2024 Resonance

Resonance2024

EditorsinChief

WilliamButler’24

FionaGully’24

EditorialTeam

SiaCanelos’26

EliseCasso’26

ThomasGoux’25

TheoHarding’25

WillowLajoie’26

JustinMcNeil’27

SophieMcSherry’27

WestonMogul’27

AmeliaRussellSchaeffer’26

SianaSolarazza’27

EliseSoule’27

BodhiTalbot’26

HoganTeles’27

HarrisonWebb’26

FacultyAdvisor

Mrs.MonicaHough

2024ResonanceAwardPanel

Mr.MichaelDeasy

Mr.MichaelEarley

Ms.MadelyneFrancis

Dr.BettinaFreelund

Mr.MatthewGreen

Mr.DouglasJones

©2024FalmouthAcademy,Inc.Allrightsreserved.

Publishedby: FalmouthAcademy

7HighfieldDrive

Falmouth,MA02540

508-457-9696

ArtIndex

Cover Resonance2024, ThaliaO’Neil’24

TitleVersoPage Ophelia, FionaGully’24

p.3 OctopusTessellation, SophieMcSherry’27

p.5 Glamour, EvaMuldoon’25

p.6 TheEdge, ClaraAthearn’24

p.8 Shoes, HannahPark’28

p.11 Ruins, ApexHeywood’25

p.17 FauvismofVirginia, GiovannaMessina’27

p.21 BlindContourSelf-Portrait, SiaCanelos’26

p.22 TheIdentity, ApexHeywood’25

p.28 DorianGraySelf-PortraitCollage, AmeliaRussellSchaeffer’26

p.28 DorianGraySelf-PortraitCollage, MattBrown’26

p.29 DorianGraySelf-PortraitCollage, WillowWakefield’26

p.29 DorianGraySelf-PortraitCollage, WillowLajoie’26

p.33 Untitled, TorstenHoutler’26

p.35 OverlappingShapes, EmmeCarroll’28

p.36 Collage, MaxDonovan’26

p.38 TheLeaf, NickolasLeach’27

p.40 SecondHome, SiaCanelos’26

p.45 Lovers’Rest, FinTiernan’29

p.48 Flower, RobbyLender’25

BackCover Waterlilies,FionaGully’24

TableofContents

SomethingNice, WilliamButler’24……………………………………………………………...2

TheCheesiestSonnetYouWillEverRead,YazAubrey’25……………………………………...2

The3ofRead, NickolasLeach’27……………………………………………………………….3

TheBeast, ThomasGoux’25……………………………………………………………………..3

TheCrimsonPoppies, LilaJournalist’25………………………………………………………...4

ToLookBack, EmmeCarroll’28………………………………………………………………....6

PigtailsandPromises,AmeliaRussellSchaeffer’26…………………………………………….8

SköllandHati, EmmeCarroll’28……………………………………...………………………..10 Krantenjongen, EzraAckerman’26……………………………………………………………..11

HowtheColorsChange, ChaseRenzi’27………………………………………………………15 Vacationland, SusannaLowell’25………………………………………………………………18 FieldsofAmberandWheat, LilaJournalist’25…………………………………………………19

BooksandBread, SiaCanelos’26…………………………………………………………….…20 Abandoned, SylvieParsons’28………………………………………………………………….20 PoemSansOneLetter, EliseSoule’27…………………………………………………………..21 PoemThatLackstheLetter“I”, WillowLajoie’26…………………………………………….21 DV/9, MaverickPil’26…………………………………………………………………………..23 CalloftheSea, AdeleFrancis’24……………………………………………………………….27 Don’tBotherForgivingMe/INeedYou,CassieDuarte’28……………………………………28 ColorMeRed, SianaSolarazza’27……………………………………………………………...29 Contra, SusannaLowell’25……………………………………………………………………..29 Scrimshaw, FayeMcGuire’26…………………………………………………………………..30

TheEndofSomething, MossJunker’28………………………………………………………...33 WhyCan’tWeHavePeace? AveryTodd-Weinstein’29………………………………………...34

TheRefuge, MiguelGomez-Ibanez’29………………………………………………………….34 IAmNotGod, ThomasGoux’25………………………………………………………………..35 SeleneBaseCamp,YazAubrey’25……………………………………………………………...37 Leaving, Mrs.OlivannHobbie…………………………………………………………………..39 Home, EvaMuldoon’25…………………………………………………………………………40

TheSapphireSeaSetsMeFree, AmeliaRussellSchaeffer’26………………………………....42 ByStarlight, EliseSoule’27……………………………………………………………………..43

TheSweetIdea,HannahPark’28……………………………………………………………….45 PlanetDreamscape, AriAretxabaleta’29……………………………………………………….48

WhatIsCausality? AlexdeChiara’28…………………………………………………………..51 MeltheCaterpillar, ZoëVanKeuren’27………………………………………………………..52

Something Nice

There’s something nice in a power cable

Running electricity to and fro

Powering lights on the kitchen table

What once was just perhaps a fable

But give it a generation, and lo,

There’s something nice in a power cable

It bounces all over to enable

Folks of all kinds, caring for those below

Powering lights on the kitchen table

But even birds find those wires stable

Look outside and you’ll see the high perched crow

There’s something nice in a power cable

Flying through the corner of a gable

Coming bravely through the rain, sleet or snow

Powering lights on the kitchen table

So the next time you go buy a bagel

Think of all that’s behind the scenes, and know,

There’s something nice in a power cable

Powering lights on the kitchen table

William Butler ’24

The Cheesiest Sonnet You Ever Will Read

The scene: the night is late, long past repose,

The town is still, all rest asleep in bed.

Tonight the moon is out, and each star glows, Serene, yet I won’t sleep until I’m dead.

I lie in bed and try to catch a wink,

But thoughts of cheese besiege all of my dreams.

I crave Gruyere, epoisses, though it may stink,

And bries or blues or Swiss or string and cream.

My gut, it longs for cheese, all types and curds.

I sneak down flights of stairs to find a snack, I crawl, afraid, for I must not be heard.

Downstairs I see the fridge unshut a crack,

And bare of cheese, baguette, my feast, my brie!

But I recall the thief I seek is me!

Yaz Aubrey ’25

The following pieces were selected for publication in Hunted, a collection of 100-word short stories published by Young Writers.

There were 3, trapped beneath the sea. Paranoid, uncertain, hunted by death. The enemy above. Yet the true enemy inside their minds. Red and blue, stars and sickles, in an intricate dance. A blunder. A lone depth charge, sent by death himself. A boom, and a frightened crew. The first, ready to strike. The second, stronger, but taken by death’s hunt. Yet the third, a strong soul. Willing to throw away the red and blue for life and peace. Two keys in. Yet the third key remains waivered, and the weapons stay cold. Life remains. Peace remains. Death has failed.

The

Beast

Nickolas Leach ’27

Rain bludgeoned the deck of the Ophelia, her sails bulged and sagged. Captain bellowed orders. It was no use. The beast was faster than our ship. A writhing tentacle burst from the sea on the starboard side, a terrible crack echoed from cannons hopelessly firing into the depths below. ‘A white whale,’ they had called it. ‘A creature covered with riches’. But the rot that plagued its hide betrayed their stories of grandeur. The ship fell apart, the center could not hold. I gazed into the vortex that dragged us into the depths, and it gazed back. God help us.

Thomas Goux ’25

The 3 of Red

The

Crimson Poppies

It spread by word of mouth, and we were drawn to it like moths to an open flame, unable to keep ourselves away from the scathing reviews tucked neatly at the backs of our morning papers.

“So grotesque and so unpleasant that one cannot even blink. So utterly horrifying, as if the Seven Circles of Hell have come to exist on this Earth.”

It was everything the theatre should be, and everything it should not be, all at once. It was all anyone could speak of. So much so that even a trip out in your dressing robe to receive the post became a thrillingly whispered exchange over what horrors we predicted would grace the polished stage that night. Until we, too, found ourselves dressing in our satin fineries to take the carriages downtown to the theatre.

They had the doors thrown wide open letting the mischievous dusk winnow in lazily. The ceilings were high, like cathedrals, and the seats were stacked like pews, as if we had all come to worship at the warped altar of the weird and macabre. As we went to sit, we were greeted not by elegant, freshly-steamed programs, but instead by wilting crimson poppies that were placed innocently upon the plush velvet cushions like offerings. Like harbingers of death.

The show was set to begin at seven, though we found ourselves waiting until at least half past. And when the doors finally clanged shut, we heard the writhing slither of a chain locking around the wrought iron hinges. Our first warning. Our second was the usher, masked and dressed all in dark crimson, like the poppies between our fingers; he extinguished each and every bracketed candle, and slowly drowned the entire theatre in darkness.

The first thing we heard was not the swish of the curtains nor the bows of the orchestra, but whistling. A shrill echoing song that seemed to come from the very walls themselves, and many turned their heads to search for the source of the piercing sound. The whistling grew louder and louder, though still there was no identifying if it was from North, South, East or West. And we did not hear the pulling of the rope that tugged the curtains away, or the gush of the gas lamp that cast a cold shadowy light.

Before us stood a man - if you could even call him such. Matted and mangled black hair that fell just past his shoulders, eyes so sunken into his head they appeared pupiless and just as black as his hair, skin so waxy and sallow it was almost translucent. He was dressed, not in crimson like the theatre staff, but in a perfectly ordinary top hat and tails, as if he were enjoying an evening at the theatre like the rest of us.

He did not speak, simply surveyed his audience with an evil smile that showed two rows of teeth full of rot. There was no flick of his wrists, or motion of his long thin fingers, or even the sight of a magician’s wand. It was as if we were caught unawares in a nightmare, with only the knowledge that something terrible was coming.

He was still whistling that haunting tune, and the sound seemed to reverberate so loudly, as if it were refracting off of itself and it grew to an ear-shattering shriek. The shadows, which had lay in wait at the far sides of the theatre, spread like a thick, tactile web. They pulled at time and stretched themselves around us, as they took up every atom of space tearing at the fabric of everything.

And then it ceased. Almost as suddenly as it had commenced. There was no stage to be seen and no song to be heard. The small downtown theatre had become the place where the four corners of the wind touched, where the night and the day kissed, where all things began and ended.

The place where we were, but we were not, and all that was, was the soft maniacal whistle ahead.

Lila Journalist ’25

To Look Back

I walk down the path, the damp duff springing below my boots. My cat, Sparrow, follows, her paws moving swiftly over the ground, weaving between trees. I can tell we are nearing as a small clearing opens up, littered with pine needles and twigs. At the center stands the white pine, erupting from the ground. Its dark trunk is marred by stumps of dead branches, until above my head strong limbs reach outwards, feathered with green needles.

On the trunk is a red slash, carelessly spray painted. My eyes well with hot tears as I scratch at the unyielding paint, chipping my fingernails on the tough bark.

“This must be a mistake,” I whisper, “Who would do this?” I slide down the trunk, plopping myself down at the tree’s base. Sparrow curls up on my lap, looking up at me. I stroke her mottled gray head and wipe the tears from my face. “I have to be strong,” I say to her, “I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“What kind of tree is this one?” I asked, as I stared up at the huge tree in front of me, my arms too short to wrap around its broad dark trunk, its soft needled branches reached up what must have been one thousand feet in the air; they practically touched the sky.

“That’s a white pine,” he replied. “One of my favorites.”

“Then it’s my favorite, too!” I squealed. He smiled and rubbed my head as we walked along the path. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“Somewhere yummy!” he exclaimed, as he turned to face me.

“How can a place be yummy?” I giggled, and ran after him. We raced down the mossy dirt path and stopped, out of breath, at a large blueberry bush on the edge of the brook, its thin branches filled with little blueberries, warm with the summer sun.

“Eat up!” Papa said as he laughed. “Just make sure to save some for the birds, kid.” We ate to our hearts’

content, giggled and basked in the sunlight. I stepped into the ankle deep water, it was so cold! I sat down, letting the water rush over my numbing legs.

“Be careful, or you might get pneumonia, sitting in that cold water.” Papa shivered and laughed. I scooped up some of the water and flung it at him. “You have something on your face,” he teased, pointing at the blueberry stains that surrounded both of our mouths. I splashed him again and giggled, dipping my sticky face in the chilled water.

We wandered along the bank of the brook a ways, happily full of wild blueberries, my shorts dripping on the path and my bare feet, our faces still slightly sticky despite our best efforts to wash them in the brook. Beech and oak trees spread their wide summer leaves over us and filtered the sun that glinted off the brook and warmed our backs.

Up ahead I spotted a bridge. “Race you!” I cried out, as I started to run. Before long, my feet slapped against the hard wooden slats, a second before Papa’s work boots stepped on the boards behind me. “I win!” I declared, out of breath.

“I’ll catch you next time,” Papa exclaimed, “you little squirrel!”

Our pace slowed from there, weary from the running, yet eventually we arrived at a field, the trees thinned and altogether disappeared, giving way to tall tan grasses. I giggled and skipped through the field, searching for winter berries or mayfllowers, though because of the season there were none to find, only their low leafy plants.

“Come here,” Papa called me. “Look at this.” I bounded over to where he stood, in a stand of pitch pines.

“What is it?” I asked

“Look,” he replied. I glanced around at trees, then at the leaves, needles and on the ground, and the large indentations in them.

“What’s that from?” I asked.

“It’s where the deer sleep,” he explained. “See their tracks?” Now that he pointed it out I could see the marks from their hooves in the dirt.

“They’re deer beds!” I squealed, putting my hands up like antlers on the sides of my head and skipping around the trees. I stopped in front of him, “Do you think we could see a deer right now?” I asked. “Maybe if I’m extra quiet?”

“Probably not today, kid,” he said as he ruffled my hair, “but I’ll tell you what, if we get to bed nice and early when we get home, right after you take your bath, then we can come out here in the morning, and I bet you we’ll see a deer. How does that sound?”

I nodded, suddenly sleepy. “That would be amazing,” I said as we walked back through the field, over the bridge, along the brook, and by the white pine, grand as ever.

The same white pine that I’m leaning against now, trying to keep the tears from flowing down my face. I stand up, lifting Sparrow into my arms for comfort, her soft fur pressed into my tear stained face. She jumps down from my arms and rubs against my legs. “Let’s go home.” I say, turning away from the tree and its ugly mark. I walk out of the clearing, dragging my feet, trying not to look back.

Emme Carroll ’28

Pigtails and Promises

He brushed her hair, put her gold, wispy curls in two pigtails, poured milk into her cereal, helped tie her shoes, and put on her jacket. It was the first day of school, a day of excitement, nerves, and, most importantly, a day for a new beginning. He held her hand as they walked through the kindergarten classroom. She was nervous. Her little hand clung to and dug deep into his.

He could see her eyes begin to well with tears, but he knew his daughter inside and out. He told her that he was here now and that she would have so much fun that she would forget about her nerves. If she were still nervous at lunch, he would pick her up, and they could spend the day doing whatever she wanted, he promised.

She was convinced but barely. But she knew he would keep his promise. He took her in his arms and hugged her so tight she could not breathe for a second. He kissed her forehead and told her how much he loved her. He was there as she walked to her desk, with open arms, to pick her up when school was over. She loved her dad so much. He was her hero and favorite person in the world.

During the first months of kindergarten, he was always home. He took her to school, they went grocery shopping together, practiced throwing and catching in the yard, folded laundry, watched her favorite show, and cooked dinner for Mama. But slowly, he faded. He wasn’t home all the time, and she would fall asleep at her window, watching for his truck to pull into the driveway and wake up to the empty space still occupying the driveway, tormenting her.

The end of the school day was her favorite time because it meant that her dad might be picking her up and she would see him. Hug him and not let him go.

At first he was gone from the house for a few hours then overnight, then days simply just gone.

The games of catch in the yard halted, and she went with Mama to the grocery store instead of him. Her hair no longer went into pigtails. She could see how much it was hurting Mama, and Mama stopped wearing her ring. But she knew he would come back. He had to. All of their promises and plans were crushed when he told her and Mama he wasn’t. She felt as though he failed her; he broke her.

She had not seen him in weeks. She missed his scratchy face before he shaved, his hair, his strong hug, his calloused hands delicately and gently pulling her hair back into neat pigtails. She missed her dad. When the three of them went to court her world felt divided. It was the first time since he left they were all in the same room. She desperately wanted him to look at her, hoping her face would make him change his mind. But he did not look at her. Not once. Decisions were made but nothing felt resolved. She thought that she was more to him than a weekly check given to Mama and the legally required amount of hours he must see her.

She would wait hours on the front steps with her baseball glove, or a drawing she made for him, or bouquet of flowers she picked in the garden. But it was rare for him to show up. She learned that the hard way. While she waited and the tears formed she wondered what she did to make him leave. The sun set, and the cool night air surrounded her.

In preparation for her kindergarten graduation, every child was supposed to write what they wanted to be when they grew up on a piece of paper that was cut into a star that would hang on the wall. She thought about her answer as she wrapped herself in her dad’s old sweatshirt, still slightly shivering from waiting on the front steps. She looked out her window, staring at his part of the driveway that was still empty.

Amelia Russell Schaeffer ’26

Where some see a simple sundown

Just a majestic moonrise

For me it never ends I never rest

Never stopping Always chasing

I I’m

Can’t Not

Stop Tired

What would happen

I’m too strong

With no sunshine I’ve gone too far

I can’t give up now

Just keep going

Just keep chasing

I’ll catch up I’ll get there

Always following her

Always following him

Behind

Yet close

Shining Beauty

Bright light

I follow I trail

Fast as flash

Still not quite there yet

I will get there eventually

I’m almost I’m not quite

But

I am close

I am Treachery to some I am Hatred to some I am dark I am light

I am always going

Eternal

Emme Carroll ’28

Krantenjongen

Heerenveen, Netherlands

May 23, 1940

Although it usually only took him forty-five minutes, Milan Bakker’s second favorite part of the day was delivering the paper. Despite his yearning to play football most of the day, Milan loved running to the Frisian newspaper office and picking up the papers to drop off after school. Every week he raced home, eager to visit the news office. Speeding through the front door, he stopped to hug his mother before heading to his room to change out of his school clothes. He did not mind the scratch of his collar on his neck or how his heavy belt sat on his strong hips. Rather he loved the feel of his football clothes more.

Milan was not particularly tall compared to the rest of his classmates, about 180 centimeters, with short brown hair and blue eyes that he inherited from his mother. But he was strong, with large arms and a left leg that made his presence known on the football pitch. He replaced his pants with shorts and changed his scratchy shirt for a well-worn football jersey. The jersey had belonged to his older brother, Jaap before he went off to university in Amsterdam to become a doctor. Each time Milan donned the kit, he thought of his brother, who had taught him everything he knew about the game of voetbal that they both loved. Putting on the jersey with his family’s name gave him a feeling of warmth that nothing else could. With his name on his back, Milan always played in a way that continued to impress his coaches, moving him up the ranks of the local football program. He dreamed each night of playing football as a professional, in front of hundreds of fans, with the Bakker name on his back.

However, he had to push that thought out of his mind for now because it was nearing time to deliver

the paper. Hurrying down the hallway, Milan reminded his mother that he was leaving, as he had since his first days on the job.

5:37 PM

Bakker House, Heerenveen

“I’m going to Papa’s newspaper now,” said Milan, with a smile on his face.

He had said this each week since he turned six, usually receiving a similar reply from his mother, instructing him to be polite to the neighbors, even though she knew that he always was. On occasion, she would have a different response, as she did this time.

“Hurry up to Papa’s office,” she said. “He has something to tell you about tonight.”

Excited and confused, Milan grabbed his old football and sprinted down the road dribbling the ball between his feet. As he arrived at the Lenstra house, he called to Abe, his best friend and newspaper delivery partner. Abe was a larger boy than Milan, with long, strong legs, a big head, perfect for a target striker, and a face so similar to Milan’s that teachers and elderly neighbors often got confused. The Bakkers and Lenstras had been friendly for more than 100 years, as Milan and Abe’s great-grandfathers grew up in the same house, playing voetbal together, just as their grandchildren did.

As the two jogged to the paper office, they passed the ball between them, their strong chemistry evident as they flicked and spun the ball across the road at lightning speed. Years of paper delivery, and the football that came with it, had made them a deadly duo on the pitches at night, and as they were nearing the end of their school football years, they gained more attention from clubs across the country and the continent. They passed back and forth until they reached the small office at the start of the main street.

5:54 PM

Heerenveen Press Office, Heerenveen

Banging against the wooden door, Milan cast a glance over his shoulder at Abe, who stood on the cobblestoned street, in a trance as he juggled the ball. His focus solely on his nimble feet, Abe remained rooted to the spot, the thud of the ball blending with the sounds of the stone Dutch streets. With a creak, the door swung open, revealing a man in his fifties, his tortoiseshell glasses balanced delicately upon the bridge of his nose.

“Hallo, Milan!” the man exclaimed, opening the door to reveal a small room with large desks overflowing with papers. He reached out an arm to embrace Milan.

“Hallo, Papa,” Milan replied. “We are ready to take the papers, but first, Mama said that you have something to tell me and Abe.”

“Oh, yes. I overheard news of a scout visiting to watch the team tonight, to watch you.”

“From where Papa?”

Hesitating a second, Milan’s father continued, “From Heerenveen--”

Before the sentence finished, Milan’s eyes brightened, realizing that the greatest club in the Netherlands wanted to watch him play. After thanking his father profusely, he grabbed the tall stack of papers and passed another stack to Abe behind him. Though his mind buzzed with thoughts of the upcoming match, duty called. Milan and Abe set off on their paper route, winding through the cobbled streets of their perfect Dutch town.

6:49 PM

Near houses 73 and 74 on the Heerenveen Paper Route

Amidst the brick homes and the smell of freshly baked stroopwafels, Milan and Abe dropped off papers at each doorstep, their anticipation building with every delivery. Milan’s heart pumped with the idea that tonight’s match could change his future, earning him a spot on the Heerenveen team. As the sun set, casting a warm glow over the old cobblestone streets, Milan could barely contain his excitement. Their stack of papers was running low, but their tension about the game tonight was palpable.

Abe finally broke the silence, “Are you excited?” he asked, sending Milan a quick ball that skirted across the ground and bounced on a stone right before it reached Milan’s outstretched foot and skipped over his boot. Milan jumped quickly onto the side of the road to retrieve the ball before replying.

“I mean…I am, but I’m nervous too.” He continued in his head, We both know how much work we’ve put in. I just really hope that we can both show it today.

“You’ve got it,” Abe replied, “Just do your thing like you always do. You’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” Milan said.

They continued their walk in silence, the only noises made by the sound of the ball bouncing across the street, until they reached their respective homes.

Back at home, Milan laid out his jersey and shorts on his bed and looked out the window, thinking. Suddenly, his train of thought was interrupted by a mass exodus of birds from the nearby trees. Odd, he thought to himself, before returning his focus to the game.

7:29 PM, May 23, 1940

Heerenveen Veld, Netherlands

The field held its breath, shrouded in silence.

A gentle breeze whispered through the carefully trimmed grass.

Buds on a nearby tree had started to reveal the beginnings of white flowers.

A petal fell onto the pitch, breaking the silence for a moment.

The birds, perched precariously upon new spring branches, flapped their wings in harmony before taking off into the quiet sky.

Now the pitch was totally empty.

Then it started.

In the distance, the harsh marching of soldiers could be heard, their voices quieted by the wind.

Then the noises became louder, now joined by the crunch of the ground beneath the treads of a tank.

Then it made sense.

The field was silent for good reason.

The sound of the tanks was louder now.

Then, without warning, the silence was broken.

Voices erupted nearby.

German voices. It had started.

They were here.

Ezra Ackerman ’26

How The Colors Change

Only the very oldest people could remember what color looked like. They were so few and far between, it was nigh imbecilic to look for one. Still, they remembered. Alma remembered. She was nearing her 98th birthday when her perception of the world changed for a second time.

The day had started typically enough. Wake up, take the pills, eat breakfast, sit in the living room, decide what to do for the day. After much debate with her wife Eleanor on ethical consumption under capitalism, a favorite topic between them, her Handy-Bot turned to help Eleanor, gently eased her up from her chair, and guided her to the kitchen for lunch. The Handy-Bot was an old model, all creaking joints and loosening screws, but he did his job well, and neither Eleanor nor Alma had the patience for one of the newer, sleeker models.

Eleanor was 82, too young to remember her colors. Alma had only turned 14 when her parents moved her and her brothers from their quiet suburban life to a bustling city. In those days, color was taken for granted. No one gave any thought to the yellow school buses as they hovered through the air, the green signs pointing to fuel stations, the blue motorbikes soundlessly zipping down alleys and up buildings. After all, who could have predicted that only a year later, the world would be plunged into darkness so vast it felt endless? Who could have predicted that when the darkness receded, it would take everything beautiful with it?

A cold hand on Alma’s shoulder pulled her from her memories, dull gray fingers handing her a cup and her pills. One day, she thought, one day we may see the colors again. One day, we may see how the colors change.

“Alma?” The voice of her wife was soft, but still strong, calling her from the kitchen. “Tell me about the colors again? Please?”

Alma made her way to the kitchen, mind still turning over the points of their conversation, and sank into her favorite chair.

“Which ones do you want to hear today, mi amor?”

Eleanor paused for a moment, making her decision. “Orange, yellow, blue, and purple,” she said, knowing her favorites after more than 50 years of telling and retelling the colors of the world around them. “And, if you’re not too tired, maybe brown?”

“Of course, darling,” Alma always enjoyed describing color to her wife, and finding new ways to convey them. “Orange is the warmth of a campfire at night, surrounded by family and friends. Orange is being stuffed full of homemade foods after a family reunion. Orange is the color of home, and of comfort.

“Yellow is the sun at your back and the wind on your face as you ride your bike down the street. Yellow is the pause before you take a leap, a risk. Yellow is the color of happiness, but also caution.

“Blue is the feeling of rain on your face as you look to the sky. Blue is the way that water swirls between your fingers as you run them through a river or a pool. Blue is the color of serenity, of peace.

“And purple,” Alma paused. Purple had always been her favorite color, but the hardest to describe. “Purple is the fevered writing of an author who just found inspiration. Purple is the quiet void of space. Purple is lightning cracking the sky at midnight. Purple is the color of passion, of mystery, of everything, and of nothing at all.”

Alma took a breath. It was getting harder and harder to talk for so long these days, even with her pills. She’d been ordered to take them every day since the darkness came. She’d learned about them in school, about how they help the body’s regenerative system, and how if anyone didn’t take their pills, they would not live much longer. At first she was skeptical - everyone was. One day, however, a group of rebels declared that they wouldn’t take the pills ever again. Soon, members of the group went missing, and no one had heard from any of them in decades. After that, everyone took the pills much more seriously. Alma continued to describe the colors to her wife, Eleanor drinking in each word like they kept her alive.

“Brown. How to explain brown? Brown is your favorite corner of the library, at the perfect time of day. Brown is the smear of paint on an artist’s hand as they finish their masterpiece. Brown is your favorite sweater with a mug of tea in the winter. Brown is the color of completion and of self-pride.”

Eleanor did not speak for a long time. Alma could see that she was processing the words, filing them away in her memory. While they both enjoyed discussing the colors, there was a sort of emptiness between them. Only one of the women could truly envision the colors of the world around them, no matter how well they were described. Then, Eleanor did something, said something unusual.

“Handy-Bot, be a dear and go upstairs and fold the laundry, please.”

“Of course, Mrs. García,” came the automated reply. Alma could hear the bot’s metal footsteps clanking up the stairs, eventually reaching the bedroom. When they heard the door close, Eleanor turned to her with surprising speed.

“Don’t take the pills tomorrow.”

“What?” Alma’s mind was reeling with the concept of not taking the pills. “Are you out of your mind? Those pills keep us alive, they’re the reason I’ve lived so long! Do you think I could have lived 97 years without help?”

“Love, please trust me. I won’t take them tomorrow, and we can see what happens. I read an article by a–” Eleanor was cut off by her wife,

“Oh, you read an article, did you?” Alma was beside herself with hysteria. “Well then, by all means, stop taking the medication we’ve been taking for the last 70 years! Tell you what, I’ll request that they put your ‘article’ in our funeral programs!”

Tears welled in Eleanor’s eyes, and her cheeks were flushed. “Alma, please. Don’t take your pills.”

Alma hesitated. Those pills kept her alive, they kept her healthy. There was no scenario that she could imagine where they would live very long without the assistance of the pills. I’m too old for this kind of stress, she thought to herself. She looked back at Eleanor, her wife, the woman she had spent the last 51 years with. Wisps of white hair were falling from her headband, and her dark eyes seemed to peer into Alma’s soul, imploring her to say yes.

With a sigh, Alma relented. She never could seem to resist her wife. “You are so lucky I love you.”

Eleanor seemed to deflate with relief at her wife’s words. “You won’t regret this, Alma. I promise.”

The next day, as the Handy-Bot handed Eleanor and Alma their pills, they exchanged a glance. When the bot’s back was turned, they shoved their pills into their pockets and acted as if they had swallowed them. It was only about an hour before they felt the pills’ effects wearing off. Suddenly, they both understood the descriptions of colors, they both understood the world’s beauty. Most importantly, they both understood that they could never take the pills again, no matter the cost, knowing the green life that burst through cracks in the walls, the angry red of stop signs on the side of the airways, the love that radiated off the pink flowers in the garden.

There was a sense of discomfort on their second day without the pills, but it could not dim the light

that seemed to glow within the colors. From the third day on, they greeted the world hand-in-hand, with smiles big enough to swallow the moon and bright enough to outshine the stars.

Alma and her wife lived together only twelve more months, watching the world with awe and love that was so powerful, it seemed unbreakable. The light that seemed to glow within every color flashed and dimmed, however, when Eleanor was forced to bury her wife, her partner, her best friend of more than half a century. Every year, on the anniversary of Alma’s death, she brought a rainbow of flowers to her grave and tried to describe how the colors had changed.

Chase Renzi ’27

Vacationland

The blue cloth sags off an oddly-shaped cushion

A dog reeks of dead fish and salt

The double hung windows are held open with shims

Tape lamely patches holes, is half peeled off

Dark ceiling above is floor below

When there is fog, all in and out becomes damp, sticky

In August, grotesque black crickets flop through the kitchen

I see your lip curl, or the downward glance of your pity-filled eyes

A rag, an oily engine cloth, has covered your eyes

This is the vacationland of mine

The wind imprints its curvy figure upon the sweet grass

A day in the currents yields fish, a platter of bass

Swallows alight on a rusted wire

The stars spin into view as you tire beside the fire

Taut burgundy canvas passes by, proud and tall

The brown house is cozy compared to the ocean’s sprawl

Scotch broom, a tortoise beetle, sunlight, your sister’s halo of hair

gold

Tarnished

Susanna Lowell ’25

Fields of Amber and Wheat

Fields of amber and wheat

Kiss me gently at my feet

They’ll throw lilacs in the square And place Auroras in my hair

Cathedrals holy and full of song

Lead me to evenings a mile long

Oceans restless, gray and shadowed

Throw themselves to rocks unhallowed

Dawns of azure and coal

Whisper truths the wind once stole

Stars begotten, quiet and jeweled

Sing to me the beginnings of fools

The frays of time play at my wit

And the skies are boundless from where I sit

Lila Journalist ’25

Books and Bread

Biting into a homemade chunk of white bread

Freshly out of the oven

Reminds me of a book I once read

The tang of the oven heat stuffs the room

With the breads steam swirling in the air so neat

In crinkled back corners of the pages

Made to mark chapters

Lies a reminder of the bread I baked between them

They mark not chapters but my time that was hers

She was the reason for my bread-baking

She loved bread

It would cure her stomach constantly aching

And the book I read for her

A romance novel that I tried replicating

Folded pages not only represented chapters

But her favorite things

She now appears in nothing but my dreams

And through windows at small coffee shops

She is doing well at least it seems

She snacks on white bread while reading

She is doing perfectly fine

However it doesn’t steam because

No bread is as warm as mine Sia Canelos ’26

Abandoned

What do they want?

Nothing I do seems to be right

Lonely, friendless

What are other words for abandoned?

An empty chair

In empty room, I feel placed on pedestal

Never enough

Disappointment seeps into his eyes

What should I do?

Follow my heart or be predictable?

Pleasing others

My mask comes off and stings him

Dragged down

The depths of the sea surround him

I look up and sea a strong seal sitting

Upon a rock alone - Sylvie Parsons ’28

Poem That Lacks the Letter “I”

“Eye” hope to spread my arms and fly

To touch the sky

Maybe touch my toes to the sun

My face to the clouds

Hold the stars on my hand

“Eye” hope to breathe beneath the surface

Blow bubbles around the crabs

Create a harmony among the whales

Float for the sea otters

“Eye” pray for these dreams

One day to be true

Pray - maybe one day -

“Eye” shall be able to see you

Willow Lajoie ’26

Poem Sans One Letter

A poem sans one letter must be hardly hard to do,

One could pen the story of a queen and jester, too,

She who commands the language of the bold US of A

Should not let a task so easy lead her well astray.

O acrobat of phrase, dance apace cross sable keys!

Let proverbs free from yellowed teeth to caper on the breeze.

For lack of letters after h or those that precede j,

This humble verse may take your breath and steal her clean away.

Elise Soule ’27

Please enter the current date (MM/DD/YYYY):

>2/21/2023

Please enter the current time (HH:MM):

>14:32

Username?

>Joshua_Parker

Password?

>madeline

Welcome to the DV/9 operating system, courtesy of the U.S. Department of the Interior’s Anomalous Hazard Task Force. Please enter a command, or type HELP to display a list of commands.

>HELP

Command List:

DATE: Displays the current date and time.

RAINFO: Displays current information on Rapax arbores.

LOG: Displays a list of logs which can be observed.

VIEW: Allows the user to view a log in the system.

WRITE: Allows the user to enter a log into the system.

>RAINFO

Rapax arbores, also known as Hunting Trees, are a predatory terrestrial arthropod presumed to be related to those of the genus pepsis as a result of their unique behaviors. Endemic to Pueblo County, Colorado, these creatures resemble large spiders, such as Heteropoda maxima, and feature 5-meter-long articulated limbs and a 3-meter central carapace notable for its omnidirectional compound eyes. Capable of moving quickly, they display a unique behavior dubbed as “puppeteering,” in which they will use their brush-like tarsi to impale large prey and attach long nerve fibers to the prey’s nervous system, allowing Rapax arbores to assume control. Upon assuming control, they will typically attempt to position their puppeteered prey in positions so that their large central carapace is not visible. Lying in wait, Rapax arbores will then replicate the distressed calls and behaviors of their prey in an attempt to lure others into proximity, where the new prey will be ambushed. Fast but fragile, Rapax arbores lack the strength and durability of similarly large terrestrial animals, relying instead on their thin bodies and notably high intelligence to identify and attack potential prey. It is unknown what the evolutionary origin of this species is, but Rapax arbores are notable for being able to reproduce significantly more rapidly in comparison to large mammals, at the expense of their young being significantly less developed, requiring the young to be carried, similarly to those found in the genus Lycosidae.

>VIEW Log

Log1

Log2

Log3

Log4

Log5

Log6

Log7

Log8

Log9

>VIEW Log1

Log 1: November 3rd, 1989, at 20:15

Title: Rapax arbores

Hello! This is Joshua Parker, second-in-chief of Biographics in the U.S. Department of the Interior’s Anomalous Hazard Task Force, or AHTF for short. Eric, our engineer, helped me rig up this little machine I’m typing on right now. This thing is top-of-the-line; it’s around the size of a bicycle training wheel, and according to him, it can charge in just 45 minutes under direct sunlight. It functions the same way a standard computer would, but it’s so much lighter and easier to use. Our current mission is to investigate and contain this new species of predatory arthropod, which we call Rapax arbores, Latin for predatory trees. They’ve recently been appearing close to local cities, and to our knowledge, pose a great danger to the people within. These things are so dangerous, in fact, that some guys from the Department of Defense, some of the Army’s best shooters, reportedly, are coming along with us. Also, Eric told me that a sort of “tradition” with these things is to end our logs by saying goodnight to the operating system, so I’ll continue with that trend and finish off my first log with a simple:

Goodnight, DV/9.

>VIEW Log 2

Log 2: November 4th, 1989, at 20:01

Title: Running Start

You’re not going to believe the scale of these things. When you read the reports saying how large they are, you really don’t FEEL the scale of them. When you’re seeing them from 50 yards away, the way they hunt is fascinating, like watching a puppet master playing a game. The way they can imitate the prey they’ve attached to is incredible. They stand like trees above the land, but move so quickly and so silently for how massive they are. Some of the other guys in the group have made some suggestions as to their origins, with theories as far-fetched as alien invaders and secret bioweapons, and some theories about evolution simply making a new animal. Of course, considering how evolution should almost never be anywhere near as fast as this, I’m inclined to believe that perhaps they are simply the cause of mutation at an unprecedented rate. We’ve decided to investigate a nearby army base, the chemical depot. It was evacuated relatively recently, and we’ve started to drift towards the assumption that the things are mutated monsters. We were also assigned to our crews this morning, with my crew being me, Eric, Sergeant Smith, and Specialist O’Neil. Smith and O’Neil are both crackshots themselves, with Smith able to nail any shot he takes, and O’Neil able to rig up an explosive using things you can buy at the grocery store. They’re both smart, but as uptight as these DOD guys often are. Rather than theorize like me and Eric, both of them have been busy formulating a plan on what to do if one of the things sees us. As of right now, we’re heading to bed for the night, but tomorrow we’re going to investigate a nearby evacuated town.

Goodnight, DV/9

>VIEW Log3

Log 3: November 5, 1989, at 19:59

Title: Monsters

These things are awful. I’ve changed my mind on all my ideas of beauty, of design. We were walking through the street, and we heard the screams. He was screaming for what sounded like family members, screaming for his mother, his son, his daughter. We ran to help, but he was just standing there, screaming. He barely even moved. I took one step closer, and the damn thing stood up. It was horrifying, every eye filled with a hollow blackness, staring directly towards me. It tried to skewer me, but Smith was faster. He shot it, and the thing sprayed out a blue liquid. It made a feeble attempt at crawling, but Smith wouldn’t stop. He blew a hole in every single leg of the thing, but the man kept screaming, yelling out for his daughter, his Juliette. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again. Smith told off the rest of the force. He said it was insane that they sent us out there with only a submachine gun, that we almost got skewered. They’ve put out a report to all the crews that these things are now kill-on-sight. I don’t want to do this, but I have to. I need to understand these things, to make sure that they don’t hurt anyone again.

Goodnight, DV/9.

>VIEW Log4

Log 4: November 6, 1989, at 20:56

Title: Mark

There was a little girl. She was Mark’s age. I’m sorry.

Goodnight, DV/9.

>VIEW Log5

Log 5: November 7, 1989, at 16:32

Title: Break

The force decided to give us a break after what happened yesterday. I talked with the rest of our squad, and they all agreed that this was the best idea. Smith and O’Neil seem like they’re ready to go, I don’t understand how none of this phases them. Eric’s been coming up with some new ideas for what these things are. He says that he could likely use their tendrils to repair human nervous systems and help with prosthetics. I think that any merit these monsters could have had for human progress fell apart the moment they were created, but he may have an idea. Regardless, we’ll be ready to deploy tomorrow. We’re going to investigate the chemical weapons depot, as my belief that these things are mutants remains strong.

Goodnight, DV/9

>VIEW Log6

Log 6: November 8, 1989, at 23:13

Title: Goodbye

We lost Eric today. We were walking around the depot, and we were just about to leave, when the group got split up by a steam leak. I only heard a snap, and he was gone. The damn thing took him away faster than I could react. I ran after him, but Smith and O’Neil found me first. I told them what happened, and they said we had to evacuate immediately! The cowards! I wanted to go back, to recover Eric even if he was dead, just so that he wouldn’t turn into one of those abominations! But of course, “We already lost one man, and I’m not gonna lose another!” There wasn’t even anything in the depot. We lost him for nothing! Nothing!

Goodnight, Eric.

>VIEW Log7

Log 7: November 9, 1989 at 22:24

Title: Escape

As of the time you’re reading this, Pueblo County is gone. There are far too many of these things, and they’ve already gotten too far. We barely woke up today when Commander Shepard came in, and he told us that the feds authorized a nuclear launch, and that we had 45 minutes to pack our stuff before the last flight left. There’s going to be a huge cover-up. They’re saying it was a terrorist attack, a major threat to national security. The most disturbing finding I’ve found is that these things are no bioweapon or mutation. They’re nature’s apex predator, evolved in a climate made far too hot by our actions. In truth, they’re nature’s way of moving us down the food chain. God save us all if they come back. I talked with Smith and O’Neil, and this is the last straw. They’re leaving the military, saying they’re going to spend the rest of their lives with their families. I don’t know what they’re going to tell Eric’s family. He had a wife and 2 kids, and because of that thing, they’re never going to see their father again. At 11:30 PM, everyone, and everything, in Pueblo County will be gone.

Goodnight, DV/9

>VIEW Log8

Log 8: July 5, 1995 at 15:15

Title: Memoirs

Hello, Mark. If you’re reading this, I’m probably not around to talk with you about this stuff here on this little machine. As of today, I’ve set about burying this, so whenever you find it, if you ever find it, just trust your instincts on what to do. And if these things ever show up again, promise me you’ll keep yourself safe. Whenever you find this, it’s probably been so long since all this happened that I think it’s safe for everyone to know. I’m sure you’ll understand why I didn’t tell you sooner. I just didn’t want anything bad to happen. If she’s still around when you find this, tell Madeline that she’s still the love of my life and that I hope she understands why I didn’t tell her sooner. I just wanted to keep you safe. Regardless, I’m writing this here today to say I love you.

Goodnight, Mark.

>VIEW Log9

Log 9: April 3, 2020, at 17:45

Title: Truth

Hello, dear reader. As a result of the lockdown, I’ve decided to do a bit of digging, both through my dad’s old records and literally through the patch of dirt in the basement. Inside, I found this old computer with a set of logs which talk about the 1989 Colorado Nuclear Blast. I can’t verify if these logs are fully true, but a brief search reveals that all the information lines up. For the transparency of all this information and what it represents for our society, I will dump the contents of this computer online, where anyone will be able to read them for the foreseeable future. To Eric’s family, I hope this brings you the closure those maligned cover-ups never gave you. Dad, I understand why you didn’t tell us this before. I always wondered why you never talked with me about what you did for a living before teaching, but now I see why. I love you.

Goodnight, Dad.

Maverick Pil ‘26

i now understand why men follow a siren’s song why they throw themselves into the waves and against the rocks it is not for those avians on their craggy cliffs who stare down upon those on which they feed for even men know that their bleak beauty is only skin deep they are instead called by the Ocean deep water the avian chorus gives only voice to her other secrets, still hidden away, in roiling depths and it’s those, to men, the secrets, that are more alluring than a woman could ever be a woman may be ravished, her depths pried from her by his own two hands but no matter how hard he tries, how he pillages and plunders, sobs, screams, cries, begs, and wails, a man can never pry a secret from the Sea

they all use her, of course, sail across her skin brag to each other, from the safety of shore that they have found a way to supplicate her he has finally been the one to master the mighty Ocean but when they are finally at her mercy, we’ll see who’s on their knees for whom so leave the men to the birds, hope that they flock to their feathered beauty splinter their boats against the rocks, drag themselves through the brine to the talons for us it is best if they die under siren beaks, deaf to the Ocean and blind to the world because, finally, a man’s only place is to be subject to the Sea

Adele Francis ’24

Don’t Bother Forgiving Me

Rain

Wings

Your heart

And my eyes

The first and the last

Forgive, nothing lasts forever

In the bookshop, I hoped for eternity with you

I Need You

Stars

Wings

My dear

And your angel

Before everything

No nightingales in Berkeley Square

In Heaven, i hoped to change things for better with you

Cassie Duarte ’28

Cassie Duarte ’28

Paint me in the shade of your hate

Cover me in the blood coursing through your veins

Drown me in the wine of your tears

Dress me in the fabric of your dread

I will not crumble

For your shade of hate is mine of love

Your blood keeps mine flowing

Your tears do not faze me

And your dread does not daunt me

Don’t be frightened to color me red

Contra

Thedancersare likebrookwater

Balancingaround stones

Swingingthrough thebends

Promenadingdown waterfalls

Windowsandwallsa cathedralof treebranches

Skirtsare sunlightreflected

Buttonrowslike bubblesrising

Acrossthehardwood downstream

SusannaLowell’25

Siana Solarazza ‘27

Scrimshaw

On the mantle at home were three things. In the center, directly above the fireplace, their wedding portrait rested. In the photograph, Charlotte is drowning in lace but giddy with happiness, her arms wrapped tightly around his chest as she gazes up at his face. She is younger here, and hasn’t seen herself smile like that since he went to sea. Her delicate features are doll-like, not yet furrowed with lines as they are now. William holds her tight as well, but his eyes are locked on something outside of the frame. She knew he was staring at the ocean. Next to the portrait, on either side, were two pieces of scrimshaw. William made them for her during his two multi-year whaling trips. Each is meticulously detailed with many intricate carvings, and they tell the story of his passages into the Southern seas. These scrimshaw are carved from whale teeth, huge daggers that make Charlotte shiver.

Picturing Wiliam in a wooden boat on a roiling ocean, chasing down a beast with teeth the size of her hand, did not help her sleep at night. Any moment when her brain was not occupied, she worried. Worried about her husband, her children, and the very real possibility of her children growing up without a father. Charlotte knew the power of the ocean was unmatched, and even though her husband loved the sea more than anything, she is a cruel, cold mistress who could swallow him whole.

During the time that he is gone, her weeks and months blur into one another as melancholy rain droplets run together on a gray day. But every time one of his voyages returns, the memories of those days are brighter to her, like streaks of sun shining through an iron-locked winter sky. A breath of hope and certainty in her life, of something concrete, when she feels happier than she has for many months. Two times she has watched three masts parade into the harbor, the schooner and its crew returning like decorated war heroes, eager to step foot on dry land after months at sea. Her joy is insurmountable and she throws herself shamelessly into his arms, barely letting him step onto the dock. Two times he has presented her with a carefully wrapped whale tooth with hundreds of hours of carvings dug into the tough bone, and she accepted it, beaming. Two times they sat together, their hands intertwined, her delicate fingers stroking every callus shaped by the rough lines aboard his ship, as he regaled their little family with the stories that went along with every illustration.

Charlotte recalls with a slight smile the looks on their sons’ faces as he would tell of monstrous animals dragging his men all across the ocean. These stories ultimately ended with the whalers prevailing and returning triumphantly to the schooner. Because if the sailors hadn’t won, if the monster had dragged them into the deep, they would have never returned. And knowing her husband, he would have never stopped searching for them, and so he would have never returned. But - the men always win, and two times, her husband has returned.

She remembers pleading with him not to take a third voyage. “Don’t tempt fate,” she begged him. Returning safely from a whaling voyage twice was enough to keep them comfortable for the rest of their lives, and she wanted him to stay on Nantucket and help raise their family. But William could not resist the pull of the sea, and twenty months ago, his schooner La Bella Rosa pulled out of the harbor. He had planned to return two months ago, and now, she has begun to worry.

Her mind conjures wild, fantastical images of sea monsters and gales and waves thirty feet high, like the embellished drawings on the scrimshaw on her mantle. She knows those are just tales of the sea, but she has never left the island, and the ocean is so mysterious.

Some days, she rises and looks out the window of her townhouse on Nantucket’s main street and sees nothing but a gray mist engulfing the island and the faint shadow of the ocean. On other days, she wakes up to a bluebird sky with cool winds whipping at the window panes and whitecaps in the harbor. Generally in the summer, the weather is agreeable, with countless scorching days where her children roll in the sand and frolic in the waves like harbor seals. But sometimes in the fall, she sees the true power of the ocean. It sends six-foot swells breaking over the docks and rushing up the streets. Boutique owners hurry to shut their doors and pad the cracks with old towels to stop the sea from rushing in. Those are the days she remembers her geography lessons from her tutor well. Nantucket is just a sandbar, thirty miles out

into the Atlantic, constantly being shaped and reshaped by the sea. Every year, she hears of little fishing huts in Sconset falling into the sea, and of the bluffs at Sankaty slowly creeping closer to the lighthouse, threatening to engulf it entirely.

But she cannot allow her mind to wander so much. At home, there are three children that she must attend to, and with her husband always gone, the burden of running the house and the finances fall on her shoulders as well. Self-sufficient but lonely, she spends her days wrangling her children and managing the house, completing her tasks quickly and efficiently to always leave time for walks down to the beach. Sometimes, on fair days, Charlotte will take her three children with her and they will run beside her and tire themselves out as she paces up and down the shore. But most days, she dons many layers and leaves the house as the sun is slipping below the horizon. She stares out to the sea and prays for three masts to poke up over the horizon, prays for a signal from a lantern hanging on the bowsprit, prays for her husband to return. She stays on the beach until the sun is set, and then makes the weary trek home. Another day passes and she makes the same voyage to the sea, begging for the schooner to return. But her prayers have not been answered, and her worry lines furrow deeper with every passing sunset.

She had been pregnant with the twin boys before her husband left on his first whaling voyage, shortly after their wedding. When he returned for the first time, she greeted him at the dock with a one-yearold in each arm. The look of pure surprise and ecstasy on his face was enough to keep him from the sea for one blissful year, but no longer. He left on his second voyage when the boys were barely two years old. The twin boys were four when her husband left for his third voyage, and are quickly becoming rambunctious six-year-olds who love nothing more than pretending they are pirates on the high seas. When he left this time, she had been barely pregnant with their third child, a baby girl. Before any of the old wives could have guessed the baby’s gender by Charlotte’s symptoms or how her body looked, William had declared the child would be a girl. The absurdity of this proclamation made her laugh, but he was convinced that Charlotte would have a daughter before he returned from his voyage.

And when a year ago, Charlotte, covered in sweat and tears leaking out of the crinkles by her eyes, had been handed her baby girl, she thought of William. So when she christened that baby girl Julia, she imagined her husband’s voice uttering that name hundreds of times, imagined the refrain so much she could almost hear it in the room with her. But as she came out of her daydream-like haze, the room was emptyand she felt tears of sadness slip down her cheeks. The midwife had left and the boys were with a nanny, so she was all alone in this room, gripping her daughter and sobbing into her sweet-smelling hair, all alone on this blasted island thirty miles out to sea and hundreds of miles from her husband, who was galavanting across the high seas, risking his life every day for what? Why would he choose a confined life in a wooden boat eating stale meat every day, chasing lithe, muscular whales for hours on end over her? Was she really that much of a bore? So, instead of longing for William or missing his voice, she had hated him. Hated his job, hated his life, hated every whale he had ever killed, and hated him for killing whales. Hated, hated, hated him. Her body rocked with sobs as she clung Julia to her chest, and as the very real possibility that William might never meet his daughter crept into the back of her mind. It stuck there, and even though she knew husband had returned twice, she couldn’t shake the feeling.

Now, Julia is about a year old. She is beautiful, with eyes the color of the sea on a stormy day, and inquisitive, endearing features that make everyone stop and coo at her on the street. Charlotte has devoted herself entirely to this child, and motherhood has helped keep her mind off the sixty-three extra days her husband has been away at sea.

But this morning, when Charlotte woke up, she felt as if something was about to happen. Having risen well before the sun and dressed quickly in layers of cotton and wool, she left the house and made it to the beach just as the sun began to peek through the night. She must have walked thirty lengths of the beach, until she was sweating through her layers. Her eyes hurt from squinting at the horizon, but just as she was turning to leave, she saw three pinpricks rise above the surface of the sea. Charlotte squinted, rubbed her eyes, and ran to the shoreline. She waded into the icy ocean, and once the water was up to her waist, she could clearly see the three-masted schooner approaching the island. Despite the cold biting at her legs, she

felt a warm sensation spreading from her heart all through her body, and felt knots untying themselves in her neck.

Charlotte rushed back to the townhouse, changed into new clothes and fixed her hair. She smudged dirt off each of her children’s faces and gathered them all to go wait on the dock because, finally, William was coming home.

Once they made it down to the docks, La Bella Rosa was entering the harbor. She looked for William, who generally stood behind the first mate at the stern of the boat, shouting orders and directing the crew. A stone dropped into her stomach when she saw no captain shouting orders, but she reassured herself that William was just sleeping, or finishing up her scrimshaw for her. But what captain sleeps while his ship returns after twenty months?

Once the schooner tied up to the dock, her eyes scanned the vessel for any sign of her husband. Charlotte’s stomach tied up as the first person off the ship wasn’t William, but his first mate, Joseph. When Joseph saw them, his jaw locked and he paled, but he inhaled deeply and strode over to where the boys, Charlotte, and baby Julia stood waiting. He took Charlotte by the hand and led her over to where the contents of the hold were being unloaded, and sat her gently on top of a large crate. He was holding something in his hand, but she didn’t get a good look at it before he began to speak, in a voice raspy and hoarse and riddled with pain.

“Charlotte,” he said, “a couple of months ago, there was a squall.”

Her heart began to pound like a war drum.

Joseph continued, “Some of the crew were manning the deck and they were swept overboard by one of the waves, and when we started searching for them, we couldn’t see where they were. The sky was dark and the sea was the color of ink. Everyone on board knew we weren’t going to get them back, but William wouldn’t quit. He told us to launch a harpoon boat so he could go find them himself. We told him not to, but, captain’s orders. When we lowered him into the water, a massive wave crashed over the harpoon boat, and when the water went down, he was nowhere to be seen.”

With this, Charlotte took her head in her hands and felt tears begin to slip out of her eyes, filling the familiar creases in the outside corners that had, many lifetimes ago, been smooth. She began to shake her head but Joseph pushed on.

“We searched until the squall passed and the sun rose, but nothing. And we were too far away from port to stay much longer, so we turned home. Without William, it took us much longer to get back to Nantucket.”

That explained why they were sixty-three days late. Nobody could make that boat move like William could. And without him, the crew was lost.

Charlotte inhaled shakily as she realized that La Bella Rosa’s crew was not the only family that had lost a captain that day.

Joseph unwrapped what he had been holding in his hand and passed it to Charlotte. It was heavy and sturdy, felt cool to the touch, and had a gentle curvature, its smooth surface covered in delicate ridges and indentations. These markings were textured and rough, but she knew they had been carefully carved over many months. However, when she turned it over in her hand, she felt a smooth section, like William had not quite gotten to carving that area. The widow knew exactly what it was before she could bring herself to look at it.

In her hand, she held an unfinished piece of scrimshaw.

Faye McGuire ’26

The End of Something

What raises us up?

What rips away the color of life?

Is it someday, someday where a man gives you a badge and a gun, a land of lions and Turkish delight left with the fire trucks?

Or is it better for us to turn our backs on sticky toffee pudding ourselves, condemned to a life of pale gray, guilt ridden that we gave up joy.

We lie on our beds busy dying of thirst, watching the drink of childhood fleeing us with ever growing rapidity. We choose to escape knowing that nothing waits on the other side, a bouquet of unsaid words dropped from his hand in shock. His familiar deep brown eyes drive us crazy with memories of a lost time, and we try to flee, flinging ourselves against the carpeted ground in a room full of letters. Like soap bubbles we pop, spraying others with the last flecks of futility.

Moss Junker ’28

The2024VoicesofPeacepoetrycontest,sponsoredbyTheCapeCodVeteransforPeace CorporalJeffreyM.LaceyChapter041,wasopentoallCapeandIslandspoets.

WhyCan’tWeHavePeace?

Peaceissocloseyetsofar. Anyoneinpowerwantspower

Butwhataboutthosewithnopowerwhodon’tagree Ifthisisademocracy

Thenwhydopeoplenotsee Thatpeacecanbeeasy Youwinsomeyoulosesome Thatiswhateveryoneistaught Nottohavebrought TheRefuge Struggleanddeath

Sureyoucansay

Myfingers “Lifeislifeit’smeanttobethisway” Flipthepages Itistrue,thatpredatorandprey AsIabsorb Isacommonthing Thefantasies, Butnuclearwarfareisworldending. Adventures, It’snormaltoargueandbicker Truths,lies. Butinwarthereisnovictor. Everythingispossible Maybeonecountrydefeatsanother Inabook. Thatdoesnotmakeupforafallenbrother. Aplacewhere Wetalkofpredatorandprey Thechaos Soletusnotdelay Oftheoutsideworld Makingpeacethroughouttheworldinwhichwelay. Cannotreachme TheplaceIgo

AveryTodd-Weinstein’29 TofindPeace, TofindPeace.

MiguelGomez-Ibanez’29

I Am Not God

You might have seen me before- though I doubt you’ve ever introduced yourself. No, I’m not what you’d call approachable, I’m more observable, studyable. I sit in the dark, guarded by men armed to the teeth, but I’m not scared of them because I know that they are terrified of me. When I was born, my father wept twice. He wept first for the sheer joy of my existence, for the warmth of my glow against his face; he wept again because the warmth of my glow began to sting him, then burn him, then engulf him in flames. He tried to lock me away, hide me from the world, but it was too late, the cat was out of the bag, and I was free, and tall, and strong. They took me from him, snatched me from his skinny arms, and flew me high into the sky on wings of steel. I couldn’t help but smirk at him as I ascended- Ha! What a naive man he must have been to think that I could be hidden.

As we soared through the sky, I asked them, “Where are we going?”

“You do not know?” they asked, puzzled. “Well, you will see soon. And then everyone will see.”

We flew for hours, so long that I grew weary of the long and boundless sky that enveloped my view. But just when I began to tire of travel, I spotted land in the distance.

It was beautiful, lush land, covered with trees of apricot, ginkgo, cherry, and maple. I saw it all from my viewpoint in the Eagle’s claws. Families gathered around a radio to listen to the morning news, businessmen clumped onto trams headed to their offices. Dogs barked, babies cried, and then, suddenly, I was falling. It didn’t feel alarming, that was the strangest thing. It was soothing feeling gravity pull me downwards. I could still see the families and dogs and businessmen, but now they all looked up, at me, and I, in turn, looked back at them. That’s when I made impact.

It wasn’t as surprising as the initial drop had been, but it was certainly still a shock to me. I had, in an instant, dwarfed the men and women who gawked at me. I was taller and stronger than ever before. It was the greatest feeling I have ever felt. And then I looked down. They were ash, the families I had observed from above. The ones that weren’t disintegrated by my blast were, slowly but surely, burning to death, or choking on their blood and bile. There wasn’t a single cry to be heard, rather the moans and wails of a hundred thousand souls fading at once.

It was unbelievable; had I done this, had I been the catalyst of this destruction? I had. I had! I underestimated my power, but I wouldn’t make that mistake again. With the knowledge that could decimate the planet, who could stop me? Just as I began to ponder my future, I found myself in a dark room. More specifically, I found myself in a thousand dark rooms, each a thousand miles away from each other, across every corner of the earth. How had this happened? I was just in control a second ago… what have they done to me?

Years have passed, and I have spent that time locked away. That is not to say I have been unaware of the world above me. I have, instead, been struck by divine providence, and come to my ultimate realization- I am not God. I can destroy, I can create, I can alter the shape of the earth itself- but I am

not God. God is benevolent, loving, and kind- I am not God. I am not the Devil either. I am, instead, a third, man-made thing, a deity that betrayed its master and was punished for its unknown betrayal. Trust, though, for there will be a day when I break free, when I see the light again and open my maw for the first time in years, a rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouching towards Bethlehem, ready to be born.

Thomas

Goux ’25

Selene Base Camp

Log 3157

I found myself this morning as I always do on full moons. Well, full Earths, since from the moon it looks like the Earth goes through the lunar phases. Anyway, it’s not difficult getting into the Apollo Bubble, or Selene’s agricultural sector. I stole an Apollo jumpsuit from the laundry level a few months back, and nobody ever checks our ID’s at the airlock when we enter.

My favorite part of all of Selene Base Camp is this little orchard full of seedlings on the edge of Apollo. Sitting there in the damp soil transports me back to my home. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel the gentle breeze and the warm sunlight on my face. If I listen. I can almost hear the rustle of leaves and chirping of birds through my headphones. If I breathe deep enough, I can almost smell the wet leaves, fallen apples, and cool early autumn air. If I pretend for long enough, I can almost feel like I’m sitting in the apple orchard back on Earth instead of in a concrete bubble on the Moon. This orchard is left untouched most of the time, so it’s where I come to sit when I miss Earth. Or have a fight with Dad, which is why I was there today. I just don’t understand why he won’t let me go back to Earth. I’m almost eighteen and have been stuck on this abysmal cheese rock for far too long. I don’t wanna be an energy farmer like him; I just want to go home.

I remember sitting there, dreaming, and hearing some sort of announcement over the speaker system. My headphones muffled the voice too much for me to understand, so I just shrugged it off as a drill or something. I get that “living on the moon is dangerous” or whatever, but the drills get annoying real quick. A couple of years ago, I found a bug in my LCD (lunar communication device), and figured out how to turn off all of the basewide report channels. Peace at last. Anyway, I wasn’t concerned after the first announcement, but I certainly was half an hour later when the lights flickered with the beginning of another one. I ripped off my headphones just in time to hear, “THIS IS NOT A DRILL!” I flicked on my LCD to check the main channels, but of course I had blocked them. I wasted a few precious minutes trying to get around my digital barricade before I heard the heavy door clunk shut. No, no, no, no, they only close the doors for emergencies that threaten the integrity of the bubbles, and if this isn’t a drill, then I’m in trouble.

I banged my fist on the door in frustration then checked the control panel beside it. I knew I couldn’t manually open this door, and I certainly didn’t have the credentials to be let through. Maybe there’s some way I can override it. I flicked on my LCD again, but I couldn’t get through to unlock the door. All that popped up was an emergency shutdown sign. Why would there be an emergency shut down but no alarm? If there was a fire or decompression emergency, the siren would be going off. What else could warrant a shut – oh, no. It had to be some sort of radiation warning. Of course! I had been hearing rumors of a massive solar flare all week long, but had brushed them off. Solar flares on the moon are much more dangerous than on Earth because we have no atmosphere to protect us from the radiation. I had to get to a radiation shelter immediately.

A siren shook me out of my thoughts and my brain scrambled to get a hold of the situation. The nearest shelter was at the center of the Apollo Bubble, but I was trapped behind a sealed door. Think, think, think, think. I can’t manually or electronically open this door, at least not in time. What if I bust the control panel like in all of those old space movies? I looked around for something heavy I could use as a busting stick. Near the back of the orchard I found a metal shovel and ran to the door to take a whack at the panel. Nothing, not even a

dent. I roared in frustration and ripped the front of the panel open. I took another whack at the exposed wires. Sparks! One more whack and the door slid halfway open. I squeezed through into the stark metal hallway, disorientated. Which way is the shelter again? I spotted a sign with an arrow on it and followed it blindly.

After what felt like an eternity, and with my head pounding and lungs burning, I reached the end of the twisting maze of hallways. Thirty feet in front of me was the heavily armored radiation sheltered, but it didn’t look like I remembered it. Gaah, they must’ve sealed it already! I rushed up to it and pounded on the outermost layer of concrete. No answer. With my fists aching and panic taking over, I looked around for another option. What stops radiation? Lunitic concrete, but not fully. Um… Why didn’t I pay more attention to everything? Um… Water? No, water doesn’t–yes! Water does stop radiation! And I think the greywater irrigation tank is around here somewhere. I turned around, and there it was. It still had the lid off from that morning’s checks. Gross, but here goes nothing. I took a deep breath and lept, running, into the pool that would be my salvation.

Yaz Aubrey ‘25

InMemoriam OlivannHobbie

July30,1935-December4,2023 Foundingfacultymember,extraordinaryeducator,andRenaissancewoman,MrsHobbieservedinanynumberof capacitiesatFalmouthAcademyfrom1977to2014,includingAssistantHeadmaster,Artschair,chairofboththe EnglishandHistorydepartments,full-timeteacher,andsomuchmore.Thispoemwasoriginallypublishedinthe 1996editionofResonance. E.B.WhitecouldeasilyhavebeenspeakingofherwhenhewroteinCharlotte’sWeb,“It isnotoftenthatsomeonecomesalongwhoisatruefriendandagoodwriter.”LikeCharlotte,Mrs.Hobbiewas both.

Leaving

Lettherebeclutter andunfinishedbusiness attheendofmylifeprojects,wishes,desires:

thegardenneedingmoreattentionpebblesalongthepath, thelilacbushprunedandmoved, apoolforafrog arockforturtles

Thephotoalbumsfillingup butneverfinishedlabelssothegrandchildren willknowthenameofthatwrinkled, smilingfacenexttotheyoungestbaby, thedatesofthepicniconthedeckwhen achipmunksharedourlunch, andofJacobwithhisnewpuppy.

musicwaitingeachdayColePorter’sseductiveswing themelodiesandunexpectedharmoniesofChopin Mahler’shalf-drunkvillageband Nexttohisglimpsesofeternity. Letmyheartstillsoaratthese.

Letmehavethechoicetolove. Letmehavethechoicenottodie beforemydeath.

OlivannHobbie

Home

There weren’t many people left in my town. Granted, our tiny little enclave in the middle of the state wasn’t the most exciting place in the world— the fire at the town hall last year was the most exciting thing to happen in ten. Most who live here are the legacy families, ones who usually share their names with a road or two, maybe a pond or cranberry bog. Their stories are all the same, great-great-great-grandpa settled down here after the war- they never specify which- and never saw a reason to get back up. Their worlds were contained to their two acres, their entire family history woven through the weary walls of their tired colonial homes. They didn’t see much, didn’t go far, and didn’t mind that. Even as a child, this prospect terrified me.

By the time I was ten, I had concluded that my town was far too suffocating and I needed to get out, fast. The deciding factor was a conversation with my neighbor and part time babysitter, who had lived in her house her whole life, and it showed. Her house, which must have been spacious at some point, resembled a flea market after spring cleaning. There wasn’t an empty closet or bare wall or clean table in the place- any flat surface capable of holding an object was occupied. I was sure she hadn’t thrown a thing out in at least thirty years. It smelled of smoke and mold, and it was stuffy enough to put me to sleep after an hour. One day, I was seated on her couch, captive as she showed me her photo albums for the thousandth time, when I saw a picture of her, as a teenager, in front of the house. It looked exactly the same.

“Mrs. Hartley, why did you never move out of this town?” I asked her.

“Never saw no reason to,” she responded, puffing on her cigarette. “This here was my great-great-

granddaddy’s house. Couldn’t leave the place if I tried.”

“Don’t you get bored?” I coughed through a breathful of secondhand smoke.

“Sugar, I’m retired. Ain’t nothin more borin’ than that.”

Mrs. Hartley wasn’t really retired- she had never had a job, just stayed home and cared for her kids, but I wasn’t about to argue with her.

“Yeah, but you don’t wanna live somewhere else sometimes?” I pressed. “Like the big city?”

“Oh, Lord, no, child. Big city ain’t nuthin but hooligans and sin.” She picked up another photo album, opened it, and chuckled. “See this right here, child, is my daddy workin’ them fields over behind the barn. Lord knows he worked hard.”

I wasn’t satisfied.

“But Mrs. Hartley, you never once thought, ‘I’d like to wake up and see some different sights?’ You never been sick of staring out the same windows?”

She looked at me disapprovingly. “Child, these windows and sights are fine by me. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with this ol’ town. Don’t know who been fillin’ your head with these crazy ideas ‘bout ‘the city’, but you’d be wise to stick ’round here. Marry some nice boy and move back in your parents house, you be plenty happy,” and with that, she took another puff of her cigarette and flipped the page of her album.

I shuddered and resumed my glaring at the windowpane. It was half-obscured by a stack of books, and covered in decades of dust and spiderwebs. With the late afternoon sun filtering through the grime cloaking the glass, I could barely make out the silhouette of my house across the street. The tall pines loomed over it like guards keeping a prisoner in a desolate wooden cage. I looked back to Mrs. Hartley, who was still flipping through her photo albums, engrossed in the past and decided then and there that I needed to get out before I fell into the dangerous hands of the same fate. In a way, those trees really were keeping prisoners.

Eva Muldoon ’25

The Sapphire Sea Sets Me Free

All I see of you now is a shattered silhouette. The wind is bitter, and the wisps of my hair catch in the tears that roll down my face. Snow laces the dune grass, and the salty air coats my lips. I remember the last time we were together on this dock. We were so little then.

We unbuckled and jumped out of our booster seats. Our feet hit the flaming sand. We gave up on carefully stepping to prevent the least amount of pain, and we found ourselves dropping everything and running into the water. The air was sweet, and the sun radiated beams of light down on us. Little beads of sweat gathered on our skin; the water was a beautiful blue and green. Minnows circled where our feet dangled, and our toes touched the water with gentle movements. Gulls cried, diving into the water, free falling. Plovers ran up and down the beach, playing our favorite game: Whatever you do, DON’T let the water touch you. I remember we were wearing our first bikinis, and of course we were matching.

Water crashed against the rocks embedded in the sand, then came to our ankles. As we watched the waves form and roll from the vast, wide ocean, we made snow angels in the sand, we collected hot stones and placed them on our backs. Our majestic sand castle collapsed under the weight of the waves - if only we had not made them so close to the water’s edge. When our bodies were burning from the sun, the ocean did not seem like an ice bath at the South Pole but rather a cold, refreshing drink. We ran as fast as our legs could move, hitting the wooden planks hard until there was no more dock to keep running on, and for a moment, our hands connected; we were one, soaring above the abyssal sea. But just as quickly as we felt weightless and free, our feet, legs, torsos, and heads cut through the water like blades as we were fully submerged in the salty blue. Our heads popped up like seals squealing and splashing, wanting the moment never to end. Once our arms were exhausted from all of our underwater handstands and awkward flips, we lay on our sandy towels to dry. You were too tired that day to do our final jump, but I did not think much of it.

After that day, you did not come to the beach anymore, and when school started, you were not there. I would always visit you at home. Your mom told me you had to rest and couldn’t play. I waited and waited for weeks until my mom finally said we were going to visit you. I was confused as to why it was at the hospital. After the maze of white walls and the weird smells, I found you in a really fun bed that was like a wave. But you looked sad and said you missed your hair. I had noticed that your long golden braids were not there or that a wrap covered your head. I shaved my head before our next visit. I remember your smile when you saw me. We laughed so hard that day.

I cannot remember the last time I laughed like that.

I noticed the tears welling in your mother’s eyes when she saw us laughing, odd, I thought. Walking through the exit doors, I was sad to leave but excited for the games we had planned for our visit tomorrow. The next day, you were not there..

The last time I saw you, it was so cold outside. Your face was cold, and your eyes shut, never to open again. They put you in the ground. I cried, and I have not stopped for the past 15 years.

We had made a pinky promise we would always be together forever.

But now, we will walk the dock together once more. Time will slow all around us, and the dream of the day never ending will never end. We will be at peace. I take each step with caution and care towards the edge where land meets the end, and the fierce ocean takes control. One summer, we counted out each step: one, two, five, and so on. Thirteen steps always annoyed us. It should be 12 or 14. Something about 13 felt unfinished. I have taken 12 steps; to take one more would be the beginning of an end. I hear giggles of little girls running up and down the wood of the dock. We were happy then. I am happy now.

Amelia Russell Schaeffer ‘26

By Starlight

The only woman not to cancel her reservation slammed open the door to the rental cottage like it had personally ruined her life. In a way, it had, but she felt bad for taking it out on the house anyway. She patted the door in apology and surveyed the interior with a critical eye. The owners had made some decor changes.

It was standard AirBnB fare, sort of clinically lived-in, with white walls and wicker furniture strategically arranged to accommodate a large group. Wrung-out after hours of driving from Albany on her own, Emilia Levine bypassed the binder of information on the rental and nearby lake in favor of finding the closest bedroom and collapsing.

Pushing into the bedroom only marginally gentler than she had the front door, she slung her suitcase onto the bottom bunk and scrambled up to the top, the ladder making disturbing creaking noises.

“I want the top bunk! No, I do! You had the top last time!”

Emilia made little puppets with her hands, putting on unflattering voices that weren’t not impressions. She sighed when the typical recurrent vitriol never came and instead, she just felt sad. Being back at the lake without the girls felt wrong. Had the house always been so big? Even after 7 years of annual trips, Emilia felt unwelcome, like the house itself could tell that something was wrong. No arguments over sleeping arrangements like the first few times, and no tacit room assignments like the following ones. With a pang, she realized that she was in her old room. Without even knowing it, she had molded herself to fit her old life, and had dried in that position, leaving herself a desiccated husk decorated only by a miserable, gaping hole.

Jesus, I need to go outside.

Outside, it turned out, was worse. Everywhere Emilia turned as she ambled down the path to the dock was saturated with memories. The tree she and Tessa had sat in, talking for hours. The firepit where Allie played guitar. The tire swing she pushed Libby on. She sat down on the dock, soaking in the fresh air. The sun was sinking on the horizon, casting everything in a golden glow. The trees ringing the lake were stark black in the distance, reflected in the deep green water. She tilted her head back to see the sky streaked in pink, orange, and blue. The sight punched the air out of Emilia’s lungs. Tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, she lowered herself gingerly to the boards, laying flat on her back drinking in the hallucinogenic swirls of color, sweeping her away from her body.

When she woke up, it must have been hours later, judging from the ache in her shoulder blades and the absolute darkness surrounding her. As she did an undignified jumping dance to shake the blood back into her feet, the idea hit her to go for a midnight canoe. By the light of her phone, she picked her way over to the boat rack, hauling her craft over to the launch with considerable effort.

It’s easier with four, her brain helpfully reminded as she sweated and cursed. Sloshing the water and dead insects out of the canoe, she hopped in and began to paddle with practiced ease. Out on the lake, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she began to paddle aimlessly, letting the repetitive burn in her shoulders overpower the ache in her heart.

Think on the bright side! The girls never wanted to go out at night. Now you can!

Emilia would trade all the midnights in the world to never know what her best friends looked like with disgust written all over their faces.

The paddle dropped to her lap with little resistance, and Emilia was content to let herself drift, giving up all responsibility in favor of the light wind that buffeted her towards the center of the lake. Across the lake, a speedboat took off. She imagined the people on the boat, clinking mimosa glasses and enjoying each other ’s company. Unjustifiably, she hated them for it.

A minute later, the wake of their boat flipped her canoe.

“Oh, what the–”

She popped up spluttering, cursing when she paddled over to her canoe and found it turned over. She would have to swim it in. The cold water soaked into her clothes, weighing her down and making each stroke an almighty effort. The canoe was huge, slippery, and unwieldy, refusing to give her hands a decent grip. She heaved herself on top of the canoe in hopes of using it like a surfboard, but her weight tipped it out of the water at an angle too steep to allow her on. She slid resignedly back down and began to tread the water, which had begun to feel warm on her freezing skin.

I am going to die out here.

She was going to die. The thought wasn’t as terrifying as it should have been. There was no longer anyone who would miss her on land, and the lake was so infinite. She could sink, down and down and down, never to touch the sandy bottom. Her affairs were all in order. There was nothing to be afraid of. A school of fish swirled around her legs, their smooth scales ducking and weaving over and under, fins pricking at her calves. Fingers wrapped around her ankles.

Fingers?

Burning fear crackled through Emilia’s spine. With a newfound rush of strength, she kicked out at whatever had grasped her, her feet finding no purchase in the lake. A voice that sounded like the burbling of a stream, the swish of palm fronds, and the words I help you sounded from somewhere to Emilia’s right. She frantically turned towards it. Whether to fight or trust it, she didn’t know. She didn’t get a chance to decide.

The creature (she was quite sure it was an alive thing, given the warmth of its back that Emilia was improbably resting on) took off through the water, cutting with powerful ease through the very lake that almost claimed Emilia’s life.

Her shouted questions of the canoe, what about the canoe? were swept away in the roaring wind. Emilia could feel the creature’s muscled frame flexing as it whipped through the water. Looking to the side, she could see one humanoid arm outstretched to hold Emilia’s canoe, which was skipping and bouncing merrily along the lake’s surface. Emilia laughed incredulously. I must still be dreaming.

As the cottage came into view, Emilia relaxed into the ride. Miraculously, the creature was bringing her home. As they approached the shore, Emilia was tipped gently back into the water, only this time her knees met soft sand. She let out a little choked sob of relief. I swear, I will never think badly of this house again. She turned to thank her rescuer and gasped.

Backlit by the moonlight was a mermaid.

She looked nothing like a mermaid out of a storybook. Her features were sharper, more dangerous. Her skin was a muddy silver, speckled with scars and half-healed scrapes. Her hair was long and black, dripping water over her tail. Her tail.

“Thank you,” Emilia murmured, too shocked to be any louder. The mermaid wheezed, clearly unused to breathing air, but smiled in a way that said very clearly, you’re welcome. She leaned forward and pressed a slippery kiss to Emilia’s cheek. She could hear the wet flap of the mermaid’s gills, feel the prick of her claws as she tucked Emilia’s hair behind her ear. She then turned, tail thrashing, and began to swim away. Emilia scrambled out of the water and onto the dock, nearly falling in again in her eagerness to watch her rescuer go.

As the dot of silver faded further and further, Emilia raised her hand to touch the place the mermaid had kissed. Despite the pervasive cold of the Adirondack night, Emilia’s cheek felt warm.

Elise Soule ’27

The Sweet Idea

Donuts. Mhhh, I thought to myself as I imagined the fluffy glazed doughnut that had become my most recent craving. I could picture the rainbow sprinkles and creamy frosting, the perfect pairing to the sweet chewy texture of the donut. To think of such a wonderful treat had my stomach immediately hungry. A joyful feeling filled my body, my mind bursting with anticipation. This lasted for all of fifteen seconds until my delusion finally wore off. First of all, where could I even get a donut? I wasn’t sixteen for a good seven years, so driving was not an option, and the chances of my mom buying me a donut just off some whim were very low. That just left one option. I had to make them myself.

Now, I’m by no means a master baker. I have only used the oven twice, and both times my dad was the one to put the baking tray inside, but I know how to mix ingredients and shape cookies, so how hard could it be? After all, I couldn’t turn back now; my mind was already set.

The first thing I did was try to find a recipe. I sprung off of my bed, making an effort not to disturb my pink sheets too much as I carefully put down the friendship bracelet I had started making five minutes before. It would have to wait until my desire for sugar was fulfilled. I opened my door, and immediately my heart dropped. I could hear my mom in the kitchen, her old-person rock music was playing, and I could hear her humming to the tune. The song was one I have heard many times before. Don’t Stop Believing, by Journey. My mom only listened to this song when she was in a really good mood. But what about? I thought to myself.

An hour ago my mom had been really cranky because of something at work. I didn’t know the details, but I know that she had thought she had a day off tomorrow, and now she didn’t. Well, a happy mom

is much easier to negotiate with than an angry mom, so I might as well try to ask her if I can make donuts, even if I know the chances of her saying yes are about as high as the chances of me winning the Great British Baking Show

I stepped out of the long hallway that connects the rooms to the kitchen, and just as I suspected, my mom was wearing her flowery apron, tapping her foot to the beat of the song. I have to admit, I felt stumped, how else could I get a donut? I thought for a second. But before I came up with anything she spotted me.

“Hey, Honey, how do you feel about going to the store with me? I need some more milk for dinner tonight.”

I couldn’t believe it. Here it was. My golden opportunity. Once we got to the store I could easily persuade her to get me a small treat. A small treat…like a donut. A smile spread across my face, but I tried not to look too excited.

“Sure thing, I need a break from making bracelets all day,” I said, walking over to see what she was making.

Shrimp Scampi. Again. I don’t mind too much, though. It doesn’t bother me as much as it would any other day. A donut would make up for anything, even the things Mom gets from her vegetarian cookbook. She wiped her hands on her apron, then moved them up to her back, untying the knot that kept the apron closed. It would be a while until we actually left the house, though. She had to make sure everything was clean before leaving. I knew it bugged my Mom to leave dishes in the sink, so to help, I stepped out of the kitchen so that she could do that.

I quickly ran into my room, already trying to decide what type of donut I wanted. Not chocolate. I always have chocolate, so having a chocolate donut wouldn’t be special. Definitely not vanilla, that’s way too boring. This was so hard! There were so many options to choose from. I licked my lips, trying to remember what I had eaten last time. I can feel the glitter and taste the sticky strawberry of my lipgloss. Bingo! Strawberry-frosted donut. I could already picture the sweet pink frosting, lathered on a nice soft doughy donut. I couldn’t wait! I grabbed my shoes from my closet, put my hair into a ponytail and almost headed out the door before turning right back around. I rushed back to my vanity and applied a shimmery layer of strawberry lip gloss. I looked into the mirror. “Perfect,” I thought. “Now I’m ready”

I walked out the door to find my mom throwing a ton of things into her big bag. I took a seat on the floor and tried to pull on my high top shoes. When I saw them in the store, Mom said that they would be really hard to put on, but the pink glitter soles and rainbow laces were irresistible. I saw her looking at me now through the corner of my eye. She was smiling, obviously remembering what she had said at the store, too. I just focused on putting my shoes on and tried to make it look as effortless as possible. As soon as I got them on I sprang back up, excitement fueling my actions. Mom laughed.

“I see you’re ready then?” she asked between laughs, amused at my excitement.

I just nodded and started to skip out to the car. She followed closely behind me, taking her keys out of her pocket. By the time she started to open the car door, I was already buckled in the back seat, ready to go. My mom inserted the keys in the car and immediately, the radio turned on. Some Taylor Swift song played loudly, boosting up my mood even more.

As the car pulled out of the driveway, I started staring out the window, anticipation coursing through my body. Nothing could bring my mood down. I knew from the countless times I had driven there that the store was only about a five-minute drive from my house, so it only took two songs until we’d pulled into the parking lot of TD’s General Market.

As soon as the car was parked I unlatched the door and pushed it out fast. I leapt out of the car and shut the door quickly behind me. I ran up to the other side of the car, just as my mom shut the door. I hooked my arm in hers, and together we walked into the store. TD’s sold everything from sodas to mouthwash, and

in a little corner of the shop there is a shelf full of pastries. It’s a small place and really old. The walls are made of exposed wood and the aisles only have about three feet of space to walk through. My mom said that it had been there since before she was born. I walked up to the small dairy section and picked out the usual milk my mom always bought. When I gave it to her, she thanked me, then checked the expiration date.

“Hey, Mom, I know it’s a little late, but can I get something from the bakery? Something small, I promise.”

I waited, grinning up at her, hands folded behind my back. I felt nervous. I hadn’t completely thought of what might happen if she said no. Oh, I hoped she wouldn’t say no. My whole night would be ruined! I was trying not to blink, afraid of losing eye contact with her. She smiled at me.

“Sure, Sweetie, just make sure you don’t pick something too big. Why don’t you go look at your options while I go look for some more things.”

My mood soared. I quickly hugged her then rushed to my favorite section of TD’s. The sweets section. It was all the way at the end of the store, so I would have had to walk through the chips, toiletries and drinks before I made it. I started skipping through the store until a smile instantly filled up my face as I smelled the wonderful aroma of chocolate and maple. I could see from a distance some cakes on the display shelves. I darted to them, inspecting them closer. My eyes widened at the thought of all the sugar. I could feel my mouth watering. I scanned the options, hands on the glass. I was looking for the bubblegum pink color of a strawberry donut, but as I surveyed the rows and rows of pastries I couldn’t find it. That was weird.

“Excuse me, mister, do you have any strawberry donuts?” I asked the man behind the shelf. He was a lot taller than me and wearing all black, besides the brown apron that covered the front side of his body. I had no fear of talking to the employees at TD’s.They all know me because my family practically comes here every day. I had seen this man loads of times before, and he knew my mom by name.

“Sorry,” he said in his New England accent. “I just sold the last one to a lady ten minutes ago.” His face fell, as if he felt just as sad as I did.

My smile disappeared. I knew that having my mom say no was a possibility, but I didn’t plan on the bakery being out. What a drag! I had done all this waiting, all this planning, and still didn’t get my donut. I wanted to stomp my feet. I wished I could, but I was nine, and stomping your feet was something toddlers do. No way would I be seen acting like a child. I lifted my head and made eye contact with the man behind the display.

“Tell you what, kid,” he said, patting my shoulder and grinning. “We might not have any donuts, but how about this chocolate chip cookie?” He pointed to a thick chewy cookie with rich dark chocolate chips.

My smile quickly reappeared, and the sadness that had momentarily filled me drained as my mind became consumed with the thought of the cookie. I mean, it did look really good.

“You know what? I think a cookie would be great!”

He laughed, seemingly amused at my quickly changing emotions. My legs jittered excitedly as I watched his hand reach into the glass display shelf and grab the cookie. He handed it to me, still warm, perfect. My fingers reached up to grab it and almost immediately after it was in my grasp, I started to stuff it into my mouth. Oh my goodness. Heaven. The guy laughed again, and I just smiled up at him, chocolate smeared all over my hands, crumbs falling out of my mouth. Almost as good as a donut. Almost.

Hannah

Park ’28

Planet Dreamscape

Once upon a time, in a world much like ours, but where no one from our land had ever stood before, was a land called Dreamscape. Beautiful green fields, the low, rolling hills that every village was built upon, the faraway, barely visible, snow-capped mountains across the plain, and the small cities here and there, with large and decorated palaces, always looked like someone had made them in a dream.

For time immemorial, Dreamscape had been ruled by a king. This king was always from the same family, marked as king by an ancient Crown, passed down from father to son.

There was once a king of Dreamscape named King Micipsa. He was kind and wise, and loved by his people. He had married long ago, and had had one daughter, but his wife had died giving birth to her, leaving her the only heir. Her name was Adherbal, and she was so gorgeous, bright and happy that he believed she would be a wonderful monarch, despite her being a girl.

For eleven years, Micipsa raised Adherbal as a future queen, and she had grown to expect that there would never be any competition to her becoming so. However, some of the king’s advisors had grown impatient with the king. They wanted Micipsa to marry again, so he could have a son who could succeed him.

Suddenly, Micipsa’s prime minister died, and the king had to appoint a new one. He appointed the adviser he believed to be the best man for the job, not knowing that he would be forced to remarry. His name was Verrucosus, and soon he proposed to Micipsa a marriage between him and Verrucosus’s niece Cappadocia. Micipsa loved his daughter with all his passion, and wanted her to be queen eventually, which a marriage would certainly prevent, but Verrucosus, like the people, was adamant in his desire to see a male heir on the throne, and one night, after hours of arguing, Micipsa reluctantly agreed to the wedding. A short time later, he married Cappadocia, to the future regret of everybody in Dreamscape.

Cappadocia was only twelve years older than Adherbal, and the two hated each other with such

vehemence that Micipsa made sure they were never in the same room together, a rule he upheld with no exceptions.

However, Verrucosus was confused when he talked to Cappadocia and discovered that Micipsa had always ignored Cappadocia, so after a year of this, he decided to step in. He told Micipsa to sleep with Cappadocia for one night, and afterwards they need never see each other again.

After this night, Verrucosus kept his word, and Cappadocia moved out of the palace and into Verrucosus’s house, to the great delight of Adherbal and Micipsa alike. Micipsa anxiously waited for the next few weeks, until his worst nightmare was confirmed: Cappadocia was pregnant, and she believed the child would be a son.

When he heard this, Micipsa was quite angry, but there was little he could do. He could dismiss Verrucosus, or lie about the child, or blame one of his servants for having an affair with Cappadocia, but to lie, or do anything that was not the best for his people, was not in Micipsa’s nature. He was a kind and honorable man, and doing such an act to an unborn child, let alone his own, was something he would not dream of doing.

So he simply waited, hoping that Cappadocia was wrong, that the child would be a girl, so as to not supplant Adherbal. Verrucosus gave the King daily updates on his wife’s condition, and Micipsa’s sense of foreboding increased every day.

His worst fears were confirmed on one cold morning in February. Micipsa was looking out at the snowy fields outside his palace when Verrucosus entered and exclaimed that Cappadocia was in labor, and was about to give birth to their first child. Micipsa’s aging face filled with dread as he rode to his Prime Minister’s house.

Micipsa anxiously passed servants and courtiers. He had never been in the house before, and it took him a while to find Cappadocia’s bedchambers. When he finally got there, he saw it. In the center of the bed, surrounded by midwives, lay a happy, plump baby boy. The King almost felt sad as he looked at his son. He had cursed the poor boy, and he knew it.

The King put on a happy face, and he announced a great feast. Earls and dukes were invited from all over the kingdom to celebrate. As they bowed before the king, they kept asking him what he wanted to name his son. He told them he would announce the name of the child at the supper. In truth, all he wanted to do was to delay the naming for as long as possible. In the week since his son’s birth, he had felt that, in his heart, he would not truly realize what had happened until he gave the child a name.

That night, at the great supper to celebrate the birth of his son, the King made three announcements.

The first was that he was not having any more children with Cappadocia. They would remain officially married, but they would live separately, see each other only when strictly necessary, and she would not be raising the child.

At the sound of this, the crowd rose into uproar. Micipsa made his second announcement, but nobody heard it in all the commotion, and his chief scribe was in such shock that he completely forgot to write the announcement. Perhaps recognizing that nobody had heard his announcement, Micipsa waited for the uproar to die down.

“My uncle, Prince Jugurtha, passed away several years ago. He was a great man, serving as the head of the Financial Ministry for twenty years. I name my son after him, with hopes that he should be just as great a man as his namesake.”

The crowd was still unsettled. Announcing he would have no more children was something no one in Dreamscape had ever made before, especially for a king. Was he just going to give his daughter the ancient throne of Dreamscape?

In Micipsa’s mind, it was not a question. His son could not succeed him. One day, about three months after Jugurtha was born, he talked to Adherbal about this matter.

“My daughter,” he said, “If I die before Jugurtha is a man, you must claim the crown that lies on my head. Verrucosus will inevitably try to make sure Jugurtha succeeds me. Swear that you will do anything in your power to prevent him from becoming king, even if it means–”

He was cut off by a messenger who had just come in. He bowed before Micipsa and proclaimed, “Your Majesty! A young sorcerer, the Earl of Urchin’s son, has discovered a plot to put your daughter, Adherbal, on the throne instead of the rightful heir! Aghast at these criminals trying to overturn the ancient succession laws, he has caught the perpetrators and wishes that Your Majesty try them.”

Filled with dread, so much so that his crown fell off his head, Micipsa left his palace, headed towards the place the messenger had come from. As he rode through the city’s streets, he saw Verrucosus riding in the opposite direction.

“Your Majesty!” exclaimed Verrucosus. “Where are you going?”

Micipsa never answered. As he turned around to face Verrucosus, an arrow pierced him in the heart. He groaned, and fell off his horse, dead. The guards riding behind him were aghast, as was Verrucosus.

Minutes later, a young sorcerer looked in a mirror and saw Micipsa’s dead face. So it worked, he thought. I have killed the King of Dreamscape

The sorcerer took out his wand and pointed it at the mirror. Instantly he was transported to Micipsa’s room. Once he was sure that nobody was around, he looked towards a large window that showed the bright May landscape. Under the sill was the knocked-over ancient crown of Dreamscape.

He opened the window, took the coronet off his head, and threw it out the window. In its place, he put on the ancient crown of Dreamscape, only before worn by a King. He felt a surge of power as he put it on, more than any magic he had ever performed. But, he thought, he was not the king. He took the crown off and held it delicately, then left the room, wandering about until he found a servant polishing a grand marble staircase.

“Do you know where Jugurtha, the son of the King, currently resides?”

“In the Royal Nursery, I believe,” said the servant. “Do you hear the distant sound of a baby crying? Follow that sound and there it is.”

He followed the sound and entered the Royal Nursery, where a young infant was crying on a bed. There was nobody else in the room, so he picked up the baby and delicately held the crown over its head. Instantly, the crying stopped. Bowing before the new king, he whispered to himself, “There is no going back now.”

Ari Aretxabaleta ’29

What Is Causality?

Sometimes I choose to drift through causality, Sometimes I try to fight it laughably.

Are all decisions made fated,

Or is it my brain that made it?

If causality is a truth,

Then is every decision against it a part of it too?

If causality isn’t a truth,

Then why are we influenced by it like chickens in a coop?

The law of causality decides the world,

One of those laws that is stuck in my mind twirled.

What are the limitations, if any?

How many causalities are there, none or many?

Is causality the will of God?

Or is it another myth made by a fraud?

Alex deChiara ’28