'
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-
'
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.
.
-
:·
'
{
.,:
~
=
-
"
'
"",J
.
· ~
~~
.






www.maristmosaic.wordpress
.
com
maristmosaic@gmail.com
3399 North Road
Poughkeepsie, NY 12601
Cover Design and Interior Layout by Kaitlyn Dugan, Ethan Joyal,
Abby Koesterich, and Amanda Nessel
Cover Image: Hidden in the Fog by Riley Mazzocco
Opinions expressed in Mosaic do not necessarily reflect the views
held by Mosaic staff, students, faculty, or the administration of
Marist College.
©
Mosaic 2022







Mosaic
Editorial Board
Editor-In-Chief
Lauren Lagasse
Art Editor
Lily Jandrisevits
Fiction Editor
Kevin Pakrad
Nonfiction Editor
Julie Buchmann
Poetry Editor
Lorah Murphy
Design Editor
Amanda Nessel
Social Media Coordinators
Charlotte Del Vecchio, Kirsten Mattern, Blair Nackley, &
Mackenzie Zeytoonjian
Event Planning Committee:
Noelle Swift
Mosaic
Advisors
Mr. Robert Lynch and Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons









4
A Letter From The Editor
The Mosaic Editorial Board is proud to publish the fall 2022 Mosaic: a
student-run
literary and arts magazine highlighting the talented work of Marist College students
All 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, nonfiction and poetry. For many of our
editors, this publication is the first time they are seeing
student's
names associated with
their work.
The Editorial board would like to sincerely thank Mr. Robert Lynch for his
unending enthusiasm, support, and inspiration to the Mosaic. We would also like to
thank our advisor
,
Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons, for her dedication, guidance, and support
throughout the publication process.
Thank you to Alex Podmaniczky for helping us print Mosaic. Thank you to Dean
Martin Shaffer, Dean Jacqueline Reich, Dr. Eileen Curley, and the entire
English and Art departments for helping us find the accomplished students that are
featured in this semester's edition of Mosaic. In addition, thank you to the Student
Government for their help in the chartering process. We are thrilled to become an
official club on campus this semester.
Thank you to
all
the students who continue to submit their work each
semester!
This
campus is home to an incredibly talented
student
body and we are thrilled to publish
your work.
I would personally like to thank the Editorial board for their hard work and
dedication this semester. This would not be possible without them.
This fall is my first semester serving as Editor-in-Chief, and I am honored and
privileged to serve in this position. While the role could quickly have become
overwhelming, my predecessor Amanda Roberts made sure I was prepared for all
~
aspects of the job. Thank you for your mentorship, Amanda.
And finally, thank you for reading this semester's edition of the Mosaic and
experiencing the incredible work that Marist students have to offer. We hope you enjoy
the fall 2022 edition of the Mosaic.
Sincerely,
Lauren Lagasse
Mosaic
Editor-in-Chief












TABLE OF CONTENTS
Hidden in the Fog
Gloria
***
Asylum's Keep
Five Generations
Seven Day Cycle
Change
An e
xc
erpt from
"
My Mother From Sulphur
"
Primary Colors: for Kaedan
Gwen
GO OUTSIDE!
On the Porch
Quiet Chant
2nd Ave/ Asbury Boardwalk
The Victorian Ring
heartbreak
**
*
Who Killed Laura Palmer?
the fixer-upper
Light the Way
Trying
The Dance
A Walk With Grandpa
Sloppy Romantic
Rose
To-Do
Tattoos and Cigarettes
December 26th
Budding
The Restless Soul
Riley Mazzocco
Lily'Jandrisevits
Gabriella Amleto
Grace Rowan
Kaitlyn Dugan
LHH
Caitlin Blencowe
Kimberly Rosner
Aveen Forman
Nina Bisco
Rebecca D
'
Ambrosia
Bridget McGuire
Nina Bisco
Julie Buchmann
J Pinkans
Kevin Pakrad
Klanell Lee
Emma Denes
Heather Millman
Amanda Nessel
Rebecca D'Ambrosia
Kiki Wiehe
Alyssa Borelli
Kaitlyn Dugan
Kat Bilbija
Juliann Bianco
Tinsley Stewart
Riley Mazzocco
Cover
8
9
10
11
12
14
15
16
20
21
22
23
24
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
40
41
*
**the funeral
Lizzie Baumgardner
42
Pocket Poem
Heather Millman
43
Front Row Seat to the Rebirth of the Universe Cassandra Arencibia
44
***
=
Content may contain themes of abuse, grief, death, mental illness, and
body image.









One Flower, Two of Us
Lillian Defilippis
45
The Year We Were Ghosts
Grace McCormack
46
Self Reflection
Tinsley
Stewart
47
Can You See?
Grace McCormack
48
Dyson Bricks
Gabriella Amleto
49
Third Grade Year
Rebecca D'Ambrosio
50
Natural Order
Brianna Rullo
53
This)s me trying
Sydney Sailer
54
Confrontation
Bridget McGuire
55
a month at marist
Andrew Chiafullo
55
Saints and Self-Checkout
Michaela Ellison-Davidson
56
Nobody Doesn't Get Enough Credit
Eve Fisher
59
Jetty
Kaitlyn
Dugan
60
Elevator Talk
Adam L Freda
61
***skippity be do wop yeah
Stew Leonardo
62
Drowning
Amanda Nessel
63
***My Grandma's Hair
Kelly Keenan
64
The Trees of Peace
Nina Bisco
68
Inspiration
Victoria Conley
69
Diving
into
You
Kat Bilbija
70
Begin Again
Mia Garofalo
71
spring 2022
J
Pinkans
72
To be a girl...
Kelly Keenan
73
***numbers
Kirsten Mattern
74
*** Ascension
Jeremy Skeele
76
Sense of Self
Melissa Hering
80
Living Without You
Riley Mazzocco
81
Flawless
Caroline Willey
82
Ghost My Friend
Victoria Rose Amador
83
***Creaking and Clunking
Madisyn K.H. Martinelli
84
***I'm
Here Too
Grace McCormack
88
Abandoned
Amanda Nessel
89
***Phone
Calls
Rebecca D'Ambrosio
90
***First
Year Fears
AdamL Freda
91
6






Vying for What You Hold Dear
Raelle Leak
92
Meaningless Lines
Michaela Ellison-Davidson
93
The Hymn of Hallowed Grove
Luke X. Johnson
94
The Soul
Lillian Defilippis
95
Wasteland
Mia Garofalo
96
Product of Love
Kiki
Wiehe
98
Decomposing
Lillian Defilippis
99






I
.
8
Gloria
Lily Jandrisevits '25





Deep among the hills,
pushed away
by a forgotten world
Shaded by trees
Blocked by them
A mansion of dreams
Asylum's Keep
Gabriella Amleto '24
A mansion holding nightmares
Down in the Keep
within the walls
terrors of victims
and scars of abusers
lie and weep
Anger, sadness, regret,
shadows of emotions
play on the walls
Suffocating the living who enter
The living brave enough to try
Tucked away this manor waits
for the living
holding the dead.






10
Five Generations
Grace Rowan '23
Victor and Lucia got married in a little village in Northern Portugal,
right on the border with Spain, in the spring of 1958. Victor, who had
traveled by boat to New York City a few times before then, saved money
by working in construction there. After the wedding, Victor returned to the
States to get Lucia the proper documentation to meet him. Finally, about a
year later, Lucia could buy a ticket. She boarded a plane to JFK and, with-
out speaking any English, navigated her way around. When she arrived at
the airport, a very observant customs agent noticed a necklace with Vic-
tor's picture on it and helped her point him out in the crowd.
Fast forward to 1972, Victor and Lucia moved from the city to Long
Island with four daughtJrs, happier than ever. They traveled back to Portu-
gal when they could. In 1985, they finished building a house on land left
to them by Lucia's grandfather. Their daughters could see their extended
family and create life-long memories in Portugal every summer.
Fast forward another few years, and all four of their children went to col-
lege and started their own lives. One daughter, in particular, married a man
and immersed him into Portuguese culture. They would visit that house in
Northern Portugal, and even though he didn't speak Portuguese, he always
found a way to communicate with her family.
Fast forward again, my siblings and I come into the picture. My par-
ents take us to Portugal, to that same house my grandparents built so we
can see our extended family and create life-long memories. I always hear
miraculous stories from my mother about our family; how one sailed the
Lusitania and another helped build the Panama Canal. All that history
stems from this village in Portugal on land my great-great-great-grandfa-
ther bought. It all makes me grateful for my life and the people who came
before me.





Seven Day Cycle
Kaitlyn Dugan '25
Second Place, Art
1








12
Change
LHH
'24
I awoke to the sounds of leaves falling, each one making a distinct
sound as it fell off the tree. I left the window open last night. I looked
around. Took in my surroundings. Same day as it always was. The room,
cold and empty. Like a hollow shell without any trace of being. The walls
were blank, a faded eggshell white. Nothing has changed. I shifted my line
of sight to the single window on the far side of the room. I could now tell it
was autumn. That unique smell, radiating off the trees that once had beau-
tiful bright green leaves. Now, a weak sense of life ever being there. After
lying on the poorly made bed with cheap sheets, I arose from the comfort-
able position I was in. I lboked over at the clock. 6:33am. Each day started
earlier and earlier.
I made my way over to the bathroom, ready to start the day. The rou-
tine was similar. Nothing has changed. That's when I noticed my hands.
I stopped for a second. I didn't recognize them. These weren't the hands
of the person I had once known. I see that I am changing. Things had
changed. But why does it feel like I am falling behind? Unease passed over
me as I was now in the middle of the hallway staring at these hands that I
once thought could change the world. It seemed like a distant dream I once
had. The pathetic realization knowing that time had passed. These hands
were unable to achieve the goals I had set out for myself when I was young-
er.
Concerned, I continued my way to the bathroom. As I set to get ready for
the day, I glanced in the mirror. I had yet to turn on
the
lights, so the only
illumination was the barely visible sunrise outside the bathroom window.
As the light shadowed over me, it was now fully visible in the mirror.
It
was me? Yes, it was. I had to reassure myself that this was the person I






was looking at. Like my hands, I didn't recognize the person staring at
me. Those eyes. Attached to a face.
It
was-my face. I knew it was my face. I
knew it was the face that everyone on the street sees. Recognized as a real
person. But it was a stranger to me. The deep brown eyes that were once
full of optimism and hope, now replaced by regret and apathy. I didn't
recognize those eyes. The face
.
The face wasn
'
t smiling. I could remember it
always smiling but could not recreate it even if I tried. Why was it so timid?
Void of all expression? One glance and a person could tell something was
lost in that smile. Lost throughout the years of pain that slowly deteriorated
that picturesque smile. I stood in silence
.
Unable to speak because of the
utter shock of what I was seeing.
20 years. 20 years on this earth
.
Living in the same body. Fulfilling the
s
ame routine that proposed itself every day. But this is the first time I had
noticed it. I didn
'
t recognize this person. I knew it was me, but once again,
I could see I had changed. I knew I was drowning and as every day passed,
the water kept getting deeper and harder to swim in. I couldn't break the
surface. The tide of change had swept me away like a vague memory now
forgotten. But this was the first time. The realization that I had lost myself
s
omewhere along the way. As the emotions faded, I now realized that the
person I had known was gone. I couldn't revert to the person I once was.
I couldn
'
t turn back time. I couldn't live in the past. But with that recogni-
tion, came acceptance. All this time I was battling the current, but I finally
understood that I couldn't fight the tide. The only constant is change, and
I couldn't ignore that fact any longer. Looking back at the mirror, I knew I
needed to act.
It
was time to change, but change on my terms.
1









14
An excerpt from "My Mother From Sulphur"
Caitlin Blencowe '24
My mother left Sulphur when she was 21 years old. Sulphur Louisiana, right on
the bottom of the boot. That sweet little town that nonetheless felt like it would
swallow you whole and keep you in its ranks forever. That Sulphur. She had spent
her whole life in one place, stuck in the south's cruel humidity and mosquito infecte
haze
.
I think if her father hadn't passed when she turned 20, she would still be stuck
there
.
But he did pass, and she did leave. Couldn't bear to live in the house he built
for them, couldn
'
t handle the stress of her broken family. She had told Grandma that
she was doing it for them, that in California she would have a new start and would
be able to financially support the family from there. Grandma had called her crazy,
said that the idea was ridiculous and that she couldn't possibly be serious, not with
Kathy being so little and with Ger
'
s condition. But Mom had her Dairy Barn money
and that was enough for her. She left that shoddy little house that she'd known since
childhood, packed her bags and got on the train
.
She rode it all the way to California,
didn
'
t sleep until she got to the golden state.
Mom didn't want me to go. Thought I was being selfish, leaving the family
because I wanted to. She didn't get it
,
didn't get that I had to leave, didn
'
t have any
other choice. I would have stayed
,
I would have, but every day I woke up I thought
about Dad, thought about how I'd have to be in the house with nothing but a whisper
of his name. Mom had thrown away all his stuff. She thought it would help everyone
grieve, that if his stuff was gone, the loss wouldn't eat us alive
,
and we could learn to
move on.
It
did the opposite for me. Just took everything about Dad out of the house,
felt like he was never here, that he was just a figment of my imagination. The house
felt empty, hollow, I couldn't stay
.
Mom went to Louisiana Tech, got a degree and everything- first one in her family
to do so. Her accounting degree didn't mean much without a masters
,
but she got a
job at a local grocery store in the valley, planned to work there until she was settled
in and on her feet. She had grown up with so little that staying in a rundown motel
with a sparse meal plan and little spending money didh't even phase her.
It
didn't
take her long to get adjusted to her new life. The dry heat was new, but Mom was
adaptable and jumped at the idea of humid-less summers. The people were friendly
there, just like in Sulphur, only they were less personable, less genuine in their nice-
ties. You'll never meet strangers here Addie, she would tell me.









I
misse
d Sulphur,
I
really
did. California
was great and
I under
s
tood
why everyone
back
home
was envious
I
got
to
go,
but it
wasn't
Sulphur. I
guess
the
change was
goo
d tho
ugh. Nothing
about California remind
~
d me
of
Dad, but
at
the
sa
me
time,
every
thing
did.
I
saw
him in every post
office (Dad worked at
the one back home.
Love
d
it.
He would
buy me
s
tamps
as
presents
and
I would
s
tick them
all over
the
hous
e.
Mom
hated
it.
Dad thought it
was art.)
I
saw
him in
autumn
leaves
,
the men
at c
hurc
h
,
even
the Popeye's downtown
.
I
carried
him with me everywhere
and saw
him e
very
where,
but his name didn't hang over me like
an
unwanted presence like
it
dow
n
back
home. I
got space
from
everything while
also feeling
connected
to him.
No,
Califo
rnia wasn't
Sulphur, but it
was
home now.
Primary Colors: for Kaeden
Kimberly Rosner
'
25
1









16
Gwen
Aveen Forman '23
Third Place, Fiction
Oh to be in love. Not just any kind
of love, but true love. Love fueled by
the inexperience of being truly in love.
Love hot enough it burns brighter
than the sun. Love intense enough it
outshine a thousand suns. Love solid
enough to outlast a million suns. Or so
it feels.
Seymour did not know this kind
of love before he fell for Gwen. He
thought he had, but up to this point all
of his affairs had been fleeting.
It
was
love hot enough to burn your hands on
the plate but the food is still complete-
ly frozen and it has to be put back in
the microwave. Love intense enough
you take a sip and are unsure whether
or not you ordered a mocktail. Love
solid enough it rivaled the greatest
Lincoln log cabins
.
Then at the ripe old age of 22
Gwen came walked into Seymour's
life, and has since never taken a step
back. Gwen quite literally walked into
Seymour's life
.
Gwen had accidental-
ly walked into the path of Seymour's
bike, and the pair barely managed
to avoid collision. Well, except for
Seymour, who took a nasty tumbler
and totaled is his bike in the process.
Seymour was quite literally head over
heals for Gwen.
It
seems Gwen felt
similarly
,
as the pair was wed one fine
June day four months after they met,
just shy of Gwen's 20th birthday.
In the two years since, Seymour
finally finished his GED, enrolled
in classes at the local community
college, and managed to find a job
that would pay for his education,
provide a full benefits package, and
helped him to locate a cozy apartment
downtown that he shared with Gwen.
Gwen continued her education at loc
University, and was fresh graduated
the previous December.
It
seemed lik
everything was on the up for the pair,
and they were destined to become one
of those perfect happy couples that
everyone wished they were apart of.
That is until March 15th. His En-
glish professor told him to beware the
ides of March in class on Friday, but
it was Friday the 13th, and Seymour
incorrectly assumed his teacher got
the dates mixed up, laughed it off and
continued on with his life. But life had
a differ~nt plan for Seymour, and two
days later life was about to get a whol
lot weirder.
Seymour came back to the apart-
ment that morning with pancakes







-
for Gwen. Two blueberry and one
chocolate from the diner on the corner
three blocks East. There was a closer
diner
,
but Seymour was not the kind of
per
s
on to take things halfway
.
He left
Gwen asleep in their bed half an hour
ago trying his best not to wake her and
ruin the delicious surprise
.
A
s
he entered the apartment, some-
thing was off, and it wasn
'
t just the
lights. The room smelt weird. H~
couldn't pinpoint what was wrong
about the smell, he knew instinctive-
ly that something smelt off, and it
wasn't just the sour milk in the fridge.
Everything felt wrong. The house was
freezing, but it wasn't just the March
air outside. In fact, it was an uncharac-
teristically hot day
,
and Seymour had
worked up a bit of a sweat on his way
to the diner
.
Then Seymour heard it. It was a
faint. .. screaming? He stood still. The
s
cream was soft, but it was definitely
coming from inside the house. He
took a look around, and he couldn't
find anything. He thought that maybe
the cat was stuck in the closet again,
but he turned the corner and saw
Couscous lounging in a pile of fresh
laundry
.
Seymour saw something next to
Couscous
.
It looked like a piece of
s
tring, but when he approached and
examined the small rope he realized it
was worm.
Seymour was perplexed. Couscous
had never brought a worm in as a
trophy before. He went to pick up the
worm to return it to the outdoors when
the screaming started again.
Was the worm screaming? That
couldn't be possible. Seymour wasn't
the brightest but even he knew that
worms don
'
t speak. The cow says
moo, the pig says oink, but the worm?
They never really mentioned worm.
They say the early bird gets the worm,
but nothing about the worm shriek-
ing for dear life
.
Then the screaming
stopped, it was quiet for second, and
then the worm started ... talking?
It was soft, but the worm was most
definitely forming English words.
"Help me Seymour" the worm said
"How do you know how to talk? How
do you know my name?" Seymour
responded, surprised he was now
holding a conversation with a worm.
"I don
'
t know! Help me!
"
The worm
exclaimed.
"Help you with what? You wanna go
in the dirt" Seymour asked.
"What? No ... Seymour it's me"
"I don't know any worms"
"It's me, Gwen!"
Seymour picked up the worm
"Hey watch it"
"Sorry. Can you repeat that"
"Hey watch it?"
"No before that. .. Gwen? Why are
you a worm?"
1





18
"Because I wanted to get more in
touch with nature!" Gwen rattled
"Oh" Seymour muttered, still con-
fused about the situation he currently
found himself in.
"I have no clue why I'm a worm now
Seymour, what kind of question is
that? Gwen shrieked, she seemed
startled that she was now a worm
.
"I'm sorry I'm confused, I went out
for pancakes but instead I've found out
that the world's first talking worm is
my girlfriend"
"What do I do?" Gwen cried
"What do you mean?"
"How do I stop being a worm?"
"I'm not sure, maybe like a ritual
sacrifice?"
"You're gonna sacrifice me?"
"No like we have to commit a ritual
sacrifice to the worm gods"
"My life is over"
"What do you mean?"
"I'M
A
WORM!"
"Oh really I couldn't tell." Seymour
cracked. He didn't really know what to
do in this situation.
"You're not helping!"
"This is an unprecedented situation for
me"
"Oh Seymour, WHO COULD EVER
LOVE A WORM?"
" ...
"
Seymour did not know what to
say "I mean ... " he continued "I guess
I could"
"NOOO! YOU MUST FIND AN-
OTHER!"
"Another what?
"
"DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON
ME SEYMOUR, I AM UGLY, I A
DISGUSTING, I'M A WORM"
"Well
,
you said it, not me
.
"
Gwen started hysterically sobbing
"Don't cry" Seymour panicked
"WAAAAAAAAHHHHHH"
"Babe"
'
'
WAAAAAAAAHHHHHH''
"Babe it's ok"
''WAAAAAAAAHHHHHH''
"I'm not going anywhere"
'
'
WAAAAAAAAHHHHHH''
"You're not dead, you're just a worm
"I might as well be dead Seymour"
'
:
Gwen, I love you."
"NO ONE COULD LOVE A
WORM"
"Well I love you, and if you're a
worm, I mean ... " Seymour tried to
reason
''WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH''
"I will love you no matter what"
"JUST STEP ON ME"
"Gwen"
"
FEED ME TO THE BIRDS,
THROW ME ON THE SIDEWALK
NEXT TIME IT RAINS"
"Gwen you're my wife, I can't just
feed you to the birds, not legally at
least"
"Don't be stupid. Look at me"
"It's certainly different"
"WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH"










"
It
's
gonna be an adjustment for sure
,
but I don
'
t know how to live without
you
"
.
?"
"
Do you mean 1t.
"Yeah
"
?"
"
Are you sure
.
"
Ye
s
"
"
You're lying"
"
No I'm not" Seymour stated. "When
I married you, I said a sacred vow. I
promi
s
ed to love you no matter what.
For sick or for health, for richer 0r
po
o
rer
,
for women or for worm
.
I
meant every word of it Gwen
.
I love
you. I'll take care of you. Trust me.
Trust me like you did on our wedding
day. Please."
And trust him she did. What else
could
s
he do? She was a worm. Life
changed after that day. Seymour and
Gwen decided that it was best to pre-
tend publicly that Gwen had disap-
pe
a
red under mysterious circumstanc-
e
s
, it would be a lot easier to pretend
Gw
e
n disappeared than to come out
to the press about the worlds first
anthropomorphic worm. They were
afraid if they disclosed Gwen was now
a talking worm
,
she would be ritually
sacrificed for science. Although Gwen
W
c!,
S
now a worm, she still had a life
to live
.
Seymour adjusted to having
a worm bride. He made a contrap-
tion that allowed him to carry Gwen
around in his pocket while keeping
her comfortable
.
People thought
Seymour was a bit eccentric
,
always
talking to himself about everything
,
and generally acting like a tour guide
in every aspect of his life. Together
they were able to travel the world
.
After all he only had to buy one ticket.
They dined at the finest of restaurants,
they wore the finest of clothes, and
met the finest of people. Indeed, for
Gwen and Seymour, it seems that love
really could conquer all. The love they
shared conquered the startling reality
of a wife turned worm. Their loved
conquered the average lifespan of an
earthworm, with Gwen living 57 years
as a worm, a full 56 years longer than
the average worm. And finally
,
their
love conquered the age old question:
"
Would you still love me
,
even if I
were a worm?"
15




20
GO OUTSIDE
Nina Bisco '2








On the Porch
Rebecca D'Ambrosio '24
Second Place, Poetry
1
wondered
if he'd tell me to pull closer to the curb,
I'd never been good at parking.
He
was
right on the porch where he always sat
And he was letting his beard grow,
I'd never seen it so scraggly, so white.
He looked old.
I'd never really had that thougµt before.
J think he said hi doll but I can't remember.
J
remember the overwhelming need to hug him,
I couldn't remember the last time I hugged him,
Or even seen him really.
He pulled away and smiled,
The
smile
synonymous with grandpa
And
gave
me a kiss on my tear-stained cheeks.
Because no matter how much I told myself in the car,
The
second
I saw him I could barely get a word out.
Okay, one more, and he pulled me in again,
And
I
hugged my grandfather.
And
for
the first time in a long time, I wanted so badly to stay at his house,
To
stay
with my grandpa and have him make me a cup of tea,
And
give
me fig newtons, even though I never ate them
,
And have him tuck me into the couch with the same blanket I always used.
Instead, I had to pull away
And had the frightening realization I was practically at eye level with him.
In his eyes laid unshed tears and some emotion distinctly grandpa.
He told me to promise to call if I needed him,
I did, though part of me knew I wouldn't, or couldn't, call him
At least not anymore.
And
I
ached for the days when a call to grandpa would solve any problems
I had.
Instead, I told him I loved him and got into my car,
I waved from my window to him on the porch,
And
drove
away, off to school.
2





22
It's been a long time
Quiet Chant
Bridget McGuire '26
Since the last calm in the storms
Post waves crashing, spraying drops in eyes,
Scaring nonsense into minds,
There is a meeting outside God's doors
Someone comes out
Someone tries to talk
Someone doesn't seem to
What is this quiet?
Lizzie screams in the back
What is this quiet?
Quiet?
Should something be said?
Someone comes out
Someone starts to talk
Someone talks back
Where's the quiet?
Why isn't there quiet?
Someone tries to talk
Someones are talking
What is this quiet?
Someones walk away
What is this quiet?
Should there be any quiet?
"Good-bye" from the chariot
"Good-bye" from the doors
"Good-bye from the chariot
"Good-bye" from the doors
"Good-bye titters the doors
"Good-bye" jokes the doors
Someone comes out
"Good-bye"
"Sorry, good-bye"
Someone tries to talk











.......------
so
m
eon
e
ta
lk
s
back
so
m
eone
si
ng
s
,
"
Good-bye"
"
G
o
od-by
e"
it ring
s
"
B
y
e" so
me
one tries
to talk
"
G
o
od-by
e"
something
rings
So
m
eone
tr
i
es
to talk
So
m
eone
tr
i
e
s to talk
back
"
L
et
's ta
lk
a
bout
the quiet"
"
Q
u
iet?"
"
Q
ui
et"
"
L
et'
s ta
lk"
N
o
m
ore
qui
et? "Let's
talk!"
D
on
't for
ge
t the
quiet
G
ood
-by
e?
So
m
eones
ta
lk
2nd Ave
I
Asbury Boardwalk
Nina Bisco '24
23










24
The Victorian Ring
Julie Buchmann '23
It all
started
on the first day of fall.
My friends and I were out
shopping,
and came upon this
vintage store we
hadn't been to before.
It
stood
out to
us that day.
Stacy
was
over looking
at
the
crew-
necks with Madelyn, but I found my
way over to the jewelry. I had recently
developed a love of rings,
and
wanted
to find a new one. And that's where I
found it.
A black onyx gem with
silver
lining
it. I turned the ring over to examine
it more, and I
saw
a
crest.
The design
was hard to make out, but instantly
caused a
shiver
to run down my
spine.
"Penny,
that ring is gorgeous!" I heard
I went up
to
the front counter to pu
chase the ring.
As I handed the ring over to the o
er, her demeanor instantly changed.
'
"'
Are you
sure
you want this?" She
asked
as
she
was wrapping it up an
putting it into
a
ring box.
"Is something
wrong with it?"
"Rings aren't
always
what they see
my dear."
I decided
she
was full of it,
and
I
handed her my card. She didn't m
eye contact with me for the rest of
transaction.
Madelyn tell me as
she
took the ring
Stacy, Madelyn, and I went home
to examine
it. "You
have to get it."
the thrift store. I tried to
shake
what
the lady told me, but it kept poppin
Stacy came over to us, agreeing with
-
up in the back of my mind.
Madelyn, and I decided I would.
It
was just a ring after all, and it obvi-
Rings aren't always what they seem.
ously caught my attention for a reason.
I knew it was
stupid.
I knew
she
wa
making
something
up. But it all just






ked me out. The chill the ring gave
frea
I honestly didn't even know why I
me,
bought it.
All of these thoughts were circling my
head too much that I decided to head
home
.
I said goodbye to Stacy and
Madelyn, and went to my car. I got in,
and started my drive home.
A
s
I was making my way home, I saw
the ring, sitting in my passenger
r
seat
in the box. I reached over and pulled it
out of the box
,
the eerie feeling shiver-
ing up my spine once again as I held it
in my hand.
Before I even knew what I was doing,
I rolled down my window and hurled
the rin
g
out of my car. It wasn't worth
the
s
tre
s
s
.
Now it would no longer be
my problem.
"
Penny ..
.
"
I
s
pran
g
up in my bed. I heard some-
one whisper my name. I lived alone.
It
took a minute for me to wake up, al-
thou
g
h my heart was racing. I decided
1 had probably dreamt it
,
and I made
my
way to the bathroom.
As I opened the bathroom door and
rubbed my eyes to adjust my vision,
my heart dropped.
There on the counter, was the ring I
had bought that day. The ring I threw
out my car window. Sitting on my
bathroom sink.
I instantly panicked. Someone was
inside my house. Someone brought
this ring into my house.
"Penny ..
.
"
I heard my name whispered again
.
But I had no clue where it was coming
from
,
it felt like it wa
s
inside my head
.
I ran back to my room, leaving the
ring on the counter.
I grabbed my phone and my keys
,
run-
ning to my car. I had no clue who was
there
,
and had no intention of finding
out. I was going to drive to the police
station.
I started my car and sped out of my
driveway.
While on the way to the station, I
looked in my passenger seat, fearful a
ring would be placed there. But thank-
fully
,
nothing was there.
2







26
After a few minutes, I pulled into the
station and parked. I got out of my
car
,
and something shiny caught my
attention in the gravel.
I felt dizzy the second I realized what
it was.
It
was the ring
.
"Penny, just put it on ... " The voice
whispered to me once more
.
Suddenly, it felt like my body was be-
traying me. I was picking up the ring,
and going to place it on my finger
.
It
felt like an internal battle.
"Come on, Penny .
..
"
The voice won. I placed the ring on
my finger, and the world went black.
One Year Later
"Today is the one year anniversary of
the disappearance of Penny Garland,
who mysteriously disappeared in
July of last year in the police station
~
parking lot. The last footage seen of
Garland was her car pulling into the
station parking lot, her stepping out of
the car, and then picking up some
from the gravel. A bright light ap-
peared moments later, and the mo
following Garland had vanished. S
has not been seen since
.
The disa
pearance of Garland has been a ve
mysterious case, with little to no
1
I
f'
you see or hear anything that is
related to this case, please contact
police immediately."
She reached up and shut off the tel
sion with a click of a button. She
s
up from her sofa
,
and made her wa
the staircase
.
As she passed the ·
Penny Garland's reflection was sh
But Penny was long gone.
The reflection in the mirror may
h
shown Penny Garland staring
back
herself, but on the inside was som
far different from Penny
.
Someone
used to have a black onyx ring, wi
silver lining, and a crest on the insi
of it.
Rings aren't always what they see
And people aren
'
t either.





heartbreak
J
Pinkans '24
27









28
Who Killed Laura Palmer?
Kevin Pakrad '23
First Place, Poetry
"Good news! That gum you like is finally
Coming back into style." The arm dances
!
Across the floor in a methodical jig.
He taunts the audience; he has what they
Want: truth - bathed in blood - it has a sweeter taste
than sweet honey; it
'
s liquid dopamine,
To satisfy the senses. Puzzles are
No longer sacred - solve this riddle, win
A prize! I've never heard a lazier joke.
The man who laughs at it is worse: An ant
Watching television from the lid of
Your take-away tin has more sympathy.
That's life! The fool is the high priest; supreme.
- My heart just doesn't buy it. When will blood be
Worth less than gold? When we can bring flavor
To a tale without the usual martyrs -
She's invincible. Like Juliet and
The woe we all know she has for Romeo.
Dead Romeo; the Orphic prince and his
Euryidic Queen. Such as mushrooms in the
dark, spurting spores; death begets death begets
Pleasure. There is no poetry in death's
Game, behind that black mirror, sucking
its teat; evil grows. The milk is not as
good by itself as it is with blood. Who
cares? The girl is already dead, and Death's joke
Fell on deaf ears - It wasn't very funny anyway.








the fixer-upper
Klanell Lee '24
the
moon turned purple over your eyes.
the sun set on your face.
I waved off the waves so that you could float.
I glazed the water surface so your reflection stays clear.
I carved beautiful on your forehead ...
one less insecurity.
J
clipped your wings so you can rest,
just to sew them back on.
you're healed and free.
my hands only ask ...
"whoever the next will be,
can you please just warn .... me"





30
Light
the
Emma
Denes'
















Trying
Heather Millman '23
,
a
rt to not making a sound
Theres an
.
g
yo
ur things down in a specific order every time
To puttin
To breathing
i
n slightly deeper
But
not too deep
There
a p
e
rf
e
ctly reasonable response to a shoe toppling off the rack instead of fitting into it as it
alwa
y
s fits into it
There
is a perfectly reasonable response
And it doe
s
n't require the gasp-hiccup
t
hat you didn't know was going to escape the way your
body tense
s
And free
z
e
s a
nd you slowly put the shoe back but it's too late and your vision is blurry and you
know you will be blubbering and then there is the first sob
Sort-of
The
way you wish you could swallow it back in and hide from it
And
And then the dam bursts and you think
Goddamn it'
s
been a while
Goddamn it
's
been a while since you couldn't breathe through hiccups
And
this i
s w
hat they call healthy but you call unstoppable because now it will go on and on and
on
And
you d
o
n't have time for this
But
it's unst
o
ppable
The
domin
os
have fallen
You
cannot take it back
►
3











32
The
Dance
Amanda
Nessel
•25
Third
Place,
A
rl


















>
A Walk With Grandpa
Rebecca D'Ambrosio '24
"
WhY
don
'
t we all go_ for a walk?"
.
A
walk with just us kids and grandpa - now that was special.
H
mad
e
it seem so exciting, like it was a fun game. A fun game designed to distract us
f;m
the fact that the world se~med to be ending i
_
nside ?ur ?ea~h house. That was special
special in the way that wed never seen anythmg qmte hke 1t before. We'd never seen
':•adult
s
fight like us kids, throw their arms up in the air and shout at each other.
If
I did
~at with Rachel I'd surely get in trouble, but no one seemed to be stepping in the middle
of them this time. Mom usually did that with us, but Mom was too busy slamming the
door to our bedroom on Aunt G
.
'
Grandpa
s
uggested we take a walk so we did. He gathered all of us kids - well not all
of us
.
Uncle wouldn
'
t let my little cousins come along, they were too busy packing their
bags bec
a
u
s
e apparently, they were leaving a week early. I remember passing Aunt J
,
she
was shoving things into their trunk while screaming at Aunt L and she didn't stop scream-
ing, even when she saw us kids clambering down the steps with Grandpa, kicking at the
pebbles th
a
t littered the driveway, not daring to meet her eyes, and that only made Aunt L
scream ri
g
ht back at her. It made me feel bad
,
my little cousins wouldn't stop crying and I
thought i
f
only they could come on the walk with Grandpa, they would stop crying
.
But
,
from the driveway we marched, Grandpa leading us all, holding hands. I didn't know
where we were walking to and I don't think Grandpa did either, but we walked away.
Away from a house being torn apart from four different angles
,
where four different cars
were being packed up to leave. We still had a few days here, I didn't know why everyone
was in a rush to leave early and I definitely didn
'
t want to leave yet.
~e walk
e
d for a long time and we hopped on the sidewalks and pointed at bikers pass-
mg by la
te
at night. We made up a game, I'm sure the rules were convoluted and made
no sense to anyone but ourselves, but we played as we walked. And at some point
,
we
ended up at Scojos, and how fun it was to be at a breakfast place late at night. We ordered
chocolat
e
chip pancakes and waffles with ice cream and Grandpa let us - he didn't make
any comments about ordering what you'll eat and eating what you ordered, which was
odd for him. And soon my stomach hurt because it was full of sugary syrup and whipped
cr~a~ and not because the beach house was being ripped apart, and seemingly my family
With
It.
~nld then we walked back to the house, like ducks in a
line,
with Grandpa and I thought
s ong a
s
Grandpa was leading, nothing bad would continue to happen
.
3
:






34
Sloppy Romantic
Kiki Wiehe '26
Love oozes out of my fingertips
At the faintest pressure
Secrets slip off my lips
As if I were speaking to a god
Tiny fires spark on my cheeks
As you effortlessly pour
Your affection all over me
My chest fills with caution
With every inhale
I am dangerously unguarded
I burn with emotional overexposure
As soon as your warmth
Begins to thaw my very soul
My icy perception takes utter control
And the sharp rails of my guard race back up










Rose
Alyssa Borelli '24
fhere is a rose wilting on 1?Y desk
Her stem is a dark gr~en w~th
.
ellow
s
hine that glitters
m
the hght
~~r
petals
,
once scarlet and bright
Are now wrinkled
,
torn,
blackening against the air
She ha
s
no thorns
.
Someone removed them long ago.
She's be
e
n passed around from hand to hand
One boy loved her deeply but he forgot to water her
Another displayed her to all his friends and choked her at the roots
One boy couldn't see her beauty and kept her hidden
Another only used her for one night
Who
will
be the next to take her home
Does she want to be thrown into another temporary vase
Who
will
she dream about in the middle of the night
Who
will
inspire the love stories she wants to tell
If
no one holds her
If
no one wants her
Is she still a rose
She is tired
Wilted
Lost
Maybe
s
he won't mind withering away on my desk
There no one can want her
But at least no one else can
touch her.
3:






•
Kaitlyn
Dugan
'
36















p
Tattoos and Cigarettes
Kat Bilbija
-
'24
e met a boy with tattoos and cigarette burns
I one
. h . .
h
f
d
.
A
brown-haired boy wit mtlmacy w o re use to comrmt
1 think we
'
ve all met this boy at least once
This boy and I shared conversations like coffee
We
mingled our dreams and what's in our tea
painting e
a
ch other with lavender words and a kiss
He
appreciated parts of me that ot~ers ignored
As if we were destined to collide in bliss
He
seemed more statue than boy, more vision than true
His
lips spoke a language that came with a deadline
His
face wrote "unattainable" as he listened with glee
I pinched myself to somehow feel awake
From the dreamlike dance he played above me
For just as he dropped from the sky
So
he vanished all the same
Leaving no trace I danced on his heartstrings
While he left fruitless footsteps on mine
The fine powder of his charm circled me for days
A
million wonders of where my personality went wrong
When h
is
was the one written with broken trust
Moving on fast to avoid the shadow of his figure
Longing still to reach out, pull him back from the dust
His
beautifully common frame does nothing but haunt
How
could someone so perfect think me the same
Yet
he was less than godlike beyond his skin
~ow could I confuse his bronze heart for gold
n a momentary fantasy quickly worn thin
w,
W~ ve all met the boy with tattoos who liked to flee
8
°
bathed you in cherry words only to leave you with the pit
Ut made you feel so lucky to be seen by someone like him
37









38
December 26th
Juliann Bianco '25
I wonder if there's a support group
for fairy tale characters
in the white space at the bottom of the page
below the Happily ever after.
Because you never think about them there,
do you?
No one lights their candle and sets to work with the lemon juice
to uncover the rest of the story
hidden on the tiny field of surrender
between happily ever after
and the coffin lid slammed shut.
Once their lovely heroes reach the end,
the world won't
spare
a blink in their direction.
But they're not to blame.
No one told the world that knights and princesses don't just have an escape h
from every toothache,
every bruised knee,
every crack in the road,
every heartbreak,
every
I'm sorry
with crossed fingers,
and every last goodbye they'll have to say.
And no one told the poor heroes
that they can't just hand the grim reaper
the last page of their story with that happily ever after,
and expect to look into death's eyes
without falling.
No one questions what happens to the heroes after happily ever after,
not even their writers
.
They learn to live their bittersweet reality
without the drum of ten thousand angels
cheering them on this time.




















,
learning to live their December 26th.
'fheY
re
d that waiting lasts forever, dear,
J've
hear
.
the bottom of the hourglass
wh:
the light you were born of and the quiet you'll rot in
.
hol
.
,
t
d n't think it s rue.
~at lasts forever is the_ after,
.
t,ecause after isn't promised an endmg.
As these words hit the page
It
is december 24th,
with limited
seconds
until Christmas day.
I
think it's important that you know that,
because every letter that rips out of my lungs becomes less human and more of a
scratching on a cave wall.
Every
word becomes more desperate as we grow closer to the after,
because
at
this very moment there's only
one
hundred and twenty-four minutes
until Christmas day.
And that's the point, isn't it?
that
you can count down every last second
and
measure every rumble of the earth
as you
wait.
That's the beauty of it, you see.
As
you
count down the seconds,
your
lovely
eyes
will paint the scene of
your
first kiss
your
daughter's first birthday
your
graduation
your
fiftieth anniversary
and
Christmas day.
Albell
the_ world creates itself behind your eyelids, safe from the earth and what lies
OW It.
You
ca
't
af
n count down the seconds
ter
you'
r
No
_ve
ived your truest ending, your sweetest victory.
Wonone
_sits
_
o~ their kitchen floor on December 26th,
denng if it will snow.







40
It's over
,
then,
but
it's good.
The fairy tale heroes learned
to
live past
their happily ever afters,
and who knows?
Maybe their
smiles
are most beautiful in the after, where no one can
see.
So for now, all we must do is
see
the beauty the
world
brought us,
and learn to live in the quiet peace
of December 26th.
Bu
Tinsley Stew












The Restless Soul
Riley Mazzocco
'26
Cobblestone roads
Thin
and unfamiliar
Cars
on the other side of the road.
Your
only companion is your backpack
As
you explore the unknown
No time to stop and purchas
/
e trinkets that will weigh you down.
Taking in the experience is what matters most
Pictures
serve
as permanent reminders
Of
where
you
have been and where you are going.
But
there is no reason to stop and reflect now
You
have the road in front of you
And
your belongings on your back
The
time to
settle
will come later.
41







42
a girl ahead of her time
the funeral
Lizzie Baumgardner '25
a seventh grader who thought herself a trailblazer
or at least that was how she perceived her existence in this measly
wo
standing here at your funeral, i do not mourn that you are gone
this world was not prepared for a soul like yours
they did not concern themselves with your life until you departed
now, they flock to your grave and lament
"She was so young"
"She had so much to live for"
they don't know what they did to you
they were the killers craving blood, like hounds in the night
you were the pure and innocent victim, who fell prey to the darkness
i glance towards your casket
you look at peace
i think it is for the better that you are gone
a Bright girl like you has no place in a world full of grey
a Headstrong girl like you deserves to be free from the shackles of this
place
a Gentle girl like you deserves more than what she was gifted at her creatio
you gave kindness
But it was never returned
I find it quite unusual to be standing up here at your funeral
It's not every day you write a eulogy for your dead twelve-year-old self













Pocket Poem
Heather Millman '23
e people have security blankets
~:e my
schedule
written in a fourth size notebook paper tucked
into
the palm of my hand Monday
It
reads and
Wednesday and
Class@
12:30
Building
Room number
It reads band and flute choir
And
it has fold lines that will become deep enough to tear the paper
And
I
will
only look at it for the first week
Before it becomes part of my palm something to rub (feel) between
my
fingers
Another nervous habit I cannot drop
►





44
Front Row Seat to the Rebirth of the Unive
Cassandra Arencibia '24
Front Row Seat to the Rebirth of the Universe
Sunsets turn me off,
dry as the Sahara.
I drift away from things that are crowded around,
and boy does everyone stay awake for you.
Something about
carbon making sunsets prettier,
more alive,
turns me off.
I fear if I traveled back in time,
they'd look so boring.
Maybe that's my problem.
Maybe that's why I like you.
Sunrise.
It has been a long time since I woke this early.
Woken restlessly,
tangled in hot muggy sheets.
Eyes crusty, lids puffy, mouth cottony.
I ache with a monthly throb.
I almost call for Mom, for the thermometer under the armpit.
I have a lot to do, and a lot to be done,
there is no time for respite, no time for rest, not any longer.
So diagnose me so I can speedrun to wellness.
But all is quiet.
Save for softly singing birds.
And the deep collective breaths being taken,
or that will be taken,
this morning, a morning like any other.
I wish my bedroom windows still faced the sunrise,
because I remember still, watchful mornings as a girl
where all I did was listen to the sunrise
.
Silence was a warm blanket
,
silence was my mother with a hot cup of coffi
a kiss on the forehead.
But I listened to what the sky told me,

















. ht
bl
ue an
d gray
night fleeing into the where?
r11e
]Jg
1
0
where.
.
.
.
.
·
d the
sun
was
white
as it gnpped the honzon and hoisted itself up.
A-ll
I d
in
hot
m
uggy
clouds
rano e
£
.
/
crusty
, lids
puffy,
mouth cottony.
,i
o
rning
br
eath
ga
lore
.
•
5
Jike
freshly
pressed
laundry, yawned as the sun pulled off the sheets and
nee
qui
lt
s
of
nig
ht an
d stars.
The
moon
was a
lready
gone, already asleep behind sheds, windows, and church-
e
..
An
d
I
can
not
reme
mber what
I
was thinking.
But
I
reme
mber pe
ace.
And
joyful
paralys
is.
Like
I
could
not
move
if
I
wanted to,
bu
t
why wo
uld
I
wa
nt to?
One Flower, Two of Us
Lillian DeFilippis '26
4
.






46
The Year We Were Ghosts
Grace McCormack '24
My classmates wanted nothing but to leave;
the halls were bare because they would not
show.
This phantom year did not offer reprieve
from loneliness that crushes souls so slow.
They teased us just like starving men allowed
a bite of bitter stone disguised as cake.
We chewed the rock- our teeth became unbound,
and mouths were masked, so grins, no one could make.
They said, spring's end, we'd graduate en masse.
I blink and tassels swing from wind and rain.
Once friends, now
strangers
staged as one full class;
we're missing half, but we ignore the strain.
A year's gone by; it seems they all forget
the year we drifted, filling with regret.





Self Reflection
Tinsley Stewart '24
First Place, Art
47








48
Can You See?
Grace McCormack '24
Throats scream bullets trying to penetrate my mind,
hands seize me and try to hold me down.
I want them to stop, but I must be subtle because
no one will like me if they find out what's in my head.
Knowledge is leverage, but why do my punches prove weak on fal
Freedoms are only granted to those with similar thoughts, while
others are spat on because they are "dangerous, close-minded fools.
Respect is reserved for the robotic.
Youth was stripped away, precious time was lost, and kids are scar
of the future, yet I cannot help because there is tape over my mouth
under which I am screaming like an ambulance and am slowly sufti
right in front of you. Can you see? Move the veil from your eyes
an
see.
Separately dominant in different parts of divided land; how can
you
every day where your own country is your worst enemy?
Let the lies in. It's okay. But decide for yourself if they should stay.
Forced into your mind these snakes may be, but they only bite if yo
them.




















Oh
great bricks
bOW
you've fallen
bOW
you've fallen
(rolll
your porous glory
bOw
proudly you shone
in
the splendor of sunsets
Dyson Bricks
Gabriella Amleto '24
Packing
away lectures upon lectures
into
your earthen grain
only
to be torn away
and
downward
dashed
into the Earth
in
a pyre with your brethren
immortalized in past pictures
and
faded memory
Grinding into the lectures
spilled
forth ( when broken to two)
spilling lecture upon lecture
secrets
upon secrets
the
ichor of knowledge
into
the dust we tread upon
the
mud stuck to our shoes
llntil
h
t
e rain washes away the remnants
~
on through sands eternal
rn
down for Progress
rtl>uu
t
t or Modernity

















50
Third Grade Year
Rebecca D'Ambrosio
'24
Second Place, Nonfiction
We're driving around the block
again,
heading down the big hill. In
about fifteen
seconds we'll
be in
front
of the
stairs
again. There are fourteen
of them that I go up every morning.
But for
some
unknown reason, I
couldn't do
it
this morning, the
same
way I couldn't do it most other morn-
ings. Mom looks back at me, concern
and
annoyance etched
on
her
face.
My
sister
was huffing and puffing
in
the
front
seat,
her leg bouncing up and
down underneath her uniform
skirt
-
her high
school
locks the doors at 8
:
10
and it's her freshman year where first
impressions count, and I'm making her
late. My brothers both got out the first
time around because they were in 8th
and 6th grade and had places to be. My
sister
has to get to high
school,
Mom
has to get to work, and most impor-
tantly, I have to get out of the car. So I
get out, walk up the fourteen
steps,
and
head to my third-grade classroom for
morning prayers. Immediately, my eyes
well with tears and I have only one
thought in my head: I need to
go
home.
I keep my head down as I walk up
the
steps,
my purple backpack seeming
too big for my 8-year-old body as it
knocks against the back of my knees.
My
school
is a
small school,
every
classroom from first through eighth
grade and the front office is in
0
hallway. I walk down the hallw
do every morning, lingering
by
trance of the
sixth-grade
class
11
see
if I can
sneak
a peek at my
if I can communicate with him j
how badly I can't be here right
how badly I need comfort from
one. (I don't dare look in the ei
grade classroom, the teacher is
scary).
I don't
see
him though,
ably doesn't want to be associa
the crying third grader, again.
B
I
said,
our
school
is a small
sch
eryone most likely already kno
his little
sister.
I'm sure someon
spotted
him the previous week ·
on the beaten-up couch in front
office at the end of the long hall
with his arm around me as I cri
At the beginning of the year, I
new haircut. My hair was cuts
a bob and I walked into my third
classroom with my head held
hi
hair swishing behind me - I tho
looked like an adult. In the lull
arriving and morning announce
where friends would talk and ja
would get hung up, a classmate
up to me and told me he liked
Ill
better when it was long. I inun
started
to cry, my new haircut
fe
now. I went and told Ms.
W that



























f n of my new haircut and she
de u
Jll
8
ed at my crying face and told me
1o0k
e
was
allowed to have an opin-
eryon
~" and it
wasn't
his fault that I got my
,on.
s hurt. That was the first time I
reeJtng
'd '
l'k
.
.
rea]ized Ms
.
W
d1 n t 1 e me crymg m
lassroom. She'd go on to have that
berc
.
same
cold
attitude
with me for the rest
of
our school year together. But what
h
e
failed to realize, was that I was
s
'
d'
·
ght
years old, my parent s 1vorce
:as
in the process of being final!zed,
my
mom was
suddenly
working a lot
more,
and
apparently,
my new haircut
was
not good. But I cried too much in
her
classroom and Ms
.
W really did not
like
that.
So
I
walk into the classroom to my
assigned desk and I keep the tears in.
I'm
determined to make it through the
morning announcements, if
I
can make
it through that,
I
can make it through
the
rest of the day and everyone will
be
proud of me
.
I keep it in for all of
morning prayers but as soon as the
principal comes over the loudspeaker
and announces to turn and face the
flag
for the Pledge of Allegiance, the
tears
start. My classmates around me
are
singing "God
Bless America" but
1
keep
my mouth
shut
for fear I'll start
blubbering
.
I
know at this moment that
I'm
not
ki
·
da
~a ng 1t through this school
~• and
It
certainly
isn't for lack of
:Ing.
I
come to school every day,
I
b
a
good
s
tudent a great one even
Ut to
·
'
'
isn'
day i
s
one of the days where that
t
po ·b
ss1
le, where what I really need
is to be home.
For the first time that morning,
I
pick
my. head up.
I
know
I
must look like a
wreck, red-faced and snotty, with tears
still rolling down my cheeks in steady
rivulets, the sleeve of my uniform
sweater
a dark red from using it as a
poor excuse for a tissue.
I
raise a shak-
ing hand and make eye contact with
Ms
.
W standing at her desk. With all
my might I will my voice to stay steady
as I plead,
"Can
I
go to the office please?"
At this point, only a few of my class-
mates pay any mind to me, it still feels
like the school day hasn't started and
you can sneak in a few more conver-
sations.
I
don
'
t register anyone else
though, only Ms. W in vivid clarity as
everything else in the classroom blurs
out. Her face shifts into an expression
I
can still picture today, angry and
annoyed and just plain done and she
responds in front of the whole class
,
"You can't come here every morn-
ing and cry and ask to go to the front
office."
I
don't know what to say. A part of
me thinks there's no way she just said
that.
I
continue to stand there and cry,
mouth slammed shut, fingers picking
at the sleeve of my damp red sweater.
In a strange synchronicity that third
graders don't usually have, all of my
classmates turn to me and I feel all 22
pairs of eyes lock onto my bright-red
face - we're one of the biggest grades
in the school. That was another thing,
5











52
I never get in trouble, I never go out of
my way to have a teacher's attention on
me, I'm "a pleasure to have in class."
So when I'm getting yelled at, every-
one tunes in.
After what feels like a very long
time, she sighs, rolls her eyes, and
waves me away.
"Fine, go."
And as quickly as the school
day started, I'm heading back to the
main office. My jacket back on and my
purple backpack knocking my knees. I
know the routine from here. The secre-
tary will call Mom, she'll say she's at
work and can't come get me. She'll say
"I'
11 call my father, he can come grab
her." And I'll wait on the beaten-up
couch in front of the main office until
Grandpa shows up.
Later, I found out they'd gone
off script that morning. That morning
Ms. W must have been well
and
truly
done with me and complained. That
morning when they called Mom, it was
the principal on the phone. She told
my mom I was becoming a distraction.
Mom apologized and said she was
sending my grandfather over as soon
as possible. But the principal said we
shouldn't
keep rewarding my behav-
ior. As if this was all some ruse my
eight-year-old self devised to get out of
school. As if I pretended that walking
up those 14 steps in the morning was
the scariest thing I had to do every day.
As if I wanted to be crying in front of
my classmates and be humiliated by
my teacher. Mom didn't know
h
respond to this and said plainly,
"Well you're telling me she's
traction when she cries but you•
telling me I can't have her pie~
she stops crying, so what else d
suggest?"
A quick twenty minutes
and Grandpa came for me that
ing, the same way he does most
mornings. He calls me "Doll"
gives me a kiss on the head
whil
secretary points him to the sign
sheet. Then, he takes my backp
my back
,
grabs my hand, and
w
down the long hallway, past ei
grade and the scary teacher,
pas
6th-grade classroom, past Ms.
my classmates in third grade,
go out the door at the end
where
white mini-van is parked.
We
g
to Grandma and Grandpa's and I
the day watching The Price is
R
tucked into their dark gray couc
the soft red blanket. Grandpa
me a cup of tea with just a bit t
lemon and hands me two pretzel
with a wink (we usually only g
And for just a little bit, for a
few
everything is okay again.





























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Natural Order
Brianna Rullo
'
25
53







54
This
is
me
trying
Sydney
Sailer
•2S


















Confrontation
Bridget McGuire '26
.
·
t's
b
een
a
wh
ile
rh,
1
b k
Jo
n
'
t w
ant
to
b
e ac together
1
t
I
tho
ug
ht
yo
u'd like to know
I
was alive
Bu
ld ,
rm
g
lad
yo
u ,c
ou
n t answer.
That's
wh
at
I
11
sa
y
But
I'll
fo
rg
et
to.
a month at marist
Andrew Chiafullo '26
55












56
Saints and Self-Checkout
Michaela Ellison-Davidson '23
Second Place, Fiction
We met in April, the white devastation of
winter in the springtime. Snow cov-
ered everything
:
the hoods of cars, the
shoulders of my coat, the walkway to the
supermarket.
He was standing at the self-checkout. He
held a carton of milk and a bundle of yel-
low roses, the buds not yet in full bloom.
Our exchange was simple. He'd scanned
an item twice. I left the service desk to
clear his order. He held the flowers like a
preacher holds their Bible
,
his expression
thoughtful.
"
Flowers and milk
,
" I said
.
"And they
say romance is dead."
I'd never liked anyone before-not in an
inherently romantic way-and I thought:
I'm going to like you. I'm going to like
you and write a story about it. As if to
exploit something. As if to prove to my-
self I could feel anything at all.
His name was Wes and the roses were
for Lana. He lived with her in the trailer
park behind the grocery store, the rusted
door of his mobile home covered in red
chipped paint.
I worked in that grocery store my senior
year of high school, a horrible job
,
and
Wes came in on occasion
.
He would
make a small purchase
,
something like
milk or soup. But it was
alway
roses. He never left without
I'd come into work hungover;·
spring break, the evening
befi
to the poor choices of kids
who
prospects. Wes walked up to
desk, his hands braced on the
He wanted to know why there
yellow roses. I told him I didn'
clue; I wasn't a florist.
"You're incredibly unhelpful
squinted at my nametag-
"R
older than nineteen. "I'm sorry,
"Would you like to reserve an
He nodded. I ended up deliv •
flowers to his doorstep a few
He opened the door, motionin
inside. Wes wasn't attractive,
physical sense, but there was
beautiful about him; you
didn't
look away. From then on we
rudimentary friends.
And what can be said about
o
mentary friendship? I sat
in
evening and drank cheap
beer,
ing on the floor. Wes had his
towards the window, hair fal ·
his face and I wanted to reach
'
touch him. For a moment I co






























tips brushing his skin, his
~~:; of breath, my body moving
.ill
beside his own. I was ashamed
dl;houghts
;
these were not fanta-
~
willing to let myself have. He
1was
.
1
h
.
aiade
his intentions c ear; e was m
with
Lana.
.
ed
my beer and asked for anoth-
Jle
tood and returned shortly after.
~e bottle between my shaking
not saying anything
.
I could have
0
a
hundred meaningless lines that
and every one would have been
him.
were
sitting in his car, Wes dressed
drift
store clothes, and everything was
sidewalks
s
hining under fluores-
lights-the windshield wipers off
'
te
the rain
.
I turned towards him,
face
flat and
s
uffering, houses with
n holiday lights blurring my
had
both hands on the wheel, his eyes
·
g
between me and the non-existent
. · The digital clock said it was past
ID
the morning
,
the dew-like atmo-
liaaect
of dawn putting us in a disillu-
llr
state
.
I couldn't explain what I felt
: : · I wanted his company. I did, and
ways had to be something more.
Yianted
nothing from me-not kind-
lac
~t
sex. At first I was offended by
~
0 ~
romantic attention, his unwill-
lcq~ ~
18
love for Lana. But it made
amtance more realistic-he was
choosing to stay because he wanted to,
not out of obligation, but out of a silent
sort of trust.
Having him as a friend-I wanted to tell
him so many things. I didn
'
t know why.
There was no explanation for the way I
wished to divulge the entirety of my life
to him. All these things, I thought, there
was power in wondering what I would let
him know, what parts of me I would let
him have
.
Back in the car Wes was speaking and I
was thinking about a painting.
"I feel like that 'Lichtenstein'
,"
I said and
he paused to stare at me
.
"The one where
the girl is on the floor, a single tear in her
eye
.
" I looked away
,
his eyes too brutal to
meet. "Hopeless-but it's hopeless."
And when he told me his favorite novel
we were seated beneath the underpass,
his head rolled back to face the stars.
He spoke about that novel for a long
time
,
never pausing
,
never stopping to
know my thoughts. In those moments he
wanted me to listen. In those moments I
always did. Him-like a religious icon-
me at his feet ready to sacrifice myself. It
was always like that. He liked to say he
was a terrible person, but to me he was
a saint. That was the thing about Idols-
you create them so they can destroy you.
He wondered all the time if he could
ever really love someone. He told me
stories about his childhood, about his
past relationships, all the people who had
57









58
wronged him in a way. He told me these
things without remorse, but in the fash-
ion of an unreliable narrator. I couldn't
blame him. We lie to save ourselves.
Nothing is ever really true if you stop
and think about it.
We are always fascinated by distant
people anyway
,
the ones who are difficult
to understand. Wes shared himself spar-
ingly
.
I was drawn to him out of his own
allusiveness.
I needed to know more.
And in the end, I never really knew him
at all.
We were at a party and Wes was smok-
ing a cigarette, both of us leaning against
the porch rail. We stood there, Wes
releasing smoke like he was releasing
all his pain, and me helplessly enamored
by him
.
Something like that could only
hide within you for so long before it
hemorrhaged, blinding you like the white
headlight
s
of a car
.
We were quiet, a bad kind of quiet, and
drunk. Very drunk. Wes watched me
with half-closed eyes, his hand reaching
to hold mine. He dropped his cigarette,
the ashes falling in vain. We paused
in that moment
,
the two of us unsure
what to do
,
and I wondered if I should
say something, if I should console him
sweetly instead of doing what I'd told
myself I wouldn
'
t do all along.
The golden glow of the street lights
illuminated his face, the bright specks
visible in his eyes. He drew me towards
him
.
Our mouths met, our
lips
tight against one another,
then
away and searched the ground,
"It
can't be like this," he said
.
,
ised Lana."
He looked at me with a though
pression and I wanted to say
Maybe a 'fuck you' but instead
nothing. All this time in
turm
·
Wes-Wes like a lost append
I had the audacity to wonder
w
Gogh cut off his own ear
.
I co
simply be his friend
.
I couldn't
hated myself for it.
"Ruby
,
" he said and for a mo
him my attention.
"
I
care about
do."
I didn't know what to say.
How
you tell someone that the reas
upset is because you're angry
love them?
Summer passed as if it may
ne
Everything felt pale and wo
bundle of dried flowers. I had
to share my heart once; I
would
again.
I saw Wes one last time; we
w
grocery store. He was looking
roses, turning over the petals
to
for imperfections. He did not
n
and with this realization I
boU
eggs and my bread, my woun
shaking as I reached for the r
self-checkout.









Nobody Doesn't Get Enough Credit
Eve Fisher
.
'24
Third Place, Poetry
If
I were nobody, I think I would be happy.
Nobody doesn't
fail
or disappoint.
Because
Nobody has nothing to prove.
Somebody always has something to prove.
Nobody doesn't hide how they feel.
Because
Nobody doesn't have to please.
Everyone counts on Somebody
Nobody doesn't have anxiety
Because
Nobody doesn't overthink.
Somebody's thinking corrupts their mind with doubt.
Nobody doesn't doubt their worth.
Because
Nobody lives.
To live is to experience. To be alive is to survive.
Somebody is alive.
But
Somebody doesn't know how to live.
If I were Nobody, I would know how to live.
Nobody
is free and Nobody doesn't have to be me.
What I would give to be nobody.
59








60
Je
tt)'
·
25
Kaitlyn
Dugan




















Elevator Talk
Adam L Freda '26
Jll
s
we
meet the most interesting
Jt
see
pe
o
ple when we have the least
Time to talk
It'
s
consid
e
r a mode of travel
A
s
hotty one at best
1h
e
numb
e
rs ding like
Orders in a cafe
1b
e
r
e'
s
n
o co
ffee to drink though
O
nly
roug
h
air to drink up
Rar
ely
talk
i
ng occurs
It
ca
n be lovely when it does
Bu
t
never, never does it
Hit beyond a name
Or
a
surfa
ce
-level means
Th
e
button
s
interrupt every word
Th
e
tap and the ringing occurs
Jus
t
for tw
o
more to
Get off and on
With a drink and a talk
That will last for never
61








62
skippity be do wop yeah
Stew Leonardo '23
I wish I could talk about mental illness
That I cannot achieve that mental stillness
A moment of mindfulness provides
Instead,
My brain decides to think
Think about what?
Think about who?
Think about how the sky is blue?
Think about all there is to think,
Think about how much I think
Thinking "wow,
I need a drink!"
Other people think I'm quiet
Or see me as the girl who doodles
Intimated by tattoos and one heck of a "Resting bitch face"
But that couldn't be more off base
I'm actually the loudest one in the place
You just can't hear me screaming
Or realize that my head is teaming
With thousands of thoughts I can't control
Sometimes it makes me physically ill
I've tried breathing, being still
In for four 1..
.
2
..
. 3 .. .4 ...
Hold for two 1.. .2 ...
Out for six 1
...
2 ... 3
.
. .4 ... 5 ... 6 ...
Lather, rinse, repeat.
I'm sick of the smell of Lavender
"Oh you can't sleep, try melatonin:'
Did Lady Bird star Saoirse Ronan?
(Yes. She did
.
And yes, I have)
But some with anxieties you can't fix with a pill
Trust me, I've tried.
I have orange bottles everywhere
In every size, with every label



















to re
p
urp
ose
them, when I'm able.
I t
r
~
l
r
e th
e
m in
to
flower pots
[[11
~
Jcing s
p
aces
to
put away my thoughts
' 13
d
.
h h
1}ie
best
I
c
an
o
1t get t e t oughts in line
1
c
an t
hi
nk a
bo
ut them one at a time
\~rit
e
rn
Y
p
oem
li
ne by line
An
d tr
y
n
o
t to
thi
nk
.\bo
ut
y
o
u
\
'
o
u
,
dear
r
eade
r
Rea
ding t
h
roug
h
this poem
Thi
nking
"
it
'
s a
lri
ght"
An
d then
m
ovi
ng
on ...
NI
.
GILFING
ALLIWEI
Drowning
Amanda Nessel '25
63
















64
My Grandma's Hair
Kelly Keenan '23
First Place, Nonfiction
The smell of smokey, sweet
tobacco fills me with resentment as
I begin the five-minute drive from
school to my grandparents' condo.
My portable speaker, and makeshift
radio, rattles in the cup holder, but
I'm too lazy to connect my phone.
Instead, I drive in silence; silence
accompanied by the continuous
squeaks of my 2000 Ford Focus
which tirelessly aches along mile
by mile. My right hand grips the
cracked leather wheel while the fin-
gers on my left mindlessly dig into
the burn holes that line the khaki
velour seat. I feel my eyes wander
beyond the hazed driver's side win-
dow in search of the first signs of
spring. Early April has brought only
a sparse sprinkling of buds among a
sea of dead branches.
Technically, the disturbingly
hearse-like scrap metal I drive
belongs to my grandmother, not
me. In fact, I loathe this seven-
teen-year-old piece of shit. The
chipped white exterior that reveals
luminescent metal, the profound
tobacco scent I pointlessly try to
scrub out, and the painfully sharp
screech of the rusted brakes,
in
spire unexplainable shame wi
me. None of which compare
hatred I feel towards the seven
years of tattered burn holes
th
next to every day. Burn holes I
by a woman who smoked her
away one pack at a time. A
w
who can't do much anymore, h
why I drive her car.
My five minutes of silence e
I turn into the driveway. I put
car in park, twist my keys out
the ignition and open the car
cue the obnoxious croak which
amount of WD-40 can silence
.
Stepping out into the crisp
air
walking through the garage d
which is always open, I men
prepare myself for the task
ah
prepare to wash my grandmoth
hair.
The tedious process of was
my grandma's hair began in
after she fell and shattered
her
wrist. She spent three weeks
in
hospital, her body and mind
ra
deteriorating. Morbid or not,
I'
anticipated my grandmother's .
for a while now. I always ima














bat I
will
say, do, or feel when it
w
ens but even as I watched my
baPP
'
dma start to fade away in that
granpital bed, I could not predict
bOS
1 .
f
(he stren
g
th of my eventua gne .
1 would be cruel to prematurely
:nderstand the pain of her absence.
Eventually, she returned home, no
longer able to complete simple hu-
man tasks. So, I wash her hair. Not
t,ecause I want to but because she
needs me to.
The hot, dry air of my grandpar-
ents'
home overwhelms me. As
I attempt to adjust to the drastic
temperature change, I walk toward
my
grandma, Chi, and bend down
to
hug her. She rests
in
her worn
dark-brown leather reclining chair
that morphed itself to the shape of
her body long ago. She hugs me
back and asks me how my day was.
I reply
,
"Tiring."
"You're too young to be tired,"
she informs me with a laugh. I reply
With a deadpan look and turn away
to grab her hair products from the
second floor, her chuckles following
me as I ascend the stairs.
With my hands overflowing with
a
V
.
anety of hair care, I make my
~ay
back downstairs and call for
hi to meet me at the kitchen sink. I
set the shampoo conditioner comb
anct
b
'
'
'
obby pins down alongside
the drying rack of clean dishes. Chi
turns tlie sink on, and we follow
through with the tedious routine
of finding the perfect water tem-
perature. "This good?" I ask her as
the lukewarm water runs over my
fingers.
"No, too cold," she barks back. In
response, I turn the faucet handle a
centimeter to the left. "Ouch!" my
grandma hisses and pulls her hand
back from the sink. Like the car,
the condo's amenities no longer
perform as seamlessly as they once
did, and the water temperature is
rather sensitive.
"Sorry, sorry," I tell her, pushing
the handle back to the right. We
continue this dance, me blindly
shifting the faucet handle from
left to right and her telling me the
water is either too cold or too hot,
for what feels like an eternity, but
is most likely about three minutes.
Finally, Chi gives up on finding
the perfect temperature. We land on
the same lukewarm water that she
rejected many moments ago.
Now that the right water tempera-
ture has been found, my grandma
removes her glasses and lowers her
head into the sink face first. Water
begins to rush from the nape of
her neck down to the crown of her
65






66
head. Chi doesn't need my help for
this part of the process, so I sit at
the small wooden table and watch.
The bony fingers on her good hand
grip the inches of counter space
between her and the sink. Under the
weight of her frail body, the veins
in her forearm protrude, purple
and blue rods bulging through her
paper-thin skin. Her supple cheeks
hang towards her eyes, and her
body disappears into the pink floral
nightgown that consumes her. I be-
gin to laugh because if I don't find
the crazy sight of my grandma bent
over the kitchen sink with wet hair
in her face funny, I will find it so
sad that I won't ever be able to look
at her again.
Once Chi's hair is sufficiently wet,
it's my time to shine. I pull up my
sleeves and grab the bottle of Pan-
tene shampoo. A sharp rose scent
radiates through the kitchen as silky
white liquid pools in my palm-a
smell I'll come to remember my
grandma by once she is gone. The
shampoo foams beneath my fingers
as work it into Chi's scalp. I remove
the faucet head from its base and
wash the suds away. I do my best
to block the water from hitting her
face, but droplets inevitably run
down her forehead and pool in the
hollows of her cheeks. We repeat
the process with the concij
•
focusing now on the very
8
of her hair. Ends which we
tightly permed and dyed
bl
ing three inches off her sea}
which now rest
in
soft
grey
right below her chin.
I turn the water off and
towel for her hair when she
"Did you happen to see a
my head?"
"Uh, no. Why?" I ask, co
that she may have hurt he
agam.
"Are you sure? Look ag ·
insists, ignoring my questio
ble-check her scalp before
ping her hair in a towel and
with her to the table.
"Why would you have a
your head?" I question ag ·
help her into the wooden c
time with more confusion
in
v01ce.
"Oh, it's nothing really,"
sists. "Just kind of a funny
"So, tell me," I reply.
Typi
ly, my grandma and I talk
me-my friends, my school
my sports. Rarely does Chi
things about herself, and
bother to care or even noti
As I pin up my grandma's
locks, she begins her story.































t
the time she was riding
ab0°
, .,
t her grandparent s 1arm
bO
rse
a
nnsylvania, where she stayed
pe
summer, and ended up crack-
her
head open. She had decided
'
de
her horse across the creek
•
0
a snake bit its leg. The horse
1'he
re
d
1 .
pectedl
y
reare , catapu tmg my
-
dma into the creek where her
:
)anded on a rock, leavin~ a
,car
that ha
s s
omehow disappeared.
1.,ooking back, I won't remember
die
exact words that came out of
ft/
grandma
'
s mouth that day. I
IIOD
't
remember who she was with
s
how
old
s
he was when this all
-,tc
place. I won't remember the
11:Ci
dent's
aftermath or how the mo-
aen
t
may h
av
e changed her. What I
will
remember is combing through
IIY
grandma
's
coarse, dark hair
whil
e
listening to a ridiculous story
abou
t
a life that still feels foreign to
lie
today. I'll remember laughing
and asking questions and getting
my
.
first look into the life of some-
one who has always known me, but
whom I had hardly come to know
.
My car door groans as I shut it.
I'm surrounded once again by thick
ashy air, accompanied by the early
spr
i
ng chill that I have grown un-
accustomed to. A shiver runs down
my spine. I am in silence once
again. A profound sense of loss, or
maybe of mourning consumes me.
I long for something or someone
I have never known and may not
have enough time to know. In a few
weeks, this car will break down and
die. In a few months, my grandma
will follow. But right now, with my
back against the worn tan seat and
my fingers dug into the burn holes
that rest beside me, I have a new
image of my grandma; and in it, she
has never seemed more alive.
6'.





68
The Trees of Peace
Nina Bisco '24


















1
sit_
and I write,
,ud
J
write.
AS
I
try not to cry.
Inspiration
Victoria Conley
'25
AS
I think
of
my life,
from
someone else's eyes.
Condense
and
inspire,
'(be
moments I
long
to forget.
Inspiration
is
fickle!
J
pray
I never forget.
I
long
for the day,
I sit
-
and I write,
About
a happier day.
With
a smile.
Like a
rose with its thorns
'
Beautiful
and admired
'
But
ready to fight.
69






70
I would love to know
Diving into You
Kat Bilbija '24
what wind moves your feet,
what inspires your joy and
what molds the words
that come from your
wine-colored lips.
The ideas behind your
unfinished sentences, tell
me the pigmented thoughts
you bury under a pile of
unfolded cards everyone
else tries to interpret.
I would love to see the world
in the way you romanticize
the tea-filled mug cupped
in between your hands.
To feel dizzy from hours of
breathing in your spirit,
from swimming in the wild
love letters planted within
your Spotify playlists.
I would love to never speak
again, to only listen at the
yellow-brick stories you
have foldered away for
the right moment to share.
To open up the layered
stickers on your computer,
to hear of the stores and
stories that birthed your rings,
to peel away your Instagram
bio and reveal the threads
of your real voice.
I would love nothing more,
if you'll let me step up,
than to dive into you.
















Jll
the crook I speak,
Begin Again
Mia Garofalo '23
fro
d
'h .
nding
a
n stra1g tenmg,
:e
a baby bird I am learning
JioW
to
walk before I fly,
AJld
I acknowledge it is not weakness
To
rebuild what was once broken,
But
triumph to revive and renew.
And
once I'm in full flight again,
I must remember how to be me,
How
to care for and love myself as I do the world.
So
please don
'
t mistake my empathy for passivity,
I am not a nest
,
a savior,
I am no man's grace.
Rising
above it all does not make me a phoenix.
But
everyday I'm a little stronger,
Instinctual, still,
Scavenging for peace while crawling out of chaos,
With
shiny new feathers,
Glittering
,
but never ostentatious.
71





72
spring 2022
J
Pinkans '24
















fo be a girl is to be
e1erything
and
nothing
all
at once
To be a girl. ..
Kelly Keenan '23
A
girl is ju
s
t as pure
As
she is
sw
eet
She
is a body to be worshiped
A
body t
o
be reaped
To
be a g
i
rl is to be
A
delicate and beautiful flower
Aimlessly floating with no aspirations
And
no power
She
is an idealized image
Imperma
n
ently perfected
Tom
down again and again
Demater
ia
lized and rejected
As
a
fragment of a whole
I must sit pretty in my objectivity
Just becau
s
e
I
am a girl
lhe
mo
s
t ine
s
sential being.
73







74
5/25/22
numbers
Kirsten Mattern '24
numbers never lie. numbers are reliable, dependable, honest. they
p
structure and stability and numbers always tell the truth.
i love the number 3 because it was on my softball jersey and i
hate
number 7 because everyone always picked it first. at night i listen to
at 9 on ZlOO while i drive 25 on a residential road. when i glance
at
calendar i throw a heart on the 11th but i hate the 27th because it re
me that in june i'll be 20 and 6 months. i love when the numbers
4
hold hands on the pavement in a game of hopscotch.
(and i can't stand when a 4 sits next to 99 cents per gallon.)
to ground myself, i count. i make lists and tallies and throw
numbers
a notebook for no reason other than to keep track, to remind me
that
here. recently i took a tally in a honeycomb sketchbook at the park.
12:30, a preschool class came outside for recess. i counted
1 princess crown
2 capes
5 rocks (thrown)
1 tree (hugged)
3 strapped-on glasses
2 Marios, 1 Minnie, and 1 Pikachu
6 Happy Birthday songs (1 birthday boy)
23 tiny smiling students




















tly
w
e have not been blessed with these kinds of happy classroom
,ec
en
,
U
·
stics
.
instead we are facing numbingly painful numbers;
~
.
18 years old
,
the legal age to purchase an
AR-15
m texas
to
years
s
ince the massacre at sandy hook
2
7 school shootings in
2022
300
rounds of ammunition bought legally by a murderer
693 ma
ss
shootings in
2021, 213
total in this year thus far
2
days b
e
fore their summer preak
2
1
innoc
e
nt lives lost
1
9
child
re
n,
19
angels,
19
funerals,
19
graves,
19
names
O
policy
c
hange
countle
ss fa
milies' tears, an entire nation's worth of grief
th
ese
numbers are not grounding, they're unbearable, unbelievable, un-
s
peakabl
e.
y
esterday was the first day that i wished the numbers were liars.
75











76
Ascension
Jeremy Skeele '23
First Place, Fiction
My reflection changed recently.
No one else can see it though. Just me
.
It started a couple of weeks ago. I woke up for work
,
went to brush my
teeth,
opened the bathroom door, turned to the mirror and just about passed
out
to look away at first -- it was just so bright. But after my eyes adjusted,
they
my eyes. Obviously
.
But in the reflection, they were a pure, glowing
white.
pupils, no iris, nothing
.
Just energy
.
I closed my eyes. Blinked a billion times. Lied down on the floor, cried
a
li
Prayed, even though I'm not religious. Cleaned the mirror. But each
time
I
the result was unchanging - just glowing white eyes.
I took the day off work, panicked for all of it, and went to bed as early as I
hoping sleep would fix whatever the hell was going on with me. And
some
was still disappointed when it did not, and the following morning I
looked·
reflection that was gleaming back at me.
But now in the mirror, I had two large white wings on my back. Startled, I
jumped, and as I moved the wings moved with me
.
This was it. The proof
was truly going insane. I took another day off of work, spending all day
avoi
looking in mirrors, waiting to go to sleep and hoping that somehow,
tomo
would be better.
It wasn't.
As I arrived to look at my reflection that morning -- I didn't just look
diffe
fact, the reflection was already in the mirror, moving separately from
me.
was waiting for me. And it spoke to me.
"You may speak;' it said. "I am sure you have questions:'
"What's happening to me?
"
I asked to both the reflection and mys
"You don't know:' the reflection answered, "and that is alright. You need
not
You need just accept:'
''Am I not you?"
"Not yet. No, you are undergoing a wonderful transformation:'
'Tm going insane:'
"Says who?"
"If
I were to ask? Literally anyone:'
"Do you think we're insane?"
























''We?"
At this point, I had to remind myself I was having a conversation with my
tion because it did not seem like it. Where
I slouched they stood straight,
re~ec
here my expression was aghast they were emotionless.
,n
w
"There's no us;'
I told it. "Whatever you --"
"Think of me as what you could
be:'
"Why would
I --
"
"Want to be anything like me? Because right now you're fractured. Look
ou _ you're a mess. You can't focus, you trail off, you stutter. You're only a piece
atY
.
h
,,
fyourself wit out me.
0
What was this? What was this thing talking to me?
"Are you an angel?" I fina}ly asked.
It
laughed.
It
laughed my laugh. And it kept going, and echoing, laugh-
ter
bouncing off walls until it was the only sound
I could hear, until it became
unrecogni
z
able as laughter, until it was simply a hollow noise that sounded like a
large,
ringing bell.
"It
matters not what
I am. Think this -- what are you without me?"
"I don't..:'
But as
I said this, the reflection said it with me.
It
moved with me. No
longer
was it something separate, on its own, against me
.
It
was me, again.
Besides
the wings or eyes.
Or maybe including the wings or eyes.
God, what a scary thought.
I'm not an angel.
I'm not.
fve
been going through the motions. Work, eat, sleep, sit around for hours doing
nothing. But
I
can't focus.
I
go,
I
sit,
I
leave. They can't possibly understand all
that's
happening to me. This transformation (illness?) leaves no room for typing in
numbers and pretending to care about things that do not matter.
When my reflection spoke, it asked what
I am without it.
d
Obviously, one part of me says without it
I am sane. Without it, I have
1
ece
t
Iii
k
~
corporate job and even though my apartment has a constant hum and
c enng lights, it's a place of my own.
ha
But that's all
I
have.
I
do not have friends to share worries with.
I
do not
~~
a love
r
, have not had one for years
.
I am alone. I've chased off those who have
e
for me in the past; I've been too erratic, too talkative, too unfocused, too
77








78
rude.
And for a long time, I have been fine with this. But now my eyes
gl
and I have large wings and with each passing day my skin turns a little
more
Obviously, I would love to look in the mirror and see myself again. To be
no
But I do not think that is happening. I look in the mirror and I see an angel.
So why not be one?
I have stopped going to work.
It's not like it matters anymore
.
Not like it ever did. They call, but I ignore it I
have more important things going on
.
Most of my days are spent staring at
reflection, and myself
.
I keep the mirror clean
,
pristine
.
I can not afford to ·
My skin is gray, not only in the reflection
,
but also when I look down at
my
hands. My wings are as soft as ever and my eyes glow ju
s
t as bright.
It no longer makes me scared
,
looking in the mirror
.
It feels right. More
right
typing numbers in spread
s
heets
a
nd sitting quietly alone. As I walk, I some ·
feel like my wings are pulling me off the ground, giving me a taste of flight
I land.
I spent so much time questioning what is real, and what is not. But at least to
this reflection is real. These wings are real, my eye
s
are real, my skin is real
.
I
real. And I am done pretending my reflection i
s
a curse.
It
need only weigh
down if I let it.
I turn now to my reflection.
It
looks at me, moving as I do.
We are one.
Almost.
Not quite yet.
"Talk to me again:'
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want to know if this is right:'
"It
is. Of course it is. You know it is
"
"Then it
'
s time:'
"Time for what?"
"
To commit:
'
I move my body and reflection.
My hands go to touch the mirror
.
I make contact.









feel rn
y
truest self now.
~
ne o
f
their words have merit. I know what I am. An Archangel. A true divine.
:as unclear to me before. But there is no mistaking it now. What sort of power
:rovide
s
this glow? What can gift flight and change appearance on a whim? Only
those th
i
ngs of greater power.
It
'
s sad t
o
me, how much of my life I have spent wasted at work. I quit the other
da
y
. Dro
v
e all the way there and threw open the doors. I told them that I was
somethi
n
g greater now. That sitting behind a computer, typing in numbers wasn
'
t
right for me
.
I told them of my wipgs and my eyes
.
They did not take kindly to it.
Som
e
yelled, some questioned, some sat silent -- but none offered sympathy or
underst
a
nding
.
When th
ey
didn't want me there anymore, I left. Because why stay?
Of cour
se
, I knew others wouldn't believe me. Why would they? For the longest
time, I b
a
rely believed it myself
.
They will never accept it. Still, it seems some-
one took
i
t to heart, their disagreement with me. Multiple men showed up at my
house a
fe
w nights ago, asked me questions. And what kind of angel lies? What
kind of
an
gel is so ashamed of being an angel? No kind of angel at all. So I told
them th
e
truth. I told them what I was.
They ask
e
d me to come with them, and I am not a creature for conflict. I agreed
.
They lea
d
me to a large facility - a cold, slate building in a wooded area. They
brought me in here, and it is where I have sat since. They bring me from room
to room
,
doctor to doctor. They ponder what sickness ails me. Give me pills and
medicin
es
and scans. None of which has or ever will explain the reflection
.
Ex-
plain m
y a
ngelic form
.
Because it is not of the mind; it is real.
Since th
ey
do not know what to do with me, they simply push me to the side. Put
me
in a l
a
rge room. It has no furniture or features besides pure white walls and
floor
.
Br
ig
ht light shines down. I sit, I reflect, I ponder. I enjoy my form, my spirit,
m
'.
freed
o
m. I do not mind being here. Physical location matters not to some-
~ing lik
e
me. And when none of the eyes are watching and I am alone at night, I
et
loose my wings, and for a brief moment -- I fly
.
75


80
Sense of Self
Melissa Hering '25








Living Without You
Riley Mazzocco '26
seeing
yo
u with someone else breaks my heart.
rJh
inkin
g
what we had was special
d it
w
ould always be that way.
ut you found someone new
!AJi
d you
'
re happy
'AJ}
d I wi
s
h I could hate you for it
But I'll n
e
ver hate you
B
e
cause
o
nce you were mine
And I can
'
t ever forget that.
Memori
es
I cherish
Message
s
you sent
Pictures
t
ogether
I hold on to them tightly
Because
a
part of me is yours
And I find myself hoping you'll reclaim it.
81


82
Flawless
Caroline Willey '26
Planned a cute outfit for the gym today,
But I have got to wash out the bloodstains.
Would have finished the whole book yesterday,
But light is something I have yet to gain.
I want to doodle hearts around or names,
But none of my pens have ink anymore.
I want to stay up late playing card games,
But this exhaustion makes waking a chore
You answered his questions with confidence,
But my cheeks turn red when I have to speak.
Your outfits make me stare with such reverence,
But you didn't notice my eight-year-old sneaks.
So you'll keep having it all figured out;
I'll watch from behind 'til you turn around.




Ghost
My
Friend
Victoria Rose Amador '23








84
Creaking and Clunking
Madisyn
K.H.
Martinelli '24
Third Place, Nonfiction
Seasons are like people. Sultry and sweaty, frigid, and subdued
'
soming and decrepit. We're like the leaves that glide through
the
•
land on my paddle boat, going through chemical changes, disap
and developing new characteristics as the seasons break us down.
The air was airless, and the water was murky and shallow. May
was why our paddle boat was stuck in the sand, or perhaps it was
cause my legs were too short. The water
sloshed
and splashed at
of our paddle boat, slapping us to move out of the way. My dad, i
the water's yells, patiently explained to me how to steer and how
dle (though we both knew he would be doing most of the work).
S
moving, the water grew impatient, tugging and tugging us down
s
to the left as if to instigate a brawl.
The water was lonely. It was a dreary old pond, big enough to
w
but not to get lost. Conner, who was younger than me, rowed his
gently and tiredly, regretting that he decided to push against the
w
alone. Everything seemed calmer where he was; less hassle, less
Where Conner was, seemed like a dream, the water cradling his
only my feet could reach the pedals.
I had been to a beach before, with the sand becoming a new
lay
skin and the salty air rushing through my nostrils, making my h
But this was different. The air smelled loamy and tasted of gaiety.
water was lovingly now, holding our paddle boat steady as my
fa
scolded my brother, who seemed to continuously lean to one side


















wa
i
ting for something to pull him under.
at,
~y
dad spent most of his life working for the engineering career he
ted
.
Never had he spent any of that time camping. He only ever con-
·
dered
"
camping" to be "Glamping": a cabin, beds, a kitchen, and air
nditioning. Especially when most nights, the humid air was what kept
.
awake, where his thoughts always seemed to multiply in size.
MY
mother spent most of her childhood in a rickety old cabin that
ked b
a
ck and forth on the edge of a lake in Niagara Falls, Ontario,
/
eanada. But every time I watched her step out into the brisk air, she nev-
er
seemed keen on the dirt that went on her shoes.
The tre
es
towered over us, hovering in, protecting us from the dying
sun.
But my eyes still twitched as the arcade lights danced alluringly,
desperately trying to get me to dance too.
If
only my legs weren
'
t too
short.
I looked at my father, with his freckled face and button nose, hop-
ing
to see him smile again. He turned towards me, shaking his head, and
holding in his hardy laugh, as my brother's boat stopped tilting.
"Your brother is a troublemaker," he said, chuckling towards me. The
sound
of his laughter rang through the air and whispered the memory
into my
ear. I laughed and looked down towards my feet and back up to
bis
chestnut eyes. He always seemed so imperishable to me; that no mat-
ferwhat
,
he'd always be there. "I'm proud of you
,
" he whispered, glanc-
ing
at
my
brother again. The paddle boat creaked underneath his words,
causing our boat to tilt again as my mother yelled through the thick air to
tome
back
,
stepping in mud as she walked to the shore.
\Ve
seemed happy, with a distressed paddle boat trying to hold itself
~ether
,
my brother who seemed to want to find Atlantis, my father try-
lllg
to re
.
.
.
g
a
m his patience as the boat started to creak and clunk, and my
8:











86
mother, who seemed to be so far away.
I guess we always seemed happy. Even when we watched the sun
out, and the darkness take over, and even when our paddle boating
hibition seemed to die out in memory. It was like my father was
alw
satisfied even with dying memories and troubled vacations.
Someho
felt at ease when: the sun drew out all its power, and my father
pulled
•
into a pool; when he yelled my name lost in a corn maze waiting
for
Jt
help, when he thanked a bunch of strangers for meeting him here
(in
elevator) and even when his patience exceeded its limit and deman
the Great Wolf Lodge employee, Betty, that we get our pizza.
But that ease faded, and the rush of disinfectants and Clorox stung
nose. All the shine, white, and cleanliness screamed,
"DO
NOT
TO
ME!" As I wrapped my arms tightly around my body, praying that I
didn't disobey the rules of this foreign place, where everyone didn't
derstand personal boundaries and rhythmic beeping counted down
life. With the air blowing my hair from my right shoulder to the
left,
saw the gazed woman sitting in the stiff chair closest to the wall.
H
was chestnut brown with an overwhelming amount of gray, and
her
were glossy as she stared at the man in the hospital bed. Her body
into herself, and her face drooped down as her head shook. Her
arms
were the only form of stability; she seemed so lost. Her eyes
wande ·
for a different truth. Her mouth hung open, but no sound flew out.
It
horrifically quiet. Both of us ignoring each other. I saw the woman
en, the void in her body expanding, nothing to fill all the empty spa
she felt.
"I can feel it too, Nana," I wanted to say, but I squeezed my arms
tighter and left her be. Her sobs grew loud as I grew quieter, staring

















n
I
thought
I
knew. He looked so cold, so dismantled, like he needed
Jll
a
tra pu
z
zle pieces to make him whole again.
I
wondered if
I
twisted one
-
.
of
the
ei
ght knobs staring at me that maybe he'd crank up like a wind-
ing
toY
•
But the nurse with the magenta scrubs pulled me away before
I
c
ould t
ry
.
1 watched as my mom never left his side. She held his head close, his
glasses touching hers, giving him a little bit of her warmth. My broth-
e
r
clim
b
ed into the small space beside his arm, and I dangled next to
bis
s
tom
a
ch and leg. Then it went silent. The beeping, the crying; it all
s
topped
.
And he turned colder and hollow as if all his memories, all of
w
ho he
w
as had dispersed
.
My
m
o
ther sat there silently
,
still resting her head against his, and my
brother, holding onto his chest so tightly said, "I can
'
t feel dad's heart-
beat an
y
more."
So m
a
ybe I was lying that day on the paddle boat. Maybe my legs
w
eren't
t
oo short. Maybe I didn't want to move at all. Maybe I just want-
ed to st
ay
right there, where the vibration of my dad's laugh shook my
brain w
it
h joy and his freckles popped from the glare of the sun. Maybe I
just wan
t
ed to remember what it was like to have him here, in the water
,
on earth
,
with me, just creaking and clunking like the paddle boat-just
trying t
o
stay afloat.
87



88
I'm Here Too
Grace McCormack '24
I am laid to rest through life in this flesh coffin.
Why am I just a body to you?
Don't forget that I'm here in this skin.
You promise to pull back the heavy, black curtain,
yet I'm shoved into an itchy, ill-fitting costume before you do.
I am laid to rest through life in this flesh coffin.
With me, there's no need to dwell on ideas of perfection.
I fit no mold, hold with no glue; there's no need to cut any residue,
just don't forget that I'm here in this
skin.
Don't become addicted to the capsule without considering what is
I know it's easy to become distracted by the halo of youth with its
gol
hue.
I am laid to rest through life in this flesh coffin.
When bright eyes go dark and beauty fades to ruin,
and cheeks become cobwebbed when they once shone like fresh
hon
don't forget that I'm here in this skin.
You won't be able to ignore me when the face is no longer porcelain.
I wonder if you'll love me then, and finally see me as a virtue.
I am laid to rest through life in this flesh coffin;
don't forget that I'm here in this
skin.




Abandoned
Amanda Nessel
'25



90
Phone Calls
Rebecca D'Ambrosia '24
I've called your phone twice.
Once when you were alive,
And once when you were dead.
Nick had gone to see you,
He told me not to go
"It's bad, Beck:'
So I didn't go
.
The hearing is the last thing to go,
That's what we were told.
So I called you.
Mom held the phone to your ear
And I spoke to you for the last time.
I have no idea what I said on that phone call.
Only that Mom said you smiled after,
That you heard me
.
You were gone shortly after.
I called your phone again maybe two weeks after.
It went to voicemail.
And I sobbed and in one breath everything came out,
How I missed you,
How I loved you,
How this was unfair,
How the venue had a handicapped entrance, just for you,
How you wouldn't even get to see me turn 16,
How this was pointless because you wouldn't ever get this voicemail.
How the hearing is the last thing to go,
And all I wanted to know was that you still heard me.









First Year Fears
Adam L Fred
a
'
26
far
e
w
e
ll
m
y
friends!
J{
ope o
ur
friendships never end!
J{
ope i
s a
ll I need
N
oW I
am
one of the freed
fr
ee to
d
o the laundry
fr
ee to
d
o all things arbitrary
It
a gr
eat
thing to fail
I h
ope t
ha
t ship
will
sail
Then si
nk,
a
s
I in my bed
Am
I b
ett
er off dead?
Ev
ery
s
t
u
dent said
D
ue to
fe
ars of their first year
91











92
L_________
Vying for What You
Hold
[)e
.11'
Raelle Leak
•~
t,














Meaningless Lines
Michaela Ellison-Da
v
idson '23
kJ!
O
W
y
ou don
'
t like poetry-all the
s
e word
s
too sentimental-but I'll
y
it a
ny
way. I could write a hundred meaningles
s
line
s
: you with your
·
s
tm
as
lights and your striped sweater. You with your abrasive words
d re
sol
ute intellect. How I see you is how I see you-all these things
tenti
a
ll
y
wrong. And I'm left here thinking I do not know you at all. But
m
bei
ng
too sentimental. I'll e
x
plain it the only way I can.
If you were a
·ntin
g y
ou would be a Carravagio-The Calling of Saint Matthew to be
act.
A
Carravaggio-it's almost abrasive at first, that contrast between
t an
d
dark. You want to look away, unable to comprehend the artist's
e int
en
tions
.
And there is so much feeling there
,
but you can't put a
e o
n
it. So it confuses you. It confuses you but you keep on looking.
d
yo
u
come to this conclusion that it is both ugly and beaut
i
ful, this
unted
ro
manticism that is hidden behind some sort of internal motif.
ou wa
n
t to reach out and touch it, to accept the invitation to enter the
·
ece-
a
chair Carravaggio placed in the foreground just for you-but you
ea st
e
p forward and you realize it's just a painting. Carravaggio was
ways
on
e for extremes-this disaster on canvas, this breathtaking horror
t in
s
i
g
ht
s
both admiration and fear. There is no chair to take a seat in
,
_
t you
k
eep on looking anyway
.
And each time you look, you see some-
ng
n
ew
.
93










94
....
The Hymn of Hallowed Grove
Luke X. Johnson '25
Under umber shaded ground
,
flowers
,
tree
s
, and toadstool
s
of speech and secrets
~
A peculiar royalty walks this ground, donning robes of wind and silk, around shouI
mossy bark with a crown of blossoms
,
blooming in splendid synchronicity
.
By the forest
'
s will, and the royalty within it, old gods may and will arise,
breathing
the future from mouths of the pa
s
t
,
that did more than breathe, but prophesied of
a
but powerful and dark god of metal and steel
,
that would descend upon all that is
good
.
The woodland beings
,
afraid under the prophecy
'
s telling
,
built mighty barriers to
their land shielded from the horror they awaited.
Surely enough, something did come
.
Not a dark god
,
but a machine, a machine
co
by hands of hungry flesh that sought to conquer, to freeze the warm hearts of
our
royalty in an eternal winter, and the subjects they ruled justly over
.
Protected
,
the machine and its wielders could not sink their jaws into the gods
and
royalty, but alas a dilemma fell upon them nonetheless.
The prosperity of the eternal summer began to wilt, not fully into the hands of
befriend the other side of life
,
but rather ju
s
t enough so that no longer in this su
anything grow.
Stagnancy plagued the woodland realm
,
for nothing could grow any further
when
were no remnants of life, ended
,
to grow back from
.
They looked to the hungry flesh servants of the machine
,
and in their amazement,
more than flesh, but heart as well, merely encapsulated by an exterior
,
false in its
of their true nature. These servants were more than servants to the machine,
but
another as well
.
Blossoms bloomed not only on the crown of the green royalty,
but
heart
s
of what they would call,
Humans.
Inspired by their recent revelation, but still fearing their machine, it was decided
the
of the humans would be let into their land
.
Hearts that sought out more than
wha~claJlCI,
hearts that were broken, and hearts that could not find themselves without gut














d
50
this
realm of
plant
,
stone, and
wood
would
transcend its
earthly self and
molt into
a
A
0
trove
,
f
om
an
eternal summer
to
an autumnal spring some
would find themselves, when they
fo~nd
the
mselves
in the mysterious, odd, healing,
and enchanting
place named Hallowed
Grove.
The Soul
Lillian DeFilippis '26
95










96
I have despair.
I carry it on my back.
Wasteland
Mia Garofalo '23
I can't brush them off, the slow burning embers of a love that was
lost
00
me long before I learned to be happy again,
before I conditioned myself to feel whole when there was still
something
rotting inside me.
That poison doesn't dissipate, no matter how much I drink or sleep,
so I have become bored by the comforts I sought to mend a broken
piece.of
time.
But more than anything I have grit.
I carry it in my hands.
I plug my nose and sift through the rubble to sort the good
memories
fmn
the bad,
the "keep'' pile from the "throw awaY:'
And I persuade myself not to linger too long on that latter pile
towering
over me,
like a shipwreck in a barren harbor,
so that I can soon breathe in clean air
and release my body of the tension of an atrophying relationship
that
was
never what I thought it was.
It was never what I thought it was.
And yet I punish myself.
I am wading in a weeping wasteland of remembering things I tossed
to
forget
something
I didn't have.







J\Ild
every time it rolls over in my mind,
1
kflOW
that landfill still stands,
and
it is omnipresent,
it
is loathing,
00
w
that it festers with feelings I
spit
out
because they stung my teeth with a sour taste.
feelings that erode the debris like acid,
sputtering
then still.
I
have
hope,
too.
It's
held within my heart.
That I
can
drive in my car without the silent shadowy hill of scrap peering
over
my
shoulder,
and I
can
return to this wasteland, this wreaking mess of ours that I tried to
sweep
away
without wringing
my hands dry of what's damp and what's darkest.
And what's
still
wet with tears I cried long ago will stiffen like linen in the
sun,
and
all that
will be left is time
to
wither
and to fray.
97





98
Product of Love
Kiki Wiehe '26
Staring into the mirror feeling the painful lack of your presence as my vision starts to
blur
tears
But just as my faith begins to falter that I'll ever experience another connection as he
ours
And as I start to fear that my flaws may be too prominent to ever be worthy of a
lasting
I remind myself I am in fact a product of love
that the color of my eyes has been loved generation after generation
in fact, every single feature and imperfection on my body has been passed down to me
love
I have love coursing through my veins and inside my DNA
All the phrases, mannerisms, and even the jokes I chose to tell have been picked up from
that I have loved
my personality is a collection of traits I have deemed loveable enough to become a
part
and my body is a creation of features that thousands have admired in the past
I am made of love inside and out
therefore as I will never run out oflove to give and I will always be destined to recei





Decomposing
Lillian DeFilippis
'26
95






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