standing 2,600 ~.
on the highest point in the C
an Sea.
For a moment I am
al
















'th
the mountain. Those bustling
.,unsts
behind ~e
_turn
to
statues
and
everything 1s
silent.
from up here
,
everything
ds frozen in its
smallness;
a
~e
which like
a
photograph
never
moves,
shifts,
~r changes,
though this
sumffilt
were out
of
reach of the
gnawing
hands of
mne,
free
from aging
and decay.
1be
world down there with its
countless
tensions is but a trickling
afterthought
,
and
for one period of
time,
you
are
forever young, forev-
er,
joyous
,
and
forever fulfilled, in
this
short moment that never ends.
I
can wipe
away the clouds,
reach
out,
and grab
the
sun;
I'll
bold
it tightly and feel its warmth
against
my
s
kin.
But
alas,
I need
not
makeshift
wings
of feather
and
glue to
fly
too high, to let my
backside
scrape
the underside of
~e
moon.
When
nature lifts me up
m
tbe
palm
of
her hand, all I have
lo
do is let her.





198
Lucifer
Tara "Baz"
Murnin
'21








Cherry
Julianna Buchmann '23
k hra
s
tic poem of the movie Cherry by Anthony Russo & Joe Russo
}JI
e
p
Deep reds, exploding bombs
A best friend lost but still carried his lineage on
,
Hearts beat, film rolls
.
A cherry drops while 8 bodies begin to fall
Helicopter blades, dark nights
Awoken with a giant ball of fright
Sweaty hands, withdrawal pains
The heroin beings, and starts to lose its flame
Time moves, money fails
A gun pulls out and brings the alarms avail
Through thick and thin a love prevails
So years and years later the vow
Still holds
And although all has changed
They remain the same.
A love story
But darkly wrote.
199







200
Leis and Lessons
Ethan Maslyn '22
Spring break is a big part
of any college student's experi-
ence. The traditional beach bashes
that are often seen in young adult
movies have become a staple of
american college life. It's a time to
kick back for a week or so, prefer-
ably somewhere warm. Amid all
the stress of the college experience,
spring break stands as a beacon
of hope for all those exhaust-
ed students. Originally, I hadn't
thought much of spring break, and
as it grew closer and closer I just
thought of it as a week where I
wouldn't get to see any of my new
friends from school. But, around
the middle of February, my best
friend proposed a crazy idea. He
suggested that we go to Hawaii, just
the two of us, to visit a friend that
was attending
school
there.
At first, I sorta laughed it
off. It would be a cool idea, but
how realistic would it actually be?
I had some money saved up, but it
definitely wasn't enough to afford a
plane ticket and be able to survive
alone on the islands. But then, I
mentioned it to my mother in pass-
ing. She thought it was a great idea,
and then offered to lend me
money I needed to be able
to
the trip (I still haven't been
pay them back). So, there
it
decided to go, full send.
We
be there for six full days.
Six
packed with adventure and e
tion, to say I was excited
wo
an understatement. I was
like
puppy being brought home
fi
first time, although with less
controllable peeing. I couldn'
to relax and take in the nature
beauty around me. Especially
we had just wrapped on the
at Marist a few weeks prior.
Our trip began with
drive to JFK. Just saying, I
an early bird, and getting up
A.M. for our 3:00 P.M. flight
not a good time. But, we got
with plenty of time to spare, I
pose. It was a pretty long
fligb
I have trouble sleeping on
pl
so I had a lot of time to
think
myself. One big question
was
sticking out to me at the
time;
did I want out of this trip? I
I wanted to have fun and
relax,
I also knew that a trip like
this
the potential to seriously chaD



















1
dwell
e
d on it fo~ a while, but
IPC
· uJdn
'
t c
o
me up with an answer
I
CO
•
me I eventually dozed off
at
the
u .
.
b·t g
e
tting m some rest before
ro
ra
1
,
91t
)anded
.
Ele
ve
n hour
s
later, we
1an
ded
on th
e
island of Oahu. As
sao
n
as I
s
t
e
ppe~ o
ff
of that plane, I
fe
lt
something different. There was
111
aura diff
ere
nt from any I had
fel
t
before. I know I sound like a
hi
ppie
wh
e
n I
s
ay it, but I felt more
co
nnected t
o
this place than mo
s
t
oth
ers
I hav
e
been to. The warm
,
ge
ntle
bre
eze s
eemed to carry all
m
y
burden
s
away with it. The drive
fro
m
the airport was absolutely gor-
geo
u
s
.
De
s
pite the traffic all around
us,
I wa
s
getting my first true look
at
what
Ha
wa
ii was like
.
Towering
,
tro
pical
tr
ees
lined the streets and
people
from
a
ll walks of life could
be
seen
milling around shops or
~laxing
in parks. After checking
m
to
our hot
e
l and unpacking some
of our
lu
gg
a
g
e
,
we just went and
~
andered
a
round Waikiki. For be-
m
g
an over-populated, tourist-trap
: ;
c~ty
,
it
is s
till an incredibly
\\I
Uhful and culture-filled place.
..._
e
Walked
a
long the beaches
,
Uill"Cfoot
ki
ki
, c
ng sand every which
...
ay
s·
ki
._,
h. ·
in n
g
my feet into that pure,
Ite
s
and
1·
k
.
.
...
c
1c ed somethmg m
...
yll}j
nd- I had begun to figure
out what my reason for corning to
Hawaii was
.
The beaches, stretch-
ing for miles and the sun setting
over the clear
,
blue sea moved me. I
knew then that the beautiful nature
of this place had
s
omething to do
with my goal.
I
This only continued to be
made more apparent as we explored
more and more of the island. I think
it was on our second day we visited
our friend's dorm at Hawaii Pacif-
ic University. Let me take a bit to
tell you about this friend. We had
met her the summer prior to this
trip and we had instantly become
great friends. The three of us would
often spend weekends together
going on random adventures around
Poughkeepsie and Beacon. She
had decided to go to HPU to really
explore the world. She often said
that the place had
"
a different beat"
to it, and I honestly couldn't agree
more
.
Now back to her dorm
,
when
I tell you that it was basically in the
middle of a jungle
,
I'm not kidding.
The buildings were small, and the
windows were just carved out holes
in the wall
.
I saw lizards crawling
up and down the walls and into our
friend
's
room. It made me think of
a small community of people living
in treehouses, and again, it struck a
chord within me. There was such a
201




202
sense of community and mutual re-
spect between humanity and nature
in its rawest form. I've always had
an affinity for nature, but I realized
then just how strong that affinity
was. I began to envision myself liv-
ing in a small community of homes
in some forest, or on the edge of a
cliff. Not because I prefer solitude,
but just because being surrounded
by nature feels right to me.
Our days were filled with
experiences like these. Every day,
a different part of me was awak-
ened by the nature surrounding us.
The third day, we went surfing on
Waikiki Beach. We met up with
some of our other friends from
Marist that also happened to be
vacationing in Hawaii. Renting
boards and hauling them through
the streets to the beach made me
feel like a stupid tourist, but it was
worth it for the experience. It was
intimidating at first, the board was
a lot bigger than I expected it to be
and I don't exactly have the best
balance. But feeling the pulse of
the waves beneath me was calm-
ing. By the end of our session, I
had been able to stand and ride a
couple waves in. It was freeing to
say the least, letting nature take
control like that was incredible. At
one point, we were all just sitting
on our boards out in the oce
completely surrounded by
bl
And the next moment, a sea
had come up next to us.
It
w
a serene moment; it swam
us for a bit, brushing by our
ti
left that beach feeling satisfi
only in doing something po
dangerous, but also spiritual}
isfied. Satisfaction was a co
throughout this trip, this
incl
physical satisfaction. We
we
several extremely difficult ·
but damn, were those views
lutely worth it. The big three
we went on were: the Pill Bo
the Diamond Head Crater,
Koko Head trail. First was
th
Box. When we went on this
was a relatively cloudy day.
was pretty good for us, in te
the heat at least. The view
on
way up did suffer a bit becau
it but it was still beautiful.
kicker for this hike was
when
finally reached the peak. As
on top of one of the titular " ·
boxes" and ate some fresh
p
·
ple we had bought beforehan
sun broke through the clouds
of the most
spectacular
sights
ever seen in my life. The rays
sun shone down in one
partiC
patch onto the earth below. I~
not religious at all, but my
frl















We
both agreed that it looked
JS.
noel was about to descend
Jjke
an a
t,
.
he city below
.
This moment
..nnn
t
.
.
...,-
made me quest10n my spir-
.ione
1·k h
itlJality. Perfect moments i e t at
JIUllce
one believe in some sort of
1
higher power, ~ven if that higher
wer
is nature itself. In my case
,
I
~ned a lot more respect for nature
just
from that moment alone. On
Diamond Head
,
we got to watch the
sun
set beyond the waves. There's
an
incredible lookout tower close
to
the peak that we sat on. We may
have
been breaking park rules by
staying there that late, but what's a
college spring break trip without a
bit
of crime
,
am I right? Anyways,
it
was worth it to see the sun's bril-
liant
rays reflecting off of the crys-
tal
clear water. The wind whipped
at
our clothes and hair as we sat
on
the top of the lookout tower. It
felt
like something out of a fanta-
sy
novel, right before the heroes
embark on their epic quest across a
lllassive land
.
Something I haven't
Dlentioned until now is the incredi-
:le
bonding power that climbing up
~ral cliffs with your best friend
by ·
He and I had never been closer
lbi:e.
end of that trip, and I like to
bett
It
changed both of us for the
llit;l:
We
'
d known each other for
more than three years at that
point, but it felt like we had spent
a l1fetime together. Our shared
experiences on this trip mean more
to me than I can properly express in
writing.
Finally
,
the Koko Head
trail. This hike. God, it sucked.
But
,
the feeling of adrenaline as I
, almost passed out when we made it
to the top was worth it alone. See,
Koko Head is an abandoned train
track that climbs up the side of a
mountain. At one point, there's no
ground below you as you tiptoe
your way across the tracks. And
guess who forgot to pack enough
water! I had already gone through
my bottle before we were even
halfway there. I was dead tired by
the end, but we got to see the sun
set from the peak of another moun-
tain, so I guess I won out in the
end. This one was especially cool
to me because we could see, as the
sun was setting, the lights in all the
houses in the small towns below
would flick on one after the other.
This is when I realized my new
budding passion for photography. I
had been taking a decent amount of
pictures over the past few days, but
that night, I had a field day. I had
found my muse in that view.
We've now arrived at the
last two days of our trip. Day five
20





204
was a special one for me. We de-
cided to hike up to the Makapu'u
lighthouse to go down to the tide
pools. I don't really know what I
expected when I heard "tide pools"
but it definitely wasn't what I got.
First off, we had to hike down the
side of a cliff, with no clear path.
Dangerous, yes, but inevitably
worth it. Once we got down to the
bottom, the waves were enormous.
It
was windy as all hell, and the
ocean spray was more like a heavy
rain. The intense waves slapped
across the little cove where these
pools were, filling them up with
clear blue water. Crabs scuttled
across the rocks and ran quickly as
my friend and I approached. When
we got close a particularly large
wave slapped against the walls
and ocean spray shot up from what
was apparently a cave beneath the
pools. We were both
startled,
but
laughed it off right after. My friend
and I stripped down to our shorts
and stood at the edge of one of the
filled pools. We looked each other
in the eyes and a mutual under-
standing passed between the two
of us.
It
felt as though we were
doing something sacred, baptizing
ourselves in these hidden, natural
pools. As we jumped in, it real-
ly did feel as though I was being
cleansed in a way. Sitting
in
tide pool with the ocean ra
·
violently not even thirty
feet
from me was humbling. It
re
ed me how small I am in
the
scheme of things. It remind
that nature is to be respected
even feared at times. Nature
beautiful, but if you're not c
it can also be deadly. But,
all
worries seemed lightyears
a
at that moment. I was living
pletely in the present.
And so we've come
final day of our trip. This
one
extra, extra special. We
were
to camp out on the beach. I
remember the name of the
we pitched tent on, but it
was
beautiful one, even in the d
night. As the tide went out,
large rocks became visible.
friends and I cracked open
drinks and sat on those
rocks
hours. We talked about any
and everything. And then, o
friend who lives in Hawaii
us a question. "So, what did
guys get out of this trip?" Th
same question I asked myself
the plane ride there
.
It
took .
by surprise, but I think I put
1
eloquently as I could in that .
ment. I told her that I had g
lot of new respect for nature,





























than before. And as I looked
he impossibly bright moon
..nat
t
h
.
l
- '
tars I realized
somet
mg e
se
.
. ds
to
her
that
I had realized how
1581
.
1 .
f
1
·
c
Preciate the s1mp e Joys o 11e
,
_,ap
.
h
. h h
be
able
to
be m armony wit t e
.,
rid around me
,
and take things as
ft'C>
.
1 I
'
tbeY
come. Obvious
y wasn
t a pro
it yet, but the beat of that island
cllanged
me. I came back from 'that
trip
a lot les
s
worried
about a lot of
things,
and
while
I
still
worry, I try
to
remind myself to breathe every
now
and
again.
This trip taught me
a
lot. From
awakening
my
spiritual-
ity
to opening my eyes to incredibly
valuable
life lessons. I owe a lot to
those
islands, they brought me out
of
my
shell and
slapped me across
the
face with their energy. I think
any
young
adults
who can afford
to
take a trip to any island of Ha-
waii,
should.
It's
a
different lifestyle
lhere,
like I
s
aid
,
the beat is dif-
ferent.
It
'
ll teach you things about
yourself
that not many other places
can.
1
know it did for me, and I'll
c a r r y l i
those le
s
sons
for
as
long as I
Ve.
20!





206
Constellation Smile
Heather Millman
'23
Your smiles never reach your eyes, these days
In the safety of 'I Don't Know' you can cry
The world is spun with gold, child
And you only see through the crystal glass
Turning the fates and watching the stars
Those smiles are impossibly harsh
In the cruelty of silence
For your mouth and mind are closed
To the fears and darknesses you live in
Someone has gagged you with that smile
And painted your face in vengeance
You wear it like a badge
As though others are blind
They just don't know
Don't know how to sop up the pain
That you hide inside
And how to crack the plaster mask
They just want your smile
I just want your smile
And I want to see it brighten those eyes
Like a thousand fireflies
And for you to notice yourself
Once in a while
Because you are a constellation
A symphony of beauty
Your smile is my melody
Oh what I would do to hear it again





















Curiosity's Compass
Kayla Sexton
'22
'Jbe
south has its double yellow,
. "d freedom I often walked toe to heel.
1
ng
1
•
An
d
crosswalks, pavement pianos that sin_g as t~ey we~p
.
under
the weight of a thousand ants carrymg twice thelf size.
No
rth
appears beaten, the creak in its door whimpers something bittersweet
whi
le
its edges continue to erode from years of abuse.
N
otches
in its frame signify inevitable death,
but
butterflies in the backyard argue that change keeps us wild.
In
the east, there are those lines of pedestrians,
inpenetrable forces of humankind, ceaselessly toiling through their catharsis.
They
are no match for the true watchers of the ground world,
The
feathered gods of granite that lurk above them all
.
W
est
wanders into oblivion, the tracks in its
snow
only
partial pathways for me to explore and exhaust.
But
they too will be covered up, as long as there is
snow
on Mondays,
15
long as hope persists.
·






208
Doubts at Night
Maggie Helenek
'22
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against
someone
who didn't
interest me; pain became interesting.
As I walked this earth
without
death, without an apron,
without being a wife;
As I whispered into my own cupped hands:
enough not me again.
I had wasted my life.
I fell into emptiness-into echo.
I didn't want to be the blood on the blade,
but it was the hour of the blind, and the dead-of lost loves.
I leaned back, as the evening darkened and came on,
and was haunted by how much our mothers did not know.
If
I were a dream you could say
my countenance was a string of flickering lights.
I felt some interior wall tumble away,
and I followed the far mirage
through the crystal blue of the morning:
The morning had been brilliant,
·
under the endlessness of heaven.

















Earth Stained
-
Worms
Michaela Ellison-Davidson
'23
Sbe
asks me if I want to take a trip and I
say
no
.
1 do not want to take a trip. I do npt want to leave.
o,
fdo
not want to pack the bags that reside under the left corner of the bed.
We
stare
at each
other across the kitchen table.
In
her
hand
is
a cold cup of tea- black with milk and sugar
.
I feel
myself
wishing
for
an
excuse that doesn't
sound
like a placid apology.
Words
are
so
incredibly futile,
I
do not know why
I
say
them.
She
sets
down her cup of tea and looks towards the window,
away
from
me
and my false excuses,
my
logistics about plane crashes and a bridge collapsing over a river.
One
day
,
I
think,
I
will be an adventurer,
like
in
films
about
finding the missing parts of yourself in another country-
as
if
that
country
had hidden a piece of you all along.
For
know
,
I
simply say:
let's take a trip,
A
short
trip
.
Down
to the lily pond, by the park where the swans swim in the lake weeds,
and
little kids fish for minnows with earth stained worms.
20




210
Finding Time
Kayla Sexton '22
I seem to have landed upon this now as if on a mid-ocean island
past and future two continents.
Bowing into the riptide of the now,
l
'.
m like one treading water,
drowning,
in this life and the next.
'
Part of me wanders west
and
west and has
reached
the edge of the
moving in careful
steps
around
snow-on-the-mountain.
Deep
deep
under white now I long to be
and in the earth,
digging deep,
to come alive again,
to find a beginning.
Beyond the ruins, I glimpsed a garden resplendent with hummingb'
an aviary of exiled souls.
The only
shape
left with purpose or direction in this jumbled ruin of
navigating now the waters of death
.
Who would believe them winged?
Who would believe they could be beautiful?
They could float through days sole sovereigns of everything around
but I scarcely dare to look,
to see
what it is I am.














not death.
afl1
mething safer, almost made of air .:....
I
afl1
so
(
afll
now.
ped the sensation of falling off the round
,
turning world.
I
stOP
.
I
C
1
h 1
.
. the only time 1e t my w o e existence
.
(
llS
l,ines taken from:
"Elegy
Pantoum" by Dean Rader,
"Arrived"
by Denise
1,evertov
, "
Memorial Day" b~ Michael Anania, "The Whiteness" by Hilda
M
orley,
"Ode
to a Large Tuna in the Market" by Pablo Neruda,
"Hum-
mingbirds" by Michael Waters,
"Sorrows"
by Lucille Clifton, "Adults" by
Paul
Farley
, "
In the Waiting Room" by Elizabeth Bishop,
"Cento
for the
N
ight
I
said
, '
I Love You"' by Nicole Sealey, "Wait" by Galway Kinnell.
211





212
Hallow
Yvette Bien-Aime '24
A sadness that lurks within yourself
Not dependent on love nor health
No amount of wealth could fill the void
Devoid of any sense of reality
The only constant is the constricting pain and sorrow
The pain of every step, breath, and text
The sorrow of every word and verb ( gone ) unspoken
,
unheard
There is too little of me left
Underneath the rubble of trauma and anxiety
Fear of rejection and of hatred's infection
A need for isolation again sets in-
I have lost myself to qaydreams and closed doors
Locked myself away in a house without windows
Light cannot reach me
Lessons cannot teach me
Even I cannot see me
There is no opening, no loophole
I am left to endlessly search for distractions
,
Meaningless interactions
In an attempt to kill time
Until no time is left
A sort of self-theft
Stealing my own life from my very fingertips
·
Is there a real me to miss me
Lurking beneath the shards of all this?
Or is the hollowness me,
Am I already lost
abyss?
















hu(man)
Kaylee Miller '22
What
mak
es
a woman?
for
my father, it is
dishes
done
,
plates steaming, and
c
lothes
folded neatly at the bottom of a bed.
for
my brother it is simply
someone
t
o
tuck him in each evening
And
tell him they love him
exactly 3 times
.
Someone to chase the darkness away.
And
me
,
I am still searching.
When my head hits the pillow
I
can
'
t help but think:
'
Don't
I
n
e
ed a
m
a
n
To
show me what it means?'
A
man who looks at me like I am
an
el
hereal
s
ky makes me feel
as
,
the
th0~gh I am as awe-inducing as
chill air of midnight.
2








214
Someone to skate their fingers along
my blemished skin
as though it were a freshly frozen lake.
Someone to whisper
in
my ear
and chase
m
y
darkness away.
The person that it clicks for -
the being lurking in me
.
Is that when we are real?



























Misshapen
Yvette Bien-Aime '24
uohts keep racing, brain forever pacing
'JbOpe:,rately paging a tsunami of anxiety and insecurity
l)eS
,
r
terrified of the flaws I haven t found
, : micro
s
copic problems I can't see
fve
spent days
,
countless hours
,
Picking
my
s
elf apart in the mirror
Picking
at
st
ray hairs and discolored skin patches
Hoping
in
s
ome way the endless painful grooming will make it so my inside matches
Chasing
perfection on broken legs
Choking
on the reality like some sort of infection
I
never
learn my lesson
Fear
alway
s s
ets in
I
tear
my
s
elf apart like a failed exam
Only
there
is
n't any bin for me to toss myself in
Instead
,
I'm
s
tuck -
Tom
and crumpled up
left
to decay in a dark corner of my mind
Where
nothing can ground me
Or
bring m
e
back down
~
only thing I contemplate is how I let everyone and myself down
Btbought re
c
overy would put me back together
Ut
all
·
t
,
d
.
.
'llie
I
s
one 1s remforce
s
t0
rmy we
a
ther
·llow
d I
0
put the pieces back together?
21






216
I do not remember my roots
Kaylin Moss '22
No, no, I don't want one, you pleaded. As if you had a choice.
you sure? Your hair will be so long, she insisted. You heard beautiful
were confused. You were not sure
,
you were adamant. The stupidity
question left you dumbfounded. Don't put your hand on active stove
don't look directly at the sun, don't
set
fire to your hair.
Didn't your mom get you a perm
Child, you got some thick hair
Your hair is too nappy
Didn't your mom get
Child, you got
Your hair
Didn't
Child
Mommy, I want a relaxer, you said. You did want one, your
was genuine. You listened to their lies and deceived yourself. Later,
would learn, you just wanted the words to stop. Beauty hurts, but as
lation sears. As your hair ignited, the words burned too. The beautici
chair was the kind of plastic that screeched with every minute
move
you made. Your hairdresser spewed garbage and contributed to the
cacophony of untrutbs. By the time you reached 7th grade, you
thou
your hair had stopped growing. You didn't realize it was your
psyche
was stunted. Stunted, but alive. Living paycheck to paycheck was s
Your mother wanted you to thrive. Language was another crucial
rol
your assimilation.
Your mother taught you ebonies then banned it. This langua
could not be spoken at home, and soon you forgot how to speak it
A

















fleet
e
d your chalky image
.
Your mother beamed. A perfect fit.
,or
re
mother taught you life emerges from flames. Each day was scalding.
yo:rset your identity ablaze and poured it into a porcelain mold
.
The re-
yo
_
1
•ncr hours were spent asleep. Racism and discrimination were like the
111
ain
e
urmur o
f
a television show on low volume. The Star Spangled Banner
111
deafening. Racists were rednecks in rural towns. The Confederate Flag
w
as
w
as
in te
x
tbooks
,
not your middle class suburbia. When prejudice came
(rom
a black person
,
your porcelain shattered.
At lunch, when your
J
riend asked you what classes you'd be taking
the
next
se
mester
,
you replied with honors this, and honors that. The cafe-
teria
:
wh
er
e belly laughs and smacking mouths masked the segregation. A
stranger
w
ith a stranger posse strode past the whites only sign, and stopped
at
your table. She blurted you taking those white people clas
s
es? You
'
re
like
an or
e
o, black on the outside, white on the inside. Each smug sylla-
ble
wa
s
a
c
companied by a swish of her waist length braids. You heard an
insult
,
and were confu
s
ed
.
You heard high academic performance wasn't
in the de
fi
nition of authentic blackness, you heard your experience was
invalid
, y
ou heard you couldn't exist without sacrificing your skin. Well,
ain
'
t
you
g
ot something to
s
ay, she spat.
A millenia elapsed, and, still, you didn
'
t have a response
.
She
e
xtingui
s
hed your internal hellfire in that
s
mall eternity. The bell rang.
The
mom
e
nt whizzed by. You tried to relight your fire but were left with
e
mber
s.
You attempted to pour yourself back into porcelain
.
You remem-
bered
the mold was beyond repair. You couldn't recall what else occured at
sc
hool th
a
t day. At home you rushed to the bathroom mirror
.
You rubbed
Off
the ch
a
lky exterior. You severed all your scorched strands. You mar-
;
elect in
yo
ur reflection. You stopped wi
s
hing you were white. You ques-
onect
e
v
er
ything. In that moment in the cafeteria, you wish you could
'
ve
loict the
gir
l with the long braids
, "
This is what a black girl looks like
"
.
2


218
Incredibly Deadly
Julia Kisilinsky '22
Pride strides powerfully into the parlor
Parading about in sheer self-adoration and absolute obsession
It puffs its mighty chest out and boasts about its existence.
Gluttony glides into the grand corridor
Clothed in a massive cloak of comfort
Thumping through the establishment seeking more than ever
ne
Greed grabs all that the eye desires from the hall of precious
pi
Overdressed in extravagance and excessive longing
Wishing to have everything known to mankind.
Lust leisurely leaps into the arms of another yet again
Wearing nothing at all but its heart on its sleeve
Whispering sweet nothings and loads of empty promises.
Wrath reeks of recklessness and irrationality
Wearing the hatred of all beings
Screaming at anyone who comes into its path.
Envy enters the homes of another
Covered with lies and jealousy
Wanting everything but changing nothing.
Sloth slowly slides from the cave
Filthy from sheer laziness and inaction
Preventing itself from living up to or amounting to anything.
















Invokation of a Muse
Kevin Pakrad '23
Second Place, Poetry
Dirt of the mind is what I sing, upheld on passion undying,
n
o
from the matter of vision divine, Fate's dream to be fashioned
Stt11
o
rrue
by my grail. Old meat is made fresh through thee, Muse, by my cured lines
CUt
in thy deli of succulence. Prudence defines a low standard;
Quality equaling spam, starved moxie awaiting spice. Spondee?
Spon-don
'
t
?
Pointless inquiries, grilled nobody; only by half-wits.
full
Stop.
(Ever has Janus-faced indulgence more blatant been?)
Anyhow,
My
song i
s
more inspired by birds than Walt
was
,
watching grass; one leave per wit per soul
Per
Digit
a
l watch. The Finch sees her fault
As
mine own, versus songs of heart she stole.
Who
'
s ear was never caught? The harper's skill?
It's
prickl
y
hum a curse to sex and ends.
Fair
love made sick and saul: a loss of will.
But
note not where notation stops. My trends
Fan
flat for her, devilish muse. Torment
Rem
·
ains until at last, my words lament.
219


220
Iron Butterflies
Deborah Jenks '22
A successful woman is one who can build a firm foundation
with
bricks others have thrown at her
Pretty as a Peach yet Strong like a Tank
There is no force more powerful than a woman determined tori
We are Iron Butterflies


















Just
A
Gaze
Chloe Monroe '22
k
m
e
s
ix years of my life
It
too
To
reali
ze
I would never be a man.
iremember lifting up my Dallas Cowboys t-shirt
And
s
taring into the smudged mirror next to my Beanie Babies collection
Admirin
g
my exposed bare, flat
,
white chest
'lbinking
-
"One day I will be a Man."
Winter c
a
me and my mom told me to be careful of stranger
s.
Sometim
es
there are bad people
,
she explained
.
Sitting cri
ss
-cross applesauce with my Kindergarten class
Staring at the fuzzy projector screen light
Warning
6
-year-old
s
of sexual predators
And
men in white vans offering candy
Now
,
I find it funny that I ever wanted
To
be
s
omething so destructive.
Winter withered with time what once was white
And
purit
y
wa
s
commonly questioned as they wondered
Which w
o
m
a
n
'
s flower was no
longer
her own.
And
we a
r
e taught to fear Medusa?
Sermon
s o
penly shaming women for birth control and abortion
e
v
er mention the man who drove the girl home
And
.\I
Would not take no for an an
s
wer.
1 the While he'll brag and say he bought her dinner
221


222
We've been looking at it all wrong.
Maybe she was not cursed for breaking her celibacy
But instead, she was being protected.
Maybe she is not a monster
But instead, she is beautifully powerful.
What if we were told she was the problem only because
Now the roles are reversed
Now just a gaze can expose the lust of men -
And there's nothing more powerful than that.













Leap
.
Ethan Maslyn '22
A
whirlwind of choice
Each
mo
r
e dire than the last
'fhe
wind
s
sweep our legs
'fhey pu
s
h us closer
Closer to the edge of fate
Telling u
s
to choose
Feet
dan
g
le in space
Hands claw, grasping for freedom
Desperate for time
The
unending gale
Will
flin
g
us over the edge
U
nless we accept
Embracing our fate
We
can control our freefall
And
land where we choose
223





















224
Mask
0 li via Mangan '21
Mask (
➔)
1.
(n.) a face covering, worn as a disguise, as in: Cindere
placed a mask over her eyes to hide, to remain unnoticed by her evil
8
sisters and her prince charming. Oh sorry, not to be confused with
the
original Cinderella, the Hilary Duff version, I mean. Emiiy thinks
her
mask makes her unrecognizable when walking to class
.
She doesn't I
anyone on the way. People still call her by name as she walks. Yes,
pe
can still recogni
z
e you
,
Emily.
2. (n.) A covering over the nose and
m
to protect: to protect from what? Doctors place a mask over their
mou
and nose to protect their patients from being exposed to their germs,
vice versa. Painters wear respirator masks to protect themselves
from
harmful painting particles. Who knew these particles would soon
be
from the coronavirus.
3.
(v.) Cover an object or surface, as in
:
T~e
COil-!
tractor masked the cabinets and appliances before tearing down the
f
yellow wallpaper in the kitchen.
4.
(n.) A cosmetic preparation spread,
on the face to cleanse and purify, as in: Julia's skin care routine started
with a thorough wash
,
followed by a gentile exfoliate, a rinse, dabbed
~
followed by a Sephora face mask. A clay covering, disguising any
and
all imperfections
,
only for the final rinse of the night skincare routine
reveal them, once again. Gosh, why must these blemishes linger?
5.
(n.
An expression that hides: Feelings, as in: She laughed off the lonesome
pain offset by innocent comments. "Why are you sitting here alone
to-
"she
night?" the waiter asks. "Oh, I just wanted to try out this restaurant,
replies--forces a smile, even. They chuckle, knowing she's masking
the
truth. Date nights are nonexistent nowadays--these days, her striped
bl
UJl
mask masks her questioning glares at passersby around campus,
hidinl
her uncertainty-is that Jane? No ... or ... maybe? I don't know, I can't
"Hey!" she waves; no response in return.
6. ( v
.
) Cover the face, as in:






k
ed
u
p before stepping foot out the door. Disguising himself? Pro-
Jllas
ecting h
i
mself? All of the above. He doesn't want to say "hi" to anyone,
~
way. It's easier to get awciy with that these days. His mask protects his
b;Ith
, ye
t deters hi
s
mental state. A never ending cover
,
unmasking the
unfore
see
able future
.
Masking blemishes, while revealing society's flaw.
225







226
Eclip
se
Abigail Koesterich
·z~






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