Tapestry 2023

In Truth

i drink the stars each night i sip each one through my freezing metal straw and cold starlight slides down my throat it makes my chest ache with the chill but it is silken for an instant and i am addicted to the feeling i get as it coats my tongue and in truth

i have named the brightest, greatest star in your image and every night i aim my straw at it but my best attempt is far too short i do not think i will ever reach you

i used to hate the open sky the dizzying heights and too much unknown, too much hidden but i’ve always loved a good song so you pointed to the first star on the horizon and you waved your hand about its constellation and conducted a tune and you plucked and strummed and slid your away across each wink of light until the whole sky was a grand symphony playing the most vibrant concerto and i never wanted to look back down

i listen to the heartbeat of the sky the rhythm of each flare of light and i watch the man in the moon dance in circles to it but alone the beats and songs i hear do not play the same as they did from your lips my throat aches with want for the star i have named for you if i could only drink it for an instant the light would slip past my lips and in the brief moment of bliss before the ache my throat would triumph in song i could reach you

Amelia Gattuso ‘23

The Teacher

Alex Passehl ‘24

Scholastic Merit Award

Skribbled

Holly Hayes ‘23

Scholastic Merit Award

The Candle Philosophy

I believe in candles. It started in 6th-grade science…

My science teacher at the time was named Mrs. Sid. She had a talent for making everyone feel comfortable in her presence. She was my favorite teacher. One day, she shared her philosophy with the class to teach us a lesson. She compared each person to a candle. Each candle has a flame and that flame is your passion. Your purpose. Your reason to live. It’s what makes you happy. It’s what makes you want to get up every morning. Mrs. Sid said that sometimes, people’s flames go out and we have the ability to reignite them with ours. “It takes nothing from you,” she would say. Lighting someone else’s candle doesn’t make yours go out.

If your candle goes out, you can reignite your own candle by using the passion that other people share with the world. For example, take authors. Authors write books and release them into the world. Books can make candles burn because sometimes books can help you realize what you’re living for, or give you something to live for. Harry Potter was like that for me. I read the series when I was in 5th grade. I was never a reader until I read those books. They may not be the greatest books of all time, but they were to me at 12 years old. I would spend hours alone in my room reading, and they made me light up inside. When my family took a trip that summer to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Universal Studios Orlando, I remember feeling like I was walking on pure sunshine. Knowing every reference in the park, and excitedly pointing them out to my family (even though they had no clue what I was talking about) is one of the happiest memories I have. I was so passionate about those books, and by sharing that passion with my family, they were happy to see me so happy. My candle burnt bright that day, and so did theirs.

Anybody can share their passion with other people, and I encourage you to try. Okay, now maybe you’re thinking: “Wow, Lily, so you want us to go write a book...” well, not necessarily, but hey, if you want to, go for it! Just making people happy is the simplest way to give them purpose. Small acts of kindness go such a long way, and you don’t really realize it until you actually start to put the effort into trying to do them. The other day, I told the checkout lady at Whole Foods that I loved her nails. She smiled and said thank you. Just doing that made someone have a little bit better of a day, and it made me really happy knowing that I made her just a little bit happier. Simple things like compliments really can light someone’s candle, and it’s so easy to do.

Lighting someone’s candle means sharing passion with someone else. It could be simple things in everyday life or big things that change hundreds of lives. Spreading passion is so easy and so important, yet it is often overlooked. Happiness is something that can easily be transferred from person to person, and the sharer is never left empty. It’s not like a tangible object that, when is given away, completely belongs to the recipient. It’s shared. It takes nothing from you. Passion is what keeps you going, and when people lack that, we have the power to fix it.

We’re all candles. Be the reason someone has to keep on burning.

Lilian Domenico ‘25

ever since i realized that you aren’t human i have been wondering why you are still here. you could be scattered atoms, limbs elongating into dust. you could have glaciers melting on your tongue and garden snakes wrapped around your bones. you could be a prophecy. a woman cloaked in mist. a cave that echoes, a cranberry at its ripest edge—anything.

instead you stand in my kitchen and let the sunlight do a poor job of painting your silhouette. you let the coffee machine splutter and give out with your drink inside it. i saw you break a nail the other day. i cradled your hand to my chest, as puzzled as ever—

if you are not human, then, perhaps you are a lesson. maybe the way you polish picture frames is a metaphor for longing and maybe you are here because your laugh calls in the angels. when you remind me to put on sunscreen you could really be teaching me about hope.

sometimes when you smile at me in the dark i wonder if, impossible as it sounds, you’re here simply to sit next to me when it’s raining—

not for some preordained fate, or a blithe red string, or the conclusion of some dramatic arc in life’s story. as impossible as it seems, maybe this is just about love, after all.

Sophia Chen ‘24

Scholastic Gold Key

American Voices Nominee

Tribute

Meredith Victoria ‘25

Scholastic Gold Key

Ben Franklin Parkway

Arlene Chiu ‘25

Scholastic Silver Key

Bella

After “My Name” by Sandra

Cisneros

In English my name means pretty. In Italian my name means beautiful. It means loving, it means charmful. It is like the sunset. A beautiful color. It is the sound of Frank Sinatra’s voice on the record player that is heard every time I visit my grandparents.

I am the first person to be named Bella in my family. However, it was chosen by my grandmom (who has strong opinions and refused for me to have a non-Italian name) because she thought it suited my big dark eyes and dark hair more than Kendall, what I was almost named.

My grandmom. I see her often, she lives only a few minutes away. Everytime I visit she is cooking all sorts of foods: meatballs, chicken cutlet, broccoli rabe, and my favorite since I was younger, pastina. Something about her cooking has always brought our family together. That’s why she always does it.

And the story goes she has been cooking her whole life. She spent everyday alongside her own mother, who taught her how to be so good at it. I wonder what’s going to happen when she passes, I guess my mom and aunts will do the cooking. Bella. I am happy she was the one to pick my name because it’s a way for me to never forget her.

At school, everyone just calls me Bella. Some of my close friends call me Bell, my best friend Gia’s parents call me Bell-Bells. But what irritates me is when people ask if my real name is Isabella. No, I am just Bella. I feel like an Isabella is nothing like a Bella; they are more boring. I am proud to say I like my name, I’ve never disliked it. Bella is a beautiful name.

Bella Dell’Oso ‘23

Futile

am imperceivable. Near eyes closed, but rather no eyes at all. Pure silence, if even the subtle buzzing always there, when listened for, was gone. Description futile. Senses capture the “is” or “is not”, but not “not is”. Sensing in itself impedes veracity. A thing to sense being, or even just the sensing occurring, interrupts not being and not occurring. Perception nonetheless inevitable. Description futile. Yet attempting could persist ad infinitum, only to antithesize the goal. So to leave it be, in mystery, the only accuracy.

Arden Godwin ‘25

One Cat and a Window

My cat likes to look out windows

Open windows

Bay windows

Dusty windows with nose prints–And (I swear) she notices everything.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul Maybe that’s why my cat can read my mind.

Cassie Matalonis ‘23

Bird Bath

Dried out and Empty

In the backyard of my Grandmother’s House

Invisible to birds who Flock to the neighbor’s feeder

How long has it been

Since someone remembered to fill you

How long has it been

Since you felt the flap of wings

And a bird perched on your rocks

Ryan Vitola ‘23

A Flower Composition

Madison McCarrin ‘24

Do Not Forget Me

“Look around! How lucky we are to be alive right now!”

The two of them take shelter from the blinding sun under a blooming tree. Pink cherry blossom petals dance in the wind. The undulating blades of grass seem to beckon the two of them forth and out of the shade, but they stay stubbornly put.

“Life abounds around us!” She tries to rouse him from his stupor, but alas, he remains silent. She collects the picnic basket and blanket she brought and lays them out for the picnic she had always wanted. Bright red and white cloth rests atop lifeless dirt.

“It’s the first day of spring, you know. It’s that time of year I know you love so much. Out with the snow and in with the grow, you always say!”

She holds the basket up to her beloved. “I made delicious sandwiches for you! Do you want egg salad or chicken salad? Nevermind, don’t answer that. I know you love chicken, so here you are.” She lays the sandwich where his hand is. “Dig in!” She slowly eats her egg salad sandwich, mentally critiquing it as if she did not spend all of yesterday lovingly preparing this whole feast. She pours herself and her beloved some freshly squeezed lemonade and continues the conversation. “I’ve been really busy lately. It feels like everyone always needs something. Mom needs her meds. The kids need new uniforms. The dog needs a walk. It’s need, need, need. ‘Ana, massage my shoulders.’ ‘Mommy, I’m hungry.’ It seems they all have time to need yet never the time to stop and say thank you. No one appreciates me. At least, not like you did. I miss the days when you would call me Anastasia. I barely remember I even have a name after being bombarded with Ana’s or Mommy’s or even just you over there’s. I miss our dates. They could make me forget. Our one year anniversary passed just last week, and no one said anything. Not even you.”

She takes a deep breath and looks around. Flowers everywhere. Fresh bouquets and wreaths left all around on other patches of dirt. She feels a bit empty-handed. Sure, picnics are nice, but leaving a sandwich behind would only attract ants who have no respect for the man it was destined for. She gets up to admire the rows of fresh cut flowers left behind. Daffodils, lilies, roses, orchids. All beautiful in their own right, but then she saw it. It was quite small, easy enough for her to pick up and behold. It was a bunch of forget-me-nots tied together with a string of twine. Blue. It reminded her of his beautiful eyes, of which she knew every little change in the gradient. That humble posy was a perfect way for her to remember love, to remember how the eyes of this same color gazed with such adoration and joy. She picked up the tender bouquet and ran back to her picnic blanket.

“Thank you for giving these to me, my love. I know just the right vase for them that will not outshine their beauty. I will not let anyone touch these flowers. For your sake.” She embraces him, knowing her duty. All she hugs is stone. Despite the warm spring sun, the stone is cold. She hopes by some miracle that the stone will become warm with her embrace. But it stays cold.

She packs up the picnic blanket and basket and bouquet and begins the long walk home. As she exits the garden, she hears distant sobs break her blissful silence. How lucky she was that she had her peaceful reminiscence before the wailing. She pities the poor girl but continues her walk home.

“I will never forget you, my love. I hope you do the same.”

Raphael Coronel ‘23

Summer Afternoon

There we stood in the sunlit kitchen

Unraveling a lavish pack of Florida oranges

We stand and cut, sparing no time

Eyes wide at the decadent taste of the exotic fruit Peel after peel, rind after rind, we carried on My eyes stray off to look at her beautiful smile

Sailing across her face wider than the Pacific Ocean Juice dripping down our chins, but we didn’t care Something about the cheerful sunshine spreading across the counter Something about the soft serenade of the living room fan That summer afternoon, as happy as could be Simply, just my grandmother and me

Megan Shaposky ‘26

Half an Orange

you asked for half my orange, back in the summer of ‘99.

I thought how, even in whole, one orange barely sates my own appetite, much less the hungers of two.

I gave you half anyway. my stomach growled the whole day through.

“when we grow up,” I said, juice dribbling down my chin, “I will be rich enough to buy two oranges. one for you and one for me, and we shall both feast like kings.”

how little my understanding, back then. now I eat my half of the orange, and feel full.

Sophia Chen ‘24

Cupcake Imposter

Armando Clemente ‘25

Midnight Zone

Arlene Chiu ‘25

Scholastic Silver Key

Otherworldly

Tenev woke to the sound of blaring alarms. Sitting in his chair, he felt himself being pulled forward, his strap-belt holding him to the seat. Opening his eyes, he saw his ship in disarray, completely wrecked. The memories of the crash landing suddenly came back to him. He murmured curses under his breath. Swiftly. he detached the straps, and slid down the angled floor, coming to a stop on the front of the ship. The whole vessel was at a 30 degree angle to his sense of gravity, and the sound the metal made when he hit the front gave him the idea that it was embedded into the ground. This was not good. The planet he was observing was nothing out of the ordinary, but the inhabitants were not ones he wanted to meet. They were a pre-contact civilization, ones that had a history of unpleasant meetings.

Pushing the thought out of his mind, he quickly scrambled up on all six limbs, and climbed the side of his ship to the transmitter. He found the box broken and smoking from the crash, the emergency signal device that had sat beside it had dislodged, sitting a dozen feet away, broken. Climbing back down, he switched off the alarms and tried to figure out where exactly he was.

The small dome opened as Tenev tentatively poked his head out the window. Surrounding him was a heavily wooded area, the unfamiliar green foliage surrounding him. Glancing behind him, a trail of felled trees, and a ditch in the ground displayed the consequences of the crash. Looking around, it didn’t seem like there was any activity from the natives. He ducked back inside the ship.

After another 30 minutes of tampering with the emergency signal, he had no further luck, even throwing the box across the ship in frustration. “Damn thing! What good is an emergency signal if it doesn’t even work in an emergency!,” he thought. Tenev put his hands on his head, and pounded his fist on the box. To his amazement, it turned on. Frantically, Tenev put out a distress signal, that his ship had crashed on a pre-contact planet, and that he needed immediate assistance.

He waited.

The response told him to hold tight, and that he could be rescued in only a few hours. By that time, one of the nations on the planet would’ve found his ship and captured him, so that wasn’t an option. Grabbing some supplies, as well as the box, he fled the site on six feet, attempting to put as much distance between them and the crashed ship as possible. The sound of rotors in the distance spurred him to action, as he jumped up and fled out of the wreck.

“If I get far enough away, and hunker down, I should be fine.” Tenev thought. “They evolved as persistence hunters, so I should be able to put distance between me and them before they arrive.”

It wasn’t long before the sound of aircraft overhead confirmed his suspicions, a craft with four spinning wings heading in the direction of the site. Spotlights showed on the ground, and Tenev ducked low to the ground to avoid being spotted. Thankfully, they quickly passed by. Running across the wooded ground, he eventually made it to a nearby field. A quick glance around revealed no natives, so he hunkered down and tried to wait out the time. Eventually, his rescue appeared. Quickly waving him in, Tenev leapt up and into the craft. Pulling away from the blue-green world, he was thankful to be off that hell hole. Most pre-contact civilizations reacted poorly to interactions with aliens, and this one especially was disturbed. They’d had civilization for about 6000 years, but only just reached their nuclear age. Still, they decided not to cooperate, but to threaten to turn their weapons upon each other.

“Thank the gods you got out of there, Tenev,” one of the craft operators spoke at last. “That was a close one.”

“Tell me about it,” he responded breathlessly.

“Pre-contact species…,” the operator shook his head.“So divided, so stupid.”

“Yeah, especially those guys. Humans, am I right?”

Alexander Linton ‘23

Wartime Waltz for a Ragged Rat

After Tchiakovsky’s The Nutcracker

I much preferred our dance alone, dear Clara – you’ve got quite a hold; the gramophone with gristly tone, antiquated and truly old would, at a time, air out a squeak from flat disks scarred so very bleak; la-da-da EEK, la-ta-ta SKREEK

That night, together, in your home One girl, one rat, we danced as one. On tatty rugs we’d still portray just the dance Tchaikovsky’d say two silly kids ought to play. There mocked the terrible tune and tone of such a moldy gramophone, laughter filled the room so bright there was no need for candlelight… All this before Herr Hitler’s day, the cats away, so rats could play.

Dressed human, I slip on the train no time for dance, or parting breath; Star of David comforts my pain I leave behind the stench of death, but when your eyes at me would land held in them such lovely life that made me forget I’m not human, less than human, merely a rat. The train begins its cursèd course, the rails cry wolf in shrieking squeaks; chi-chik-chik EEK, chi-chok-chok SKREEK

Where are you, dearest Clara?

Have you found your nutcracker yet?

A handsome perfect soldier boy with fair skin and flaxen hair and still sapphire eyes as sweet as yours?

A lovely swastika to be found at his right arm, stitched in blood

Anne-Cécile (CC) Kittila ‘26

Small Performance, Big Show

Grace Yang ‘25

Scholastic Gold Key

Views on My Walk

Katie Benson ‘23

Scholastic Merit Award

Road Signs

They say to never drive drunk, but they say a lot of things. My first time driving, the car spun around.

My first time drinking, my head spun around. Crushed cherries, stuck in my straw at the bar.

Crushed dresses, caught in the door to the car. I’ve always wanted to lose my mind.

I’ve always wanted too much. I lose my mind Over everything that happens in the dark.

Road signs are all blurry in the dark. At some point, I stopped caring.

There weren’t enough people who cared. At some point, Danger and joy blurred together in my throat.

Danger. Joy blurred the screams from my throat. It’s not like I expected it to end well.

It’s not like I expected it to end. Well, Blood spiraled into a floral print on the car seats.

I was spiraling. They placed flowers on the hospital seats. I wore carnations in my hair all next winter.

Red blossoms tugged at my skin all next winter. They say to never drive drunk. They leave everything else unsaid.

Sophia Chen ‘24

Scholastic

Gold Key

The Oven Is a Scary Place

The room is dank, the walls draped with curtains of velvet. Two windows adorned with bright candles side by side draw the eye to the flame and then to the world outside; the setting sun shoots colors into the sky—soft violets, blues, and oranges. If you turn your gaze upwards, the view of the crown jewel of the dining room, the chandelier, comes into view. Floors of parquet wood are layered with an intricately designed, circular, navy rug with tassels so fluffy that, if woven together, would form a huggable stuffed toy. I am five feet above, resting on a rectangular, oak table. I am sitting on a bright silver platter. They burned my skin with malice, disrespect, and the cruel box radiating fumes of scorching heat. They seasoned me with lemon juice, herbs, and garlic. I was once a live animal, but I was slaughtered to satisfy the hunger of humanity. Now, look at me... cooked to perfection and ready for a Sunday meal. My feathers have been replaced with nothingness. I know what is coming. I can see the various silverware on the napkin beside me. These are the last few seconds. Take it all in before they take you all in.

The Last Meal

Lilian Domenico ‘25

Nate Bustard ‘23

Kung Fu Panda

After the Dreamworks film Kung Fu Panda

I believe in Kung Fu Panda

I’m sure you’re wondering many things. Like how could my life philosophy be a movie about a big panda that likes to eat food?

Well, actually, the philosophy comes from this really wise turtle that constantly looks sleep-deprived. This turtle’s name is Master Oogway, and what makes him so wise is that he always talks as if he is saying a deep and meaningful quote. But the one quote that has helped me and ultimately become my life philosophy is: “Yesterday is history, Tomorrow is a mystery, but Today is a gift. That is why it is called the present.”

Growing up, I always had this annoying voice in my head that was always fixated on some responsibilities or worried about something. When I was younger, I was taught to value others and their emotions, but I slightly misinterpreted this and began to overvalue others’ emotions. I would worry if my past actions had hurt someone, once even believing that I had potentially ended my relationship with my grandma because I forgot to say “I love you” when she left. This may not sound that terrible, but the woman was literally living in the same home as me.

One wholesome memory I have of my worrying is when I was given the absolutely disastrous news that Earth would explode in roughly 5 billion years. Seven-year-old me rushed to my teacher, asking if there was anything she could do to stop it. Looking back, I may have had somewhat high expectations of my teacher, hoping that she could just use her infinite expanding knowledge, grow wings, and save the earth. But besides that, my fixation was quite small when I was younger, and it would mostly end with no consequences.

But when I got older and was in more competitive environments, it began to worsen. If I did poorly in something, I would study every tiny detail of how I did it and continue to tell myself how my past mistakes made me a failure. This fixation on the past would cause me to become extremely nervous about the future, which would lead me to make tiny mistakes that I would then spend hours fixating on, forming a snowball effect. I was losing the current moment.

It wasn’t until my class and I were given the treat of watching Kung Fu Panda that I realized this. When Po, the panda guy, is struggling with his future destiny of becoming the dragon warrior and wondering if his past actions of leaving his noodle shop with his dad were a mistake, Oogway, the turtle guy, tells him that he is too concerned with what was and what will be and that’s when I realized I was exactly like Po! But Oogway continues by remarking, “Yesterday is history, Tomorrow is a mystery, but Today is a gift. That is why it is called the present.” I want to say these words instantly transformed my life to where I never worried again, but I still continue to worry. However, hearing this was a great turning point in my mindset.

So when I say, “I believe in Kung Fu Panda,” I believe in not worrying about the past and future but only what I can do now. I know that at some point, everyone has also worried and may have even felt overwhelmed. So I challenge all of you. When you begin to overthink and worry about things, just ask yourself, “Why am I worrying about the past that I can’t change and the future that I can’t predict”? By listening to Kung Fu Panda and Oogway’s wise words, we can all learn to let go of the unnecessary worries of daily life and instead dedicate all of our power to what we can do in the present.

Benjamin Li ‘25

Milk

After JELL-O by David Lee Rice

The year is now 5, or 2030 DT (dark times). Mïłk (pronounced milk, not to be confused with milk, which is pronounced milk, but with intense vitriol) was created by our lord and savior, Charles White, who had his name legally changed to Charles God Emperor Milkman in 2023 D.T. This divine act was done before the invention of Mïłk in year 0, (the year of our lord), or 2025 D.T. displaying our God Emperor’s clairvoyance. Mïłk is a divine creation, known to some as the modern ambrosia, food of the pagan gods of Greece, now Mïłkland, with mount Olympus renamed to “the Mïłkton.” The Olympics have been replaced with Mïłk drinking contests, and men fight to the death for the final drops.

I am a Mïłkman, and it is my divine task to spread the word of Charles God Emperor Milkman, blessed be his name, and his gift to us all, Mïłk. I do not bother with preaching my faith directly, foolish heretics in the past have tried. Instead, I follow a different path. I leave bottles of Mïłk directly on the doorsteps of the ünpasteurized, and simply wait for the allure of its 13-in-1 properties to be too much to resist. What properties does this product possess? Well, it tredecuples as shampoo, conditioner, peanut butter, deodorant, candle wax, drain cleaner, jet fuel, bleach, antioxidant, computer, and many more, home defense, and condiment. The guaranteed converts are then whisked away to the local cöwthedral, where they undergo a transfusion where they accept Mïłk into their very being. Only about 2 percent survive, me among them. The chosen people of Charles God Emperor Milkman.

I recall the day of Charles God Emperor Milkman’s ascension, in year 3 during the months of white. It is said by doctors that he died of syphilis, which caused a schism in the church. Those who keep to the true faith, such as myself, know the real truth. Charles God Emperor Milkman, blessed be his name, transcended his mortal coil to go to the great dairy. Those who die in battle to spread the truth will join him in Valcöwlah as his eternal warriors.

Our uniform was chosen by Charles God Emperor Milkman himself. Our vestments black and white, clashing against one another, with the darkness overtaken by the sea of white. A mïłkbeast emblazoned upon our breasts, to show our resolve and to strike fear into our foes. We are armed with bottles of Mïłk, to be shattered on the curdled, burning them alive in a holy 1,517 degree flame. We wear all-terrain black shoes, to be used to trample the foolish and spread our cöwquest. Our puffed out cloud-like hats designed as storage for ammunition to be used against the curdled, but those of true belief need only more Mïłk. In our ranks, it is said that those closest to Charles God Emperor Milkman have larger hats, and so we are encouraged to stretch them till their bursting point with delightful Däïry. It is unlikely to find one’s face with anything other than a smile, for how can one feel anything other than jubilation while fulfilling our holy task. We ride upon steel beasts of white, traveling at a maximum speed of 114 miles per hour. This is only while emptied of Mïłk and men, who would typically spill out of the sides, like a glass chalice filled too greedily with Mïłk.

The curdled, as I know dear reader you are wondering, are the ünpasteurized who do not simply not know of the faith, but reject it entirely. During the dairying, my fellow Mïłkmen captured two such wretches. We questioned why they would not follow Charles God Emperor Milkman, and one replied he was, and it gives me conniptions just to say this, “Lactose Intolerant.” For this, he was put to death on the spot. The other, however, had no such biological block to receiving Charles God Emperor Milkman’s divine gift. He said, “Why would I want to risk dying for milk?” and “You people are absolutely insane, why are you killing people just for milk?” I considered forcing him into three days of cleansing in scalding Mïłk; of course then he would accept the truth as so many others had. Over and over I tried to convert him, so that when he was inevitably executed he would at least join Charles God Emperor Milkman in the sky.

He would not relent. He said I was mad. This angered me. I asked him why. He asked, “Why would I want to join those who kill so callously for cream? Does your faith not preach tolerance for the un-lactorated? Unity for all?” This was, of course, foolish. All know that after Charles God Emperor Milkman’s ascension the holy texts were changed by the heretical Mïłkman Larry of Dairy, the “divinely inspired.” He banned the slaughter of the curtled, and while most of us follow this new instruction, I do not. They call me zealot, I call myself faithful.

When I returned home from the dairying, I saw that there was no one left to convert, my former task obsolete. Now all I do is deliver Mïłk to the masses, admittedly missing the halcyon days of old. When I was practically in bovina, the sweet rush of converting one to the faith. Old men like me are just left to spoil, like milk left in the summer sun. Sour and mushy, forgotten, expired. Out of date.

Anthony Cilluffo ‘23

Mr. Parker Helen Qi ‘23

Scholastic Gold Key

Swing

Deep breath. Feet dug in, Eyes forward. Wait. Wiggle the hips, Waggle the bat. Steady the hands. Wait. Step, Swing!

Joshua Ponzio ‘23

Where Legends Are Made

Megan Fiss ‘26

Scholastic Merit Award

Fishing Rod

Line, clear as can be Pole standing tall at 5 foot 3

Texas hook rig, with a yum yum sanko Hoping you’ll hook one and reel him to the banko

Cast your line out and pray for the best Jig, jig, rest; Jig, jig, rest Pray that the fish won’t snap the 5 pound test

You see the line straighten and you feel the tap, tap, tap

Set the hook hard, feel the fight Fish from morning, all the way till night

When it gets to the bank, you hope it’s a lunk All it takes is patience, and a little good luck

Adam Hartman ‘23

Under the Sea

Nate Bustard ‘23

Knowledge Is the Best Weapon

After a letter by Lady Montagu about her granddaughter

Grandma, you tell me to be educated

So I can save myself from the evil tricks of men. I agree that it is a necessity in this day and age For a woman to know her literature, But I feel knowledge has more use Than being a defensive weapon.

Read for two hours, you say, What a bore.

Reading should be an adventure, Delving into fantasy worlds And soaking in the words. I don’t want to read for protection, I want to read for pleasure. I know myself, and I know men. I won’t fall for silly tricks and fancy words. To be frank, your friend was naive, Being persuaded by the likes of such men, And I want you to think more of me, Than a girl susceptible to coercion. I can hold my own in this brave new world.

Mistaking wit for poetry is disappointing, But these ill consequences you talk of? Aren’t they the splendors of youth?

Grandma, time has passed, We live in modernity. Men and women frequently go with one another, Sharing the flesh and triumphing in the sunset. I believe we need to cherish these gifts. My very own studies have brought me to the conclusion That celebrating my juvenescence is the only way I can live fully.

Take care that I will continue my reading, But hiding my intelligence only holds me back. At times, I will share my thoughts with the world, Be it through writing or speech. While at other times I will remain silent, But never silenced.

You gave me three cautions of knowledge

Each only holding back the progression of intelligence. Grandma, I understand you are just looking out for my future, But adaptability is a virtue that Has given me splendid experiences. Do not fret for my safety or reputation; I will not let a man take me before marriage, But the proposition of enjoying life And living in my youth

Is far too enticing.

My knowledge will carry me through these adventures

Safely and responsibly, So worry naught

As I petition you to refrain From spouting this archaic wisdom. The age of carpe diem is upon us, And I have made the educated decision To partake in its wonders.

Browsing

Grace Yang ‘25

Scholastic Gold Key

Maggie Shelton ‘24

Happy Birthday

Abby Garcia ‘23

First Fish

“Be quiet, you are going to scare the fish.”

My father scolded me as I hopped from rock to rock, imagining I was on a long journey across the world. I was not. The journey was actually across a creek. My father was about waist deep in the water, with his long fishing pole, his wrist flicking back and forth as he prepared to recast his line. I could hear the whipping of the line through the air, snapping back and forth. As it gently fell on the water, it parted the mist that meandered above the flowing water.

As a five-year-old, accompanying my father fly fishing was the most enthralling experience. I could stand at the bank of whatever river he was in and turn over rocks to see the wildlife, hop on rocks, and make sand-claymud castles (castles made out of whatever sediment resided on the banks of the water).

This day was one of those enthralling times. It was the Fourth of July, one of the few days a year my father actually went fishing. You see, my dad refused to pay for a fishing license, it was all too expensive; thus, fishing days were limited to certain holidays that sprung up throughout the year where no fishing licenses were required.

“The fish don’t have ears, and I am all the way above the water; it is not like they would be able to see me.”

“Just because they can’t hear you or perhaps see you, they can always sense you,” my father responded. “Fish are sensitive, they can feel vibrations and frequencies within the water. When you jump on rocks like that, you scare the fish away, and then I can’t fish.” I looked at my father, still confused.

“If you stand very still in the water, the fish won’t notice you’re there.”

So I sulkily hopped back to the side bank of the creek, a lot less pep in each leap I made. I settled myself rather far away from my dad, a little hurt by my scolding.

I began to think about what my dad had told me. Perhaps all the noise I made in and around the water was the reason I never saw any fish.

I positioned myself back in the shallow part of the creek bank. I attempted to be as careful as possible, to step very lightly into my spot so as to not disturb the water as well as the potential fish. My toes sunk into the beige, orange, and yellow-colored pebbles and I began to wait.

I stood there for a while, as still as possible, even holding my breath. I’m sure my dad was observing me from a distance, perhaps wondering what was wrong with his only daughter. If he was observing, I paid no mind. I was laser-focused on creating no noise and no movement.

And then it happened. I let out a small gasp as they appeared. Slowly, they creeped towards me, and began to circle my legs. Eventually more came around, they seemed to be almost everywhere. I had never seen this many fish before, albeit they were nothing more than minnows, and I was astounded.

I watched as they moved quickly and gracefully against the flow of the stream. Gently, I entered into a squat position, lowering my hands into the water. The fish darted, but I stayed still, letting the water glide over my wrists. For a few minutes the fish were nowhere to be found. Perhaps my movement had scared them away forever. But within a few seconds, the fish started swimming back. One particular fish swam right up to my open palms. It was light gray, couldn’t have been more than a few centimeters long, and more curious than the other fish. It circled around my hands. I lightly pressed together my palms, with the fish inside, and brought my hands out of the water.

“Dad, Dad!,” I shouted. “I caught a fish.”

I splashed over to a point on the bank where he could admire the minnow I caught, scaring all of the fish in my path.

He came over and peered into my hands, smiling, despite the fact that I had probably ruined this spot for fishing with all my noise.

“I’m proud. This is the first of many fish.”

Jessica Grier ‘23

Sugary Reflection

Nate Bustard ‘23

Necklace Knot

The coil of shimmering, intertwined chains blinks in the light.

“Set things right. It won’t be too hard.” Naively confident, I face the task. I finger the chains, a veneer of careful precision is set. Then, I begin to pull and throw with vigor, gold is shed everywhere under my carelessness. I made a mistake. The mess condensed. My imprudence, my complacency cost us. Our time, our trust… I toss the task aside, chastise myself, and a trickle of sticky sweat glides down my forehead. Pensive silence permeates the room. The challenge sits on my chest as convoluted and formidable as ever.

But I set back to work, aware of the gravity. I retrace my steps, every problem has a start. Every mess is simple. All we have to do is find the beginning to arrive at the end.

I guide chains through shining arches and loops, I undo the final knot with care, and the silken strands reach a full circle of magnificent sheen. The necklace knot: my favorite enigma.

Chloe Li ‘26

Lucid

After the song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” by the Beatles

From a young age, I’ve been brainwashed. The adults drilled into me and my fellow impressionable classmates that we must always always ALWAYS stay lucid. There are evil “impairs” around us that can ruin our clarity of thought and severely impact our judgment. Just stay lucid. Let your own better judgment prevail. Clean minds are better minds. Do not ruin your life by involving yourself with an “impair.” Lucidity Creates Dreams.

I’ve heard the horror stories. I’ve seen what happens when people lose it. Those veined, crimson eyes of people I see on the news have pierced through my soul. I vowed to myself to stay pure and lucid. It comforted me to know that I would stand firm if I was ever offered one of those ‘impairs’. I would be level-headed, calm, and doubtless.

But vows are not universal. I found myself in the company of impaired minds, and I hadn’t even realized it. It was my friend, Lucy. She used to be just another high school student. She could blend into any crowd, and that’s all she wanted to do. But after some dance, she found herself at a rowdy party. God knows why she was there, but she told me it was the best day of her life. Someone brought out a sheet of items resembling postage stamps and promised her it would get rid of all her pain. She thought it was some innocent joke, perhaps offering free postage for any envelope she’d send for the rest of her life. It was so much worse. Why did she do it? I could have helped her. I could have stopped her. I could have held her hand and taken her home. If only she knew they were “impairs.” But instead, she affixed a stamp to her tongue. Then, her eyes turned to kaleidoscopes. The world turned to rainbows of ecstasy and euphoria. She felt she could fly. The beige ceiling became the marmalade sky, and the bits of popcorn about it became beautiful diamonds. She flew to that diamond-studded sky that day, and she refused to come back to land, back to reality, back to me. I have distant memories of the “before times.” I saw her passions change. Her paintings that became more abstract and twisted, her love songs that became pleas for help. She always smelled of burning tires, and she always missed classes. Her eyes were never white anymore. Her lucidness became corrupted. Her lucid became lusid

She assured me that it was all normal and that she was perfectly fine. “Lucidity is overrated! Stop your pain! Dance in the sky with me!” But then she told me sentences later in that same conversation that she’s fled the cops multiple times! One time she told me she ran from the cops, jumped a fence, fell down, blacked out, and then woke up in her bed with no idea how she got there! How can that be normal? How can that be enjoyable? How can you be comfortable with having a huge gap in your memory? Why would I want that kind of experience? Did being with me never make her happy? Why can’t we just be lucid and sane and diamond-less?

Call me a loser or stubborn or a dunce or whatever you want. I don’t care. I miss her. I miss when our conversations didn’t revolve around her lusidity. I miss being able to hug her and know that someone was in there hugging me back. But she’ll never be there. I love her. I should have stopped her. I didn’t. Now, she’ll be too busy chasing her diamonds to ever think of me.

Raphael Coronel ‘23

Scholastic Silver Key

Gwyn Ratsep ‘25

Bust

Scholastic Silver Key

Grace Chen ‘24

Untitled

somewhere the cracked, wooden chests with the sculpted, flowered handles are burning and somewhere the cracked chests are heaving and somewhere they are bleeding and everywhere there is someone grieving saying let her down let her down let her down lower the plane, my grandfather used to laugh about riding in the B-54 kicking clouds of dirt from the cliff onto the army boys, who threw their helmets and their faded leather and swore murder at them

hanoi, vietnam. christmas eve, 1972. boys will be men and there is always something worth dying for if you have the choice, so let’s load up the B-54, let’s have a laugh and think of our women at home, our innocent women, graceful with their full skirts and lapfuls of colorful, ruddy-cheeked toddlers with stuffed-full stockings and wonderful stop-motion films dancing happily in the snow, chatting about gaudy television advertisements and curling the plastic wires of their telephones around their fingers and their necks as they speak in giddy whispers, waiting for the morning to come and finishing the wrapping of their presently, skeletons are burning from the inside out and skin is shattering like glass minds dancing with sugarplums let them roast, catch them on fire, let them fall.

“clean your room,” his mẹ1 had said. “get it done before christmas.” he did not listen and he sat in the kitchen on the pale linoleum floor, lamenting with an arm over his head the arm blown finally on his bed, searing on the handle of the broom the smoke all around, from his windpipe, exhaled three years later by the tobacco-hardened pilot with his gray cap and proud badge of honor, who would work in an oil factory in texas and would say, i used to fly a B-54, i used to scare the army boys, and a stranger smoking with him in the break room would say that was me,

i was the army man, i threw the helmet, i swore i would get you one day and their jaws would clatter in laughter, they would pack up and sweep the ashes off the cracked wooden floor, they would not think twice about their arms on the broom handle

later, my grandfather takes me to an air force museum. i used to fly these, he smiles, but i left the air force before the war broke out. i look at the plane. it is big and thundercloud gray and it is empty like a newly made coffin. i shiver in my big blue coat and i am grateful that my grandfather had the choice not to die. i am bored. i want to go back inside the car. they tell me nothing of the burnt sinew that holds together the skeleton of the plane. the chests burned, took their last breath, and i have let them down.

Amelia Gattuso ‘23

1 Vietnamese, “mother”

The Cradle

A caterpillar has spun his chrysalis under the railing of the porch, between two loose slats of wood. It is the unripe green of young apples: dangling, delicate. In two weeks the insect will emerge anew, spreading gold-plated wings, a triumph of life.

You spend your summer on that porch, hoping to catch a glimpse of the unveiling. Amongst branches smoothed into gentle rockers, you knit together a frame of wood, paint it white and pink. There is something hopeful rising in your chest, like you are the one being reborn. It will be happening soon. You whistle as your fingers work.

Then comes the fateful call, a tugging underneath your navel. You rush out midconversation, dinner still bleeding out on the stove. At the hospital, everything overlaps, squeezes together. Pain cleaves the world in two: life is the first separation. You push through.

Things spill out of control. It all goes right, then it goes all wrong. She pulses white and blue. The room becomes a prison cell. You wait, and worry, and try to hold her hand.

The day ends swathed in blood. Your ears ring in a way that is hard to explain: God made creation look so easy. When you drive home, there is no one in the backseat.

On the porch, translucent flakes cling to the wooden beams. Even the butterfly has fled—another moment lost, another miracle unobserved. You step closer to the railing, stare down at the empty shell.

Sophia Chen ‘24

What Is It?

Chinwendu Emedoh ‘23

Elizabeth from Eden

After “My Name” by Sandra Cisneros

My name is Sarah Elizabeth. In Hebrew, Elizabeth means “My God is an Oath” or “My God is abundance”. It is regal. It is elegant. It is whole. My first name was supposed to be Elizabeth, but too many of my parents’ friends claimed that name right before them. So Elizabeth is my middle name.

Elizabeth was my Oma’s (grandmother’s) middle name, and now it is mine. A German immigrant with hair as white as a dove, and eyes as pure as a newly baptized soul. She was strong, driven, and wise, which makes me feel proud to share a name with her.

Oma. She was fearless and caring and protective of her family. The woman killed a snake with a garden hoe in her backyard some decades ago. She was concerned for the safety of her little dog, of course, so there was no waiting around for my Pop-Pop to come save the day. I believe that snake felt a panic when he met her gaze and decided to throw the towel in.

And the story goes she lived a fruitful life- unlike the snake. She enjoyed the life that God gifted her with poise. I wonder if Eve had been Elizabeth instead, would she too have had the strength to kill the serpent? Would she have been banished from Eden? Elizabeth. Her God is abundance, for he bestowed upon her a cornucopia of prodigious qualities. God does for man as Oma does for me: protects. The Garden of Eden is to Adam and Eve as Oma’s arms are to me: home, safe, peace.

At school, “Sarah Elizabeth” sounds basic or ordinary. But that doesn’t matter. Because what I know is that I am entrusted to fulfill Elizabeth. I am lucky enough to have known the “Elizabeth” who precedes me. At school, Elizabeth is just Elizabeth; but at home, Elizabeth is strength and courage and grace. Elizabeth is Oma.

Sarah Puppio ‘23

Flower Canvas Richie Anguillo ‘25

Alice Ceili Corey ‘23

Motion Katie Benson ‘23

Saying Goodbye

I am obsessed with saying goodbye. I will plan it out for weeks

With letters, poems, songs

Everything in order so nothing goes wrong. Everything thought up, compiled, written down And I won’t let anyone go until they’ve heard it all.

The tears will meet my eyes

Before the leaving begins

Because you look like you’re halfway out the door Even though both of your feet are still on the floor.

And I’m so obsessed with saying goodbye

That I start to let go just for show. It’s so dramatic. So unnecessary. Everything is part of the sentimentality And I start to hold on way too tight

And I know I’ll be crying again at night Cause it’s so hard to say goodbye

But I am obsessed with saying goodbye.

And you cannot leave until

I’ve said everything I need to say. But I’ll never think of what to say So you should just be on your way. And I cannot leave until I’ve written down every thought in my head. But there are always more and more

And there’s so little time and I can’t keep track

So I’ll turn off the light and go to bed

Then I’ll wake up and pace for hours on end

For I can’t stop thinking about saying goodbye.

I am obsessed with saying goodbye

And I’m making you hear it one more time. So come here my dear, One more hug before you leave.

No, I know you’re not dying

But what about me?

Caileigh Crane ‘25

Frustration

Chinwendu Emedoh ‘23

Plastic Memories

Large plastic rocket Sits on a shelf

Collecting dust.

Removable parts, Two stages, Astronauts not included.

Or were they just lost?

Nostalgia fuel

In sight so long It loses its meaning.

Only focusing Really reveals The flaws, the chips,

And the reason you loved.

Three Haikus on a Departure

your shadow beside me on the six-hour car ride into the depths of a dream

each headlight flickering; bending into a promise triumphant or unfulfilled

when the soft glow fades and darkness stretches forever— where will you be?

Natalie Gildea ‘23

Alexander Linton ‘23

Peculiar

Meredith Victoria ‘25

Scholastic Merit Award

The Crawfish

He pulled the motor on the back of his fishing boat. It made a gurgling sound before roaring to life. It was a small boat, once yellow in color, but rust had since taken over, and the yellow was chipping away. The boat gently cleared through the water, leaving little ripples in its path. Cypruses rested on the bank, their leaves held tightly onto the Spanish moss, which hung from branches, dipping delicately into the water below.

The red buoy suddenly came into sight, bobbing lightly on the surface. He steered his boat near before reaching under the murky, shallow water, to grab hold of the rope. Then, he pulled. A rusted crate emerged, water spilling from all sides as it was lifted in the air.

He set it down in the base of the boat, peering inside. Nine dull, red crawfish rested at the bottom of the cage. They slowly crawled about, hoping, trying with all their will to get out. While lifting the cage up and dumping out the day’s catch, a crawdad slipped out and caught onto his arm, its claws sinking into skin. It was fighting back, willing itself to survive. At the same time, there was a gentleness, a plea of sorts to let it go. He carefully peeled off the shellfish, tossing it into the bucket. Inspecting his arm, the slightly red and bloody mark painted a new color across his purple and blue flesh.

And that’s how he proceeded through his day, hoisting crates of crawfish into the boat, emptying them, resetting the traps. Monotonous, hard work. He found sustenance in the bayou; it provided for him, for his daughter, Honey, and so in his eyes, it was enough. Regardless of how it made his back and knees ache, it put food on the table. But sometimes enough is never enough for others.

By the time all the traps had been emptied and reset, the sun began to hang low. Oh, how he hated when the sun went down, the bright, warm light was gone and darkness would come. The night was cold; things—people—lurked in the night, intentions skewed; it was much better with the sun up.

He turned his boat back home, back to his baby girl. As the sight of his house came into view, he began to rub his cheek, still raw and tender from previous nights.

It was a small shack, dark brown in color. It lay right on the edge of the bayou, with old, rotten stilts sitting about four feet deep. Moss and leaves adorned the roof, and every screw and bolt visible to the eye was rusted away. Inside the shack was a small gas stove, a table big enough for two but they managed three, a small bed, and a pullout couch. He almost always slept on the couch.

As he pulled closer, he saw her standing on the deck, overlooking the water. Her dark hair stood out against the sunset of fire. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a Marlboro Red, quickly lighting it. He exhaled the smoke and instantly relaxed.

“What took ya so long?”

“Whatchu think, someone gotta put food on this table,” he gruffed, continuing to secure the boat onto the deck.

“Don’t talk to me like that, I’ll put another one on that face of yours, you know I will.”

He climbed up the steps leading to the water, brushing past her. He pushed open the door and was met with the sight of his young daughter at the table, coloring on an old page of the local paper. He kissed the top of her blonde hair before inquiring about her day. Honey babbled about flowers and imaginary friends and little animals she found romping around.

“This is all you got?” she interrupted their daughter angrily, slamming the bucket of shellfish on the table.

“It’s gettin’ colder out. You know damn well they ain’t out too much this time.”

“How you be expectin’ this to feed all us?”

“Honey can have mine, I ain’t all too hungry.”

“Honey,” she turned and addressed their daughter, “How ‘bout you go outside for a bit, mommys gots to talk to pa.”

He watched as his daughter scampered off her seat and out the door, gently closing it behind her. Oblivious to many things was his little girl. Oh how he wished for her to stay like that, his little sunshine.

“Can you do anything right?” she screamed, swiping a glass onto the ground. It instantly shattered, an explosion of iridescence sending a shard into his leg.

And he could do nothing but sit there. Listen, take it.

After dinner he sat out on the deck, in a little wooden rocking chair. It creaked with each rock. He sat there for a while, with nothing but the sounds of the water, frogs croaking in the reeds, crickets chirping from the banks. He observed the new welt on his hand. Bright red, raw skin showing, slightly burnt around the edges. Ash from the butt of her cigarette littered the wound. Another gift from her.

Perhaps, he thought, I should leave, take what I got and go, don’t look back.

He heard the door creak open, footsteps nearing him. He knew who it was by the tenseness in his shoulders. She placed a hand on his forearm, he forced himself not to flinch. They watched Honey play along the bank.

And for a moment he realized, he was not all too different from those crawfish.

Jessica Grier ‘23

Flower Crustacean

Emma Gioffre ‘23

Claymont Sunset

Henry Weinig ‘23

The Same Cloud

Why is it that we see the same clouds but different shapes?

You see an alligator stepping on a snail—

I just see a blob.

You see a mother carrying her baby—

I just see a blob.

You see a trumpet falling off a stage— I get frustrated.

It’s just a cloud. What’s so special?

Now everyone else sees the dolphin jumping through the hoop. Is something wrong with me? Am I broken that I just see a blob?

Grace Koch ‘24

Mist

My heart strains to see the future I will not have In the other direction

Standing mute on the other side of the coin That stopped spinning on the ground

Cassie Matalonis ‘23

Burning Memories

The dumbest decisions are often the most memorable.

Five...Four...Three...Two... Beep! The microwave clicked open as Julian aggressively yanked the handle. As the door creaked open, a cloud of thick black smoke rushed to the ceiling and permeated throughout the lunch room like water rushing into a capsizing boat.

About six feet tall, one hundred forty pounds soaking wet, a true enigma. Julian truly is one of a kind, someone that is easy to live vicariously through. Although he might not always make the best choices, there’s never a dull moment when you’re around him. His unique mannerisms and quick witted personality make him a joy to be around.

Hunger began to set in. Julian complained and complained of his forgotten lunch that still sat on his kitchen counter. The stone-cold decrepit pizza laid barren on the plate, full of dull colors as it had likely been hours since its creation. Now any other person would have purchased something from the cafeteria to fill their needs, but not Julian. He waited as the lunch period came and went. Now it was our free period. The lights were out, the burners were cold, and the staff had all but cleared out for the day except the cashier. It had been over three hours since cooking occurred, but Julian dared to buy the piece of pizza that sat alone on the tray.

“I cannot eat this cold, it looks grotesque” declared Julian to the entire table, which was actually just myself at this point in the free period.

“Got any better options?” I floated the rhetorical question sarcastically knowing full well that this was it.

“What about warming it up in that microwave?”

And before I could finish my sentence, there was a spark in Julian’s eye brighter than the fireworks on the Fourth of July. His mind was filled with childlike wonder as his facial expression perfectly encapsulated a person struck with a brilliant idea.

“That is a fantastic idea!”

Julian pranced no more than fifteen feet to the microwave that sat on the coarse hardwood table, adjacent from our seats. He gazed upon it like a piece of alien technology, full of power and possibility. After playing around with the dials and buttons, seeing what beeped and whirled, he gained a basic understanding of the machine’s operations. Five. The number he pressed was five. I squinted to decipher the small digits on the microwave’s timer. And the time that I believed to be five seconds was in reality five minutes. Julian turned to me with a mischievous smirk riddled across his face.

“Let’s see what this thing can do!”

“This is a horrible idea,” I insisted with my feelings split between intrigue and a desire to not be associated with this certain future problematic endeavor.

“Now we wait.”

The minutes felt like hours, I knew that this experiment was destined for doom. Two minutes had passed, but my feelings were changing from dread to amusement. Finally three minutes had passed before a distinct burning aroma began to fill the area within close proximity to the microwave.

“Julian, we have to take it out of the microwave.”

“No, just a bit longer.”

“Dude, it’s gonna catch on fire.”

“No it won’t, just a little bit longer.”

The playful banter had gotten us nowhere and I knew that whatever I said would have no impact on Julian’s actions. All I could do was sit there and watch, shameful with anxiety but brimming with excitement. Another full minute had passed and nothing had changed. There were now sixty seconds left on the microwave. As each second passed, my heart swelled with suspense.

Everyone in the room turned to us as the horrific stench of burning could be smelled within a ten square-mile radius. The smoke made the room foggy. And Julian threw his hand into the microwave to pull out what was left of the pizza. On the plate rested a shriveled up corpse of what had been his lunch. The cheese was blacker than the fingertips of a chimney sweeper and the sauce had all but been reduced to atoms.

People began coughing and chaos ensued in the discussion over what just happened. The pizza still smoldered on the countertop. Julian raced for his water bottle and drenched the remnants to subdue the remaining smoke. I sat in a sense of both disbelief and mirth over the events that occurred. Julian howled like a coyote with laughter. It was contagious, his churlish actions had sent me into a frenzy.

The only teacher in the SLC approached us, almost appearing out of thin air.

“What happened here, gentlemen?” she asked perplexed by the situation as she came from the faculty dining area. I can only assume that the smell leaked into the other room, giving her some vague sense of what has just transpired.

“Uh...I put my pizza in the microwave and just lost track of the time,” Julian explained with a surprising amount of convincing yet spurious remorse on his face.

I watched the conversation unfold from my seat, staying quieter than a church mouse about the whole ordeal. But my face grew red; it took everything in my power not to burst with laughter.

“Well, I hope we learned our lesson boys, be careful with the microwave.”

Now whether Julian learned this nugget of wisdom or not is something I’ll leave up to the imagination, but I’m fairly certain most people can deduce the answer. As for me, I’ll just cherish the laughs we had and remember that sometimes it’s better to live in the moment rather than worry about the consequences.

Joshua Ponzio ‘23

Special thanks to Julian Facciolo ‘23

Currents

Inspired by The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

“In my younger and more vulnerable years,” roaming in the communal gardens downstairs and getting bruises from falling daily, I believed in letting the river take its course.

I will figure it out, and everything will work out fine, I thought. Luck combined with a moderate degree of hard work along with some intelligence equals a bright future, naturally. Young and naive, I was convinced by these idealistic ideas, asserted countless times by school and books. To extend my water metaphor: I wasn’t aware that the river flows in a ditch, dug out definitively by destiny. All are human, but none can choose to be born in the ocean, river, lake, or a stagnant swamp filled with trash bags and dead fish (de poissons morts).

Destiny.

Some were born with gold and jade under their tongue; some were destined to be that notorious villain; some were rooted in ordinary families, among hundreds and thousands of others. There is an inevitable, predetermined force that either washes us onto the shores of paradise or pulls us into deep cracks lying beneath the ocean beds.

Sometimes I just want to lay flat and play dead. Just let the bone-piercing current blow through me. Just the other day, I stopped reviewing for my AP exams and scrolled through social media, looking at college decision posts of others and began questioning myself: what is the point of fighting in this increasingly distorted competition? It makes my gut wrench, but I have to admit that I don’t stand a chance compared to others who have been preparing for years. Is college that important?

At that moment, I lived out parts of the fiery, arrogant teenager I detested when I first read The Catcher in the Rye. Holden Caulfield. Disdainful to be them but incapable of being me. I seem to be a lost voyager who can’t excise trivial hope but too scared to find myself nowhere near the river course. Or worse, right in the middle of it.

Life is contradiction. The countercurrent flows against you. Dark, terrifying, suffocating. Then start swimming against it. Dig out of the “destiny ditches”. I will dig my way out, with a shovel, a spade, my bare hands. Think of the carps in the Chinese myths: they swam fiercely against the river currents to leap over that Dragon Gate and become dragons.

If you resent the muddy swamp that destiny dug out for you, then you have to leap out of it. There might not be a glorious Dragon Gate awaiting you, but you have to struggle for yourself. Not for the sake of contradicting the current or destiny, but to live without regrets.

I put down my phone and flipped to Unit 3 of my APUSH review book, page 170. Start. I believe in swimming against the currents.

Before I end, though, here’s a provoking paradox for you, my audience: what if the act of confronting destiny is part of the river’s course?

That would be another story.

Arlene Chiu ‘25

Unda the Sea

Nicholas Mariano ‘23

Scholastic Merit Award

To Break Me

Holly Hayes ‘23

Ophelia

Ophelia lays in the water

A dying woman

A dead woman

Perfectly still, beautifully lifeless

Her taupe fingers clasp onto her flowers

A glistening vase

She is tragic, beauty wasted, youth unused

In the play she isn’t allowed outside society’s boundaries Father and brother watch her slip away

Is it madness or love?

Who’s not to love a girl

Who is floating freely Free for you to plunder

We worship Ophelia

Hungry to replay the quieting of her beating heart

She is framed then as she sinks

When her body has reached the bottom, along with the rocks

No need to paint that

The river wraps around her She is sinking

Melting into memories

It’s important to remember she was beautiful

You must not forget she was ripe

Look upon her in this algae state

Drop down to the grass, peer through the glades

Go closer to get a better look

Niamh Cranny ‘23

Self-Love

i. insecurities

i saw a girl in front of me her hair was greasy her face was covered in pimples her teeth were yellow her nose was too big every time she tried talking no one would listen

it was funny she tried laughing people said it was too much she tried talking more people made fun of her voice she tried getting sleep couldn’t she tried to cover eyebags couldn’t

everything about her was just off her shoulders, too wide, her forehead, too big, but she held it all together, each fragment and splinter remained intact, seemingly satisfied, bitterly content

i wanted to punch her scream at her until she gets everything right tell her everything that she’s doing wrong there’s so much i want to say but i don’t know where to start so i say it in the reflection of my own mirror

Natalie Lucas ‘26

ii. happiness

i realized i love being a teenager. i get to romanticize every day, every moment, as if it’s the last second of my life. i dance around in the rain, i chase butterflies, i step on autumn leaves, while walking around with friends, i get to wear nice clothes, try new makeup looks, i have crushes on random people, i make foolish bets, i get to hang around with friends, and get to walk around bookstores. my biggest accomplishment is, i keep falling in love with myself. my love for her is a blur of metaphors, an adventure.

i am obsessed with everything about her, from head to toe.

it’s the love that her friends provide her, that she loves herself unconditionally, she romanticizes her life, because she would put simplicity over believing in fairies, and wishing upon stars. she is a sappy Taylor Swift fan, who likes to read, and yearns to be loved. if i were to sell my soul for one thing i would do it just to live like this forever

Tapestry 2023

Editorial Staff

Grace Chen ‘24

Sophia Chen ‘24

Alicia Chu ‘24

Raphael Coronel ‘23

Caileigh Crane ‘25

Matthew Demnicki ‘24

Lilian Domenico ‘25

Victoria Eastment ‘24

Arden Godwin ‘25

Bridget Holmes ‘23

Anne-Cécile (CC) Kittila ‘26

Grace Koch ‘24

Chloe Li ‘26

Elizabeth Maher ‘24

Maggie Shelton ‘24

Elisabeth Small ‘25

Meredith Victoria ‘25

Grace Yang ‘25

Editors

Natalie Gildea ‘23

Jacob Poplawski ‘23

Layout

Natalie Gildea ‘23

Copy Editors

Grace Chen ‘24

Alicia Chu ‘24

Elizabeth Maher ‘24

Faculty Advisor

Mr. Stephen Klinge

Special thanks to...

Mrs. Silverman and the Art Department, Mrs. Linton and the Creative Writing classes, and all who submitted work to Tapestry 2023!