Tapestry 2022

Tapestry 2022

Tapestry 2022

ARCHMERE ACADEMY’S LITERARY AND FINE ARTS MAGAZINE

Archmere Academy 3600 Philadelphia Pike Claymont, Delaware 19703 302-798-6632 www.archmereacademy.com

Tapestry 2022 TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Fictional Realm in Which I Dwell, digital art, Ray Bellace ‘22................................................... cover Summer Picnic, Abigail Kortering ‘22.................................................................................................... 4 Firefly, digital photography, Sydney Boyd ‘22....................................................................................... 5 Lines of Life, mixed media, Elena Proctor ‘22....................................................................................... 6 I Believe in Goodbyes, Liz Xu ‘24........................................................................................................... 7 Lonely Star, acrylic and gouache on canvas, Michael Citrino ‘24....................................................... 8 Absent, Arden Godwin ‘25....................................................................................................................... 9 The Trick of the Ghost, Natalie Gildea ‘23............................................................................................ 10 Continuation, Amelia Gattuso ‘23.......................................................................................................... 12 Luminous, acrylic on canvas, Kelsey Joyce ‘23...................................................................................... 13 Vestige, acrylic on canvas, Alex Passehl ‘24........................................................................................... 14 My Name, Mehki Solomon ‘22................................................................................................................ 15 Encircled, acrylic on canvas, Carrie Wiig ‘24........................................................................................ 16 Reflections, Sophia Chen ‘24............................................................................................................................................................17 Mother Nature Always Listens, Emma Fannin ‘22.............................................................................. 18 A Mindset, digital art, Jocelyn Zavala-Garcia ‘22................................................................................. 18 Secret Tree, digital photography, Gillian Hendrixson ‘23 ................................................................... 19 Trumpet, digital photography, Gillian Hendrixson ‘23........................................................................ 20 The Clockwork Reprise, Abigail Kortering ‘22...................................................................................... 21 Anatomy of Doom, charcoal, Jace Walker ‘25....................................................................................... 24 Gaslighting, Amelia Gattuso ‘23.............................................................................................................. 25 Lighting the Torch, Elena Proctor ‘22.................................................................................................... 26 Magazine Family, collage, Elena Proctor ‘22......................................................................................... 26 Rapunzel, Sophia Chen ‘24...................................................................................................................... 27 Sleeping Beauty, watercolor pencil on paper, Lauren McIntyre ‘22................................................... 29 Variegated Pittosporum Tobira, watercolor, pen and ink, Jane Chen ‘24.......................................... 30 What You Gave Me, Emma Fannin ‘22.................................................................................................. 31 The Art Traveler, Onyi Kenine ‘22.......................................................................................................... 32 A Malediction: Forbidding His Advances, Natalie Gildea ‘23............................................................ 34 Miss Lilith, watercolor, pen and ink, Kaia Yalamanchili ‘24............................................................... 35 State of the Union, Abigail Kortering ‘22............................................................................................... 36 Paralysis, Arden Godwin ‘25 ................................................................................................................... 36 Catch a Falling Star, gauche on canvas paper, Annie Dai ‘22.............................................................. 37

Transmutation, colored pastel on black paper, Bella Dayrit ‘22......................................................... 38 Mahal Kita Parati (I Miss You Always), Bella Dayrit ‘22 .................................................................... 39 A Harsh to Heart Conversation, Elena Proctor ‘22 ............................................................................. 40 People and Paint, mixed media, Henry Weinig ‘23............................................................................... 42 Sweet Miao, Bella Dayrit ‘22................................................................................................................... 43 Feline Dreams, colored pastel on black paper, Annie Dai ‘22............................................................. 43 To My Darling Mira:, Sophia Chen ‘24 ................................................................................................. 44 Paper Painting, collage, Gwyneth Ratsep ‘25 ........................................................................................ 45 Childhood Memoir, Annie Dai ‘22......................................................................................................... 46 Korean Barbecue, scratchboard drawing, Liz Xu ‘24........................................................................... 47 Coyote’s Soul, Jacob Poplawski ‘23.......................................................................................................... 48 Stacked, foam board sculpture, Cecilia Sacharok ‘25........................................................................... 50 When It’s Time to Let Go, Kathryn Benson ‘23.................................................................................... 51 Stop and Smell the Roses, Raphael Coronel ‘23.................................................................................... 52 Imagination, digital art, Jocelyn Zavala-Garcia ‘22 ............................................................................. 53 Monolith, collage, Roman Guererri ‘25................................................................................................. 54 Dust Pile Revelation, Ava Passehl ‘22 .................................................................................................... 55 I Miss the Stars, Elisa Small ‘25 ............................................................................................................ 56 Spring is Near, digital photography, Ella Harshyne ‘24....................................................................... 57 The Lore of the Modern Romantic, Jessica Lattanzi ‘23...................................................................... 58 My Found Blessing, Shripraba Narayanan ‘25..................................................................................... 60 Fruit du Jour, colored pastel on paper, Nate Bustard ‘23 .................................................................... 61 Saint Norbert, digital art, Patch Shields ‘23........................................................................................... 62 Instant Gratification, Amelia Gattuso ‘23 ............................................................................................. 63 The Trail of Ruin We Leave, Haoxue “Mandy” Jiang ‘22...................................................................... 64 And I Breathed, Cassie Matalonis ‘23..................................................................................................... 66 The Waters of March, Maggie Turner ‘23 ............................................................................................. 66 Journey to the Key, mixed media, Kelsey Joyce ‘23............................................................................... 67 Yellow, Alicia Chu ‘24 .............................................................................................................................. 68 Strings, printing ink, Patch Shields ‘23 .................................................................................................. 69 Fishy Business, watercolor, pen and ink, Jane Chen ‘24 ..................................................................... 70 Fish in the Ocean, Grace Chen ‘24......................................................................................................... 71 The Blue Lobster, Alexander Bogey ‘24.................................................................................................. 72 Strawberry Records, digital photography, Sophia Scarpaci ‘23.......................................................... 74 Sliced Lemon, gouache on canvas, Jace Walker ‘25 ............................................................................ 75 Shelter, Lilian Domenico ‘25 ................................................................................................................... 76 Explosive Imagination, gauche on canvas paper, Annie Dai ‘22 ....................................................... 76 I Tripped Up the Stairs Again, Grace Koch ‘24..................................................................................... 77 Stairway Above, foam board sculpture, Cassidy Fanning ‘25........................................................ 78

Summer Picnic Billowing white sheets Snap in the earth-scented breeze As the wind tugs them from hands Until they float to the ground.

Like wisps of clouds, They drop from azure skies.

Ants traipse the crisp, white mountains In search of bread crumbs, Tasting the honeydew air with Spindly antennae.

A lazy morning dove coos, Missing early morning mist Like the sweat-sticky train With the cracked linoleum seats That smell vaguely of something summerish: Sunscreen, chlorine, or apricots.

The world is drenched in blue, The foreground to a ragged, used-to-be-red kite, Left one summer ago, Or maybe two.

Flies hop from leg to leg, Sniffing out some sweet strawberry, Seedy and ripe, Dribbling down the chin of a baby.

Fingernails swoop viscously, Half-heartedly swatting at the benign, buzzing beasts.

As the sun sways into a Port de bras beneath the horizon, Water burbles at the ankles of children Who dig their toes in silt until Crawfish come to bite.

Clinging to their mother’s soft, Freckled arm They stumble down to Wave white handkerchiefs At a tiny, paper boat, Wafting down the creek into the Cool breeze of dusk.

Abigail Kortering ‘22

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Firefly

Sydney Boyd ‘22 Scholastic Gold Key Delaware Congressional Art Medal Recipient

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Lines of Life

Elena Proctor ‘22 Scholastic Merit Award

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I Believe in Goodbyes After The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry I believe in goodbyes.

There’s a passage in The Little Prince that really resonated with me when I heard it. The little prince had befriended a lonely fox on Earth, only to depart soon after. The fox, heartbroken, admits that he’s close to tears, while the little prince can only dejectedly remark that their friendship had done the fox no good at all. The fox ends with, “It has done me good, because of the color of the wheat fields.”

It’s bittersweet. The fox and the little prince were each other’s only solace in the world, lone companions in the empty, rolling plains of Earth. They had only met a page before, yet their friendship had seemed so deep and vast I would have guessed they had spent years with each other. They both knew it would have to end someday, and when it came they took it in stride. And we’re left with the impression that the fox will live out his days without the little prince, reminded of the golden color of his hair every time he runs through those wheat fields.

Despite it all, I couldn’t help wondering, that’s it? This is the ending I get for their friendship?

Under 100 words and 385 letters. 9 lines of dialogue. Goodbye forever. Back then, I couldn’t really wrap my head around it. Maybe it was because I had only known a few friends in my life, and I had rarely ever experienced a real parting before. Or maybe it was because I absolutely hated it. Why would you ruin a perfectly good dynamic with an ending like that? Of course, after enough experience, I came to understand it.

Everything leaves eventually.

Everyone understands it at one point. Whether morbidly or mundanely, there’s nothing that you can keep by your side forever. People, places, things… they change, they die, they leave. But just because you’ll have to say goodbye doesn’t mean it’s all meaningless.

“Because of the color of the wheat fields.” Because of the pattern on your scarf. Because of the warmth of your hand. Because of the time we spent together. That’s what makes it worth it.

People’s lives aren’t short and straight paths to a singular destination. They’re winding, rocky, unmarked trails in the deep wilderness. Moments where our paths intersect are rare and valuable, and just as coincidentally as they meet, they split ways. So let’s enjoy these brief moments of real connection, even if it’s just for a second. And when the time comes… we’ll say goodbye, because of the color of golden wheat fields.

Liz Xu ‘24

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Lonely Star

Michael Citrino ‘24

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Absent I can’t stay in the present.

My surroundings are a blur.

Whether I’m looking ahead, or missing the way things were.

The things I wish I had done haunt me; they fill me with regret.

I harass my mind with things I’d be better to forget.

Or eyes on the horizon, when Charon will claim his fee.

Seeing my inevitable end, my tragic asystole.

I can’t stay in the present.

Elsewhere’s unsustainable.

It’s too late. Sanity is, for me, unattainable.

Arden Godwin ‘25

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The Trick of the Ghost This ghost, yours truly, has been ghosted. Abandoned.

That girl, she’s managed to get away—was I the one who let her fade? The haunted has hidden, and now I, the poor haunter, have no place to stay. How does a shadow scamper away like that? That was her secret: she could let the past dissipate, in a moment, into midnight mist.

But the fog was thick when we met. When I was seeking flesh and bones to build a semblance of myself, when the clouds around me obscured any image of my identity.

The fog happened to fade when I saw her face, and it was just like I had wiped the mist from the bathroom mirror on a frigid morning. For a minute I was envious—she had my hair! My smile! My slightly pointed ears, my long legs, my awkward posture! She’d stolen it all, and I wanted it back.

So, in a moment of madness, I stole her shadow. And the haunting began. **** Despite common belief, shadows are not bound to their human masters—rather, they are firstrate items for a ghost to purloin. The difficulty lies in finding the right shadow to occupy, which can take some time: all ghosts recognize who they were and who they should be, intuitively. That is what distinguishes them from others—not necessarily the lack of a physical form, but the perfect vision of one. The assurance in appearance that would take a human centuries to attain.

So the trick of a lifetime presented itself when I saw her—strangely, the only treat in my ghostly existence. I had found my form to fit for eternity, and I only had one obstacle that hindered my mission.

She had to be alone and statue-still. The only way I could secure the links between the shadow and myself, lock the bonds between darkness and disembodied soul was if the actual body was unmoving, unaffected by others.

That girl, she had to stop glancing around, as if she were being followed! She was the only soul on this lonely rooftop, and both of us knew it. Nobody here. I was the only one lurking in the fog (and back then, I was nobody).

She had to fix her eyes on something—stop the sheepish glances, the ever-turning head! An airplane soared above and she looked up to gaze at the stars, those lonely comforts in the unknown and gaping abyss of night.

This was when the roles switched and I became the shadow; the shadow became her master. This was the moment I tied the knot. This was when we learned what it feels like to haunt, to be haunted. **** People had been looking at me funny for months. Maybe it was years—I can’t remember. The oddly sympathetic eyes of a teacher, my eight-year-old cousins turning their faces when I addressed them, the aunts and uncles who seemed to squint and scrunch their eyebrows.

They had always looked at me funny, though—tilted their heads in a patronizing way when I asked questions, or subtly took steps closer as I spoke. But after the night I went to the roof, the whole world took a step back. And that was probably what shifted everyone’s vision.

It was the first night I had ever been completely alone, the possibilities limitless.

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Climbing to the rooftop was my vision of what a really self-assured person, someone really rebellious, would do—and that “somebody else” was who I thought I was. The vision was logical; I would ditch my ingratiating little smile for a night and start glaring. But that old skin was tough to shed. I had grown into it too much, and heaps of old paranoia kept pushing deeper into my stiff, obedient skeleton.

Then I looked at the stars, and they took hold of me somehow. Pulled me out of my skin — something had to have shifted up there. The next day I was living the person I had always wanted to be, outwardly.

It was the only time I wasn’t tossed around by the decisions and collisions of those around me.

I started taking the long winding back-roads back home, riddled with bumps and hideous curves that my family deemed unsafe to brave. I liked the wind in my hair there and the freedom of it all. It was the only time I was my own master, when they changed their ways for me.

Then there was some rush of feeling in me that transcended this new person. Some cosmic force, some inner tidal wave crashed as I looked up one day and saw a shape of light passing through clouds that looked so lonely—so much like myself. I felt a pang of sympathy for that image, and that was what broke my new skin.

It was that pang of guilt at betraying that sweet little smile. My few months of freedom became a memory in a minute—all behind me now, a shadow.

I took the safe way home that day. I thought I could find myself there. ****** The trick of being a ghost lies not in finding your shadow, but rather living in it.

This is the part in which I failed in my phantom pilfering. The two of us simply could not live together—because there were always two of us, always divided. She shifted one way where my soul told me to push back; I tried to blossom and she was dragging me down, down into some looming sense of danger.

I gave a gentle tug in the wrong direction that day, when she found her lonely cloud. It was somehow enough to drag her overboard, into the tides of desperation for the past, of something too foreign for me to grasp. My soul bent at every end but could not mold itself to those waves; crashing, rolling, crying. And now I stand stranded.

So let the past dissipate—let the memory of haunting, of being haunted, fade into midnight shadow.

Natalie Gildea ‘23

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Continuation when our hair is dull and gray i’ll still adore you so, my dear i’ll listen to your music even when i cannot hear if the wind sweeps back your cheeks and slowly wears them to the bone and the starlight leaves your eyes and searches for a different home if the sun burns peppered holes in all the soles of all your shoes then in this life, the next, the next, i will keep loving you when the newest shirts you bought on sale are nearly half my age and your favorite books have yellow crinkles stamped on every page when your skin falls limp around your shoulders, pools of what has been and your smile wobbles loosely set atop your trembling chin the shirts will clothe, the books will flip, your smile will still be true and in this life, the next, the next, i will keep loving you the form you take when you come back, i swear i will discover it takes more than an eternal death to keep me from my lover i’ll find you someday, keep you safe from work and wear and tear be i, a single stem of dandelion floating past your hair if i’m the softest slide of leaf on shoe, a cloudless sky, your favorite blue then in this life, the next, the next, i will keep loving you

Amelia Gattuso ‘23

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Luminous

Kelsey Joyce ‘23

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Vestige

Alex Passehl ‘24 Scholastic Gold Key

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My Name After “My Name” by Sandra Cisneros In the Akan language, my name directly translates to “born on a Saturday.” In Hebrew it translates to “Saturday’s child”. It is a typical and common Ghanaian name. The reason Saturday is so important to my name is because the Akan religion believes that God created Himself on a Saturday.

Therefore, they sometimes use my name to refer to God Himself.

It’s my father’s name. He’s a quiet man; he’s not known to say many words, which is often misunderstood for weakness, but he’s the strongest and most capable person that I know which is fitting considering my grandfather named him after a Ghanaian president who was a political theorist and revolutionary.

My father. He always tells me about his crazy stories when he used to live in Queens. He was wild and reckless. The complete opposite of today. My mother tells me about how cool and reserved my father was and still is. Sort of like a bad boy you would probably see in a coming-of-age high school movie.

The story goes he swept her off her feet and confessed the love he had for her since seventh grade. He gives his blood, sweat and tears to his family. Devoting his entire life to giving his wife and kids the best life possible. Kwame. We share the same name and the same burning desire to work hard and do what we can to get the most out of our lives. I wonder if it’s our character or if our name provides us with much needed strength. Kwame.

At school, I normally go by my middle name “Mekhi”. I prefer this name because I like to think it gives me my own identity. Although I’m the son of a great man, I want to make my own mark on the world. Some of my friends may call me Kwame once in a blue moon for comedic value. They like the disoriented expression on my face when I hear that name. They then ask, “why do you go by Mekhi?” to which I respond, “So I’m not confused with my pops.”

Mehki Solomon ‘22

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Encircled

Carrie Wiig ‘24 Scholastic Gold Key American Visions Nominee

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Reflections i. mother I set myself into the crisp clear glass of a winter morning, walking into a world that I created.

The earth is cold, carved by the frost and my footsteps.

I am careful because I forget that this silence is not fragile and, indeed, would break far less easily than I. Still, it was just the other day when I painted myself into this bleak landscape.

I hung that sun into the sky. It’s brittle and it’s towering and it outshines me.

I molded every corner to fit my shape. It is me. I am jealous of my own reflection.

And I know (or I think I know) that there’ll be a day when I can no longer grasp the horizon, no longer stop this planet from spinning— It is the destiny of mothers to be outlived. I am proud, but envy clasps me in her emerald limbs.

But I ignore the future, out of either fear or desperation, and I— I care for this world like it is still mine. ii. daughter I have a mother, I think—or at least, someone who made me.

She loves me in all the wrong ways.

(but at least she loves me) I have her face. I think I am her. I forget when I agreed to swallow her heart.

I choke down her dreams, bitter and callous as they may be. I love her.

(Or at least I hope I do) I don’t know how to be a jewel. I am a puppet-doll on strings, my limbs jerked around to reflect her movements. She framed me in gilded gold.

(but trapped me all the same) We both knew that this could never last.

I may look fragile, but I never learned to break. Her blood burns in my veins. I ignore my own gritted teeth.

She smiles at me through the glass.

(I always smile back)

Sophia Chen ‘24 Scholastic Gold Key 17

Mother Nature Always Listens Laughter is not foreign out here.

But when alone Laughter is a neighbor that never calls.

For when we are alone out here, Lonely laughter only comes To the undoubtedly deranged.

The wind is picking up my pen now, And glides it left and right, I may not even know what I’m writing But the sun is reading too.

Nature favors friends and foes It accentuates laughter and cries Kissing conversations with pollen and fallen leaves Making sure its presence is known.

Emma Fannin ‘22

A Mindset

Jocelyn Zavala-Garcia ‘22 18

Secret Tree

Gillian Hendrixson ‘23

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Trumpet

Gillian Hendrixson ‘23 Scholastic Gold Key

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The Clockwork Reprise The 1200 building on Park Avenue is chronically inconspicuous. It rests between a florist shop, run by an old woman the age of dirt with a shepherd’s staff for a spine, and a small playground, buried by newspapers from 1993 and a fog that never seems to lift.

There was a city planner around the turn of the nineteenth century. He was charged with creating a more affluent atmosphere for the street that has been run down since before it was called Park Avenue. To draw potential businesses and inhabitants in, all records of its previous name were expunged and it was dubbed a hand me down name. Whether to confuse property buyers and investors, or to manifest opulence, no one knows. It is, however, speculated that something changed on Park Avenue the day it was renamed, sending a ripple of insidious stillness across the entire street. This morning, the fog in the playground is not particularly thick or remarkable. It is the same as yesterday’s fog, maybe even a tad lighter. A man with a scruffy beard stumbles up to the bronze-handled door, a lukewarm coffee run out of steam in one hand, a saxophone case in the other, yesterday’s New York Times tucked up under his arm. He fumbles with his chainless keys, choosing the wrong one twice despite having lived on Park Avenue for over a decade. Finally, the keyhole twists and with a click the man backs up against the door, pushing it open. The New York Times slides to his elbow.

The mail is not locked up at the 1200 building. The man slides his wad of coupons and bills and a folded manila envelope out of the wooden slot box on the bottom floor. He puts them with the Times which hasn’t stopped slipping.

Park Avenue counts the apartment numbers backwards, starting with the number 4 on the ground floor, and working its way up to number 1. Some say this is the work of an eccentric urban planner or a construction worker with a vendetta or an adolescent prank that no one bothered to fix.

Regardless of its origins, that’s the way it’s always been, and the way it probably always will be.

Mrs. Achron has lived in Apartment 4 since the beginning of time. She was already the building’s unofficial monarch when the saxophone player first arrived over a decade ago and not much has changed since. She wakes up at 8:22 without fail. As the man slips quietly inside the building each morning around the same time—yesterday’s Times, lukewarm coffee, and saxophone case in hand— he finds her standing in the stairway for a smoke in her yellowing bathrobe and matted mint slippers.

She watches. As the years go by, the inundated man thinks he can see her nose become more beaklike, morphing to match her hawklike presence. Once, she said good morning in a croaky, hacking voice.

The man didn’t say anything, and neither did she for the next five years. But still, she stands, watching and smoking, puffs of sticky smoke swirling around and trapping themselves in the eggshell chipped paint of the hallway.

This morning, the man’s shoes are wet with dew and fog. There is no welcome mat to shuffle across to dry them at Park Avenue. As far as the man is aware, he’s the only one that comes and goes.

The wooden stairs spiraling up to the fourth floor are not bowed with use like other historic buildings.

Apartment 3 belongs to a writer. Apartment 3 is arguably the worst of the apartments on Park Avenue, besides Apartment 2, but bad apartments make for cheap rent. The saxophone player knows this.

The writer doesn’t come out. The only way the man knows his neighbor is a novelist is because one time, during his usual morning routine, he inadvertently grabbed his mail (the cubbies for Apartments 2 and 3 being directly next to each other) and saw “Return to Sender” stamped in red on a manuscript. Finding a writing job is difficult in this city, just as it is in every city. The saxophone player knows about job difficulty. He would know. He has a tin candy box tucked behind his top cabinet

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stuffed with dollar bills and quarters picked out of sidewalk cracks and gutters.

The man does not know who lives above him, in Apartment 1. Not quite a penthouse, but not without pleasant access to the roof maintenance trap door. Two years ago, someone moved in. The man, being his downstairs neighbor, baked butterscotch cookies that never made the arduous trip up the single flight of stairs.

Apartment 2 belongs to the saxophone player. He manages to find the right key on the first try.

He’s considered color coding them in the past, but he never did. Sometimes he gets lucky, sometimes the folded, slightly crumpled pages of the New York Times slip from under his elbow and tumble down the stairs in a flutter of black and white, scrambling the pages so that the story about the famous athlete leads into a consideration of the current state of the economy.

Apartment 2 is always cold, except for when it’s not. The radiators never seem to pull their weight unless it’s 93 degrees outside, in which case the window air conditioner unit sputters and complains and drags its feet.

The man sets his saxophone case down on the green velvet couch he found on the side of the road last year. There’s a suspicious stain on the left arm but it’s hardly noticeable if he throws the wrinkled pages of the New York Times over it. He hasn’t realized how battered the instrument case has gotten over the years. The leather is scraped off in some parts. He’ll have to fix that with expired shoe polish. He makes a mental note that he secretly knows he’ll shred to make room for next month’s rent.

He was given the saxophone when he was 14. It was the only present his mother ever gave him.

She became forgetful when his father left. For a while, he thought she may have forgotten she was supposed to be a mother. But his hopes soared when she handed him a shiny black saxophone case. There were a few dents in the corners and the saxophone itself was coated in a thin layer of age, but he didn’t notice because he was too busy smiling.

The man rubs the scruff on his chin. He’d thought about growing his beard out before, but wasn’t sure that would appeal to his audience. If he looks too scruffy, they might think he is homeless and he’ll be removed. He can’t afford that.

After carefully untying his shoes, the man sits with his back to the couch and stretches his legs out to count his earnings. He’d been out all night, bumbling from the city’s only train station just before dinnertime to his favorite street corner near all the pubs where he’d stayed until this morning. He likes watching the people jostling along the sidewalks with their friends, chatting and swaying from a few shots too many.

He has earned six five dollar bills, two tens, a handful of ones and about two bankrolls full of scattered assortments of change.

Tonight, a tall man in a suit that didn’t quite reach down to his ankles requested a song a little later than most of the most office workers who passed him by. The saxophone player doesn’t often get song requests. Most people he sees look straight ahead, throwing weathered coins at his saxophone case and missing nine times out of ten. This man stood for a while, a dark faux leather briefcase in hand. He watched. He waited for the song to end before approaching. His peppery hair was thinner from close up and a worn silver O engraved on the briefcase hand blinked in the street lamp light.

“Take Five. Dave Brubeck,” he’d said reservedly. The saxophone player wet his lips and raised the saxophone to his mouth to play, but the man and his suit walked away.

That wasn’t unfamiliar.

Start a little conversion now, it’s alright, just take five. Just take five.

The words echoed in his mind. That’s how his friends sang it twelve years ago at university, swaying drunkenly in the apartment kitchenette. They’d used a bottle of ketchup as a microphone,

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the shiny coolness of his saxophone pressing against his right thigh as he bent into the music, pushing himself forward as if to propel himself through worlds.

Though I’m going out of my way, just so I can pass by each day, not a single word we say. It’s a pantomime not a play. The voices of his friends sang in his mind while his fingers flickered across sticky keys as they clicked rhythmically, familiarly.

He hasn’t spoken to his university friends since their senior year, only a few long days after the last time he’d sung this very song. Now he was playing alone. It had been just after two interviews he’d had that day, one with an insurance company in Cincinnati, another with an up-and-coming jazz club in Chicago. He’d picked the club in Chicago. It never did come up.

What would his mother say now? Would she be proud of him for blindly following a passion she’d inadvertently begun? Occasionally, around this time of the month when the envelope arrives, these questions surface, bobbing in the ocean of his mind like a barnacled buoy, pushing against the surface tension of his memory. He supposes if he really wants to know, he can always open this month’s manila envelope instead of shoving it under piles of acrid egg shells and years-old Chinese takeout containers in the dumpster around the back of the 1200 building, tucked away in an alley so the scent of rot and rats doesn’t drift into the noses of pedestrians. Perhaps this is another design feature to thank the city planner for.

He allows his eyes to flick over to the yellow envelope resting on the arm of the green velvet sofa. As always, his mother’s handwriting prints his address in thick, Sharpied letters. As always, there is no return address.

His fingers, nimble from years of jumping from rounded saxophone key to rounded saxophone key, carefully unwrap the string from the button of the envelope. As it opens, a photo slides out, small and torn.

A woman with short black hair smiles, a giggling toddler on her lap. The photo is torn halfway– only a man’s twill knee and the bell of a shining saxophone peek from behind the jagged edge, willing themselves to be seen despite his mother’s clear attempts to remove them from memory and, therefore, reality.

The man stares at the photo, wondering if the ripped-off half had disappeared along with the tenderness in his mother’s heart. For a moment, he allows himself to imagine a world in which the photo is not torn, but when he looks up, the light in the bay window of Apartment 2 fades to a dusky green. Street lamps flicker on, casting an orange glow over the middle aged woman taking her dog out in fuzzy pink pajama pants. The man sighs, pulling his saxophone to him as he stands, hands pressing up on his knees. Yesterday’s Times slips off the sofa arm, losing its grip on the crushed green velvet.

Today, he will not think of the photo with its jagged paper edge, nor of his university friends and their ketchup bottle arias. He will not wonder if his mother misses him, nor if his friends remember drunkenly singing in the university apartment kitchenette.

The man retraces his steps. Fumble with the keys. Lock the door. Regret never bringing the butterscotch cookies upstairs. Down the stairs. Hear the clacking of a typewriter echoing from Apartment 3. Smell a hint of smoke left over from Mrs. Achron’s cigarettes. Glance at the mail slots. Push the wooden door open with your back. Lock it from the outside. See the wisps of fog curl around the yellow plastic slide on the playground. Watch the old lady with her crooked back lock up the flower shop.

Tomorrow is another today’s yesterday.

Abigail Kortering ‘22 Scholastic Honorable Mention 23

Anatomy of Doom

Jace Walker ‘25

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Gaslighting no matter what you say i will hear it as though you’ve a silken tongue words flowing and dripping and cascading through my ears in pearly ribbons, lustered ropes your slick silvered syllables slip quick around my brain and slide a spider’s web of blissfulness around it as i go to think they trail a bony, glacial finger around my consciousness they tell me that what is pretty never lies else its beauty would be marred how could something so dear slink ropes around your wrists? how could something so glorious glide a sickle down your spine? every sound you speak slithers in my ears and out my eyes i see your gilded phrases shape themselves they rearrange my very being your words solidify in silence and expand to fill the space they push out everything that slowly blinks alive you must be right you must be right for how could you be wrong you sound so nice you sound so nice so how could you be wrong

Amelia Gattuso ‘23

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Lighting the Torch After “My Name” by Sandra Cisneros My name is Elena Proctor. It’s the Spanish or Italian version of Helena, which has a Greek translation of “torch” or “light”! It’s a word for hope. A word to describe the sensation of grasping the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s a word you say when you’re looking for something more. A reward for patience.

Elena was the Spanish name my mother, Lori Lyman, used for her high school Spanish class.

She thought the name was a beautiful one, so beautiful that she handed the name to her one and only daughter, me!

I’ve known my mother since the day I was born. And I’ve always seen a light within her everyday, guiding me through dangers and the darkness, even if it hurts to know about them. The torch within her has survived extremely tough winds. She’s experienced many let downs and betrayal coming from many of the people she cared about. But even now for who she is, she’s never given in to the harshness of those people. She’s always prayed to God that her path will always be lit not just for herself, but the rest of her family. And today, this prophecy has been fulfilled once again.

My name is Elena Proctor. People tend to describe me as lighthearted, funny, always eager to learn, and able to fluctuate new ideas in an instant. What many don’t know is that I am a woman with a torch of hope, taught to always protect, even in the toughest of conditions. I will always keep the flame burning in my soul no matter what and I’ll cherish it for the greater good. I wouldn’t change my name for any reason, because now that I’ve finally lit the torch, I’m never going to lose that light, even when I stray into the dark.

Elena Proctor ‘22

Magazine Family

Elena Proctor ‘22

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Rapunzel ACT ONE The spotlight overhead is blinding.

I squint into it, blinking once, twice against the glow before I hear the music slowly drift from the curtains.

The play is fairly simple. A version of Rapunzel, with me in a tall tower and my best friend, Ezra, playing the witch.

Ezra creeps onto stage and I smile at her, one hand on my heart as I plead to be allowed to go outside.

Ezra leaps into song. I follow her lead, dancing and singing and swaying to the beat.

I’ve always enjoyed this part of the play best, where Ezra and I delight in each other. Where Rapunzel is so joyful.

Though I know the storm is coming later, I don’t hold back as I sing.

ACT TWO We practice the scene with the prince today—my prince. Callum waves to me, winks at me, not Rapunzel. I beam back, not acting anymore as I sing about our love.

This part is fun as well.

We giggle as we escape, gasp as we hide, and as we grow closer I feel my chest grow light. His cedar scent always gives me butterflies.

We end on a high note, before everything comes crashing down.

ACT THREE Ezra is late to rehearsal, again. I am worried that she will make the director angry, especially since she nearly dropped out after not getting the lead, the role she wanted. I feel slightly guilty for taking the spot she so desperately pursued, but surely we are over it by now.

Ezra finally arrives, her cherry lip gloss smudged, and we practice the scene where I shove her out of the tower onto the soft moss below.

We have to keep doing it over and over. The director is not satisfied with Ezra’s fall, with my push. She says it doesn’t look realistic enough.

Ezra is afraid of falling, I can tell. Her hands are tight, and the lightest of touches from me causes her back to go rigid.

It’s a soft fall. If she braces herself right, she will be fine, even if she misses the mattress we laid out to be the moss.

And so I watch her fall, so I push her down, again and again and again.

INTERMISSION Ezra has canceled the last three study dates I had planned, and I’m starting to wonder where she’s going.

I try to call Callum instead but I get nothing but radio silence from both of them.

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ACT FOUR A kiss for good luck before the show, is what I tell Callum, but he tastes of cherries and I frown.

A hug for good luck, is what Ezra tells me, but she smells like cedar and my stomach twists.

The first half goes smoothly, but my voice is not quite as loud.

It’s not until intermission when I find undeniable proof: a photo, taken by a classmate; a photo of Ezra and Callum; a photo, a photo, a photo. Her lips, on his.

I think I scream.

ACT FIVE The mattress is missing. No one can find it.

‘Just brace yourself ’ the director says. ‘Like you did at rehearsal. You’ll be fine.’

Ezra shrugs but her knuckles are white.

I am too angry to look at her, but on stage, all I am is in character.

I come to the top of the tower, ready to push her off. She’s singing her part, something desperate and high-pitched, trailing behind the beat. I can’t wait for her to finish, there’s my cue, the music swells— I shove her hard, my anger exploding out in a gush, her surprised face entirely real. She wasn’t ready. What have I done? She’s in a panic, her limbs flail, she crashes onto the ground. There’s a sickening crunch but it’s hidden by the music, buried by the effects.

What have I done? She’s sprawled out on the ground and the audience’s applause is a roar in my ears. I look up in desperation. How could they believe it fake?

The play ends. The music stops.

The stage fades to darkness.

Sophia Chen ‘24 Scholastic Silver Key

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Sleeping Beauty

Lauren McIntyre ‘22 Scholastic Gold Key

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Variegated Pittosporum Tobira Jane Chen ‘24

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What You Gave Me You gave me the unfortunately tangible You gave me the roses The tulips The lilies All of the sweet and bitter scents that burned my senses You gave me the Hershey The Lindor The Ferrero The sweets that filled my mouth until they rotted my teeth You gave me your arms in the form of your clothing That rested on your very skin The cologne drowned sweatshirts and shirts The aroma of material That created a horrible void Now the roses The tulips The lilies Are crying and dying In boxes in which I desperately tried to preserve them Now the chocolate The Hershey The Lindor The Ferrero Have all been savored until none are left Some gone stale by the touch of time Now your clothes Your aroma Has faded into the air Gladly taken by the hands of the wind

Emma Fannin ‘22

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The Art Traveler Amani means dreamer, and that’s what she was. A dreamer.

She was a girl who just wanted to get away from everything and everyone after her best friend died in a car crash.

Laliah had been her best friend since second grade. The girls did everything together: shopping, laughing, partying, studying, and whatever else you could think of. Laliah was one of the few people that could bring Amani out of her shell. Amani struggled with living in the moment, and Laliah helped her do that. Without her, Amani felt lost, and she has seen no sign of her since the car crash, which made her feel as if she was missing a piece of herself.

So she just needed a break before her new beginning in college because everything was getting too much. All she wanted to do was travel as she did with Laliah. And that’s what she did. She traveled.

Amani went to their favorite cafe, The Perfect Cup, to grab breakfast on a sunny Sunday morning. Something about that place intrigued her. It’s probably all the pretty art that hangs on the walls.

One day she sat down near the window, taking a picture of her bacon, egg, and cheese with her lavender chai tea, she wondered and the painting in front of her was one of their favorites, Water Lily Pond

by Monet in Giverny, France.

And within a blink of an eye, she was there. She was so happy she could cry. This picture brought her so much joy that it was her lock screen. It reminds her of serenity, and serotonin, and helps her breathe when she can’t. As she was standing on the bridge looking down at the lilies, a man came up to her, the one and only Claude Monet.

“I thought you were dead,” cried Amani.

“I am, but only in your world, not mine,” Monet replied.

“This is probably one of the best days of my life. If only my best friend was here to see this. Can we take a selfie?” Amani asked.

“Sweetheart, you need to live in the moment. That’s the problem you have. Let this be for yourself and just take it all in before you are whisked away. It wouldn’t make sense anyway, because I am dead,” said Monet.

Amani nodded her head and stood back to observe this beautiful scene and took pictures of it. Later on, she and Monet had Cassoulet together at his cottage for dinner. If only Laliah were here.

Before they parted ways, they hugged each other, and Monet gave her some good advice.

“The richness I achieve comes from nature, the source of my inspiration. I think you should find richness in something, preferably nature because it never lets you down.”

When Amani returned, she thought a lot about what Monet said. “How can someone be so powerful and inspiring even though they are no longer alive?” But she still listened to him.

Now, ever since Amani started traveling into art, she started going to art museums and spending more time with nature. These paintings and calm nature scenes cleared her brain and helped her deal with the pain of losing Laliah. One day, she went to The Art Institute of Chicago. The AIC has one of the largest Monet collections in the world (the girls’ favorite artist). As she was walking around, she saw Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe (Luncheon on the Grass). As she was about to take a picture, she got sucked in. She learned the people were on their annual family picnic. When Amani asked why the other family members weren’t featured in the picture, one lady said, “Because we are the outcasts of our family.

They love us, yet they don’t understand us.”

That resonated with Amani a lot because she feels like people don’t understand, except for Laliah and her family. Without her, everything seemed harder, and she had trouble living in the pres-

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ent because she was always thinking about times when Laliah was alive. She remembers how content those four people were, even though they were apart from the rest and she thought, “Maybe I should start living like them. Who cares what other people think of me as long as I’m happy, right?”

Summer was almost over. Amani had a blast traveling inside paintings. She had also gotten into the habit of enjoying nature, as Monet had told her. College was starting in a week, and she was still struggling to find her footing without Laliah. The entire week she wasn’t sucked into paintings, which was weird. So on the day before she left for college, she went to The Perfect Cup. She ordered her lavender vanilla chai tea and ate her BEC one last time. Instead of taking a picture to remember it, she took it all in by savoring every part of her meal slowly and observing her surroundings. It was the last Perfect Cup trip for a while and she didn’t want to miss a thing by taking it for granted. She noticed a new painting, The Canal In Amsterdam by Monet. This painting was special to the girls because, over spring break, they went to Amsterdam and took a boat right underneath it. As Amani was thinking about that day, she felt a strong wind push her, and she was in Amsterdam. A guy had invited her to join the boat and, of course, she couldn’t say no. This was one of her favorite pastimes.

As she got in, she realized there were other people on the boat which disappointed her because she wanted to have this moment alone. A few minutes into the ride, someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Monet and behind him stepped Laliah. Amani squealed, “OMG, THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING, THIS JUST CAN NOT BE HAPPENING!” Laliah said, “Long time no see old friend! How have ya been?’’

The girls hugged it out as Monet watched with joy. Laliah is the same as she’s always been.

“I’ve missed you so much, Lay,” Amani cried.

“I know, I know.”

As the girls were catching up, they watched the sunset together with Monet. Before it was time to go Laliah gave her friend one last message.

“Amani, I want you to remember that I’m always with you. I want you to enjoy life the same way you did with me. Go into college with an open mind and don’t dwell on the past. You are gonna have a blast. All you have to do is focus and live in the moment. I love you, Amani, don’t you ever forget that.”

The next day Amani woke up and as she looked out the window, she smiled at the sky. She knew Laliah was with her and they would be going through the college experience together and that made her happy.

Onyi Kenine ‘22

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A Malediction: Forbidding His Advances After “The Flea” by John Donne Indeed, I mark your “little” flea, yet I see in it no romantic sanctity— The drops of our blood it holds are so few that likening it to our love simply won’t do. ’Tis true, a flea bite brings no shame; you err in saying that it would be the same As forcing me to share my body, whole— to give you life at the expense of my soul.

Unlike the flea, you need to charm me respectfully if you wish no harm.

Not bugs, but humans we are, you and I, Thus mutual rules of love we must abide by.

Your bawdy pleas have twisted this innocent flea into a symbol of guilt; it must die to set me free.

As I bring its insectile life to a halt, I ask you to consider your hideous faults: You reduce my lifeblood to the marriage bed that the flea represents; thus I dread living within this flea more than I scorn its death.

You put disgrace on its destruction with every breath as though that would entice me to submit; I’d kill this flea first before that lower crime commit.

You would tolerate my “grudge” if your love was real— this flea’s life, then, I wouldn’t have to steal.

So I must execute this flea and your lust— that deadly sin “mingling” in its blood makes me just.

Yet you persist—you deem me cruel, as though, for your passion, my guilt is the fuel!

Although the flea’s death did not weaken me, I condemn your continued comparative pleas.

My honor and dignity are vaster than the blot of blood the flea sucked—their depths you know not!

It is a greater desecration of my soul to give myself to your pride than a drop to this flea to live.

Yet I cannot sustain myself on your malignity; I must find a lover who will treat me with dignity.

Natalie Gildea ‘23 34

Miss Lilith

Kaia Yalamanchili ‘24

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State of the Union We looked for shooting stars that summer. Splinters from the cabin porch–wilting in late June heat–pricked our calloused palms as our necks craned up. Did you know you can see the same meteor shower in Alaska as in Anadyr? Their fingers brush oh, so tenderly, pulling and stretching across rolling waves. Ice shards spread across a tumultuous sea, shattering and reforming, a path to walk upon to reach the stoney shore, dusted with morning frost. Did you know moths fly towards the closest thing they can find to the moon? What a shame the flickering yellow fluorescents outside a clattering screen door have become such a magnetic force as that glowing eye of heaven.

Thousands of fingers Reaching towards a mirage– Will we ever return?

Abigail Kortering ‘22

Paralysis Exhausted by introspection, drained of all my gaiety, self-doubt my fixation, controlled by my anxiety.

Trapped in this headspace, my mind destabilized.

Prompts my heart to race, leaves my body paralyzed.

A want, a need for aid hindered by internal discord.

Left alone to cascade, all of my own accord.

Arden Godwin ‘25

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Catch a Falling Star Annie Dai ‘22

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Transmutation

Bella Dayrit ‘22 Scholastic Gold Key

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Mahal Kita Parati (I Miss You Always) After “My Name” by Sandra Cisneros In English, my nickname means meatball. Ground pork, garlic cloves, carrots, and brown sugar.

It’s a sweet-savory fried Filipino fare that’s served in soups and buns, specifically in misua and siopao.

It reminds me of a bouncy beach ball rolling on the sand under the summer sun. But, it also reminds me of the toasty hugs and kisses on the cheek that’d greet me, as I ran inside after playing in the cold winter snow.

At first, it was bella bella, but She tailored it to bola bola. She was Manang. Manang means older sister in Ilokano, a Filipino dialect, but is also secondary to mom. There’s not a word in the English dictionary that could come even close to the affection and respect behind that expression. Though we weren’t related by blood, that’s who She was. Manang.

My second mom. The second mom to many of my cousins, and then to me. Although I hated talking Filipino to anyone else in my house, I didn’t mind when it was Her. Though we’d sometimes have some little miscommunications because She didn’t speak much English, I’d always be found sleeping in Her room with Her wrinkled terra-cotta arms around me. Staying up watching imported soap operas on Her mini DVD player of bidas1 and contrabidas2 fighting over the family fortunes, humming along to melodramatic ballads that themed the typical cliffhanger endings, uttering drowsy “mahal kitas”3 to each other as we drifted to sleep.

And the story goes, as more years passed by, Her longing to be with her blood-children grew more and more as they finished up their schooling with the earnings that She made in America. Her arthritis began to worsen and once Her final child was done with school, I knew the end was near. Full of panic about what life would be like without Her, my sisters and I began frantically asking and trying to copy down every single recipe that She would whip up: our desperate attempt at keeping a piece of Her with us before She went back to the Philippines. I wonder if I would’ve realized the huge significance She held in my life had She not left at that time. Yet, out of all the recipes that we hastily copied down from Her, I never got the chance to ask about bola bola.

At school, I was known as bell bell or belly button boo, nicknames my friends would come up with on the school playground. Sure, I liked them and all, but truthfully it took a lot for me to even remember them. Nothing like the nicknames from home. From Manang. A nickname that was curated to my younger self’s signature chubby cheeks and after my favorite childhood food. Bola bola: the name that I hold closest to my heart, full of kinder love and kisses.

1 bida means “protagonist” 2 contrabida means “antagonist” 3 mahal kita means “I love you”

Bella Dayrit ‘22

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A Harsh to Heart Conversation Lexon and I were sitting on the couch in the main room playing a RPG game after a long day. A day of exhaustion. I was so prepared to put on my best show today for my club, but at the last minute, everyone canceled. I was really bummed out. I worked so hard to prepare for that presentation. I just wished that someone would care.

We had lost the game and the “Game Over” text had appeared in front of a black background, with the options to either “Quit” or “Try Again” .

Lexon: Ugh! We lost again!

My abrasive friend said. He then looked at me, and noticed my frustration.

Lexon: Hey, you gonna restart?

Monic: Yeah…

I said in a melancholy way. Lexon then placed one leg on the couch and then faced me.

Lexon: Hey, what gives, Monic?

Monic: Oh, it’s nothing. Let’s continue, please!

Lexon: Jesus, everytime you say “it’s nothing,” it’s always something, so just let it out already.

Monic: What!? How did you know?

Lexon: Because it’s obvious. What’s on your mind, bro?

He might be abrasive, but maybe not as much as you’d think.

Monic: I’m just feeling a little frustrated.

Lexon: What? Is the game too difficult? We can switch if you want.

Monic: Ehhh, no. I love the challenge! I always do!

Lexon: Okay, then what’s the problem? ‘Cause I hate seeing you depressed.

Monic: I’m… I’m just upset about my club. I feel like no one actually cares about it.

Lexon: What do you mean? We’ve had some regulars checking in!

Monic: Well, yeah, but that’s only two people! And they’re both your friends!

Lexon: So? They like anime. That’s the point, right?

Monic: It’s not just about the anime, though. I wanted to open this club to try and socialize with new people, and maybe try to find a sense about who I am and what I want to do with my life.

Lexon: Ahhh, that just got deep. I thought you wanted to be an animator!

Monic: I never said that, did Feather say that?

Lexon: No, I just assumed because you draw your little characters all the time in an anime style!

Monic: That’s true! I do like drawing sometimes, but I just don’t see myself doing that as a job.

Lexon: I get it!

Monic: Yeah! Maybe if more people would join, I’d become able to make more connections with people, and find out what they like, then maybe, I’ll find what I like and look into things I want to try doing for a living. But… when I see no one coming, or… last minute cancellations, it really hurts my soul.

Lexon: We can always try again! It’s not the end of the world!

Monic: But we’ve tried so many times! Do they just… not want me here? I just don’t get it…

I felt myself beginning to tear up. Lexon then snapped his fingers rapidly.

Lexon: Hey! Don’t start crying on me!

Monic: I can’t help myself, okay? It’s just, sometimes I feel like nobody understands me. I don’t even understand me, and I feel like you don’t either, because you’re pretty mean to me.

Lexon looked down, he knew he was right about that. Then, he looked at me again and sighed.

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Lexon: Okay, Monic. I want you to do something right now.

Monic: What’s that?

Lexon: Come closer.

Monic: Why? Lexon: Just do it, come here.

I moved closer to him.

Lexon: Closer.

I moved, even closer, but then he took his controller and bonked me on the forehead, taking me aback. It wasn’t that hard, but it hurt a lot!

Monic: Agh! Lex! Why did you do that!?

Lexon: You know what I want you to do!?

Lexon exclaimed as he pointed the controller at me.

Monic: Ugh, what!?

Lexon: I want you to take that nasty thought out of your head, and throw it in the garbage!

Monic: My thoughts are not crap, I’m being realis– OW! He hit me again.

Monic: Dude, you are going to break my skull!

Lexon: Oh, grow up. You really think you’re the only one in this world who doesn’t know a thing about their future!?

I covered my forehead and trembled… I knew saying “yes” or “no” or anything else would result in another bonk. Because he knew what I felt, and nothing I could say could change that.

Lexon: Ugh, I’m not gonna hit you again, idiot. Quit covering your head.

I slowly moved my hands away, looking at him… then, he was about to lunge at me for another bonk, but then I fell to the side of the couch and screeched. I then heard Lex trying to hold in a laugh.

He had faked that last hit.

Lexon: God, you’re pathetic. I didn’t even intend on hitting you this time!

Monic: Ugh, you’re such a jerk!

Lexon: You know what, Monic. I am a jerk, I know that better than anyone, but at least I can recognize good things when I see it, aight!? I’ve watched you since the day we first met. And you know what I’ve seen from you?

Monic: What?

Lexon: I’ve seen that you’re an achiever. A pretty good one, as a matter of fact. You work your butt off everyday in AP classes and work a part time job! You even save time just to spend it with me and Feather! You’re very strong and capable of many things, Monic! Don’t let some club take that away from you!

Monic: Heheh… You say that like it’s easy, I don’t always do as well as you think.

Lexon: I never said you were perfect.

I looked at him with tears in my eyes.

Lexon: Listen, you might still be trying to figure things out, but you’re not the only one who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing yet. I mean, I don’t know what my future is gonna be like either!

Monic: You… don’t?

Lexon: What? I might be a jerk, but that can’t be my job!

Monic: No, it’s not that… you’ve just always seemed so confident in yourself, like you know everything… I get jealous of that. I wish I could have your confidence.

Lexon: Oh, I mean, I am confident, but half the time I don’t know what I’m doing, so there’s that.

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Monic: Haha, I guess that can be true sometimes, but I think a lot of the time you know what you’re doing.

Lexon: Are you just saying that to make me feel good, or…?

Monic: No! Lexon, that was probably one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me, don’t underestimate that!

Lexon: Heh, you know, for once you’re actually right about that.

Monic: You really think so?

Lexon then gave me a dirty look, and then bonked me on the head with the controller once again—this time a lot lighter and more for a joke.

Monic: OW! We then both laughed. Lexon went back to his normal seating position.

Lexon: Okay, let’s restart the game.

Elena Proctor ‘22

People and Paint Henry Weinig ‘23

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Sweet Miao My sweet walking cloud bathing in prismatic refractions of light Soft white whiskers A cute button nose comfort fills up my chest Plush feathery fur the color of sweet cream and pale French smoke My angel curling up next to me, kneading pain away from my exhaustion-ridden body Clueless of the light You bring to my life Thank you Three years have passed My sweet loving cloud Whispers of your presence lay about the house in memory of Miao Miao

Bella Dayrit ‘22

Feline Dreams Annie Dai ‘22 Scholastic Gold Key

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To My Darling Mira: i can only write you when it’s raining. lightning sparks & trees quiver & raindrops slide into the gutter as i sit outside and pen letters that will never be sent; addressed to my uncle & my best friend & you, always you, telling them that i hope i never see them again, and to write to me every sunday. i hate you, i write, my pen pressing hard on the page, and if you could read the words buried in between the lines you’d find: i’m sorry. and soon, i’ll stick these in the mailbox and wait for the mailman to yell at me again for sending in soaked pages of unintelligible ink so i’ll have someone to blame, so i don’t have to blame myself. i’ll pause, then continue, scribbling one last note at the end: this will be my last letter. stop thinking of me, for i never think of you. the rain has never washed away something so blatantly untrue.

Sophia Chen ‘24 Scholastic Silver Key

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Paper Painting

Gwyneth Ratsep ‘25

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Childhood Memoir “I don’t remember how long it has been since I heard long, loud blasts of fireworks. I miss spending the Lunar New Year in Beijing.”

It was the night of the Lunar New Year. I felt sad as I laid on my bed, scrolling through TikTok because it was so quiet in our house and outside.

“Mainland China now doesn’t even allow fireworks being fired now, because of air pollution,” my mom replied.

I remembered that my family would gather together and celebrate this annual tradition every Lunar New Year. During the day, we would dress in warm-toned colors such as red, orange, or yellow since it welcomes good happiness and prosperity for the next year and clean our house to wipe out any dust that could affect our luck and what we bring into our home. As the sky dims, the sound of pots and spoons crash as the smell of delicious foods flows out of the kitchen. The shape of each dish represents something that we will bring into the following year, such as fish, symbolizing abundance and surplus; egg dumplings shaped as golden nuggets back in the old times; and elderlies would often enjoy long, thin noodles, symbolizing longevity. We enjoy the meal with laughter and smiles on our faces while children would usually say a wish to the elderly as they give out red packets in return. The annual TV live broadcast for the festival was always a must; we would turn on the TV, change to Station 4, and wait until 8:00 for the show to begin. Dances, songs, sketch comedy, Chinese opera, everything festival-like in there, it was something that we can never miss on the lunar festival night.

“This year’s sketch comedy is so funny, look at him,” my uncle laughed as I shifted the attention from the card game to the TV. Suddenly, a scream fills up the living room as my cousins run after each other.

“Hey! Stop running around the house and go help your mom!”

They stopped for a second. Despite the scolding, they still managed to continue the annoying, childish play a few minutes after.

“How’s your managing job application going recently?”

“Good, they put me as the manager.”

“Someone bring this dish to the table!”

“Coming!”

Time flies as we prepare for this holiday.

The last part of the day was the most fascinating to me as a child: Fireworks. A few days before the event, my dad would bring me around Beijing, searching for pop-up shops that sell fireworks.

Initially, they just looked like giant, red boxes or shiny, thin, little sticks stored in a transparent plastic bag, but I already knew that they would be loud and beautiful in the night sky. Most of the time I would spend my new year at my grandparents’ apartment, along with grandma, grandpa, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, etc. The house was filled with chattering noises and childish laughs. Since my grandparents’ house is located on the 69th floor, we could clearly see the fireworks that were already being fired. Before the clock hit twelve, I would step over to the bay windows, tiptoeing to watch all the fireworks. The endless sounds of fireworks blooming and the colorful flames carved into my memory as it was something special to me, and to the Lunar New Year. As a child, I was fascinated by fireworks’ different shapes and colors. Some bloomed in one second, others had a delay, all different sorts of the fireworks together as a whole fabricated a night of performance.

It was our turn to set ours. A small flame emerged as my dad lit the string with a lighter; it started to gradually increase as it reached the red paper cover. The smoke began to rise until a light

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rose up to the high sky, exerting force as all the light separated into a yellow, giant, circular-shaped firework, followed by red, green, and purple ones.

But it all disappeared in 2017 when I moved to America for education. That year, the night was so quiet because the snow covered the roads, our backyard, and everything. But our spirit remained.

We still woke up early to organize and clean the house, wiping away the old dust. We still managed to cook many celebrational foods, eat with joyful smiles, and joke with each other, but only with four of my family members: my mom, dad, brother, and I. We still watched the annual tv show, except that it was not on CCTV channel four, but the international TV channel. That year, we stayed in the house at night for the first time during the spring festival, watching the snow falling from the dark sky on the opposite side of the world. It was so quiet outside that we felt a part of us was missing.

During the Covid-19 pandemic between 2020 and 2021, TikTok became famous, and it was one of the ways that I got caught up with Chinese viral trends and news. Recently, the Chinese New Year and the Beijing Winter Olympics-related videos filled up my entire FYP (For-You Page). It shook my memory about the 2008 Beijing Olympics. I was only five years old then, sitting in front of a small television, watching the women’s sprint event even though The National Stadium, also known as the Bird’s Nest, where all the events were held, was only 20 minutes away from my home. Scrolling through TikTok these days makes me feel nostalgic—childhood memories and moments keep coming up in my mind like gas bubbles floating to the top of the water, but each scene is also brief, popping and disappearing immediately as it reaches the surface.

Annie Dai ‘22

Korean Barbecue Liz Xu ‘24 Scholastic Gold Key

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Coyote’s Soul After “Choose Your Weapon” by Hiatus Kaiyote If I could dive into That pool of memories, would You accompany me down there?

Gliding gracefully along the bottom, Dredging up what has long Been forgotten. A destitute mother, Clutching two children to her Breast, scraping by through menial Work while she can still Feel the pain in her Soul.

Such is our creation, dear Sister. Let me rest upon This bed of nostalgia with You, soul to soul, hearts On sleeves, borderline to each Other’s molecules. Take a plunge Back to a simpler time, When we could breathe underwater, Ignoring the fact that our Snorkels did the work for Us. Pretending there was a Monster deep in the waters, Only to be pleasantly surprised By its harmless, true identity.

Pressing our hands into paint, Leaving fingerprints of great vibrance Across a canvas of white That was there solely for Creation.

Me as the Prince and You as my fantastical Princess.

Acting out the old Atari Games you always loved, spending Hours upon hours trying to Replicate those adventures on our Own. That is, when the Flames of Mother’s spirit did Not overwhelm the joy of

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Our days spent together.

Only Mother, someone as sticky sweet As molasses yet could burn So harshly, like Moonshine set Alight, could tame your Coyote’s Soul. Kind, yet devious, you Could bend others to your Will with seemingly no action.

A free spirit is what You were. But, as a Free spirit that lacked direction, Only you could feel Mother’s Pain.

What is keeping you? Why Can you not give me An answer? Does the agony Of remembering shred your heart Into billions of tiny fragments, Impossible to ever put back Together? Since you just can’t, Or just won’t, reply to Me, I will remain where You have left me, in The wreckage of what once Was, still building my ladder To reach those dreams that You couldn’t.

Jacob Poplawski ‘23 Scholastic Honorable Mention

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Stacked

Cecilia Sacharok ‘25

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When It’s Time to Let Go At what point does doing something you love become a burden?

When the hopes and dreams become nightmares And sometimes you don’t even want to go outside When your heart begins to ache And the passion turns numb That’s when you know that it has been done The death of a friend The birth of a memory And suddenly, we are right back at the start again The nerves start to tingle with anticipation Your breath becomes short and impatient Gasping for air that might fill that empty space right in the center of your gut where the love used to fill The tears come with the last of dying hope, leaving the soul The realization that letting go is truly a turn of a season It takes so much pain to let go of a friend Enough pain to make you question where your love even began

Katie Benson ‘23

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Stop and Smell the Roses I believe in long walks at Longwood.

But first, what is Longwood? Well, Longwood Gardens, if you don’t know, is a large botanical garden located in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. It houses a large conservatory with hundreds of flowers, trees, and other plants from around the world, a wide field of fountains where extravagant light shows are held, and countless scenic roads to follow. The point being, Longwood Gardens is big. Very big. In fact, it’s over a thousand acres in area! So, how does one explore such a wide expanse of beauty? Why, they have to walk!

My friends and I go to Longwood a lot to just hang out. All we really do is just walk and talk, and that’s all we need.

During our walks, we’d happen upon landmarks that I gave names to such as the Square of Dance for when we did our best to waltz there. There’s also the Tunnel of Love, the Walkway of Love, and the other Walkway of Love, all named for the general romantic aura that fills the serene Longwood air. We’d always journey on a road up to the top of the fountain field, take a picture of our shoes over a circular turquoise light, and then chat for hours until night fell. We once got stuck at the entrance because our friend with the Longwood membership didn’t have any ID. We panicked for a moment, but fortunately, a kind old lady let us in for “looking like nice kids.” The best memory was when a friend gave their phone to another old lady to take a picture of us. We posed patiently for about ten seconds before she asked, “Is there a delay?”, and we discovered she had been taking a video the whole time! These memories and the chance to make more just like them always keep me coming back to Longwood.

I believe that those walks in Longwood represent life as a whole. Now, hear me out. I see life as a path. And that path is almost never a clear, straightforward one. Instead, it often has unpredictable twists, turns, loops, breaks, and forks. And usually we don’t know exactly where we’re going, too. So, we’re stuck on a seemingly uncontrollable path. What exactly can we do about it? Well, sometimes it’s ok to just take a deep breath and appreciate where you are.

Our paths don’t always need a concrete destination, and that’s perfectly okay. Instead, just enjoy the journey. Take some time to smell the pink roses and coral hibiscuses, look up at the imposing palm and oak trees, and wonder if you could stand on the giant lily pads. Walk through the endless fields of wheat, walk on the wooden bridge and ponder the weird glowing spheres beneath you, maybe even observe the countless other people all walking on their own paths. But here’s what I suggest most of all: grab your most comfortable picnic blanket, wait till night time, and watch the beautiful fountain show. Be amazed at how the brilliantly lit water jets up majestically, and you might even see a comet! It doesn’t really matter what you do, just treasure the moment!

Life is far too short to spend it all working and worrying with no breaks in between, and sometimes all you need to do is just relax and take a walk.

Raphael Coronel ‘23

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Imagination

Jocelyn Zavala-Garcia ‘22 Scholastic Merit Award

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Monolith

Roman Guererri ‘25

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Dust Pile Revelation It’s only when you sweep that you watch as craters and cracks resurrect.

Wood varnish freckling ravenous whitecaps on the cypress-planked deep.

Clippings of weeds banished from the law by calloused spaces between toes. The rot-caked ghosts of paws, decomposed residue of potlucks cowering under every pall of cabinetry.

It’s only when you sweep that You leer with leniency at hoarders.

Absently arrogant for unnoticed days, piling into disregarded weeks.

The unchanged soot, always swelling.

Like weekends slipped by unloved dimmed by the complacency of your hangover Saturday imperfections obligated to be sufferable by Sunday. Or maybe even homely.

Settling down with the deserted silt and mire

spoused and then deserted by shoe soles.

Complacent, banal marriage.

Floorboards and filth. For better until they realize it’s worse.

It’s only when I sweep that I abhor.

Self-contented oblivion severed.

Unblinded by my broom.

Ava Passehl ‘22

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I Miss the Stars In the beginning, I am a seed. Small and round, the dirt surrounds me, soft and tender, and I catch my first glimpse of life.

I spread wings. Soon enough, a sapling emerges from my seed, cracking open and rendering it useless. I see through my sapling, and I see life.

The grass is first, almost as tall as me, the green flakes clouding my vision of the world. Soft weeds poke out from under the ground as well, and their mellow colors seem to deceive from their more malicious intent. My sapling sprouts leaves, and I see the sky. In all of its glory, soft white clouds poke through the fabric of the sky. Someday, maybe I’ll be tall enough to reach them.

As I grow taller and taller, I see more and more things. The rolling hills that poke above the grass and seem to hold more life than anything I’ve seen before, the sun shining in through the thick branches of my brothers and sisters. Someday I will be taller than them all.

One placid summer night, my branches have finally grown thick enough to peek out of the forest, and outside I see hues of pink, orange and yellow, swirled together as one. I watch as the colors seem to move like they possess a mind of their own. It’s shrinking rapidly, and in a matter of minutes, it’s gone, replaced by the dark, gloomy prospect of night.

I hate the Night. Nothing to do, nothing to see. Someday I will fly higher than the sky itself, fly high enough so I never leave those soft hues of pink, orange, and yellow. I will reach the stars, and I will dance among them.

I hear things. The shrill shriek of a train, barely audible in the distance. The rusty wheels creak down the railroad as it speeds by, fading into nothing as soon as it comes. More regularly, I hear birds, I hear squirrels, and I hear the whispers of my brothers and sisters.

And soon enough, I am taller, so tall my branches peek above all the rest, and I finally see the sky without anyone else blocking my way. Soon I’ll be among the stars. The forest goes unbothered, and I sit, listening to my brothers and sisters whisper their silent songs. I am peeking at the sky, waiting, a thing that’s grown so familiar to me. I feel a pecking at my highest branch.

It is small and colorful, wide dark eyes blinking wildly back at me as it chirps lightly. I’ve seen other creatures like this, but never this vibrant, never this bold. I watch silently as it puts its light weight on my highest branches, chipping away at the soft wood as it hops around.

My branches rustle at the sudden movement, and it flies away abruptly. I watch it go mournfully, as it reaches heights I still have not peaked. Some part of me envies it, some part admires it.

And I am alone, again.

It visits me again, then again, and soon I find myself caring for this small creature. It seems to come every day, and sometimes it even stays to watch the colors in the sky display its triumphs.

It sings songs disguised by brisk and beautiful whistles, and I try my best to decipher their meaning.

I hang on to its every sound, and it clings to my branches like it depends on it, when we both know it doesn’t need it to soar.

I watch and learn as the days go by, and suddenly the whispering of my brothers and sisters isn’t the only thing that I crave. I learn to care and need and miss one small creature with a heart the size of my seed.

Is this what love feels like?

I cannot die. I will take this creature with me to the stars.

Time is odd, and after some time, the bird comes back, with sticks and mud, and beautiful songs to share with me. It makes a nest, on my highest branches, and I watch over it day and night. A season later, I teach the young ones the colors of the sky. I watch as they take their first flight, and only a little trace of envy

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runs its way through my branches as they soar through the wind, destinations set for the stars.

They’ve made a family in my branches. I learn to love.

Time is odd, but life is odder. How can I stay standing when my bird doesn’t come back one lonely autumn? When my bird’s descendants eventually find a new home and don’t come back to visit? How can Father Time be this cruel?

I never see them again. Any of them.

For once, I find comfort in the night. It’s where I can pretend it’s too dark for my companions to fly and they’ll all come in the morning when those colorful hues beckon it forward.

I will reach the stars. I won’t back down.

I never make it close.

Soon enough, I see light. Bright, blazing, orange flames that creep their way towards me one dewey summer night. I watch as the stars are illuminated, then as my brothers and sisters begin to fall, slowly, then all at once with a thundering shudder. It gets closer and closer, and I feel sharp sensations begin to prick at my trunk.

Is this how it ends?

It engulfs me, and I go out in a blaze, branches falling and trunk sizzling. Fire is odd, I ponder, as my branches crash to the ground in loud earth-quaking screams. Fire is very, very odd. I end as a broken branch, some time later, time is fickle for a tree. The last thing I hear is soft and sweet chirps, before the world becomes forever surrounded by those soft pink, orange, and yellow hues. I welcome it with open arms.

I miss the stars, the feeling of wind rustling my branches, and the whispers of my brothers and sisters.

I miss my birds more.

Elisa Small ‘25

Spring is Near Ella Harshyne ‘24

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The Lore of the Modern Romantic Lore of the modern romantic Is the deep and lonely howl Of winter wind Weaving flakes of snow Into an unscathed white blanket That wraps around every sleeping thing Is bare feet On dewed grass That dances in the cool breeze Of dawn Is creaking wood And well loved stories Stacked on ornate shelves By the soft glow of candlelight Warming the library As rain patters down outside Is the smell Of warm bread Kneaded By loving hands As golden sunlight peers through The herbs hanging effortlessly From the window pane Is sun kissed shoulders Scaling grassy cliffs The sea sparkling behind Like an old friend Is a field Of fresh wild flowers Whispering secrets In the temperate spring breeze Is a bowl of fresh “Fruit and veg” Complete with nature’s Sweet kiss Of beauty

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Health And love Is the serene grin Of mother moon Cascading waxy white luster To her kin Of twinkling stars Dancing on the backdrop Of a deep blue sky Is the playful cry Of gulls soaring Through the salty air Embossed by the seal Of crashing waves And smooth pebbles That roll up To the sandy shoreline Kissing ankles Shins Shoulders Hair The sun casts tiny jewels Dancing on the mirror Of the friendly sea She reflects Love Peace Life Soul I like the water I like the sea I like the way It used to be The lore of the modern romantic

Jessica Lattanzi ‘23

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My Found Blessing The world I walk in changes everyday.

The trees are taller.

The flower is brighter.

The orange is riper.

My face blushes against the bright sun in the August morning.

“I’m still thinking about you,” I cried.

“I’m watering your rose!” I weeped.

Salty tears smeared my dark brown skin.

I could never forget August 20th, 2012.

Everything changed Forever.

“I’m still here,” she yelped.

If only she could hear.

“I can hear you,” she screamed.

“I wish you were here! I miss you!,” I cried Again.

She never heard me, or so I thought.

Until.

Poof, a flower, that stopped, Growing.

Now, dimmer.

The world grew stagnant.

The trees wilted.

The orange tangier.

But, I grew old.

Time flew, I, more miserable, Weak and vulnerable.

Until, August 20th, 2021.

She fell from what appeared to be a hollow sky.

White, filled with chastity, light as a feather.

Melanie, my guardian angel!

I found You.

Shripraba Narayanan ‘25

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Fruit du Jour

Nate Bustard ‘23 Scholastic Silver Key

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Saint Norbert

Patch Shields ‘23 Scholastic Gold Key

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Instant Gratification i savor the flavor of a lifesaver bleeding out on my tongue but taking so little does not make me feel full i want to sink my teeth into its body and break it i want to feel the explosion of sticky sweet extract and i want to clench my jaws and course with the satisfaction that comes as i ride the high of a rapid kill no amount is too much. my pride will wrench my jaws open and tear through the stickiness that protests at its untimely demise and holds my molars together until every last drop has been leeched i wait for no man to bow to me i wait for no man to give to me i wait for no man to bleed out on my tongue and i have never been good at denying myself things

Amelia Gattuso ‘23

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The Trail of Ruin We Leave A Reaction to “Deer Hit” by Jon Loomis Everyone has wished, at least once, during their teenage years that their life was a comingof-age movie. Everyone has fantasized about their own Wallflower Charlie or Clueless Cher moment, their own cheeky romance, teenage adventures, and the feeling of cold air on your face during a latenight drive, your new license still burning a hole in your pocket. Everyone has dreamed about that one moment, maybe the last dance of senior prom, getting that first summer paycheck, the heart-wrenching breakup of the first love, or that one last hug after graduation, that one moment when one, for the first time ever, amidst all the joy and tears, stops and ponder on their naive yet vibrant life, and finally realizes that— Wow, I’m growing up.

For me, that distinct moment has yet to come. But through the unnamed teenage protagonist of “Deer Hit” as they first confront death, I felt it so intensely as if it was my own. The heartfelt portrayal of the teenage experience of helplessness and desperation for life in “Deer Hit” moved me. In the face of tragedy and accountability, the coming of age moment made me reflect on my own experience and the inevitability of growing up.

Written by Jon Loomis, “Deer Hit” evoked strong emotions of regret and melancholy upon the first reading even though it was a short poem. It almost felt like an “imagine” story, speaking directly at me through an interesting second-person perspective narration. I imagined myself, seventeen years old. I had just gotten my license, and decided to make terrible decisions, like all other teenagers. I imagined I was “tunnel-vision drunk” driving home one night, and accidentally hit and almost killed a deer. Dazed and helpless, I made an inexplicable decision: bring the dying deer home. I imagined when confronted by my father, with a mangled creature in my backseat, I said nothing but—that “[I] wanted to fix what [I]’d broken—restore the beautiful body.”

You wanted to fix what you’d broken.

Ouch.

Upon the first reading, I pictured the story in my head like a dramatic car-crash scene in a coming-of-age movie. The “glitter and crunch of broken glass,” “dangling headlight,” “the terrible bleat” of the dying deer, “its shallow and fast breathing behind you,” “deer hair drifting like dust” every vivid detail brought me to that night, as if I was witnessing it firsthand. I at first didn’t understand the character’s decision to bring home the dying deer, until the line “you wanted to fix what you’d broken— restore the beautiful body” hit me. It felt so powerful yet haunting; as a teenager, I understood how witnessing death—especially caused by my own irresponsibility—had probably never been a thing I planned to check off my bucket list before turning eighteen. I understood their sudden realization of accountability, that they now have a responsibility for others. I understood their helplessness in that split moment, so desperately trying to preserve the fragile life they endangered, that they’d do anything.

Reading “Deer Hit” the second time brought back bitter memories. Almost like an ironic foreshadowing of my own life. Not long after reading the story in class, my family dog Angel unexpectedly passed away in the middle of the night from a heart attack. The line “[y]ou wanted to fix what you’d broken” spoke to me even more as even though I wasn’t at fault for Angel’s death, many times I had still wondered what went wrong that night or what I could’ve done better to save her. Through every word I was reliving all the pain, confusion, and regret of that night, both mine and the character’s,

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helplessly waiting around hoping for a miracle to happen. Like the protagonist, that night I encountered my first coming of age moment, first witnessing the frailty of life and that sometimes no matter what I do, I can’t fix what’s been broken.

Hitting the deer brought the protagonist confusion and pain, but within me, it mainly evoked regret and melancholy. The teenager eventually kills the deer, ending the pain of the life they had destroyed with their own hands. The story ends with “some things stay with you… / All your life, the trail of ruin you leave.” Weirdly, those lines somehow empowered me. They reminded me that unexpected tragedies and misfortunes would continue to happen in my life, sometimes even due to my own irresponsibility, and I’d have no choice but to cope with them. The impactful experiences and powerful emotions during my teenage years will shape my character forever and make me stronger, even though they might seem minute, like the loss of a pet, to an adult. The poem empowered me and reassured me of the inevitability—not of the loss of innocence—but of maturing, and that soon I’ll be ready to face the world like a responsible adult.

The authentic, profound coming of age moment in “Deer Hit” touched me as it reminded me of my own regretful experiences. The sudden realization of responsibility, when confronted with tragedy, empowered me to reflect on the inevitability of adulthood. “Deer Hit” successfully hit my soft spots.

I usually despise people who put others at risk with their reckless actions, but I sympathize greatly with the main character; I felt I’ve bonded and grown up with them through shared trauma.

“Some things stay with you,” the poem tells me at the end: “things” that I did, triumphs and misfortunes, tragedies that could’ve been avoided had I been more responsible. The regrets of what could have been will forever haunt me, holding me accountable for my actions—all my life—every day as I grow up, every day even when I’m no longer seventeen.

All your life, the trail of ruin you leave.

Haoxue “Mandy” Jiang ‘22

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And I Breathed And I breathed A breeze this morning That rustled my hair and flowed out past my garden Kicking up dust and smells Who were waiting for a reunion It rested on my neighbor’s porch for a while Then joining with its drove It went up

Cassie Matalonis ‘23

The Waters of March March inches closer. I’ll be waiting.

Waiting for hope to blossom again like it once did, where I could embrace everything without fear, without sadness.

I’ll let myself be reborn as the seasons shift, reborn like the flowers and trees as they bud and become connected with the world again.

The window of my car is slowly inching down, it’ll be open and free soon.

Be patient, for springtime love is coming for you and me.

Be patient, long layers will be no more.

One minute, I sit wrapped up in research paper drafts, the next, I lay on the grass next to you, embracing the newfound warm breeze.

I don’t even know who you are. Maybe I do.

It seems the waters of March and the haven of spring have clouded my thinking.

Oh well, let’s see what it will bring.

Maggie Turner ‘23

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Journey to the Key

Kelsey Joyce ‘23 Scholastic Merit Award

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Yellow On a Monday morning in sixth grade, I walked into a math class filled with chatter about the past weekend’s endeavors. My eyes scanned the room, watching the guys in the corner fidgeting with a Rubik’s cube while a few girls at the table in front compared their new Pura Vida bracelets. I sat down at my table, hoping to join in the excitement. When we embarked on the topic of Harry Potter books, I noticed my teacher, Mr. Thompson, grabbing a stack of packets from his desk. He made his way across the room, handing the tests back one at a time, making sure to meticulously fold each packet in half and turn it over to not expose anyone’s grade. I watched a few students smile with satisfaction at their packets, then return to their conversations. I also watched as some students frowned at a number on the page, but then threw the paper in their backpacks and pretended not to care.

As I observed the reactions from my classmates, I weighed my own chances of getting a good grade.

I studied this test material two years ago at my kitchen table, my dad at my side yelling at me to do better.

Every test I took at school was easy, as a result of the hard work put in at home. Yet, I still studied for this test, knowing I didn’t need to. From my calculations, there was a…ninety-seven percent chance that I had gotten an A. Average.

But by the time Mr. Thompson had reached my desk, a flurry of butterflies had still formed in my stomach. He handed me the packet with an encouraging smile; the same one he gave someone who made a mistake.

“You did good, Alicia; you just made a few simple mistakes. Don’t worry about it.”

I returned a weak smile and took the packet from his hands. My eyes searched for a number printed in red ink.

87.

The number pierced my soul.

I thumbed through the rest of the pages, staring in disbelief at the dumb mistakes I made. If only I had thoroughly checked my work. I sat glued to my seat, a million thoughts running through my head. If my parents found out, I would never hear the end of it, especially from my dad. I was supposed to do my best, and an 87 was nowhere near that. I flipped the test over so I couldn’t see my mistakes.

I didn’t want to cry; it was pointless. But I couldn’t think of anything else to do. So, I just sat there, as tears streamed down my face. All the chatter and excitement from seconds before had been drowned out by the deafening noise of one number.

Now, it just so happened that the student next to me had just received his test back. His name was John. He was the class clown, constantly poking fun at everyone and making jokes. The one who interrupted the teacher just for the heck of it. He took one look at his test, smiled, then turned to face me.

“Hey, what did you get?” he asked with a grin. I knew he could see the tears dripping off my face.

“87,” I responded weakly.

“Wait…” I watched his expression turn from shock to glee. “I got a higher grade than you?!”

He was so excited, in fact, that he instantly reported the unexpected news to his friends. I watched the scene unfold for a second, then dropped my head into my hands. After a momentary pause of silence, a celebratory roar came from the other side of the room.

“Nice job. I’m sure you worked hard for it,” I noted under my breath, trying so hard to be genuinely happy for him. I didn’t want to drag others down into my pitiful hole with me.

He ran back to our table, his face carrying a wide-eyed grin.

“Oh my gosh, I’m smarter than you. Ha! I’m smarter than an Asian!”

He was serious. No jokes. No play-acting. My heart pounded in my chest.

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What… did he just say.

My brain whirred with memories of past instances where I was told variations of the same sentence.

In every case, I disregarded the statement and just took it as a compliment. But this kind of discrimination was strange. A backhanded compliment turned upside-down.

It wasn’t John’s fault, but it wasn’t mine either. Only a seemingly harmless stereotype that society had deemed acceptable. But there was something that most people hadn’t realized: even a positive label was a label.

I looked back down at my hands, my skin tinted yellow. I rubbed my hands together and watched the yellow fade to white, then back to yellow again. I knew however much I tried to rub, the yellow would never disappear.

Alicia Chu ‘24 Scholastic Gold Key

Strings

Patch Shields ‘23 69

Fishy Business

Jane Chen ‘24

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Fish in the Ocean

After the film Soul by Pixar I believe we are already in the ocean - we just need to realize it.

If you’ve ever watched the movie Soul (by Pixar), you’ll know the iconic fish story that sax player Dorothea Williams tells the main character, Joe Gardner. But if you haven’t watched the movie- it’s alright. You get an explanation!

Joe dreams of “making it” as a jazz pianist, and at the beginning of the movie, he’s offered the chance of his life: to perform as pianist for Dorothea Williams’ renowned quartet. Spoiler alert: he gets to do it… after a chaotic series of events. But after the performance, he tells Dorothea he expected to feel different. Cooler maybe. And then she tells the fish story. Here it is, in all of its infinite wisdom: A young fish swims up to an older fish and says, “I’m trying to find this thing they call ‘the ocean.’”

“The ocean?” the older fish says, “That’s what you’re in right now.”

“This?” says the young fish. “This is water. What I want is the ocean!”

After that, Dorothea gets into a cab and takes off, leaving Joe in the dark city night to sort out his thoughts. Very dramatic.

But, what does this all have to do with beliefs? Or what I believe, specifically? Well, I think Dorothea was telling Joe that finally reaching success as a jazz musician wasn’t the glorious ocean he was looking for. The ocean was everything he deemed ordinary in his life: New York pizza, going to the barbershop, even the cacophony of middle school band students that he had to teach.

Likewise, I believe that my entire life is the ocean, even more beautiful than whatever my ultimate destination is. Like Joe, we might spend our lives as young fish chasing after that destination we call “the ocean.” Maybe it’s thinking about that next award or internship or college– all to get out of the “water” of high school life. But those goals are just a small gallon of the ocean. The ocean is more than what we’re convinced our journeys should culminate in. It’s too unexplored, too expansive to be limited to one thing. So the ocean might be right here, right now.

We can realize that we’re already in the ocean only if we truly live our lives. So enjoy every moment! I believe it’s important to celebrate the now- all the time- like eating lunch with friends or finally clicking “completed” on a MyArchmere assignment. For me, the sense of being in the ocean comes on late, stressful nights. It’s somehow calming to be aware of the present, instead of thinking of the enormous pile of work awaiting me after midnight. Or maybe it’s just procrastination. To quote one of the songs in the movie, “make life your goal.”

If you want to see all this for yourself - watch the movie. And when you’re watching it, maybe you’ll start finding the ocean, as I did: feel your eyes fill at Jon Batiste’s piano in the soundtrack, feel your heart leaping at every plot twist, and feel the sadness that pools as a gentle ache when the movie ends and the credits roll because you’ve taken every breath, every step with Joe Gardner. See? You’re already there. In the ocean.

This I believe.

Grace Chen ‘24

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The Blue Lobster One day, not too long ago, a baby lobster was born under the waves of a vast sea. This may not seem important in the grand scheme of things, but this lobster was special. You see, the lobster was blue, and it would be used in a special plot to change the course of the world, for better or worse. After being found by two divers, and being admired for a short period of time, the lobster was captured and swiftly slaughtered. Its carcass will be prepared for the king, and with the help of a wizard and some extremely elaborate magic, it would hopefully deliver the ruler to the fiery gates of hell.

It was on this day the ruler woke up. After he rises from his silk sheets, he is welcomed by the sight of the sunrise and a flock of peacocks being released into the sky. The jester appears with a greeting and a poem to please the king.

“For, the darkness can overwhelm thy good, and evil may spread across the land. However, through the great power of hope, the chaos shall be subdued with its only weakness, truth. The mighty warrior ventures into the wilderness, wielding a...”

“Jester, this is a fine poem, but I ask you to stop.”

“Do you not like it?”

“No, no, it is a fine poem. It is just that I am quite tired.”

“Was the poem not exciting?”

“No, Jester, frankly, I wish to rest a bit more, for my eyes can barely stay open.”

“I put a lot into this poem.”

“Jester, if you don’t give me 15 minutes of silence, I will do the unspeakable. Currently, I am exhausted, and I would like to end this conversation.”

“Nobody appreciates the arts of poetry anymore.”

“I do when my head does not want to be submerged into my bed.”

“Poetry is a medium that is proper for any situation.”

The two men looked at each other.

“Shall I prepare a poem for sleep?”

“Blast you, Jester, you dumb muppet. I wish for you to kindly walk out, and not be in my sight for the portion of the day.”

“Very well my liege.”

The jester slowly closes the door.

It was around late lunchtime once the king had awoken. Once at the table, the chef presents the covered platter.

“Dear king, I have made you a very, very special meal. I present to you the blue lobster.”

The lid is removed, and the lobster gleams in the light, wedged amongst pieces of lettuce and lemon slices.

“A rare delicacy, the blue lobster shall be found only through genetic luck, and through luck we give you this dish. Broiled with the finest herbs to deliver that unique Mediterranean taste, time and attention were used wisely to create the perfect meal for you.”

The ruler stares at the dish and proclaims, “Well, what a pleasant surprise. I shall start eating at once.” After the first bite, he immediately passes out.

Darkness. The king is not dead, but not living either. After coming to his senses, a world of

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swaying black and blue grass is revealed, with a bright light high in the sky. It gets closer and brighter until it crashes off into the distance. Through its wonder and awe, a creature emerges from the crater.

A majestic orange zebra emerges, and gallops toward the king. Beams shine throughout the land, and the king is left in shock. He quickly awakes.

wrong.

“Oh, you are still alive.”

“Yes, I am quite alive.”

The servants start to murmur among themselves. The king hears faint talk about a spell going “I have seen the most beautiful thing. It was a zebra, and it shined, and gleamed!”

The servants exchange glances and continue their murmuring. Finally, a maid spoke.

“You know, you might be able to see your zebra again if you continue eating.”

“Excellent idea!”

He returns to the realm of the orange zebra. The light of the grass is not as radiant, and the zebra’s glow is dimming. It nudges the king, and their eyes meet. A gust of wind speeds by, and a giant, green mandrill leaps from the ground and rips the zebra in two! It throws the body off to the side, and lets out a primal roar that sends a shock wave across the world, pushing the king back. The king continues yelling once he wakes up.

“Stop, stop, why, ahh!”

“Oh God, he is back.”

“He is dead, the zebra is dead. Why!” “Please calm down.”

“I can’t, the world has lost the zebra!”

“You should really finish your meal.”

“No, I can’t go back, I can’t go back!”

“It’s alright, just finish up.”

“The monkey, I can’t!”

“Do you know how much lobster costs in this economy?”

“What?”

“Lobster is a delicacy in this economy, it would be an insult if you were to finish now.”

“My economy?”

“You can’t afford a stick of butter in your economy, now please, resume your meal.”

“No, no, I can’t go back, I can’t go!”

The last thing the king saw were numerous servants shoving lobster down his throat.

He returns to the realm of the green mandrill. The mandrill squats over the land, staring toward the horizon. Green flames dance through the grass, and the king is scared poop-less. The mandrill flexes his teeth and grunts. Then, the orange zebra, (now with wings), rises up toward the sky!

It flies toward the mandrill, and spits a surge of orange flames, shredding the mandrill into a million pieces. The green flames go out, and the orange zebra lands on the ground, glowing brighter than ever.

It stands on its hind legs and lets out a neigh so outstanding, that when the king wakes, he is changed forever.

“I have been ruling wrong, the era of the orange zebra shall change it all. Scribe, I would like

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a 20-foot tall statue of a zebra, with wings, on its hind legs spitting fire into the sky. It shall be made from our finest amber, and...”

“We don’t have that much amber.”

“It doesn’t matter, find more. Let the era of the orange zebra begin!”

“Why won’t you just die.”

“Guys, it would be a lot easier if we just throw him off the balcony.”

“What? Throw me off the balcony, what does this mean?”

“The lobster won’t kill him, we might as well throw him off while we have the chance.”

The forty servants all lift up the king and start walking toward the ledge.

“This is outrageous, you can’t kill me, I’m your king!”

After a thrust, a long yell, and a splat; everyone takes a moment to reflect. Then they look at the wizard.

The wizard sighs and utters, “Yep, that method was a lot easier. ”

Alexander Bogey ‘24 Scholastic Gold Key

Strawberry Records Sophia Scarpaci ‘23

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Sliced Lemon Jace Walker ‘25

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Shelter She was taught by movies that love is beautiful and kind. She watched hour after hour of lust and magic on the screen of her television. She lived her life isolated from reality. She lived her life deprived of the shadows other children of her age feared. She held her dreams close to her heart as the princesses did in her movies. She believed that she could be one of them one day; just as free and just as beautiful. She knew what she desired was simple. She believed this was possible. She believed the world was a perfect place with little to no flaws. She saw the world as a safe place in which to fulfill her dreams. How was she to know danger existed in the perfect world her parents preached? She was caught up in the ideal reality she believed to be true without a trace of doubt. She was sheltered. She was protected. She was hidden from the truth to sustain her purity. Her parents knew the consequences of bad parenting could taint their daughter’s life forever. They both swore to be better parents than their own. They wanted to raise her right, and they believed the best way to do this was to educate her in an environment free of the secrets of the world’s imperfections. She learned to live in the bliss, for this bliss was her life as far as she knew. As far as she knew, this bliss was true. And as far as she was concerned, this bliss was wonderful.

Lilian Domenico ‘25

Explosive Imagination

Annie Dai ‘22

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I Tripped Up the Stairs Again I tripped up the stairs again.

Why does this keep happening?

I tripped up the stairs again.

This time, it left a mark.

Walk it off, Shake it off, Laugh it off; Repeat.

This endless staircase, An endless struggle.

I stumble, I fall.

Why are these stairs so steep?

On good days, I run.

On bad days, I crawl.

Only to get back up.

I don’t look back.

Keep running, Keep climbing,

Keep crawling,

Just keep moving.

I saw you trip up the stairs again, I saw you fall.

I’ll pick you up.

We won’t look back.

We’ll walk it off, We’ll shake it off, We’ll laugh it off, Repeat.

Grace Koch ‘24

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Stairway Above

Cassidy Fanning ‘25

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Tapestry 2022 Editorial Staff

Anna Benner ‘24 Grace Chen ‘24 Sophia Chen ‘24 Alicia Chu ‘24 Raphael Coronel ‘23 Caileigh Crane ‘25 Matthew Demnicki ‘24 Lilian Domenico ‘25 Amelia Gattuso ‘23 Natalie Gildea ‘23 Andrew Hermes ‘22 Haoxue “Mandy” Jiang ‘22 Grace Koch ‘24 Isabella Lehr ‘24 Elizabeth Maher ‘24 Shripraba Narayanan ‘25 Jacob Poplawski ‘23 Margaret Shelton ‘24 Elisabeth Small ‘25 Margaret Turner ‘23 Meredith Victoria ‘25

Layout

Natalie Gildea ‘23

Copy Editors Andrew Hermes ‘22 Jacob Poplawski ‘23

Faculty Advisor Mr. Stephen Klinge

Special thanks to...

Mrs. Stephanie Silverman and the Art Department Mrs. Karen Linton and the Creative Writing Class and all who submitted work to Tapestry 2022!