2023 Resonance

Resonance 2023

Editor-in-Chief

Henry Redfield ‘23

Assistant Editor-in-Chief

Ethan Plotkin ‘25

Editorial Team

Seomae Aronson ‘25

Ava Churchill ‘25

David Gallagher Jr. ‘25

Benjamin Gulmann ‘23

Gonzalo Noriega Minguez ‘24

Bodhi Talbot ‘26

Steven Zhao ‘23

Faculty Advisor

Dr. Pauline Levy Valensi

2023 Resonance Award Panel

Britta Santamauro

Kyle Flannery

Charlie Jodoin

Dr. Petra Ehrenbrink

Dr. Christine Carter

Olivia Riddiford

Helen Reuter

Art index

Cover Resonance 2023, Henry Redfield

Title Verso Page Plankton Embroidery Quilt, Sharon Kreamer

p. 6 Mar Dorado, Declan Lane ‘25

p. 15 Bang, Lena Jazo ’28

p. 16 An Old Man and His Grandson, Domenico Ghirlandaio

p. 17 Pattern, Zoë Van Keuren ‘27

p. 17 Landscape, Bobby Frigon ‘23

p. 18 Self Portrait, Henry Redfield ‘23

p. 18 Naushon Ferry at Night, Veronica Foureman ‘28

p. 19 Northern Lights, Amelia Russell-Schaeffer ‘26

p. 19 Snowy Landscape, Ursula Junker ‘23

p. 20 Persephone, Sadie Leveque ‘23

p. 24 Sabrina, Henry Redfield ‘23

p. 26 Heliodiscidae/ Radiolarians, Ethan Plotkin ‘25

p. 27 At the Beach, Tatum Nelson ‘28

p. 27 Ganges River Delta, Zara Taylor-Keefer ‘28

p. 29 Sunset Seascape, Hannah Flanders ‘26

p. 30 Narcomedusae, Anne Jeffrey ‘25; Okenia Elegans, Apex Heywood ‘25; Disconectae, Ava Churchill ‘25; Siphonophore Staatsqualles, Carly Coggins ‘25; Asterias, Charlie Rickard ‘25; Valonia Ventricosa, David Gallagher Jr. ‘25; Hallucigenia Sparsa, Declan Lane ‘25; Linantha, Devon Lanson-Alleyne ‘25; Acanthometra (Radiolaria), Dillon Fondren ‘25; Aurelia, Gracie Coggins ‘25; Dinoflagellate, Henry Richins ‘25; Trachymedusae (suborder of Trachylina), Karly Shifrin ‘25; Discomedusae, Eva Muldoon ‘25; Irukandji, Lila Journalist ‘25; Staurastrum Desmidaceae, Maaya de Menocal ‘25; Phaeodaria, Maria Eduarda Soares ‘25; Desmonema, Meg Dooley ‘25; Trachymedusae, Peter Jeffrey ‘25; Holoplanktonic Protozoa: Radiolaria, Robby Lender ‘25; Siphonophore, Sara Valle ‘25; Porpema (Siphonophore), Seomae Aronson ‘25; Desmidiaceae, Susanna Lowell ‘25; Porpita Prunella, Thomas Goux ‘25; Bathykorus Bouilloni, Yaz Aubrey ‘25; Acanthometra, Zander Ray ‘25

p. 31 Pollution and Paradise, Dillon Fondren ‘25

p. 32 Seascape, Sia Canelos ‘26

p. 34 Light in a Vacuum, Sebastian Gelinas-Alexander ‘23

p. 40 Woodcut Self-Portrait, Petra Brienza ‘23

p. 43 Dusk in Provincetown, Eva Muldoon ‘25

p. 46–47 Borrowed Time, Sadie Leveque ‘23

p. 48 Protect Right Whales, Max Donovan ’26, with the help of the Class of 2026

p. 53 Covid Takes a Toll, Anne Jeffrey ‘25

p. 55 Pura Vida, Lily Connors ‘24

p. 62 Landscape, Nina McKim Kight ‘26

Back Cover Remember to Smell the Roses, Emma Bena ‘26, with the help of the Class of 2026

“Broccoli,” Zoë Van Keuren ‘27

“Failing Means Yer Playin,” Penelope Thornton ‘27

“Kuleana,” Elise Soule ‘27

“Second Time’s the Charm,” Story Taylor ‘27

“Reform and Reflect,” Kate Conover ‘27

“Leaves,” Meg Dooley ‘25

“Edge of the Path,” Lila Journalist ‘25

“To sing a sinful song of sorrow,” Henry Redfield ‘23

“Gently wavering,” Henry Redfield ‘23

“Prithee Tell of Great Saius of Old,” Henry Redfield ‘23

“The Job,” Henry Redfield ‘23

“Creatures of the Unseen,” Henry Redfield ‘23

“Excerpts from the Ancient Readings of Nathalek and Sirelan,” Lila Journalist ‘25

“Village of Colors,” Ethan Plotkin ‘25

Lined Seas,” Ethan Plotkin ‘25

on the Board,” Ethan Plotkin ‘25

without the Letter ‘i’,” Ethan Plotkin ‘25

of the Whole,” Ethan Plotkin ‘25

the Storm Winds Blow),” Ethan Plotkin ‘25

“Chant Poem,” Ethan Plotkin ‘25

Embroidery

“Deep Sleep,” William Butler ‘24

“The Museum,” Benjamin Angell ‘24

“A Life Cycle,” Adele Francis ‘24

“The Tale of an Unknown Cat,” Fiona Gully ‘24

“Wanderer,” Clara Athearn ‘24 ………………………………………………………………………………..39

“The Portrait Gallery,” Thalia O’Neil ‘24 ……………………………………………………………………..40

“The Wind and the Water,” Natalie Pil ‘24

“Something Known as Peace,” Maddie Park-Boudreau ‘28 ……………………………………………………44

“Peace and War,” Declan Diriwachter ‘28 …………………………………………………………………….44

“Flow,” Emme Carroll ‘28 …………………………………………………………………………………….45

“Delphi,” Lila Journalist ‘25 …………………………………………………………………………………..46

“The Big Blue,” Sylvie Parsons ‘28 ……………………………………………………………………………48

“Struggles at Boarding School,” Seomae Aronson ‘25 …………………………………………………………49

“Haunted,” Ava Churchill ‘25 …………………………………………………………………………………52

“Ignorance is Bliss,” Ava Churchill ‘25 ………………………………………………………………………..53

“Wizard,” David Gallagher Jr. ‘25 …………………………………………………………………………….54

“Mi Vida,” Translated by Gonzalo Noriega Minguez ‘25 ……………………………………………………..55

“Clearwater Lodge,” Tildy Clark Moehnke ‘27 and Zoë Van Keuren ‘27 ……………………………………..56

“House,” Giovanna Messina ‘27 ………………………………………………………………………………62

“Washington’s Watercraft,” Henry Redfield ‘23 ……………………………………………………………….63

Broccoli

“Hazel, you have to eat your broccoli!” repeated my mom for the tenth time, glaring at me from across the kitchen counter. I folded my arms looking back into her angry, gray eyes, forcing a tear down the side of my face. My mom owns her own cafe and loves to cook. She is always so worried about my health. She knows how much I hate broccoli, and yet, I have to eat it every night. When I refused she called into the living room, “Brian, can you please tell Hazel to eat her broccoli.”

“Hazel, listen to your mother and eat the broccoli,” replied my dad scornfully. Both of my parents are very stubborn, particularly my mom. I think I might get that from her too, but I knew that if I didn’t eat it, they would both be upset. So I ate the broccoli and went to bed, but I had a plan.

The first thing that I did the next morning was to pack the new fairy backpack that I got last week at the mall. I'm starting second grade in twenty-three days and needed a new backpack. I filled it with a bottle of water, my toothbrush and toothpaste, a flashlight, some books, all nine dollars of my tooth fairy money, and of course, I couldn’t forget my favorite stuffed animal, Clementine. I was going to run away. I’m seven years old, so I don’t need my parents anymore. I was going to go and live in the forest across town and take care of myself like an adult for the rest of my life. Adults don’t have to eat broccoli every night, and I will never eat broccoli ever, ever again. It will be just like camping. I always go camping with my dad, so I’m pretty good at it now.

I pulled the heavy backpack over my shoulders and caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I looked so mature and my new backpack was even prettier than I remembered. I snuck down the stairs while my parents were out in the backyard, slipped on my bright yellow rain boots, and walked out the front door.

I passed my neighbor’s house which is where my friend Ayden lives. I considered inviting him to come with me to live in the woods, but he is scared of the woods and bugs. I just don’t think he could handle it. I wanted to say goodbye and I contemplated whether or not I should tell him where I was going. At least then he wouldn't be worried about me. Maybe he would even visit sometimes. However, if he knew I was leaving he would try to convince me to stay, so I thought that it would be best if he didn't know anything.

I wandered through the streets of the small town of Woodstock, which is all I have ever known. Past the museum and all of my favorite restaurants. Past the library where I spent many, many hours of my childhood. Past the pet shop from where I had always begged my parents to let me adopt a kitten.

As I got closer to the forest, I could see the small wooden cabin where my grandmother lived, sitting at the edge of the tree line. I gazed through the windows of the familiar and comforting home beckoning me to go inside. I watched my grandmother through the mossy window panes, as she pulled her silvery hair behind her ears preparing to make herself dinner. Her cat, Ophelia curled on the comfy brown sofa, sleeping while she sliced tomatoes which I knew she had grown from her own garden. She was making soup, chili. My favorite. My grandmother has always made the best homemade meals. But, I knew I couldn’t stay. I spun around and disappeared into the trees.

Once I had gotten far enough into the depths of the forest I knew I would not be able to find broccoli even if I tried. I began to look for the best place to live. I set my bag down beneath a large elm tree and pulled out my blanket. I spread the blanket over the base of the tree and sat down on top of it with Clementine at my side.

As it started to get dark, I took my toothbrush and toothpaste out of my bag and brushed my teeth. I arranged my bag underneath my head so it could be used as a pillow, and shut my eyes.

While lying there trying to fall asleep, I realized that I probably should have brought another blanket with me or maybe some snacks from the pantry. I was cold and hungry, my new backpack was not a comfortable pillow, and I didn’t have my nightlight. I couldn’t see much in the dark. Who knows how many monsters there were out there with me. I don’t know how to check for monsters. My mom always did that. There was no way that I was going to be able to sleep!

I began to shove my wet blanket into my now dirt-covered fairy backpack as it started to drizzle. I looked down at the peeling label reading Hazel Wilder on the flashlight that I now gripped tightly in my hand. I wiped my face of tears and raindrops with the end of my sleeve and began to trudge through the muddy leaves back onto the trail.

The trail was getting smaller and I could see the warm lights of my grandmother’s home, so I started to run.

“Ow!” I yelled as I tripped over a rock in the trail, falling to the ground. Climbing to my feet, I saw the dress that my mom had handmade for me, stained with blood. I limped all the way to my grandmother’s doorstep, and when she opened the door, I was flooded by the warmth and light coming from inside.

“Hazel darling, what are you doing at this time of night all alone? And, oh my! Is that blood!” she shrieked, as I burst into tears. “Sweetie, what’s going on? Come inside,” she said, inviting me into the house.

I told her everything and she embraced me in a huge hug. Sitting down on her old brown couch, holding Ophelia in my lap she bandaged my scraped knee. She gave me the extra chili from her dinner and a bowl of jelly beans for the pain. At that moment, I knew then that I would be okay.

Zoë Van Keuren ‘27

Failing Means Yer Playin

“Don't be afraid of the secrets of the world! Be afraid of the secrets you don't discover!” I wept to my mother as she pulled my arm away from the meadow in which so much of the world was shown to me. I would have never believed I would have said something like that before the wedding began. My two dresses were laid out on my bed for me. My hands gracefully hovered across the surface of the bed until they hit the first silky dress. I picked it up as I felt the satin dress with a ribbon across the waist. My fingers touched the intricately textured thread of the ribbon. picturing the emotions each line would perceive. My mind filled up with warmth, like listening to my favorite song for the first time when a slight grin grew across my face.

I carefully placed the dress back on my bed as if it were a newborn baby and patted my hands onto the second dress. I lifted it up knowing that this one was much heavier. It was a rough-hewn fabric dress with no bumps or patches. The very top was embroidered with cold stones running across the neckline.

As my fingers drifted across the stones, I heard the door open and my mother's heavy, orderly steps walking toward me. Her breath was frantic as she quickly sat on the bed beside me. The smell of her vanilla hibiscus perfume she only wears when she’s nervous told me how I should expect our next conversation to go.

“Cameron Wildman!” she exclaimed. “Your aunt is going to be the cruelest bride in all of Scotland if she doesn't call her sister when getting ready for her wedding!” She paused and before silence filled the room, she told me, “Oh, I love the black dress with the stones, honey! You look so grown up in this one.” My mom jolted up and quickly walked towards the door.

“She always calls me,” she whined under her breath.

The door slammed shut.

“Be ready in ten minutes Cammy!” I told myself not to pick the first satin dress. I know all of my family going to the wedding wouldn’t be fond of it. Most of my family’s mundane. Their voices are dry and monotone. When my step-uncle Gilbert would talk to me, he would try to speak very slowly. Every now and then his yawn would tell me he knew he was dull as well. I put on the bland yet elegant, stone-rimmed dress, hoping my family would see me the same.

Walking into the wedding scenery was like walking into an opera house. Loud voices stretched a dozen acres. The women gasped at the scenery in awe and the damp Scottish air eliminated this one day to a warm breeze that ever so slightly hit my cheek.

“Look what we have here.” Said the voice of my Great Aunt Jenny in a disapproving manner. “Barbara, I told you this wedding was going to be pleasant. A bit tacky with the gold. And why did your sister insist on having it in a forest?”

My mother seemed hesitant to reply. “Aunty, I think the sound of the ocean reminds her of home. You know about the beautiful cliffs just half a mile from here.”

I tried to tune out their conversation and heard a slight crash of the waves.

“Cameron!” said my Great Aunt. “Does she know what I’m saying?” She whispered to my mom. These conversations were not ones I grew distant from. Instead, I enjoyed them.“My dearest great Aunt Jenny, your amusing way of telling me that you are not one of the polite manners is merely a stick in the road, but not to compare to the bitter truth that you do not subject to any instruction in briefly studying the lives of anyone except those similar to yourself.”

I interpreted my sigh as confident, but a slight whimper came out. My aunt froze exactly how I thought she would.

“Your perfume smells nice today,” I said and grabbed my mother's hand as she nervously apologized to my great aunt.

We quickly walked forwards, and the moss I was stepping on changed to a hard wooden surface and I knew we were walking onto the dance floor. The vibration of feet came into a unison stomp to the pop music. My mom hurriedly rushed me to the left where a long wooden bench I assume was matching the forest-themed wedding sat. She guided me to sit down and I picked up my puffy skirt and gently sat on the wood.

“Cammy, I’ll be right back. I'm just going to congratulate your Aunt.”

“Alright.”

I knew she was not going to be right back. My mother and I are very different in that way. I see it as though we are birds. One has all the pretty feathers and swarms off with all of the other birds, to protect the heart of the family. And the bird in the nest who no one believes can fly.

I decided then to prepare myself for the hours that were going to go by before the pretty feathered birds stopped swarming off with the others and started teaching me to fly. All my mother was really doing was talking to distant relatives about the college their child was going to.

The sound of waves crashing seemed to grow louder than it should for half a mile away. The smash of the cliffs gradually filled my ears until a pitching sound hit.

I jumped slightly when a small hot item fell on my black flats.

“Lavvy Heid!” said a crouchy and uneven-toned voice. The smell of thyme and smoke grew as a man lifted the object off of my shoe. It was my grandfather, Clyde Wildman.

“Clipe! Sorry miss.”

His shirt softly ruffled until he spoke from above my head.

“In all my years. Cameron Wildman! I haven't seen you since I visited down in Berwick-upon- Tweed when you were just a wee-un.” He sighed as his body hit the bench next to me and breathed inwards making smoke run across my face. “Lost my pipe on your bonnie shoes.” Ahem! May you look more like your mother every day!”

“Thank you.” I quietly responded.

A pause filled the air. But not a tense one. A nice pause where I felt appreciative of the present. It seemed as though Grandpa Cylde took another spiff of the pipe before returning to our conversation. “You liking this wedding Cam?”

My grandfather was not tolerated by the rest of my family. He lived in the Highlands with his wife Jolie. My mom said his intentions were good but she never really understood him growing up. It was rare that he visited us six years ago because most of my family forgot about him and Grandma Jolie.

I remember my cousin Karma saying, “Clyde and Jolie are probably off in the Himalayas instead of getting their kids to good colleges.”

Even though he and Grandma Jolie were off the grid most of the time, word got around that Grandma got sick, so he took care of her at their home in the Highlands. Two years ago, Grandma Jolie died and Grandpa Clyde’s reputation in the family got a whole lot worse. It was one thing to be frowned upon in the family but to frown upon the family was another story. He and Grandma were soulmates, so he stayed up in their little cottage to mourn.

“It’s better than some things and worse than others,” I replied.

“Ahah! I know it.” He chuckled from his stomach. “Cammy, why don't we go to the meadow? Much more peaceful. All this ruckus is getting too much for some people like you and I who don't like crab cake and champagne.”

Usually, I would wait for my mother, my safety, to agree on anything; but at this moment, a drive from inside me approved of my going. “Alright,” I said affirmatively.

He carefully took my hand and we walked through the wedding. Unlike walking with my mom where we had to dodge the other people, he just took me in a straight line. I could hear people around me and suddenly their voices got smaller and smaller. The smell of salt grew. The swooshing of the trees stopped.

“Here we are! The most extraordinary meadow in all of Iona,” said Grandpa Clyde. He let go of my hand and slowly sat on the grass. I did the same.

“I know I’m not liked at this weddin’. Oh my, what a lovely cliff.”

“Why are we here, Grandpa Clyde?”

“Why weren’t we here before!” he enthusiastically said. “This world is so much tryna figure the way out of the maze and we don’t understand the art of getting lost. I'd be going 'bout my day until a hand would come and lift me out and drop me in the middle of a labyrinth, where I'd be stuck a while.”

He sighed. “I was stuck for a long time, Cammy.”

I wasn't sure how to respond. Why was he so much better all of a sudden? Everyone thought he would be mourning up in that cottage until his days ended.

“Grandpa Clyde?”

“Ye?”

“You know you are always welcome to family gatherings but you haven’t shown much interest in them until now. Why are you here?” I said, hoping he wouldn't get mad. The breeze took up the space of the silence and I gripped the sharp grass.

“I never tried it out. I think trying everything is very important while we are on earth. Experimenting things so you can see what interests you.”

“Not to be rude, Grandpa Clyde, but you kind of failed at this experiment if talking to family counts as one. Also, what if you can’t try out everything?”

He chuckled from his belly again.“Oh, doll, failing means yer playin’!”

The breeze's voice seemed to have gone into a song and the waves seemed to be more mellow and not striking the cliffs as much.

“Here. Hold out your hands,” Grandpa Clyde said.

I did and a small flower was put into them. It had a flimsy stem and the petals were soft and short and there were a lot of them. It felt like a pom-pom because of the amount. “Do you think this flower can fly?” he asked me.

“No. Of course not.” I answered.

“Yes, it can,” he teased.

“Grandpa Clyde, flowers don’t fly. That’s not what they were made to do.”

“Says who?” he said.

My eyebrows pinched. Then he went on. “Just because they aren't made to fly doesn’t mean that they can’t. What does it even mean to fly?” he asked.

“Flying means to glide in the air,” I said

“Cammy, why don’t you throw that flower up in the air?”

I did as he had said and heard a small crash on the ground. I knew it. I almost believed him there that the flower could fly. What was I thinking?

“See!” He said excitedly. “It flew!”

“No, it didn’t.” I announced with irritation.

He did the same hearty laugh again. “Oh, to relive all this strange serenity, to lift me up and drop me in this maze again would be something,” he said.

I heard my grandfather breathe in and out releasing the smoke again.

In a timid voice, I said, “There are so many things that I can’t figure out, though.”

“No, no, no, doll! You can discover more than most,” he replied

I sighed and breathed in the salty air. Was he that withdrawn from reality?

“I cannot discover things if I can't see them.”

“Take my hand and walk with me,” he said as though he just woken up from a meditation.

We held hands and stepped up pressing my other hand on the scratchy grass. We walked closer to the cliff horizontally.

“You don't have to look to see things clearly,” he laughed.

As we strolled, I tried to grab his hand for support. Instead, the wind pushed against my palm. “But if I can’t see then what's the point?”

“Point!” he yelled. “Oh doll, points are too sharp. We just made them up before we realized how to live in the moment.”

Though before I thought Grandpa Clyde's queer words were just pointless for whom my family could never, I learned then that his words say much more. A loud clash of waves sprayed my arm.

“I think the flower flew as well, Grandpa Clyde. It was in the air!”

“That's the spirit!” he rejoiced.

“Just remember, doll, don’t be afraid of the secrets of the world. Be afraid of the secrets you don’t discover!”

A sudden burst of nostalgia collided in my mind to be what seemed like my first laugh. Another clash of the waves hitting the cliffs shot up. “As much as I hate to say this Grandpa Clyde, we should head back to the wedding.”

I suddenly heard running behind me: my mom's steps. “Cameron what are you doing here? Remember what I told you about telling me if you are going to go somewhere by yourself!” She grabbed my arm. “Especially with these cliffs! What if you fell!”

“Wait mom. I'm not by myself though. I went with Grandpa Clyde.”

Her grip loosened.

“Cameron sweety are you feeling ok? Grandpa Clyde died two years ago.”

A lump started to fill my thoughts as I tried to gulp. My mom had to have been lying; she just had to have been. I tugged away from her loose grip. “Grandpa Clyde!” I screamed. I ran a couple of feet. “Grandpa Clyde, where have you gone!”

My brain seemed to have been twirling so much that it forgot to work my legs. I fell on the grass and scratched my knees. Tears filled up my eyes. My mom once again grabbed my arm and pulled me away.

At that moment I could have sworn Grandpa Clyde whispered into my ear. “Doll, I flew.”

Penelope Thornton ‘27

It was hot in the house, the kind of heat that sneaks under your skin and makes itself at home so seamlessly that you hardly even notice it until it's gone. Kalani breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out of the house onto the patio. The outside air smelled like mangoes: sticky-sweet and still hot, but alive in a way that inside just wasn’t.

Party sounds floated through the screen windows- snippets of childlike shouts, murmured gossip, whose sister's auntie's best friend?, the clack of shoes on tile and pidgin insults from the uncles on the deck. Familiar, homey, and safe.

At least she had a piece of home to take into the belly of the beast.

“Take food to the neighbors,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

Kalani scoffed. Clearly, her mother had NO LOVE for her daughter, whomst she had birthed into this world, only to-

“Ah!”

Kalani’s wrist brushed the pan of yakisoba she was carrying, tented by a piece of tinfoil that was seemingly hotter than the surface of the sun. She scrambled to lay the pan on the sidewalk, brushing nutshells away with her good hand and laying the other in the cool grass.

She hissed as she examined the scorched area. It wasn’t a bad burn. Kalani was used to injuries like these. Disaster in the kitchen that she was, Kalani was still determined to help in the cooking process. Take earlier:

“Ma, let me- Ma! I can help!”

Masterfully flipping tofu cubes while simultaneously fending off her daughter with a spatula, Keahi raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“I have orders from your Nana to not let you anywhere near hot oil. Or hot water. Or the stove.”

The Nana in question cut in.

“Ah, girl, your mother right. You not da kind person meant to cook. Okay?”

At Kalani’s visible disappointment, Nana softened.

“You can cut the bok choy, la. And eat! Very important step. Dinner soon.”

“Actually,” Keahi spoke, cutting green onions at an alarming clip, “You can take food to da neighbors. They never come out the house, but they still should eat.”

Kalani protested.

“Ma! They’re scary! What if they’re serial killers? Would you really do that to me?”

Nana looked unimpressed.

“Pau wit’ the silly stories, ‘Lani. You’re going, like it or no.”

Pulled back to the present by her singed arm, Kalani sighed in relief as the cool, wet grass soothed her burn. From her position on the ground, she could see the little creatures that were emerging in the dying light. Little geckos scurried over the smooth rocks and wove in between the grass. Used to seeing geckos, Kalani tended to ignore them, but one caught her eye.

It was a similar brown color to the other geckos, but something about it seemed… off. Its movements were jerky, like it was second-guessing every step. Almost like her brother Hale’s remote-control cars. Except nothing like a car, because the not-quite-gecko stopped, tasted the air, and then rotated its head 360 degrees to stare directly at Kalani’s face with a humanlike grin.

Did that gecko… just look at me?

“This must be it. I’m cracking up,” Kalani said to herself.

The gecko, upon realizing it had been noticed, made a sudden break for it and scrambled into the tall grass. Oh, no you don’t. Snatching the yakisoba tray up off the ground and thanking whatever higher power was out there that it was covered, Kalani sprinted after the gecko. The gecko was fast, but Kalani had been catching geckos since she was no older than five, so without significant effort, she had the gecko squirming in her fist before too long.

“HA! Got you, you little-”

Kalani’s voice petered off into a distressed warble as she realized where she was. The neighbor’s house. It was just like the other houses on her street, but its reputation preceded it. Just as soon as the new family moved in, people began to talk.

I heard they’re cooking in there. You know…that kine cooking.

They stay closed up in there all day- why? Maybe they’re on the run from the law. Maybe a serial killer lives there.

I bet they’re in witness protection.

It was common knowledge- don’t go near the new neighbor’s house. And yet, here she was.

Kalani knelt down and opened her hand to release the gecko, but it stayed on her hand and stubbornly refused to move, even when Kalani gently shook her hand to dislodge it.

“Okay, um… pocket?” Kalani inquired, bringing the gecko to the pocket of her shorts. It immediately slipped in and curled up.

“Okay.”

Kalani took a steadying breath and prepared to ring the doorbell. Just walk up, smack the bell, drop the food and run. Easy.

Of course, since life is a horrible curse, it was not that easy.

Kalani dropped the tray off and was beginning her speedy escape when the unthinkable happened. The door opened.

Kalani was NOT PREPARED for this to happen. Oh, this was bad. Small talk? Polite conversation? Kalani was so in her own head that she almost didn’t notice the blue glow emanating from her neighbor, who was politely trying to get her attention.

“Excuse me, I think you have my Magnetized Bioniscrewdriver.”

The creature gently lifted the gecko out of her pocket, and Kalani could do nothing but stare. The creature in front of her was an assault on human senses, but the first thing that caught Kalani’s attention was their eyesluminous blue, with pitch-black sclera. They were beautiful, but even pretty eyes couldn’t distract Kalani from the four arms. And the height. Seven feet at least.

“Excuse me?” Kalani’s neighbor asked again, affronted.

“...Arms.” was Kalni’s intelligent response.

What are you saying. Come on, get it together.

Luckily, the neighbor seemed amused, rather than outright offended. They chuckled, seemingly understanding of Kalani’s state of shock.

“Yes, arms. Why don’t you come in? Have you brought food? Is it Keahi’s?”

Not a chance. Scolded Kalani’s inner mom. Are you looking to get murdered?

“I promise not to murder you. Strulquiks’ honor.”

Well…the alien, Strulquik, apparently, didn’t look scary. And she could feel the A.C. from the stoop. Even Kalani’s self-preservation instincts couldn’t argue with A.C. She stepped over the threshold and was immediately transported into a different world. Shiny chrome and colorful liquids encased in glass lined the walls, and all the pictures hung on the fridge and walls were of animals Kalani couldn’t name if she tried. She stood in dazed wonderment. This is what had been hiding here all along?

“Thank you for the food, human-girl. Your mother is very kind to cook for me.”

Strulquik placed the yakisoba on their pristine countertop and turned to Kalani.

“I am under the impression that on this planet everyone has a personalized sound that they identify with. What is your sound, human-girl?”

“My name? Well, I’m Kalani. And you’re… Strulquik?”

Strulquik shrugged. “That is the human translation of my clan’s call. You probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.”

Kalani was confused about many things in this interaction. Chief among them, the fact that she was conversing with an alien in their alien house, but those were punches she was just rolling with.

“Wait, your clan’s name? How do you tell each other apart?”

Strulquik winced. “I had a sound back home on Pharvis Z6Z3, but I was stripped of it when I left. I am not part of the family anymore, so I do not get to use the sound it gave me."

Kalani’s heartstrings tugged at Strulquik’s tale. In her neighborhood, she had never had any doubts that she was wanted, that she belonged here. This was her community, tight-knit as it was. It’s hard, Kalani had rationalized, to let other people in. But did they really try? As soon as Strulquick had moved in, the rumors had started and crystallized into one hard truth- people were scared of Strulquik.

So that was how it was: Christmas cards, food on the doorstep, and pity invitations that were never taken up.

But looking at Strulquik, who was eagerly smelling the yakisoba Keahi had made, Kalani couldn’t help but think that this isn’t how it has to be.

Can’t we let them in?

Kuleana: The sacred relationship between the responsible person and that which they are responsible for. An obligation to do good wherever possible, and to give back what has been received. Kalani’s community had raised her, supported her, given her everything. It was time to give back.

“Strulquik, do you want to come to my house? We’re having a party.”

Strulquik looked apprehensive, like they weren’t sure if they were allowed to say yes. It struck Kalani then: Strulquik is scared of us too.

“There’s more food…” Kalani sing-songed. “My mom made it…”

Strulquik still looked hesitant, but gave a determined nod.

“Alright, let’s go! Come on!”

When they got home, Kalani exuberantly slammed the door open.

“Mama! You’ll never guess who I met!”

Elise Soule ‘27

Shelly Williams. September 9. Dear Diary,

Last night, Mommy sat me down on the couch. I thought I was gonna be in trouble for feeding Rufus my Princess Fashion Adventure Barbie Doll, but I guess she’s saving that for another time. Apparently Mrs. Wilson called her last night and said I have to do second grade again. Mommy kept saying that it was gonna be okay, and she’ll always be here for me and blah blah blah. But I’m not worried about it one bit. Obviously I have to go back to second grade because my teacher loved me so much. So I can’t wait. This morning I put on my best pink tutu and unicorn t-shirt and strutted out of that door like the fantastical glitterlicious queen I am. Now, I’m only writing this because I know I’m the only one who is going to read it, but when I got to school I was really nervous. I thought that it would be easy since I’ve already done second grade and I’m older than all the other kids in the class, but I guess I was wrong. When Daddy dropped me off at the classroom door, all the other kids kept looking at me. Every time I looked into their eyes, my cheeks got all hot and stuff. It felt like I had a sunburn from being at the beach for too long. I wanted to run away from the school and never come back. Allergies, I guess. That’s what Mommy always says. I said hi to Mrs. Wilson and confirmed that she doesn’t have to be sad, because I’m gonna be in her class all year. I also informed her that at some point I will have to move on from the second grade and do bigger things, but she won’t have to worry until next June, when school ends and summer starts.

After greeting her, I put my backpack and lunchbox in my cubby and went to my seat from last year, but there was a boy in my seat. Obviously, I went up to him and told him to move. You can’t just take someone else’s seat and claim it as your own. That’s not how it works. I was nice enough to him, because I assumed he didn’t learn all of that in first grade. He just needed me to help him out. That’s why I couldn’t believe it when he said he wasn’t gonna move. He pointed his muddy finger toward a sticker on the back of his chair that said Michael. I guess that was his seat after all.

I was really mad at Mrs. Wilson at first, but then I realized she must have moved my seat closer to her desk because she loves being around me so much. I sat down in my assigned seat, but not before giving that boy Michael’s chair a good kick. His stupid backwards blue hat made me want to grab his pencil and snap it in half. Hats aren’t supposed to go on your head backwards, doesn’t he know that? He must be pretty dumb. I’m really mad I have to spend the rest of the year with him.

My best friends from last year are in third grade now, so I won’t ever see them. Second graders play with first graders, and third graders play with fourth graders. That’s just how it works. But, I wanted to see my friends, so I decided to take an adventure to the big kids’ hallway.

Mrs. Wilson thought I was going to the bathroom, so I had to be quick. I was on my way to visit my BFFs when I heard them talking at the water fountain. Before I could walk around the corner, I overheard Emily saying my name. I don’t really remember exactly what she said, but this is kinda how it went.

Emily: Oh yeah! I remember Shelly. I haven’t seen her in forever. I’m glad she isn’t in our grade anymore. She was always so annoying.

Charlotte: I know! And she never knew how to do anything that Mrs. Wilson taught us. We’re so much better than her.

Ava: Hopefully she stays stupid forever so she never has to come back to our class.

Anyways, I was super sad after that so I ran back to my classroom. I couldn’t focus, so Mrs. Wilson got really mad at me. Also that dude Michael was really mean to me when we played Math Bingo. The first day of school was ruined! It was supposed to be the best and easiest year ever!

Luckily for me, recess came and things got a little better. The sun made everything really hot, so I couldn’t play on the playground. I just stood at the top of the slide and hoped for some friends to come and say hi to me. Nobody came, so I was about to go on the swings, but Michael walked up to me and called me a word I couldn’t even imagine. The word that people use only in TV shows. The word that Mommy calls Daddy when she’s angry. The word that I would be sent into timeout for the rest of my life for saying. He called me an idiot. An idiot! If

Mommy knew I was even writing this right now she would make me feed Rufus for the entire week and fold all the laundry!

Back to the story. I pushed him, of course, because I am definitely not an idiot. He didn’t like that very much. After that, I thought we were even, but he wanted his revenge. What happened next was the worst part of my entire day. Michael lifted his muddy sneaker off of the platform and kicked me down the slide. He didn’t push me, or shove me. He kicked me! I fell backward right onto my butt and slid down the slide.

When I hit the bottom my head and arms hurt real bad. I layed on the ground with my arms out to the side like a starfish. I couldn’t move! It was the weirdest thing ever. It didn’t even hurt anymore after a few minutes, but I was stuck laying there in the hot sand with Michael and his friends pointing at me and laughing.

I thought that was the end for me, until a little girl with long blonde hair hovered over me. She was wearing a purple sweater and matching purple glasses. She was short. That made me think she was in first grade. I was right, just like always. She put her hand right in front of me to help me up. Soon I was back on my feet.

The little girl took my hand and brought me over to a shady tree with bright green leaves. I never noticed it last year. I don’t know how because it is very pretty. I learned right after that the girl’s name was Lavender. That is probably why she was wearing purple. I joked about that with her but she didn’t laugh. Maybe because it was so funny she couldn’t remember how to. Lavender was very nice. And very smart for a first grader. She told me that Michael lives on her street, and he’s mean to everyone. She also said that he gets in trouble with his mom all the time for calling people bad words, so I’m probably not an idiot. Lavender made me feel like I belonged at school. She is a very nice friend.

The rest of the day wasn’t too bad, but I was still super happy when Daddy came to pick me up at the end of the day. Me and Lavender walked to the benches together and waited for our parents to pick us up. Daddy drove by in his silver car and I saw Rufus sticking his head out of the back window. I explained to my new best friend that Rufus looks plenty innocent, but he eats your homework the first chance he gets. It took a minute, but you’ll never believe what happened! She laughed! See? I am hilarious. That is probably why Mrs. Wilson likes me so much.

I have decided that Michael is a meanie and I’m not gonna let him bother me anymore. Mommy agreed at dinner tonight that it was a good idea to ignore him. I left out the part about him calling me an idiot though, because she might kill him and then Lavender wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore. I think this year is going to be okay after all. See you tomorrow, diary.

Story Taylor ‘27

Reform and Reflect

bones creak and crunch as reflection of younger days set in my blurry memories of the good ol’ days flash quickly, without any remembrance

the clatter of feet the milestones of language the whimper and then the whimsy a tiny me filled with laughter, bliss, and glee

the world was my playground, and every day a new surprise, I dreamed of being a superhero, or traveling to the sky boundless energy and endless dreams

but as I grew older, things changed, life became more complex. responsibilities took hold, and innocence was lost, life was simple and so anew

Kate Conover ‘27

Poem inspired by: An Old Man and His Grandson Painting by Domenico Ghirlandaio

Leaves

The leaves blow in the wind

Fluttering down to the ground

Though never fined

They would surely drown

The rain would wash them away To streams river and marshes

To channels coves and bays

But again no charges

They are flying through the air

Flowing through the sea

The only question is where To where the leaves might be

With missing limbs or holes to spare You will find these leaves everywhere

Meg Dooley ‘25

Edge of the Path

Outfield flowers between my toes

We’ll walk places nobody knows Right up to where the moon shall kiss the Earth

Beneath a sunlit river crowned in mirth

We’ll sing our songs of dawn and dust

And watch our dreams turn with rust

Down by the willows and the foxglove

I am glad to be with you, my love Here at the end of all things

Lila Journalist ‘25

Spotlight: Henry Redfield ‘23

To sing a sinful song of sorrowful sandy socks is something I suggest To bring a fish up off its hook And lay it down to rest Flip and float the boating oars Along the seacrest waves And crunch up on the fleeting land A day, a day, a day.

Henry Redfield ‘23

Gently wavering Against the current of the bleak overpass.

I am not one to be prone to the Movements and Fleeting rustles of A falling sky. The chilling stroke of which Flows from ear to ear with A warmness and brevity Unknown but for its posture. It musters the cold and gone And forthwith draws a hallowing breath To exhale one of the few, Soon to be many.

None but I see this. A mist of vision it does impair, The willowed thoughts, But not that of which it sees.

Gently now, Frost bitten slumber Your tone has gone and last

Seek now the somber end Of the night’s new born grasp.

Henry

Redfield ‘23

Prithee tell of great Saius of old

Bringer of the peace and master of the cold.

In the mountain laid, a beast from days long passed, Did judgment soon behold, and killed by Sius the bold.

Now I bring thee this, the tale once known by all

Of the broken sword made whole by one And cast from evil unto his hold.

Twas early before The crows of the thorn Bright in the day that just birthed From the morn’

The mother of such, The queen of Ürmir Held in hers

The future king.

From birth he spoke Of things become, And in the mist of death Did strum

The ancient wicked strings of Niflheim.

Grow did the king, And mastered war

Forged in flame And umbral raw

The Goddess Hel, Did wish him naught, Sending Ürmir plague and rot

The king did see The crops and water

His lifes endowed

Removed by slaughter

The rage he built Did feast his body And into Niflheim Did he plunge

The Goddess Hel, Was waiting such But Saius of bold Did not do such

He hacked and sliced to no avail, and fell to his knees And there he saw

His ancestral law

The bold give not to thee

A broken weapon, but broken Trust. ‘Tis done what you will please

Upright he lept And slow did he Plunge his splintered body and sword Deep into Hel, Deep, deep, for all.

Henry Redfield ‘23

It was the easiest job I had ever gotten. Yes, it was dull and utterly pointless in my eyes, but it paid much too well to let it pass me by.

Everything started on Monday of last month. I had been particularly short on cash by that particular Monday. You see, I’ve always had a way of losing money…alright well I gambled it all away but that's not the point. The point is that I needed a job. Badly. I checked the usual notice boards and even online. There wasn't one thing for me to apply for. Until Monday, when everything changed. I went to my door to check what mail I had, but it was the usual bills and I just shuffled through them without a second glance. That is, until I reached a black envelope at the back. Naturally, I opened it, seeing as it was unaddressed and unmarked in any way. The letter inside read:

To the resident at 348 Richmond drive.

You have been accepted into a position at Woodknock Limited’s offices at 773 Oaklane place. Should you wish to accept this offer, you must arrive promptly at 12:00pm on the first Monday of this month. To be allowed to enter you must present this invitation when prompted. We here at Woodknock Limited hope to see you here soon. Our starting wage is listed below.

I would make at least five times the salary of anyone I knew. It was 11:45 now. If I ran as hard as I could on my way there I could just make it. It was only a couple of blocks down from here. I grabbed my hat and coat and grabbed the door handle firmly. Wait, hold on. What if this was a joke? Some gag put on by someone who wanted me to rush out of my house in search of a nonexistent opportunity? I needed to get out of the house anyway. I left, the letter stowed safely inside my pocket.

Woodknock Limited had seen better days. Graffiti stretched along its outside like a great hand, grasping every inch of brick I could see. Panting after my intense run to get there, I checked my watch. 11:59. I stepped up to the building's side door, that being the only one I could find, and knocked quickly, three times. The door opened without a sound.

“Hello?” I cried out. Nobody answered. This job better pay as well as it said it would. I continued walking softly into the dimly lit corridor. It was clean. Well to be honest it was completely bare. The only thing that occupied its space was a table with another black envelope resting in its center. Only, it was a little larger than the first I had in my pocket. I laughed and yelled out:

“Alright, what is this? Some weird game? Bonny, Is this your doing? Another one of you little pranks? Come on now, you must admit it's a bit cliche don't you think? Leading me here to a place like this? Alright, I'll play along…”

I spoke under my breath as I walked towards the new envelope. “I’ll play along…”

I opened the envelope roughly, and a key fell out onto the floor. I picked it up while reading the note from inside.

To the recipient of this position, congratulations on accepting. We here at Woodknock Limited pride ourselves in the quality of our work.

Now that you have arrived at our offices, we kindly ask that you place all items in your person, excluding the key we have presented to you, inside the designated dropoff area. These items will be returned to you once you are done with your shift. Please place the inviting envelope and its note, as well as the one containing this note in its respective dropoff area. All notes received after this point should be placed into the same dropoff point at the end of your shift.

In order to receive payment for your service, you must follow all instructions given to you. You must lock the door of your office behind you. You may leave at any point of time, but if you leave before your shift is over you will not receive payment.

This was getting odd. something was off, something wasn't right. I thought about leaving, but the thought of one of Bonny’s pranks being too much for me to handle spurred me onward. She was always doing this to me, and I was an easy target for my friend. I wanted to see where this led. I noticed the two slots in the wall to the right of me. One was a little larger than the other, so I slid my phone, empty wallet and watch into it. Knowing Bonny, she wouldn't do anything to them. I slipped both notes and their envelopes into the other, they fell somewhere under my feet. The door behind me was closed and I didnt bother checking to see if it had locked behind me. I continued down the hall and up the only staircase there was until I reached the only door on the upper level that I could see. Well, here goes. I put the key in the door lock and turned. The bolt opened, and the door swung wide.

Sunlight deftly swam through the newspapers plastered on the windows, illuminating the only four objects inside the room. One chair, a table, another black envelope, and black rotary phone. I laughed to myself, locked the door behind me like the note had instructed, and walked briskly over to the chair and sat down. This last note was short.

Answer the phone.

I stared at it blankly, then turned it over to see if there was anything else. I was disappointed. Bonny had really let me down with this one. Oh well, I might as well sit around for a bit, and see what happens. I waited for an hour, and then after what must have been nearly four. I was staggeringly bored. The phone never rang. Nothing ever happened. I was tempted many times to just get up and leave, but that possibility, no matter how miniscule it was, that this was real, and that I would be paid that much money… It stopped me. At what must have been nearly 6:00pm, I heard a clunk from behind me. It startled me from my seat, where I had been leaning back and humming to pass the time. The door was unlocked, and I walked through cautiously, before running down stairs to get out of there. All of my stuff was on the table when I reached it. I didn't bother thinking about any hows or why’s, but I slid the envelope from upstairs in the slot, pocketed the key I had gotten for the door, and rushed outside into the dim light of the cold night.

When I got home I checked my bank balance on my computer, not expecting anything. What a waste of a day. Wait, hold on a second…that can't be right. But it is! I had received a massive amount of money from ‘Woodknock Ltd.’! More than I had ever gotten for a day's work. This got me thinking. And after I thought about it, I went back the next day. Same time, at 12:00 just to see what would happen. I put everything I had on me in the slots, went upstairs, locked the door, and waited for the phone to ring, which it never did. Bonny had no idea what I was talking about when I asked her about it and she said I was crazy. Six hours a day, I did nothing but wait, but when I got home I was always paid in full. I did this for about a month, going in, waiting for the phone, leaving, getting paid. going in, waiting for the phone, leaving, getting paid. And I loved it.

On the last day of the month, only a few minutes before the door would open, the phone did it. It rang. It was a deafening, high pitched bell sort of ring, and I fell out of my chair with a thud onto the ground. I had been balancing myself on its edge for fun. The phone rang three times before I realized that I should pick it up. I snatched the receiver off of the base and held it up to my ear.

“Hello?”

No answer. Just static on the other side of the line

“Umm…Woodknock Limited, how can I help you?”

The static continued. Somehow the fuzz seemed to be quieter than the room around me. A loud, impenetrable silence. I briefly took the phone from my ear, glanced at the receiver, and put it back to my head.

Henry Redfield ‘23

Creatures of the unseen

Pass to and fro between the seams

They wind and twine up through the cracks And feast on those who don’t fight back

Not creatures of the darkness, no Not from tales of fear and cold

Not from those who teach the old But from loss of faith in what you hold

Bring forth the prongs which cupboards hide The pins and needles that death defy And into where the danger lies Shall we vanquish those inner cries

None but Us does it deny What we make of our belie

The wild and misty does it take To learn the breadth of our mistake

In the darkness, seeping through The cracks, the craggles of the light did draw A single bodkin of fiendish stature

Slipped in the room did come before A chime of one

struck the final core, the churning blaspheme Of untenable more

Than wishing the clock upon the wall Did strike again

And again, once more The mortal dispatcher

Crept and treat on Henry Redfield ‘23

This poem was entered in the Appelley Publishing Student Poetry Contest and received a nomination to be a part of the Rising Star Collection.

Excerpts from the Ancient Readings of Nathalek and Sirelan

i. our queen of swords wears a crown of iron she walks in flame she rules in silence her gown is made of mortal flesh her eyes are empty and dark blood spills from her pretty lips her face is painted with sin her pewter bones are full of rot our lady of suffering is beguiling and saccharine from ruin and ash from shadow and death from nothing she shall rise

ii. two born of the dying stars who bear their mother’s silver scars two grown of the earthen soil they taught the snake to coil two pulled up from the waves sending sailors to their watery graves two dance upon the wind to guide those who have sinned two that rose from ash and flame playing their filthy blood games ten will walk from behind the veil their beautiful lies doomed to fail

iii.

the first for dying the heir to the painless throne the second for death the great ring of time the third for blood that which is spilt

the fourth for torture

the servant of the soul

the fifth for war

the glory of discourse

the sixth for pain

the great inflictor

the seventh for power

and the greed of men

the eighth for darkness and the things that lie within it

the ninth for mercy

the harbinger of our final hour Lila Journalist ‘25

Village of Colors

Waves of blue, white and green people staring at the scene. A boat of wood, brown and bleak the hills above are quite obscene. Rock slopes and jagged peaks the wheat that grew, dead in weeks.

Our little village, small and dull with roofs of thach yellow and full. The place that my family calls our home dead and dying with no bones. No structure to support our lives the sea taking out our spines.

Spotlight: Ethan Plotkin ‘25

Our one strong point, the man unseen. That fixed the boats and our needs. For he always gave us what we wanted from little things to giant boxes. The one that held our hopes and dreams now no more than such as me.

Ethan Plotkin ‘25

Coast Lined Seas

Far across the coast lined sea He sits for all eternity, Shedding tears, but not for he, For death is but her destiny.

On a rocky shore called nevermore

He waits beyond, the stony shore Her body lying in his hands, She whispers thoughts, from beyond these lands.

From trees and greens to bright blue waters

Lost to the past as my mind all but falters.

Her soul was lost, trapped away, In the past where all the good times stay.

When the world was whole an age ago, before human folly took its parole.

Ethan Plotkin ‘25

Ink on a Board

I look in the front and see ink, on a board A white board with ink covered galore. Ink.

A compound that comes in red, white, and blue; black and yellow if you so choose. With infinite color and infinite words that will happen when they have all finally been heard

When the sun one day does eventually erupt, what will be heard as the last of us is corrupt. A scream or a yell of imminent fear. One final thing before we all disappear. What words will be left, what white board to show To those who come after the last of us go.

Ethan Plotkin ‘25

Poem without the Letter “i”

An eye for an eye

To see but not seen Taken from me and lent to he For he be but a humble man So bent on money he’ll follow my plan.

Ethan Plotkin ‘25

Folly of the Whole

A pit of creatures, men, and bones, a place of worship for old souls, where even gods go to fall and mighty beasts rule it all.

Once a land of red and gold secrets kept and never told, people prosper hand in hand as they travel ‘cross the land.

Yet how did Death take its toll? Well that is easy. With a goal.

A plan to take back all they stole, from Life itself, now in a hole. Buried by the people near. By those that sang as Death yet feared.

Men and women too obsessed with scraps of paper never less, The people who poisoned, stabbed and killed, with Life itself their only fill.

Ethan Plotkin ‘25

This poem was entered in the Appelley Publishing Student Poetry Contest and received a nomination to be a part of the Rising Star Collection.

(Before the Storm Winds Blow)

Wind blow stops. The sky sits dark. In the distance the sea moves, black.

Limbless trees, Sway no more.

Clouded lights, far from shore.

See gulls fly alone in the air.

The storm shall come We all need fear.

A leaf falls, quiet to the ground. Loud but unheard in the silence abound

Ethan

Chant Poem

A bird’s feathered wings flap

They move around the wind A leaf falls to the ground It moves around the wind A squirrel extends its body and glides

They move around the wind

Man’s metal wing stay still And the wind is expected to move around it

Ethan Plotkin ‘25

Plotkin ‘25

Plankton Embroidery

Plankton are the essential but often overlooked base of food webs in marine and freshwater ecosystems. They can be defined as small, often microscopic organisms that are unable to swim against a current. Plankton are a very diverse group of organisms including algae, diatoms, protozoans, and the eggs and larval stages of crustaceans and other larger animals. Inspired by the scientific illustrations of the German scientist and artist Ernst Haeckel, Biology students chose a plankton species to research and embroider. Students focused on the role of their chosen plankton in its ecosystem as well as the organism’s key characteristics.

“The whole project got started because of an underwater sound we picked up in our Cuba lab, that had apparently been heard by every hydrophone in the Gulf of Mexico. That kind of radius is nearly unheard of outside of something like the Bloop, but we don’t get any icequakes around the equator. And besides, it wasn’t just some random sound we picked up. I could only describe it as a deep, guttural breath, like a long, thundering sigh. It only played for about thirty seconds, but it didn’t take us long to get in touch with all the other labs. Soon enough, project Yampa was underway, named after the ‘Sleeping Giant’ of Yampa Valley,” he said, leaning forward on the bench as he recalled the events. “The first team to go would have a drone scout out the proposed epicenter with its camera, and then the dive team would move in, find out what it was, fix the issue if necessary, and come back. Simple as that.

“When the day finally arrived that we were set to go, I was in charge of the recording hardware for the drone and dive suits. Cameras, all the film equipment, video review, the works. I’ll always remember it like it was yesterday, the sky sunny and clear, dappled with tufts of cloud. The boat was premium grade military equipment, pristine clean, floating gray on the vast ocean. The slow breeze felt empty, and the whole environment seemed serene, like a still image of the ocean view. The one thing that stuck with me was the vastness of the sea that day. Looking out across the horizon, the water seemed to extend infinitely onward, escaping the reach of the senses, leaving us on the boat lonely. Looking down, the color pooled at the edges of my view, and in the center, lay the cavernous, deep blue of the water. It felt terrifying, not in a frightening way, but in an inevitable way. Like the terror of the sun exploding one day. Just waiting. Biding time. But for now, it was calm.”

He took a deep breath in. Now was the hard part. He caught his breath and continued: “When the drone first went down… everything seemed fine. Diagnostics read pressure as normal, no chemical changes. All the visuals were fine. It was dark and grainy, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. It was when we hit about 1500 feet down that things changed. Slight shifts in the water, and the same thing on the visuals, and the drone just disconnected. The winch was slack, and so we reeled it back up. It looked like it was in mostly fine condition, other than a few marks from what looked like pressure damage. The tech inside got jumbled around a bit in whatever it experienced, some cracked and some misplaced. Footage seemed fine, but I was rushed, so I couldn’t have made out what had caused the force. The corps decided to still send in the divers, Davies, Finley, Kholson, as you know, and Sullivan, despite the potential dangers. Something about a ‘priority objective’. It was clear that the mission was going to continue. At the time, I thought nothing of it.

“When the divers went down, the sinking feeling in my stomach was something like I’ve never experienced since. I had this awful urge to tell them to swim back to the bell, but I knew I couldn’t do that. And down they went. And we waited, up on the boat, for the depth meter to increase. Gradually, that “1500 feet” number slowly got closer. Everyone on the pod was holding their breath. Then, nothing. The number kept increasing. “1515”. “1525”. “1545”. And everyone let out a sigh of relief. The mission was well underway. But it was then that I noticed something on the screen where the video feed was displayed. Something about that grainy darkness.” He gazed at the ground beneath his feet as he sat, gathering his thoughts before continuing.

“...It didn’t… it wasn’t the water. And it wasn’t the camera. And as I looked closer I realized that it wasn’t anything on our end; the feed was crystal clear. The dark distance in the water moved the same way, all at once like a massive wall. Shifting around the divers. And just as I made the realization that it wasn’t just the water down there with them, it was all so sudden. A brief mumble played over the comms. The number stopped. “1563 feet”. The cables to the divers in the bell snapped taut, and two split. Another mumble sputtered out over the radio. Then silence, all except for the waves. The gentle splashes felt deafening.” He leaned back again, unrelaxed as he spoke.

“When the bodies were pulled back up… Finley and Kholson… they were both dead. Complete mental shutdown, with decay seen at the eyes and cerebrum, as if they had been eroding for months. Finley… there was no question about him. I don’t think anyone could’ve survived that. Kholson was still intact, and the footage was recoverable. As soon as the corps higher ups got onto the deck, though, the bodies got swept away and the whole operation quickly ceased. No recovery effort was made for the other divers. Ever since, the area is prohibited from entry. The only one allowed to see anything… was me. I needed to review the footage before the damaged camera got transported. I was meant to say nothing to anyone, and just send the tape… but before I did, I made a copy. And that’s why I’m here.”

He handed her the tape. Her shaking hand reached up to grasp it, gently holding it.

“No one else on the planet has seen this tape. And I want you to understand that I’m not giving you this to destroy it. I’m not trying to get rid of it by passing it on. And it’s up to you if you want to take it or not. I just think that you deserve to know the truth of how your son died.”

A long moment passed as the two sat on the bench overlooking the water. The ocean was calm.

William Butler ‘24

Harry slowly stepped down an unfamiliar creaky, brown staircase. It had a smooth, dark and solid banister which was much softer than the bright stainless-steel ones he had seen all his life. The lights produced a soft golden yellow glow, which was forgiving and pleasant for his eyes. Although, he did find it a little bit harder to see details of things given that he was accustomed to bright LED lighting. Harry felt apprehensive, like there were tiny robots operating miniscule brushes uncomfortably close to his stomach lining.

Albert liked to tell him that this feeling was called “having butterflies in his stomach.” Harry did not know what butterflies meant. It was not clear whether they were something Albert made up, or something that one of his old books had made up. Albert was an old, wizened man who ran a library in the colony. He was old enough to remember the amser natur and treated it with a nostalgic reverence. Albert kept a stash of old books about amser natur in a back room of his library. They had been very popular with the elder generation in the colony, but those people had mostly passed on now. The governing body of the colony had founding principles and thus could not legally suppress information of the amser natur; however, they did make it very hard to get. Now that there was less demand for information on it, Albert feared that the government might begin to eradicate any memory of the amser natur.

That is why when Harry had asked him about trees, Albert directed Harry to this museum, one of the last of its kind. Albert thought that it was a tragedy that the younger generations only learned about the inefficiencies of the plants and trees, only saw their cells and could never appreciate their true beauty. At the bottom of the stairs there was a dark brown door made of a similar soft material as the stairs and the banister. On the door was a brass plaque reading: “Museum of Nature.” As he stepped through the doorway, his breath was taken away. He had entered a very long, grand hallway with the same soft lights as the stairs. On the wall were huge pictures of unfamiliar objects. He was struck by their bright colors and distinct, beautiful shapes. Immediately one picture caught his eye. It was longer than he was tall and portrayed a huge object sitting on a wispy green floor. The high, vertical shape was held up by a brownish textured tower. Branching out from the

shape were arms covered with thousands of green shapes. Harry looked below the painting, words titled the painting: “Maple Tree in the Spring”. Harry could scarcely believe his eyes. How could this be the same trees that were horribly inefficient and irrelevant, as he had been taught? They were too beautiful. He continued walking. His legs were shaking slightly from excitement. Soon, he came to a picture with a blue background and many colorful structures, creating wild shapes in it. Around those structures, seemingly suspended in midair were forms of some sort. They all had different colors. Some were long, skinny and black others were gray and huge and yet more were yellow and blue and slightly triangular. Harry quickly read the blurb below the painting. It described a “coral reef” in an “ocean” and the suspended shapes were “fish”. He was eager to see more. Harry walked further. He saw more trees, this time in different colors and shapes. He saw the top of a “mountain”, a geological feature made of rocks, covered in fluffy white precipitation called “snow”.

As he reached the midway point of the hallway, his pulse had quickened and he smiled broadly. He couldn’t understand why he wanted to reach out and touch the objects in the pictures, but he did. He imagined what the air must smell like.

He could not reckon with why his colony had left this beautiful world. After a long time studying different pictures and their blurbs, Harry reached the end of the halfway. He saw another door, this time, the recognizable metal door of restricted areas. However, the lock, usually on these types of doors, had been removed. Taking a final look at the museum, Harry slowly opened the door and slowly stepped up the stairs, aware with every step of the risk he was taking.

Benjamin Angell ‘24

A Life Cycle

Cape Cod in the summertime is no one's animus. A salty breeze, sand covered legs, and a crisp refreshing ocean. Waves lap at dock board and seaweed drifting by, waterlogged.

Fish nip at hooks and hermit crabs scuttle under rocks on the seafloor. The ocean churns on day and night, roughening shell and smoothing glass. Ceaseless, pulling, cycling, filtering, draining, drowning, dancing and never ever pausing.

However, amidst the crashing, crushing, clamor of the ocean’s culling, there is one who desires to not move. The lonesome periwinkle is content to be stagnant, and let the water move around, swirling on (almost) all sides. For as hard as the ocean may heave and groan, toss and tug the periwinkle stays firmly on its pierside post. Here it is sheltered from the elements within the oceans control, wind, wake and weather. Boats will not crush them against the rocks they call home, smashing shells and leaving stains Water will not run from them, leaving them high and dry and gasping, shriveling in the open air. The pier protects them from all. Except Hands.

Hands reached down into the water

It pulled on our periwinkle, with the strength one might use to pull on a particularly stubborn burr on the side of one's favorite coat. Simply plucking it off and tossing it away.

The Hand that pulled away the lonesome periwinkle from its lonely home dragged it up through that water, into the open air.

The Hand’s emergence from the water barely made a ripple. Inquiring Eyes stared at the small shell, peering, seeking, searching. Looking for what it knew was inside. The pitiful snail.

The Hand grabbed, reached, tugged, pulled. Fingers in the small opening of the shell yanked at the creature. Attempted to bring it onto the light.

The snail found itself slipping, its hold on its shell growing feeble, slick seawater making traction impossible. The hand was strong.

Until finally the periwinkle split, not the shell from the shell but the snail from its home. The shell and the snail lay in the Hand neither the snail nor the shell having the ability to move. One was a shell and the other was dead.

The flesh of the Hand shifted under them as it tried to seize the shell, its prize. All for naught however, as the Hand jerked, violently, suddenly, and then the shell was in the air. Soaring, floating, flying above the water. There was a noise, a high shriek of displeasure. The Hand reached out to try to grab the shell. The Eyes wide, following its path up over the sea. Soaring, floating, flying above the water. Falling into it.

The shell settled on the ocean floor sending up a poof of sand that dusted it like a fine mist. Waves rolled over the shell, rocking it gently back and forth, back and forth. Dapples of light danced over its ridges, playing upon the spiral, curling into the empty hole where a creature used to reside.

Illuminating the shell on the bottom of the sea.

Adele Francis ’24

In the study aloft an oak chest, his head delicately resting upon a faded lace pillow. This spot was designated to him, as he would spend his evening hours seated there, diligently watching the birds outside the rusted window pane. It was at this time in the evening, when daylight shatters across the land, and dissolves into night, that the cat anticipates, as this was the time at night his friend arrives. Tonight was a full moon, and its gentle beams illuminated the rolling hills that extended beyond the garden walls. The cat’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, as he crept out of the study, towards the open kitchen window. He made his way across the house, invisible, his paws gingerly working their way past the corridor and to the small window above the stone counter. The stone floor felt cold and soothing, and gave him a swift sense of tranquility as he leapt onto the windowsill, and slipped through the small wooden opening, and gracefully landed in the tall grass.

He made his way through the tall sea of wild vegetation, and brushed through the leaves that led him to the top of a small hill. He reached the top, relieved, and took a moment to gaze into the valleys and illustrious green hills of the English countryside that seemed to go on for an eternity. This was his special place, where he would sit and speak to the moon. My day was wonderful, thanks. Do you love flowers as much as I do? Its gentle glow glimmered upon the cat’s ginger pelt, as the moon listened eagerly to everything the cat told; at least the cat was sure it was so.

Once the birds began to chirp, and the sharp chill in the air softened, the cat knew it was time to return home. He dove in and out of the grass, scouting for field mice; and with no luck, he turned towards home. He pranced back down the hilltop, and decided to head home through the town. He walked along a small dirt road, and soon turned on a weathered down cobblestone path leading to the village. By the time the cluster of Tudor homes came into view, it was sunrise. He trotted along the cobblestone street, gazing at the few townsfolk who began their morning duties of dumping waste buckets from the window, and carting off the rotting bodies of those who did not make it through the night using wheelbarrows, then dumping them into a large dugout pit further south of town. A tavern sign swung from above the frame of a door, reading: Ye Olde Tavern, est. 1386. The place was empty. He restrained himself from pouncing on the chickens who meandered through the streets, his glassy eyes reflecting the candle wicks that illuminated inside the village houses. His senses ablaze, ears alert, tail a featherweight, whiskers tingling; the thick swirls of petulant air overwhelmed him. Time felt adrift; and the cat could not recollect the last time civilization had not felt so wretched, and cold. Death seemed to be lingering among every molecule, every shiver of cold air and every slow burning candlewick. Overwhelmed, the young cat trotted home, ignoring the flies buzzing in his ears and the sound of rats that scurried around the darkened streets of town.

He curled up on the stone floor next to a pile of warm embers, and let the cool stones relax his body. The cat fell into a deep slumber, visions of moonbeams and warm scents swirling before his eyes, and tingling his senses. The poor cat would never understand the events that followed. THWACK. He was shocked back into reality.

THWACK!

He felt a panic, a sudden surge of pain swept over him. Run. His legs reacted before he could comprehend what was happening. He leapt onto a high shelf – safety. Fur on end, eyes widened. “Get him”. What did I do? He saw tears swelling in the eyes of the humans staring up at him. They spoke to him, praying for forgiveness, “We’re so sorry. So sorry… Henry is dead, found this morning… we cannot risk getting the boys sick. It’s not your fault you carry it – we just need to eliminate any chance of disease… God forgive me.” Of course, the cat did not understand the foreign sounds from these people, nor would he ever understand the reason for such violence. He just stood there, petrified, hissing and spitting at the people who had once fed him. He finally regained awareness of himself, and sprinted to the small window he had passed through many times before. The sun brightened the world around him, slipping out of the dark house and in the direction of the wilderness.

He didn’t look back, he just let his legs carry him away from the danger. He ran for hours, finally collapsing deep inside a forest located miles away from the village. The cat was exhausted, he let his head fall on the damp ground, and allowed his legs to stretch out and rest. By this time, the day had gone by, and the world was once again sinking into night. He let out a soft purr at the thought of this, for he wanted nothing more than to see the moon again. He gathered himself, and followed the bright glow that led out of the woods. He reached a clearing,

the moon hung directly above a tall field of wildflowers, and thousands of bright stars painted the sky, shimmering like diamonds. He had never felt so calm, as he gently stepped through the field, taking in the sweet scents of the flowers surrounding him. It felt magical. I’ve missed you, my dear friend. The cat felt a deep sadness in his chest as he continued speaking; I am so scared.

“Now why would you be frightened, little one?”

Why do I feel so much pain? I thought I could trust them.

He lay, pensive, heavy, fatigued.

“The pain will go away soon. Don’t look back on your life, just keep breathing.”

I am too young for this… this should not happen yet.

“You need not worry, little one. You are safe now.”

But You will leave soon. I don’t want to be alone.

“You are never without me, dear cat. I will always be your friend.”

The sky is beautiful tonight. Did you do this for me?

“Of course”

The small cat gazed up at the night sky, breathing in the sweet scent of bluebells and daisies. As he lay in the flower bed, His eye caught sight of something bright on the edge of the field. This brightness seemed to expand across the field, and the cat sat alert, watching intently. And, with a sudden wave of relief, he understood, and lay his head down to rest , happy thoughts dancing above the clouds, eager to start his life anew.

Fiona Gully

‘24

The red sands stretched for miles, only interrupted by the occasional boulder and the few fallen transport crafts that hadn’t made it off the planet in time. They had been used by the insanely rich once they had seen what was coming. If you found an untouched transport you would be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. But they had all been raided until there was nothing left years ago, and no one had found anything of value in the dunes for the past three years. Amongst this empty landscape, a small figure was making its way across the vast dunes. He stumbled once or twice as the sand pelted his face raw and the blazing sun beat down on him. This was no place for a human to be, this was no place for life to be, but the boy was persistent as he made his way through the desert. He was heading in the direction of String. He would probably never make it to the city.

But that was not what he was thinking about as one foot was put in front of the other this traveler kept moving forward through the unfriendly landscape. The coarse sands burned through the thin soles of the tattered sandals, the winds pelted his side, and the sun beat down atop him as the dry heat took all moisture from his mouth. But still, the boy moved on. He had somewhere to be; he was not ready to give up.

The boy treading through the desert was wearing a standard oxygen mask, a pair of ragged sandals, and a long-sleeve shirt. He had a surprisingly nice pack slung over his shoulder that contrasted with the rest of his clothing. Definitely not warm enough for a night in the desert, and the night was falling fast. In the east, the sunset was exploding into the sky with so many shades of red, pink, orange, yellow, and purple. Ever since the bombings, the sunsets had been this beautiful every night because of all the dust and debris they had flung into the air. It was beautiful to look at, but a sign that this traveler’s time was running out.

He needed to find shelter fast, so he changed his trajectory to the nearest hollowed-out transport. It was a shelter from the wind but not from the cold. Inside instead of nothing at all everything had been stripped away. There was nothing to keep the boy warm until morning. The desert would take him soon, the desert always won. And it was humans that made it this way, it was humans that turned their own home against them. But that was not this boy’s fault. He was just trying to survive in this world ruined by those who came before him. The haggard figure moved to the back of the cave-like ruin. In the corner, he reached into the bag that had been slung over his back and pulled out a thermos filled with an unknown liquid. Steam poured out of the heavy-duty mug, and the boy slowly took a small sip.

This continued for hours. Every time the boy got so cold he felt he could freeze solid, he would take one small sip from the thermos. As time went on the sips got bigger and closer together and at around midnight the thermos was empty. The winds howled banging on the walls and the red sand had lost all its heat and was now cold as ice. The boy’s eyelids felt heavy. He knew he could not fall asleep but it seemed so much easier than staying awake until morning. He shuffled over to a spot on the wall where a small chunk of metal jutted out of the wall. The boy leaned against it and the cold metal dug into the small of his back. He was convinced he would not get comfortable and drift into a never-ending sleep.

As he sat there alone, part of the boy knew he was doomed, but he did not give in just yet. He looked at his hands which had an unnatural blue tint. He looked at the cloud of breath surrounding his head. He felt so tired so very tired and so cold. The hole in the wall he had entered seemed to be getting further and further away as the young traveler got colder and colder. The boy never made it to String, but it was no surprise that the desert had claimed another life. No one had made it across the desert on foot since it became such a hellscape. There were old stories of how the desert used to be a giant natural preserve with thick forests and so much life in a place where it was possible to live without climate control and artificial oxygen. But humans had made sure that there was no place like this left on earth. This traveler had fought hard and now could have a long-deserved rest.

Clara Athearn ‘24

It was almost midnight when Claudia awoke to the sound of footsteps outside her door. The unfamiliar creaking sound of floorboards made her shiver as she was torn out of her dream. Being the only one who lived in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, she was not accustomed to hearing the sound of footsteps coming from anyone but herself. She rose slowly, trying to hold on to the last threads of tiredness so that she might fall back asleep soon, but after a few moments of sitting up in her bed, she determined that the sound wasn't stopping and needed investigating. Before walking to the door, she gazed out her window. Checking for any foreign shapes in the farm landscape she knew so well. She saw nothing. Only the trees and their shadows, the pond reflecting the moonlight up to her window, and the familiar shapes of cows standing alone in the pasture.

Claudia opened her bedroom door, and when she saw nothing but the empty hallway, she made her way quietly through the corridor to the living room beyond. Here, dozens of faces stared down at her. On the far wall of the living room a collection of photos that had been there for as long as she could remember rattled on their hooks. Each photo portrayed a smiling child dressed nicely and standing outside on the open farmland with the same serene pond shimmering in the background. The children looked to be around the ages of nine or ten and each possessed the same blond hair as Claudia, which had been passed down throughout generations. From left to right the photos depicted her lineage, starting with her greatgrandparents, then going to her grandparents and parents until they came to the youngest of her siblings. She had the exact placement of each person ingrained in her memory and knew even in the dark who was who. Claudia often walked by the photos, but had begun looking down at the floor when she passed them. It had become too much of a struggle to look into the smiling faces of her family members with the knowledge that one at a time each of them had disappeared from her life. She had thought the photos enthralling, at the beginning, when she was a little girl living with her mother and younger sister. As a child, she would often walk by and trace the outline of the pond in the background of each photo with her fingers marveling at the uniformity of all the faces. She had always dreamed that her photo would be up there someday, but when each of her family members went missing, one after the other, and no one was around to take a photo of her anymore, that dream died like the many others she had had before everyone disappeared. The portraits were now simply a reminder of her loss, and paying them any heed made her too upset to make looking at them worthwhile.

Tonight, the glow of the moonlight seeping in from the window opposite her illuminated the faces, eerily turning the smiles into smirks. Looking more closely, she noticed there was a new addition to the wall. A photo she had never seen hung on the right side of the wall. The photo had no face but showed the same landscape with the little pond that was the background of every other photo. She wondered if maybe this photo had always been there and in her time of ignoring the portraits she had forgotten about it but then decided that no, she would have remembered.

As she stared at the photo, inspecting it for any sign of how it got there, she heard a crash from the front of the house. Claudia made her way to the kitchen where she found the front door open. A blond head melted into the night just as she entered the room. She didn't see much but from the few details she had gathered, she was almost certain it was her sister. It had been years since she had last seen Nora, a shy quiet five year old who never quite understood what it meant to brush her hair, but Claudia could recognize that little ponytail anywhere. It was as if she hadn't aged a day and she had come back looking exactly the same as when she had disappeared. “Nora,” she shouted after the small figure. “Nora come back!!” When no little head came bobbing back through the door and she heard no reply, Claudia grabbed her jacket off the hook next to the door and ran out into the darkness.

She felt a chill as she made the initial step into the darkness. It was summer but the air had become uncomfortably cold, and she pulled her jacket tighter around her body for warmth. Looking ahead, she could see the pond illuminated by the ghostly glow of moonlight. The ducks that swam peacefully through its midst during the daytime were mere shadows huddled to one side. Lily pads floated along its shore and glistened like eyes staring back at her. The reeds and tall grasses surrounding the pond shivered as they were lulled by a cold breeze that had started to blow. In front of her, Claudia heard laughter. She moved closer toward the pond, her footsteps muted by the soft earth that gave way underneath her. Damp grass clung to her feet which she only now realized were bare and very cold. She continued onward, stepping carefully to avoid any miscellaneous tools or objects that she might not see in the darkness. She wondered why she hadn't thought to grab a flashlight. “Nora!!” she called into the night. “Nora is that you?” She could hear her words echoing off the surface of the water and back to her. “It's me, Claudia, I'm here.”

The sounds of laughter vanished. Behind her, she heard the farmhouse door slam shut. It must have been the wind. A cloud passed over the moon and for a moment she was in complete darkness. The glow of the pond had disappeared, and she could no longer see the trees to her left and right. The coldness seeped into her body, and her toes lost feeling. In front of her, she heard a splash. Not the splash a frog might make as it slid off a leaf into the water, or a fish might make as it leaped upwards trying to get a view of the world above, but a loud splash, the sound a human might make. She heard a scream. It sounded like Nora. It had to be Nora. The blond ponytail, the laughing, and now the screams. It had to be her. In the glow of the moon that had now reappeared Claudia sprang into action. She sprinted the rest of the way to the pond where the screaming continued along with the unmistakable sound of thrashing arms and legs in the water.

Claudia grabbed the small canoe that sat along the shore. The canoe, while rather dull with age, seemed in perfect condition as she put it into the water. It had been there her whole life but was always more of a decoration than an item with a practical purpose. There was an unspoken rule between the members of her family that it was never to be touched or used, but in all her years of life Claudia had never been able to determine why. Even in her earliest childhood memories, she could always picture the red canoe there at the shore of the lake pondering its own uselessness. But she would use it now. She needed to. She got in and paddled it towards the screams that were now losing their energy. She had to help Nora. She saw the water splashing in front of her and paddled quickly. “Nora, I’m here. I’m coming to help,” she said. But the splashing had stopped. She felt the canoe tipping.

As she turned around she watched as a pair of hands reached over the edge of the canoe, grasping it and pulling it down. As she looked more closely she saw that it was not one pair of hands but many. Something wet and slimy touched her arm and she screamed. Grabbing her forearm was another hand. Hand after hand reached out of the water. Arms rising over the sides of the canoe tipped it precariously. Claudia shrieked. She stood, trying to regain balance, kicking at the hands with her free foot. More and more kept coming. Their fingers slid over the sides of the boat rocking it back and forth. Claudia closed her eyes. This must be a dream. A nightmare. It had to be.

Cold liquid ran up her nose as she made contact with the water. Bubbles sprang up all around her. Her mouth filled with water as she tried to scream. Then all was silent. A hand reached out to her from the darkness below and she grabbed it. She had no other choice. When she looked down she saw that there was a hand attached to the body. Nora's face looked back up at her. Claudia felt Nora gently squeeze her hand in a reassuring gesture and didn't resist as she guided them both downwards. She ignored her lungs which begged for air and her body which had begun to shudder. At this moment everything felt right to her. Nora pulled them both downwards and as they sank, the faint moonlight coming from above began to illuminate faces all around them. Her body shaking

with full force now, Claudia recognized the faces as the ones from the photos on the wall. In front of her, her mother waited open-armed, her grandmother floating just to her left. The water whirled about them. Bubbles sprang up around her coming somewhere from deep below. Claudia, her body limp as she sunk father down to the bottom of the little pond, wondered if this had been where she was meant to be all along.

As the sun rose the next morning the farm came to life. The cows moaned, waiting to be milked and the chickens chuckled as they wandered about searching for scraps. The grass around the pond sat still as the ducks awoke and stretched their legs. Further up from the pond, the farmhouse was quiet. Sun shone through the windows illuminating its interior and a cat sat at the back door waiting to be let out. On the living room wall, dozens of faces sat smiling blankly, the new addition on the far right hanging slightly crooked as the sun rays danced across the face of a laughing blond girl.

Thalia O’Neil

‘24

The wind brushed her hair. It was often windy here, never cool enough to be cold but never warm enough to be hot. The field held two girls. They had been exploring all morning under their mother’s watchful eye, as she observed from a distance, trusting the wind to take care of her daughters. It was clear who was the older of the two sisters, as the younger one often followed her sister whenever and wherever she went. This was one of those times. Barefoot, the little one followed her sister's footsteps on the leaf-speckled ground. The wind picked up, swirling the leaves and guiding the girls, and leading them with its playful strength. The girls rejoiced in the breeze, excited to be with their favorite friend.

As the older sister started moving, her legs shifted quickly as though she had first learned to run rather than walk. The little sister, noticing her sister's new path, began to follow. She placed one foot forward, scrunching her toes against prickly grass lined with dandelions. The wind pushed back, at first tickling the little sister’s nose, making her feel it was safe for her to move, but later it nudged her forward, helping to quicken her little legs and uncoordinated steps. The younger sister was too little to talk, but the girls understood each other, exchanging laughter instead of words. The two girls proceeded across the field, galloping to the sound of the wind and the crunching of the grass.

The wind was glad to play and led the girls to a beautiful pond, complete with lilies and frogs. The girls kept running. The wind oftentimes loved to encourage young ones but forgot they were not like her. The girls zig-zagged faster and faster, amazed at the speed with which the wind would push them. Soon the wind had realized its mistake and blew against the girls and out of their mother’s mouth. The puff came as a word: “Stop!” The older sister, aware of her mother’s voice did just that, no longer pushing against the wind. The little sister did not stop, however, for she had just gotten into a rhythm with her legs, the joy of accomplishment too grand to slow. The wind pushed against her, a frantic pleading force. It was too late. The green grass had turned to green sludge, algae covering the serene and deadly water. The girls were not friends with the water. She plunged in, her body entering the cold grasping waves. Her legs had been moving fast before, but now they moved frantically in a fight against the water. The wind turned to the mother who was already moving and blew the leaves from her feet and hair from her face. Although it had been less than a second before her plunge, the green had almost fully engulfed the little one.

The mother did what she had to do. With a seemingly innate motion, she dove into the sludge. It grabbed at her, but her eyes focused on her daughter. She reached her arms against its pull and seized her daughter's dress. The fabric gave in, slightly tearing before the mother extended her other arm in desperation. Her hand brushed her daughter’s hair as she grasped her shoulder. It did not matter how hard the water pulled, the mother was getting her daughter out. The little one’s previously pink dress was now a dark green, the shoulder slightly ripped. The mother extended her hand toward the bank and propelled her daughter onto it. She followed, the water lapping at her feet with small cold bites.

The older daughter stood where she had been told to stop, the wind pushing against her, but as she saw her mother and sister emerge, she ran faster than ever before into their wet embrace. Slowly they made their way down to the leaves and sat in the grass. Their eyes closed as they felt each other and the soft prickly grass. That day, the girls learned never to trust the water. A soft warm breeze brushed their hair and dried their clothes.

Natalie Pil ‘24

The 2023 Voices of Peace poetry contest, sponsored by the Cape Cod Veterans for Peace Corporal Jeffrey M. Lucey Chapter 041, was open to all Cape & Islands poets. Contestants were asked to submit a poem: “a) on thoughts of peace and the abolition of war, hate, or violence; b) on what I can do to help make a peaceful world for all; c) on some of the ways war can be avoided; d) on inner peace: how we become peaceful within ourselves so we can face the ‘other person’ with mercy and forgiveness; e) on examples of nonviolent attitudes and actions that lead to friendship, negotiation, social justice, and peace.”

Something Known as Peace

Peace

An unknown trail

An unknown road

An unknown adventure

A new charted course

Not a place of no suffering

Not a place of no sadness

No loss or no loneliness

But a place amidst those things

Where still there is happiness

Where still there is joy

And still there is joy for the future

A place of being there for one’s self

Being there for others

A place where hardships and prosperity are not adversaries

But instead live amongst each other

Perhaps peace and tranquility is not an unknown road

But a place not so far away from us, unseen to the naked eye

Maddie Park-Boudreau ‘28

Peace and War

In times of war, the world stands still, As nations clash and hearts do chill. Families torn apart, dreams shattered, Where death and destruction is all that mattered

In times of war, the world stands still, As nations clash and hearts do chill. Families torn apart, dreams shattered, As death and destruction are all that mattered And wars of the past slowly cease

For in the end, it is not violence that wins, But the spirit of love that never dims. So let us strive for peace with all our might, And keep the flame of hope burning bright Declan Diriwachter ‘28

Flow

The sun shines

In dappled light

Glinting its reflection off the brook

I smell the wet earth

Hear the wind in the trees

Watch a pill bug wandering along the rotten log where I rest I rise

Feel the damp duff below the soles of my feet

Splash in I wade

Through the cool water

Watch the birds flit between branches

Hours, minutes

The brook turns

I follow smell low tide

See the marsh unfold

Spiky green grass

A heron disappears into the sky

The mud fades replaced By silt By sand

The creek spills Out into the sea

Over smooth beach stones

The water cools

A cloud of minnows scatter

Return curious I sit

Water covering my legs

My hands pushed into the cool sand

The sun shines

Emme Carroll ‘28

Delphi

Hopped on a bus, it took me ‘cross the land

Seen all there is to see, can’t take it slow I have the whole night to misunderstand

Please don’t make it stop, light me up and go Every day now I’m in a sweet daze

There’s not a moment that I can regret This life that I lead I will set ablaze

Just like I strike my ashen cigarette

By and by how time flies in the city

I won’t ever see my baby again

Never meet a man so blithe and pretty But I’m sure he’ll think of me now and then Find me now, by the beat of my bangles

As I dance my life away in the streets of angels

Lila Journalist ‘25

The Big Blue

Whale o’ Whale

Where are you

In the great big blue

Where the water waves to you You come up for air And flip your tail, The seagulls gather, But you would rather Be swimming

In the great big blue

Sylvie Parsons ‘28

Struggles at Boarding School

Boarding school was supposed to be a good change for me. Middle school wasn’t a good part of my life. Boarding school. A new beginning where I could make new friends that I could keep for the rest of my life. If I expected to magically find a balance between academics and social life, I was sorely disappointed. Boarding school was not how I imagined it to be.

In July of 2014, I began packing for school, which was three hours from home. I had to pack the essentials like bedding and school supplies. Then, of course, I had to get room decor like funky pillows, a calendar, and some organizers for my desk supplies and clothes. I’m all about colors and organization! August came along and just like that, it was two weeks ‘till orientation.

August 15, 2014. My parents drove me to boarding school with all my belongings. As we got closer to the school, I felt the first day jitters creep up. We got there around 10:30 in the morning. It was like a zoo trying to get any parking spots near the main building, which was where you checked into. They gave me my room number and the name of my roommate. I was so excited to meet her and get to know her! The room was on the second floor and the last door on the left. My roommate was already unpacked, her stuff was all over the room. Her name was Ella Allen. As could have been expected, our first interaction was a little awkward. The room was small. Ella and I both had mezzanine beds with dressers underneath. I had a desk between our beds and Ella’s was at the end of her bed. My side was slightly smaller because there was a bump out, but I didn’t mind. Ella used the bit of extra room she had to put a smaller dresser next to her “closet” for extra stuff. The “closet” was a tall structure that had some space to hang clothes and two drawers at the bottom. It took three trips to bring all my stuff up from the car. Then, Ella and I walked together to the main building for orientation. Talking to her, I realized that she already knew many people at school. At orientation, the headmaster said a few words about what freshman year would be like and what not to worry about. Then we all went back to our dormitories and I was finally able to start unpacking. My parents and I said our goodbyes and of course my mom got emotional. Last bird to fly the coop! It only took me about an hour and a half to get most of my belongings unpacked. I thought that I should try to connect with some people, get a feel of who I’d like to be friends with, so I went to the common room.

I couldn’t help but feel nervous when I got there, because everyone seemed so connected already. I tried to put my insecurities aside and walked up to a girl who seemed nice . She didn’t really acknowledge my “Hi!”, but I didn’t give up. I asked her where she was from and said: “My name is Alexandra and I’m from Longmeadow, Massachusetts.” She said she was from Connecticut, but then stood up to leave the common room with everyone else. Not a very successful first attempt at socializing, to say the least! I started to feel an overwhelming amount of nervousness and anxiety and tried to convince myself, “It’s the first day. There’s so many other people to potentially be friends with,” to calm down my nerves. I went back to my dorm room and unpacked the rest of my possessions.

By the time I finished unpacking, it was around 6:30. Despite my awkward social experience in the afternoon, I went to the cafeteria determined to talk to people. It was so crowded I almost ran back to my dorm, but I was really hungry and I had to finish the day on a good note. I got some caesar salad and spaghetti and meatballs and sat with a group of upperclassmen. They were very nice to me and welcomed me to campus. They asked me what teachers I had this year and what language I was taking. Their opinions reassured me. Some teachers were good, others bad, but it did not sound like anything I couldn’t handle. They warned me about the geometry teacher. They said he was a really good teacher but strict and assigned loads of homework. I told them I was taking Spanish and they said the teacher was nice and assigned little to no homework. They told me that the best place to study was the library because no one worked on homework in the library. Most people studied in their dorm rooms or in classrooms. After dinner, I went back to my dorm feeling a lot more relaxed about the next day. I started to get ready for classes: I packed notebooks, folders, sticky notes, index cards, pens, and pencils into a smaller bag, then filled my backpack with all my textbooks. I went to bed around 9:30 that evening, which was relatively early for my bedtime. I wanted to be well-rested and awake for the first day of classes! Ella came back into the room a couple hours later. She wasn’t aware and clearly didn’t care that I was sleeping and she was very noisy while moving around the room. I played some music on my Airpods to fall asleep, but I should have realized that Ella’s behavior was a red flag.

The next morning I woke up at 7:00 to have plenty of time to get ready for my first class at 8:45. Ella was still sleeping when I woke up. Despite her racket the previous night, I quietly went into the bathroom and came back to the room to get dressed and get ready for the day. Classes ran from 8:45 to 3:45. Most of my teachers had the same demeanor. They were friendly and looked you in the eye. My algebra teacher was strict and a no nonsense teacher. My favorite teacher was my English teacher. She was really nice and talked in-depth about the books we were going to read.

After class I went to a nearby coffee shop called The Daily Grinds to do some work for class. After about an hour, I went to drop off my stuff in my room and headed down to dinner. I sat with some girls in my grade but they weren’t as friendly to me as the upperclassmen. It didn’t bother me that much because I assumed that they were probably just trying to find their way on campus, just like I was. I went back to my room and started to think about ways I could socialize more. Although it was only the first day, I felt that I needed to make connections quickly if I didn’t want to end up being excluded from every group on campus. I couldn’t think of many ideas to socialize besides going to the common room or the cafeteria, which had not yielded the best results so far. Maybe connecting with my roommate would be a good start to making friends, but I felt a little awkward just joining her friend group. I couldn’t really think of other options, though! Kill two birds with one stone, right?

The next couple of weeks consisted in going to school, studying, and attempting to spend time with Ella and her friends. School work was relatively easy and the teachers all turned out to be great. I began involving myself in the community and more people talked to me in the halls and during meals. Also at night, sometimes the dorm parents made food for the dorm which was so much fun. The dorm called it “dorm food”. We had a group chat and whenever “dorm food” was ready they would say “dorm food ready”. On the other hand, Ella and I didn’t ever talk in the room together other than an occasional “Hi.” Ella didn’t seem too happy that I was trying to join her friend group. She always had an annoyed look. A look, glare, and attitude that looked like she was annoyed with my presence. I didn’t know why. After a while, I began getting irritated with her. I tried being nice to her but she seemed like she didn't want to connect at all. Weeks went by and I finally worked up the courage to ask her what her problem was. Her response was that she was just stressed out with schoolwork. I didn’t believe that. I thought that that response was just made up. Why would someone be annoyed with someone for weeks on end because they were stressed out with schoolwork? It didn’t make sense. When I told my parents about what had happened, they believed that she could’ve been honest. My response to that was that Ella just didn’t like me and made up a dumb excuse.

It was almost winter break and the thing that people wanted to avoid had finally arrived. Mid-terms. I can’t even fathom the name. Everyone was stressed out about it. Everyone was on each other’s nerves. Ella and I were especially on each other’s nerves. We compromised that one of us would stay in the room and the other would go to the library. Separation between us was much needed. When Ella and I got back from winter break, we decided to establish some rules to help us get through the rest of the year smoothly. New Year, new rules. We made rules to make the rest of the year go smoothly. Luckily, both of us followed the rules which slowly but surely would eventually become the foundation of our friendship. In January, my parents called me one night and told me that they were getting a divorce. They had already told my older siblings and told them not to tell me. It shocked me. Like every child, you would never think about your parents getting divorced. My parents explained that they'd thought about making this decision earlier but they didn’t want to impact me and my siblings when we were younger. They elucidated that there were things that both bothered them that they couldn’t get past and they grew apart as they got older. The divorce was going to be finalized in a week.

During March break, my siblings and I went back home so my parents could explain further about the divorce. When my dad pulled up into the driveway, everyone looked at each other. He had the audacity to bring his new girlfriend. In my mind, I was thinking What the heck? Why would he bring his new girlfriend in a time of turmoil in our family? Everyone had to brace ourselves for what was about to happen. I was feeling some anger but mostly confusion. In a matter of seconds, I made up my mind that I didn’t need to hear from him or see his new girlfriend. I stormed out of the living room and went to my room. I locked myself in my room and cried for hours. My dad

came up to check on me but I ignored him. After the coast was clear, I walked downstairs and out of the house. I got on my bike and rode for 2 hours straight, not giving a care in the world.

Ella and I made it to finals week. We made it through our exams successfully without any arguments. The last day on campus crept up on us. While packing my stuff, I was actually sad that I was leaving. I didn’t think that I would be sad given the challenges I faced with Ella. When we were almost finished, Ella tapped me on the shoulder and told me she was sorry for all the drama she caused. She told me that she had some family issues. She explained that her dad cheated on her mom with his secretary and ever since that happened her relationship with her dad was ruined. I said I was sorry and explained my situation with my parents getting a divorce. She said she was sorry for my situation and that I could talk to her if I wanted to. Our moms came early and we asked them if we could stay at the dorm for an extra hour. We ordered a pizza and talked for 40 minutes. It was the most fun, deepest talk I had with Ella. At the end of our conversation, we decided that we were going to be roommates next year and connect over the summer break.

Seomae Aronson ‘25

Haunted

Never have I thought that ghosts were real A life of luck, pressure, and sometimes despair This was not the way I was ever supposed to feel All I know is that the sound of your echos is more like a chant Scratching and clawing at my ears while I sleep I feel faint, and talking to others ends in a rant No one believes me.

You whisper I love you, but I am not sure who you are I sometimes forget and pretend we were not real Flashbacks are pain and open an old healing scare If heaven is absolute, then hell must be too Fables and tales never resonated as good or bad I must know what is true Where did you go?

Let me be free Believing in God was a hard enough task “I will do anything please just agree” Your haunting hurts now more than ever At that moment, I finally understood It was not you holding on to this fantasy.

It was me.

I know who you are I know you better than that I killed you Now that I accept this, maybe I can move on I hope more than ever that heaven is real

Now I believe in ghosts.

Ava Churchill ‘25

Ignorance is Bliss

If you know or do not know How will they know? Silence is gold, ignorance is bliss How can You live a happy life? The answer is this

Do not strain your mind with the constant misery of this world Instead, feel serene That situation has nothing to do with you Think only for yourself When even this gets to be too much Stop

Some would say I’m being selfish And they are correct But that’s the thing I choose to ignore

This is the key to living a happy life Silence is gold, ignorance is bliss Take my advice or don’t This may be the only way to resist darkness

Nevertheless, do what you want I don’t care

Ava Churchill ‘25

Another skipped beat. He wasn't imagining it. A sharp pain in his legs. He had a couple more weeks at most. "God dammit. 8? Yeah, no false alarms this time. Taous is dying. Set up the ceremony quickly and prepare Rashella. I know it's short notice, but a failing heart isn't exactly gonna wait until it's most convenient! I know, I know, just, get it done." He set down the receiver and sighed. Better prepare for the end and talk to Taous again. He closed his eyes and thought.

A yellow and blue wizard wandered through the endless void. The landscape was a smooth, endless grey. Peaceful, if a bit repetitive. It was odd, he couldn't remember how long he had been here, all he knew was that it was a very long time. That is why the sound of footsteps caught him off guard. He turned around and saw an old friend.

It was nice to know he had been useful for a while.

"Hello Zire, it's been a long time, hasn't it? How long did my body run for?"

"Almost 900 years, very impressive. I'm sorry you didn't get to live those years, you could have had a long and happy life."

"I already told you, I was, and still am, more than happy to be you. You introduced me to so many interesting people and gave my life meaning, I would never go back."

"Glad to hear that Taous. Glad to hear."

They stood in silence for a while.

"In a bit, you'll get another wizard to talk to."

"Who is it?"

"A wonderful wizard named Rashella, she is very dedicated. Be sure to welcome her, ok? I understand that there are not many humans here to talk to compared to the others."

"I'll do that."

Taous blinked, and Zire was gone.

Taous resumed walking.

Rashella walked briskly down the hallways of the capital building. Today was the day she had been working towards all her life, the day she would get to truly meet Mr. Bright, the day her face would become the leader of Maretania, and continue the sacred mission. She double-checked her uniform and steadied her breath, she couldn't afford to mess this up. She puffed up her chest and stepped through the doors to the inner sanctum. Inside she saw Taous standing on a raised platform, a couple scribes, and the 12 of the Obsidian Council standing behind Taous. She walked up to the platform and stood proud in front of Taous. "Rashella, are you ready to give your mind, forever in service to Maretania?" "Yes." "Are you prepared for the responsibility that this position holds?" "Yes." The ceremony was mostly formalities she knew. Her being prepared would hold no sway in how Maretania was run, and her willingness was hashed out years ago when she became leader of the Red Right Hand. All that was left to do, was embrace the final step. "Then you will bare the weight of the Council Medallion from now on. May Maretania be forever bright." Rashella lowered her head. Slowly, Taous took his medallion and rested it around her neck.

Rashella knew the change would be sudden, but she was not expecting this. All around her was just emptiness, with small pinpricks of movement far off on the horizon. She was then acutely aware that someone was standing behind her. She turned around and saw a tall gangly monster. It had smooth skin and was topped with orange hair.

"Hello Rashella, it's nice to meet face to face. I'm Zire Bright."

Rashella didn't know what to say. She had heard from Taous what he looked like, but it was very different seeing it firsthand. She thought of a million different things to say, but none of them seemed like the right thing. She finally stammered out a quick response, and almost immediately regretted it.

"Hello Zire, I hope my face is useable."

Bright snorted slightly and looked amused. "Don't worry, you will do great. When I'm not here, go and meet the others, they are surprisingly good company."

"I'll do that. Thank you again for this opportunity."

"No, thank you."

And Zire was gone again. David Gallagher Jr. ‘25

Aunque las páginas del libro de mi vida estén llenas, no arrancaré algunas de ellas, ya que representan lecciones aprendidas, vivencias, triunfos y fracasos. Al final, es mi vida. Y realmente no creo que hayan personas interesadas en ayudarme a rectificar o enmendar, lo que el tiempo guardó o cerró como capítulo pasado, transitado y vivido.

Today must have been Friday everywhere, many angels have fallen to the pavement from rooftops. Friday is not a day, but a compound tense subjunctive, future, present, past perfect.

A customs post on the border that separates the living from the surviving. It must have been Friday and you were not there. But your absence is advancing viscously like dense lava. Your soul surrounds me, somnambulant, celestial determined to turn weightlessly inside me emerging from everywhere, bursting with everything returning to nothingness, that synonym of a Friday night and an empty bed.

Translation by Gonzalo Noriega Minguez ‘24

Tildy Clark Moehnke ‘27 and Zoë Van Keuren ‘27

In the back alley, near the park you will find 317 Lane. My family has owned 317 for years, longer than anyone can even remember. No one knows why my family possesses it, the origin is unknown. But it has always been there, lurking around the back alleys of a dirty city corner. Squished between a dark brick residential building and a skyscraper completely made of windows. Even with its lack of walls you still cannot see into the offices, the panes are tinted a furtive black; the sheen of the light being reflected back to the sun seems soulless in a way. The house goes relatively unnoticed, until the persevering sun reaches its high point in the sky and light hits the windows. Fractals of multicolored and translucent light hit the gray pavement. The residence is a quaint two-story building, built from bricks that have been dirtied over the years. Every few years someone in the family takes it upon themselves to try and clean the dirt moss covered bricks. The ruffage always returns. The house used to be topped with a wooden roof, but then someone renovated it to be more “modern.” Along the front and sides, fragmented stained-glass windows look out on the street. Some show detailed stories, filled with miscellaneous scraps of color. The glass was collected over the generations. Most people in the family contribute, adding a bit here and there throughout the years. But there is still space for more windows, more pieces. A hollow frame sits on the second floor facing another building. We are so close to other apartments, these an assortment of old and new, that you can look into the living spaces. A man folding laundry, sitting to eat, holding a telescope. This hollow frame sits there waiting to be filled, the memories to be trapped, collected, put together with pieces of half cleaned bottles. Our family is lucky to have this house because it stands in a very prized part of town. The building has many potential buyers. I try to advise against letting my family have house tours because I know that, if a specific type of person visits, someone inclined to detail, and if they notice the intricate and thoughtful windows shining light splintered color through the room, they might ask, if they are feeling exceptionally empathetic that day, what the pains in the windows are made of.

And I know that at this question, the house will decide to simply collapse onto itself. Self-destruct and voluntarily implode. Lapse over its secrets. Starting from the top and spiraling down the staircase, old wood slamming harshly into the floor, left laying silently on the ground. If the person makes it out alive, they should hope to never come again. Because you see, this type of glass was never intended to be used as anything permanent Its original purpose was as a pastime at dinner or a party. But no, my family decided to build a house from it. I started to wonder if the beauty of these windows is worth being built if they are bound to shatter. Is the creation, the beauty, worth it if it destroys itself in the end? Does its death give it more meaning? Or will the rafters and windows collapsed on the soil also be forgotten, like everything else on the worn street.

But for the time being, before anyone particularly curious shows up, we tell the buyers that the windows are made of sea glass, found on mild afternoon walks along the ocean. We tell them something pretty, something that fits right.

Giovanna Messina ‘27

“This baby’ll get you across that delaware faster than a rat in the lamplight.” said Mr. Price, the shipbuilder that had been hired for the mission. George stared at the boat curiously. It was unlike any he had seen before. He looked up from the white siding of the dinghy into the beaming face of Mr. Price, and asked cautiously:

“And what purpose, my good man, might those… devices… serve?”

Mr. Price’s smile widened even further.

“Those are gonna be the outboard motors Mr. President, state-of-the-art. They’ll give you about a hundred and twenty horsepower each, so with these two on a straightaway you could be getting up to forty knots, easy.”

Mr. Price slapped the side of one of the motors enthusiastically as he spoke, admiring his boat with the look of a man who's just been dealt a royal flush when the table’s all in. George was getting more concerned by the minute, but with the need for urgency riding on his mind, he submitted to the waiting gaze of Mr. Price.

“It is quite the unusual craft for the voyage we are going to undertake, but I think your service will be appreciated for our mission. We are preparing to attack in two days' time, and this vessel shall be required. The colonies are in your debt.”

“That's great Mr. President, you wont regret it. She’ll get you to those British before you can say ‘King George is a fat w-”

George hurriedly interrupted Mr. Price before he could finish, and produced a large bag of coins from his coat pocket and pushed it into the hands of the ship builder.

“Uh… as I stated, Mr. Price, the colonies are um… in your debt…”

Mr. Price watched as George walked quickly away, looking over his shoulder. Mr. Price turned once The President was out of sight, and muttered to himself softly.

“Strange man. Very strange…”

Historical notes:

Because he felt there was not quite the right amount of personal drama in the actual event, the artist Emanuel Leutze would later decide not to include the craft sold to President Washington by Mr. Price in his piece, “Washington Crossing the Delaware.” He would later touch on this inaccuracy, by stating: “Nobody would believe Washington, why would they believe me?”

Henry Redfield

‘23