Muse 2023

BOSTON UNIVERSITY ACADEMY

2023

MUSE

MUSE 2023

Editors, Members, and Sponsors of The MUSE

Lead Editor

Sally Jamrog ’23

Editorial Team

Kaeleen Chen ’23

Aster Gamarnik ’23

Tatum Mueller ’23

Members & Contributors

Alyssa Ahn ’23

Angel Dong ’26

Ada Habip ’25

Luke Hargrave ’24

Charlotte Harris ’26

Finn Hoebelheinrich ’25

Camilla Horta ’26

Matthew Jackman ’26

Nicholas Kennedy ’26

Georgie Linscott ’26

Olga Meserman ’24

Coco Mueller ’26

Isabella Silvestrini ’25

Emmanuel Smirnakis ’23

Faculty Advisor

Ms. Ariana Kelly

Special Thanks

Mr. Christos Kolovos

Ms. Lisa Townley

Art Contributors

Anna Augart-Welwood ’23

Michael Butler ’25

Tracy He ’24

Finn Hoebelheinrich ’25

Alia Jaeger ’24

Corinna LaPlume ’25

Zamira Marra ’26

Sophia Tang ’25

Front Cover Art

Zamira Marra ’26

Back Cover Art

Lauren Sadka ’26

Printer

Jay Arthur, ProPrint

Typesetting and layout by Julie Gallagher, whom we continue to thank for her marvelous work and generous attention to our magazine year after year.

Copyright © 2023

Boston University Academy Boston, Massachusetts

Editors’ Note

Dearest Readers,

It is with great pride and pleasure that we present the 2023 edition of The Muse, Boston University Academy’s annual literary magazine. The editorial team (Aster, Tatum, and Kaeleen: I love you!) and Lit Mag’s regular meeting attendees have worked tirelessly to make this year’s issue a success, from sharing insightful writing feedback with peers to volunteering hours out of their school days to help revive the Lit Mag literary quote Valentine’s Day fundraiser that last graced BUA the spring of 2020. This year has been the best wild ride of creative chaos and brilliant writing, and this magazine is its bold, beautiful product.

Weekly workshops were bubbly, productive, and filled with laughter. I was continually reminded of how Lit Mag worked its way into my life four years ago as a new freshman at BUA interested in flowery words and niche grammar concepts. It has been a delight watching Lit Mag grow and change, persevering through Covid and all manner of other setbacks with an admirable resilience, remaining a welcoming place where students feel safe sharing their whole selves and developing their voices as both writers and people. Writing is as vulnerable a process as it is valuable, and to have been able to play such an instrumental role as lead editor in paying forward the warm, encouraging spirit of Lit Mag that helped me kindle my own passion for writing all those years ago has been a true honor. I mourn the oval harkness table with Hershey’s kisses and familiar faces that I will not return to next year, but smile thinking of the many other faces that will take my place.

We offer our utmost thanks and appreciation to Ms. Kelly, who stepped up to be our new faculty advisor this year and has been a crucially kind and guiding presence during Lit Mag workshops and as my fellow editors and I tried to navigate the publishing process in the wake of our beloved advisor Dr. Proll’s retirement. A special thanks, too, to all of the artists who contributed the gorgeous works of visual art interspersed throughout the magazine, Ms. Townley, BUA’s visual arts instructor, for her work in facilitating art publication, and Ms. Julie Gallagher, our typesetter and layout designer, who has designed the lovely book you are holding now from cover to cover: formatting to art placement. Lastly, I thank you, readers, for allowing us to share our minds and passions with you — we wish you bon voyage and urge you to keep an open mind for what’s in store for you in these next few pages. We hope they are as much a source

of solace and inspiration for you as they were for us to write and think about together.

One of my favorite literary quotes of all time comes from Sir Francis Bacon which Cornelia Funke lovingly embraces in her novel Inkheart, an epic coming-of-age story about family, books, magic, and everything in between: “Some books should be tasted, some devoured, but only a few should be chewed and digested thoroughly.”

I implore you to savor every majestic flavor of The Muse 2023!

Sally Jamrog

Strangers

I met a stranger on the train: a whimsical entity among polyester chairs

our eyes conversed for our lips never would shared our worlds but not uttered words embraced without touch we spoke the immortal tongue of sonder-stricken souls

Kaeleen Chen ’23

Chocolate Chip Cookies

21⁄4 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened

3⁄4 cup granulated sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 large eggs

2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips

Combine flour, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl.

Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar, and vanilla extract into a larger mixing bowl until creamy.

Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.

Gradually beat in flour mixture and stir in chocolate chips.

Drop by rounded tablespoon onto ungreased baking sheets.

Wonder at how, eventually, those little round mounds of dough will flatten out, expanding. They will reach out and grow though they have no mind and no soul. They will shift, metamorphosing into something different, something new. Never stopping, always changing.

Remember that day, standing in the wood-paneled kitchen, cookie batter on your hands. A black field spaniel wagging her tail and begging for a taste, hoping you’ll cave in. A smile carved onto your lips, cheeks aching as you laugh.

Reflect back on that day that only now seems so long ago. The yearning of a heart, the longing to reach over and close a gap that you’ve only now noticed growing larger and larger, yawning between the two of you. A phone ringing out, a text with no response. The feeling of loss, the heaviness that sinks through your limbs, discoloring the memories, some brighter, some dimmer, never the right shade of gold. Sometimes you wonder if you’d even recognize each other anymore.

Grieve for what once was. Sunny skies, the squeaking of a swingset. Shouts and laughter echoing through the years. Hanging upside down on the monkey bars, lying in the damp grass. Children, the two of you, uncaring toward reality. Two souls entwined, growing up together. Changing separately.

Think about now: worlds apart, though separated by merely a few streets. Streets once roamed under the cover of darkness with only streetlights to guide your way. Ones that seem so vast and empty now, like a chasm unable to be crossed. An empty carnival, filled with only ghosts of memories, whirling, spinning, bright lights flashing in the darkness, melancholy and alone.

Oh, and don’t forget to set the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

Portrait of a Dog with Glasses

Michael Butler ’25

Georgie Linscott ’26

>sequence: sleep

>sequence: sleep

>begin

I’m lying in bed, thinking about the book I’ve just read and wondering, in the morning, what I’ll be fed

it’s positively boring inside my head

>sequence: sleep — ACTIVE

>open file: drifting off

I hear a lost song, a beautiful melody lyrics cut across time I can feel the symphony

>sequence: sleep — ACTIVE

>memory file: drifting off

>delete

FILE SUCCESSFULLY DELETED

>sequence: sleep — ACTIVE

>open file: dreaming

I am in the Riviera, hydrangeas next to me they have a sweet smell, just like the air I’m alone, vague friends are there the pink villa rises above me

the stucco castle reminds me of those lunettes when I was nine, back in Tuscany two people fight, ropes fly

I’m in paradise, land of eternal wish I drown my mouth with tasteless ambrosia they are there!

I draw my knife, and slice off my hair

I’d rather be here than even in California wind in my hair

I have something for you

>sequence: sleep — ACTIVE

>file: dreaming

>memory file: dreaming

>delete

FILE SUCCESSFULLY DELETED

Kaeleen Chen ’23

A Pink Duck on Mercury

Some words in the English language Are far too pretty for their meaning. Like sorrow, farewell, or tragedy, Or pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, And I agree, unless a poet is speaking. Because then I can build worlds only seen In a child’s fantasy.

I can describe a slide to Mars, Or a fish swimming in a tree. I can even wield these words to make someone see A pink duck on mercury. With lovely sentences, words have the might To make a rose bloom or stop a fight. But in my vocabulary, there will never be The words to say goodbye to you.

A Little Monster

Cassie hears giggles and playful screeches as she enters the playground. She clutches her violet science notebook to her chest. Her original plan had been to work on her project with Ms. De Silva, but the laughter drew her out the classroom door and across the yard to where she now stood, watching as the other children’s cheeks dimpled with joy.

Cassie’s sister stands in the center of the group, her head thrown back and a smile on her face. Lia is a year older than Cassie, with lighter hair, darker skin, and a never-ending confidence that often scared her.

Another spout of laughter drowns out Cassie’s frightened, beating heart.

Cassie approaches the small circle and stands between two of her sister’s friends. She manages to squeeze a ‘hi’ into the swelling conversation.

The laughter stops so abruptly that an overhead bird squawks in surprise.

Lia’s eyes look down at Cassie, and whispers surround her. What is she doing here? She’s so little. She better not cry again.

Cassie does indeed feel tears brush her bottom lashes, and turns away so the kids don’t see them. She should’ve known that this laughing, smiling group didn’t like her. No one liked her.

Cassie starts to back away, not meeting Lia’s gaze.

Lia’s nails dig into Cassie’s wrist.

“Stop crying,” Lia hisses through her teeth, an angry blush coloring her cheeks. “You’re embarrassing.”

Cassie pulls her wrist from Lia’s grasp and feels her skin twist. She runs as fast and far as she can. The wetness on her cheeks shames her. She is overdramatic, awkward, and embarrassing.

Cassie finds herself near Ms. De Silva’s room. The science teacher startles as she quietly enters. Cassie keeps her head down, hoping her teacher won’t see her sadness, though its shadow looms over her.

Ms. De Silva doesn’t leave her desk.

Grateful, Cassie sits down on her favorite purple bean bag. Ms. De Silva lets Cassie’s tears fall, then approaches. She quietly pats Cassie’s back and presents her with something. Cassie clasps it in her tear-soaked, eightyear-old hands.

A little monster smiles cutely at her.

Crocheted with vibrant hues of yarn and sporting different-sized and -colored eyes, it is something Cassie will never forget. This little monster will follow her for the rest of her life.

Flower Bauble

Sally Jamrog ’23

“It’s Pouring Outside”

Raindrops trace my eyelids, mingling with the salt cradled at their corners. They dribble down my cheeks and pool in the hollows of my ears. The Wet feels for bare skin, spreading across the crimson fibers of my t-shirt, hungry, clinging, wanting more . . until I know I’m soaked.

The Wet doesn’t comfort the way I expect it to (if one can expect anything from a rainstorm with its own agendas). I didn’t expect this greediness. It’s cold and bores like a clammy drill into my bones until I gasp and wonder why the flowers seem to smile at the ashen sky: how this frigid grasp could ever coax things to life.

I look down at the ink fleeing from my scuffed Converse. Little purple Sharpie stars leaking into the gutter . . . plink, plunk . . . plink, plunk . . . and my thoughts careen downward, into the pipes where there’s no sleepy streetlamp glow to guide them. Headlights swish past like disembodied owl eyes, yellow and luminous yet stoic, keeping to themselves. I close my eyes again. . . .

A light beams into existence not far behind me. Skin shields my irises from the way its brightness threatens the shadows beginning to pool amid the puddles of Wet and rain. Its glow is infectious, though. Other porch lights bloom in the Wet under roofs and overhangs until I open my eyes, and I see how they prosper, unwavering and multitudinous.

My mind’s spiral deepens, then abates, and my thoughts gradually clamber out of the sewer drain, their whispery fingers gripping the rusted iron bars of the gutter grate against the current. I stoop, feeling my knees grind against the sidewalk, and with goose pimpled fingers, help each one find its feet again. One . . . two . . . five . . . twelve . . . and together they follow me inside.

For the Unseen

It’s not you. Trust me when I say . . . It really isn’t you.

It’s hard to believe, Because you look at her and think I know three things to be true:

1. She has a thigh gap

2. He likes her

3. He doesn’t like me Coincidence? I think not.

If only you had her nose and her cheeks, But not that a**, of course. If only you had controlled yourself then, You stupid girl. You were too forward, weren’t you? You didn’t giggle enough. You didn’t kneel on both knees to the ground, Close enough to see the frayed edges of the carpet, Proffering your packaged and polished self To the altar of Man.

You love that game, The one where you pluck the petals Off the daisy

While guessing whether He loves me, Or He loves me not.

To Him, you are the flower, He might pick the prettiest one While avoiding the thorny rose, Or He might want the one that smells like a summer’s day. But they all die just the same, don’t they? Wilting slowly amongst the others in the bunch. The Collection

No longer connected:

No longer rooted in the ground. What used to be alive is now a part of the aesthetic.

They say a flower dies once its color fades, And its petals fall to the floor. But doesn’t the flower

Die the moment its roots are ripped from the dirt?

It seems to have a radiant blossom And smells like a summer’s day, Well preserved, like a doll. A rabbit shot and killed for sport, Stuffed and cleaned And placed on the shelf.

Pretty, silly girl: Why then do you weep, If you’re still safe from that fate? Is it because you weren’t chosen?

You must think: She’s dead and gone. But at least They saw her. And soon I’ll be dead and gone, And I’ll lie by the brookside Dead just the same.

You are the apple picked from the tree; No worms have infested your body yet. He bites into you And spits you out — you’re too bitter. You’re thrown on the ground, And you turn a lovely shade of brown. You rot.

You are the preserved scroll in the glass box At the gallery. Don’t touch, they say, Only look. She’s hanging on her last thread. Touch her, And she’s ruined.

To go unnoticed is a death sentence. To be seen is to be killed. They will find you eventually.

Nonetheless, your morbid curiosity compels you. You have to know why Nothing works without reason. So, you pat the blush on your sunken cheeks, Spray Daisy by Marc Jacobs on your neck, and apply the bandages to your heels As you walk out the door.

Kate Dickinson ’23

I have heard of the giants, of course. Most everyone has — a story from a cousin of a friend or something. But few have actually seen them. It’s surprising: their size is what makes them so difficult to see. They cannot reach our houses, can barely even see them most of the time. And the houses they presumably have are too big for us to even conceptualize, so we cannot locate them.

The giants are not particularly violent. If one sees you, they will most likely attempt to kill you, but seeing you and killing you are both very hard tasks for them considering how large they are. Only if you are stupid do you get killed.

But food has been scarce, and I’m a dumb teenager. So I leave my home, leave my town, and go out into the plains. They are barren.

I think I see something, smell something, but after hours of walking, I find it is a rock or a stream or an illusion of my hungered mind.

I have just finished my mid-day rest when the ground shakes beneath me. I do not fall, I am too agile and strong still for that, but I start to run. The ground only rumbles when a giant is near.

The ground rumbles again, bigger this time. I spare a glance behind me and see it, hulking and disgusting. They are not like us — they are malformed and featureless. Clumsy and stubby and gross.

It seems to be looking at me with the barely-there eyes it has.

It is holding one of their preferred shields. Something like paper — something like cloth. From the stories, this means it intends to kill me with its . . . one of its sections of meaty, disproportionate legs. Or arms. It is too hard to tell the difference with the giants. The shield is just so they don’t touch me directly.

I am going so fast, faster than I’ve ever moved in my life, even in my games with my siblings, the races in the backyard, or my smaller hunts for food.

It misses me. The one benefit of the giants is that while they are huge, they are slow and dumb which gives me a chance.

But in this plain, I can’t see any civilization. There’s nowhere even to hide, no forest or overhang or anything. Just flat in all directions with the giant covering the sky.

Oh god. I’m going to die here.

I’m going to f***ing die.

I’m never going to see Annabelle again, my parents will never know what happened, Billy will miss me, be confused what happened, oh god, oh god, oh-

Michael Bulter ’25

Linocut Side Profile

Hand-Held-Bridge

Coco Mueller ’26

how different

the encompassing feeling of being alone it’s a feeling I’ve known, a feeling at home

I live in my world that’s made up of clocks I try to run somewhere before the clicks stop

when I look at two mirrors, I cannot see me when my mirror looks back all he sees is a ‘she’

and humanity’s better from the outside in so my heart’s on my sleeve as it always has been

click accept all on each cookie given make sure to ready the Epinephrine

always stand up against hypocrisy but not here, not now, not against me

so tell me these worries and pour out those woes please try to fit emotion into poems and prose

Finn Hoebelheinrich ’25

The Corn Maze

The sun beat down into your car from directly above, creating an atmosphere that was just hot enough to be unpleasant. Not for the first time on the trip you wished you had functioning AC. You kept your eyes focused on the winding road ahead of you, the silence in the car only broken by the occasional monotone input of the (dubiously helpful) GPS voice. The landscape stretched on in all directions—you were in one of those remarkably uninteresting parts of the country in which it seemed some great force had flattened the earth and with it any potential landmarks.

You were on your way to one of those family reunions no one seemed to care about and yet everyone seemed to attend. The drive was supposed to take about four hours—give or take—but here you were, four hours later, with nothing except the occasional scraggly roadside bush within sight. To make matters worse, because, of course, this would happen to you in the middle of god***n nowhere, your car began to slow and finally puttered to a complete stop. Noticing the flashing gas indicator for the first time, you uttered some choice words before getting out of the car to see if you could get cell service (you couldn’t).

You sighed heavily and leaned against the door before abruptly standing up again—was that a fair in the distance? It was just barely visible but unmistakably some sort of carnival. You briefly wondered why there was a fair of all things with nothing else for miles, but it didn’t really matter—it meant there were people, people who could hopefully help you get out of here and to your destination. With a sigh, you started walking down the dusty road toward the colorful spot in the distance.

After what felt like an hour but was probably not more than ten minutes, you came to the entrance of what was, indeed, a small county fair. As to be expected from your surroundings, it was not very busy—the largest attraction seemed to be the rather unimpressive corn maze, with a few other booths scattered around the dusty field. In retrospect, “fair” was perhaps a strong word. But there were people, and that was what mattered. You approached one of the booth owners, asking if they knew how to get hold of a tow company. They didn’t, but their brother had a truck, they said, and they could call him and ask him to come by if that would work for you? It did work for you, you were pleased to tell them, although it would take a couple of extra hours. You thanked the vendor and perused

the stalls, looking for anything that might catch your eye. Eventually, after you’d been around to each stall twice and nothing had piqued your interest, you decided you might as well check out the corn maze. You had always liked mazes as a kid—something about having to find your own way out had thrilled you—and while this one looked a bit on the small side, it would likely still be fun. Not like there was much else to do, anyway. You approached the person at the entrance, handed them the two-dollar entry fee, and then you were in the maze.

Immediately, you realized that the corn was taller than it had seemed from the outside, and the maze itself much larger. You turned back to look the way you came and were startled to see it barely visible in the distance—you didn’t feel like you’d walked that far at all. You shrugged and kept going, turning when necessary. The old strategy of sticking to the right wall came back to you suddenly, and you decided to follow this instinct, running your hand along the side and feeling the papery leaves and stalks brush against your palm. It had been a dry year, and the rough plants scratched at your skin, not quite hard enough to bleed. The sun continued to beat down from above, but the tall stalks provided a welcome relief from the suffocating, breezeless heat.

The gentle sound of the corn rustling calmed you, and soon enough, your thoughts started to drift to more routine things, and you stopped paying attention to your surroundings—figuring as long as you kept your hand on the right side, you’d be fine. By the time you came to your senses, you realized you had no idea where the path was. You could see nothing but corn in all directions and wondered how long it had been since you had strayed. You were hungry, thirsty, and tired, and it felt like you’d been in the maze for hours. Looking up at the sun, you frowned—it had barely moved from its position in the middle of the sky. You shrugged and pushed on through the corn, thinking you might as well try to find your way back. Two minutes later, or at least what felt like two minutes later, the sky was tinged with orange as dusk began to fall over the world.

At one point, you thought you stumbled upon a path—the corn was trampled, and you thought you could even see human footprints. You followed it for a while. By the third time you passed the same bent stalk, you realized you had been going in circles. It was odd, you thought, because you didn’t remember turning.

The corn rustled, you realized all of a sudden. There was no wind, and the whole cornfield rustled. You walked on, uneasy now, footfalls making gentle thuds as you crushed the discarded husks underneath. It’s nearly

sunrise now—wasn’t it just setting? You were hungry, so hungry. It felt like your stomach was trying to claw itself out from inside you. You reached up to grab a ripe cob to tide you over. You’d nearly finished it by the time you realized it provided neither taste nor sustenance.

You walk on. You aren’t sure how long it’s been, now. Sometimes it feels like just hours, sometimes days. You haven’t slept or eaten, but you’re still alive, so you reason that it can’t have been too long. Briefly, you wonder about your car—has the truck arrived yet?—but then you keep walking. What else can you do? It is night now. The corn isn’t rustling anymore. The stalks provide no relief from the merciless moon. You hear something behind you, just quiet enough to make you question if the sound was a figment of your imagination. You turn to look, and there is nothing there—you hope. You walk on. There’s so much corn. How is there so much corn? The only thing you can hear now is your own footsteps.

You wonder why you’re not tired anymore. Step.

You wonder how long you’ve been in the cornfield. Step.

You wonder why you entered the cornfield in the first place. Step.

You wonder what’s outside the cornfield. Step.

You wonder if the footsteps are your own. Step.

You wonder who you are. Step.

You wonder . . . Step.

Who are you? Step.

You wonder why it matters. Step. Step. Step. Silence.

The corn rustles. There is no wind, and the whole cornfield rustles. It is empty.

Ink Still Life

Kaeleen Chen ’23

Nature’s Symphony

She led me into the darkness, An angel cloaked in light. As crickets sang a sweet lullaby, And the brook babbled back.

The forest beckoned her forwards When it usually turned me away. Come forth, come forth, it whispered, As its branches gracefully swayed.

She danced in meadows at twilight, Tiny clovers braided in her hair, Twirling above the darkened Earth, Her feet barely skimming the ground.

When she leapt, she seemed to reach the sky, A silver glow cupped in her palm, Where her only friends were fireflies And her home among the stars.

Despite the light years separating them, They smiled on her too, As they waltzed to nature’s symphony, Their distance hidden by the dark.

Sally Jamrog ’23

Rhapsody (!)

That purple lace: the one with the embroidered pansies tucked into your plaited crown, braided amongst the heads of buttercups, honeysuckle, and dandelions, long wondered about and long imagined, until the day I felt it between my fingertips, the feeling of weaving something precious to you through the loom of my knuckles (over, under, over, under) now known and cherished. I can now revise my fantasy (pansies, not daisies!), my mind reeling in circles, your mouth undoing mine.

side effects

what was I saying?

oh yes— of course, it’s not you, I know, I know. it’s what you represent: the non-consensual innuendo I’ve installed to replace that boy I never liked with a man who meets my standards. still, I sit with you, and I shake, shake like I do touching that rock in the woods, because I can’t bear to be near a being of such unbridled ability. how can I, weak little boy, face the very face of love? of that which is forbidden? that face shows no motion. but surely the presence of such power has surpassed passion. truly you are beyond me, and every moment of failed comprehension pushes you further towards ascendancy.

I know that’s not you, you’re not god, and I don’t care. actually, the reminders of your mortality stimulate me, turn me on, prove my point. for surely there is no greater being than an eros who has not done his laundry in a month. I want to deny this the label of ‘objectification,’ and I am very good at denying what I do not wish to be true. therefore, this is love: every moment spent assessing my assignments of being and knowing absolutely how irreplaceable you are.

Alia Jaeger ’24

Figure Study

Aster Gamarnik ’23

Distractions

Little lilac ballroom, furniture drowned in white, Fantastical fairies, fluffy stuffies, and pretty flower fields.

Monday: tea party with Belle, Tuesday: ballet class with Polly, In my little lilac ballroom, these distractions kept me safe. Count the pink spots on your carpet dear. How about you write down those dreams in here. Maybe if you focus on what’s important, These silly little troubles will disappear. But when the tea goes cold, the biscuits stale, And my head grows dizzy from twirling all day, Boredom tears down my ballroom’s walls — To pry the distractions out of my palms.

I sit and peel the lilac paint, To reveal an arsenic green.

Ada Habip ’25

Octopus

Your eyes were acorns, Smooth gazes, tucking in trifles of apathy. Reason and rage now contend to be the blanket.

Your lips were roses, Once dressed in imminent blooms of haze: Now merlot-wine-spilling thorns.

Your arms were tentacles, Suctioning to moments of mellifluity And suffocating them in fleeting time.

Your legs were earthquakes: They couldn’t help but intrude past our forever.

Acorns aren’t around this time of winter, Roses won’t show until spring, Octopuses, maybe in the summer,

And I only feel your aftershock in empty space.

On Misanthropy (?) and the Aesthetic (!)

How does that one poem go?

That one from the movie?

“I hate the way you talk to me And the way you cut your hair...”

“I hate you so much it makes me sick...”

“I hate it when you make me laugh, Even worse when you make me cry...”

Something something .

“ But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, Not even close, Not even a little bit, Not even at all.”

Feelings, feelings, feelings

Grand and Trite. End-all-be-alls

For the average teen.

I am no average teen. I am an untouchable rock. A pillar of strength and solitude. I am a Misanthrope.

School? Boys? Life? No (!), I am the Nauseous Man. Stoicism, Buddhism, Lyricism

Please teach me all the -isms, For that knowledge keeps afloat

A boat on splitting, nebulous glass That sails through foggy air.

See, the key to life

Is to never use it. Don’t open the door. That’s when the questions appear: The problems, the quagmires, the dilemmas.

The . . feelings. Take a chill pill, man, And when the body feels removed from “Reality,”

When the mind is at the door, And the a** is on the couch, Don’t worry

When your patience for HoSaps (Homosapiens, for the unenlightened) Has a fuse as short As a bright and sunny morning, And information does not readily register Whether spoken once or thrice, Don’t worry.

When you can’t bring yourself To hate or cry or scream or love Or care or sleep or pray or loathe, Don’t worry. It’s all part of the process!

Eat words (they don’t matter). Rot your brain

With unending music (until it becomes drivel). Media will be your best friend.

Days will get longer and shorter: You will be as immovable as time itself, And isn’t that just the best way to live?

Sally Jamrog ’23

Acquaintance

Annie is sticky from eating moonbeams by the time we spot her face beaming between the boughs of a silver maple. A gleaming liquid dribbles down her chin, her eyes fixed and round.

From the forest floor, Charlotte points and grins wickedly at me over her shoulder as we finally cease the search for our missing friend. She begins to make elaborate wafting motions with her hands, and then closes her eyes, pretending to suck each of her fingers as if they’ve been dipped in honey. She finishes with a puff of mock satisfaction and quiet, burbling laughter.

I’m smiling, smelling something saccharine on the air: almost sap or syrup yet tangy and somehow metallic, like tarnished silver.

The cool night strokes our arms and legs, leaving chilly seeds and gardening goosebumps.

We watch and wait, the glee slipping from our cheeks as Annie rises from her perch and stands, glowing against the inky sky. Her pale, ruffled nightgown flutters down to her bare ankles and flaps around her in the breeze. She stretches a single arm toward the luminous half-moon floating in the dark.

Desperation hollows Annie’s cheeks. Lips parted to slurp from the moon, the lines of her body tense toward the sky. Woven into the orchestral thrum of the crickets’ evening debut, “A Cool Night in August,” she’s the conductor and we are her rapt audience, awed and separate.

She wants and craves and doesn’t find . . . and for a few moments, she’s unrecognizable.

We’re mournful then.

Later, when she clambers down to meet us, and when the last of her sweet moonbeam grace has dripped and drained back into the night’s deep ocean, she is different.

And differently sticky.

Emmanuel Smirnakis ’23

Flavors of Heraklion

The night breeze brushes across concrete facades and low-hanging tree leaves, a blend of Heraklion’s many scents: stale motorcycle gas, fire-roasted chestnuts, cigarette smoke, and a splash of sea salt. I pass scenes of shadow puppetry on the gravel sidewalk, depicting dancers with arms interlocked and couples gazing out over apartment terraces. Embedded in the jungle of city structures lies an oasis: a restaurant lit by strings of golden bulbs and warmed by the energetic hum of overlapping conversation.

I step inside.

Waiters and waitresses slide tables together in their white aprons, accommodating large families, friends, and neighbors. I walk by as vibrant words spill from the mouths of an abstract array of characters, all intermingling and sharing their personal experiences with each other. Colorful stories flow in running streams down the folds of tablemats, alighting in the minds of each relation. Reels of images roll behind wide eyes as fantastical sentences are strung together by the voices of taletellers.

The tight-knit communal atmosphere of storytelling and deep relationships is brought out by the food. A tapestry of flavors, smells, and hues lies spread-out on countless silver platters, passed around in constant motion from hands of all shades and textures. The variety of individuals and their words matches the diversity of dishes served at the table. At one end, Baba’s golden ring glints under the rosy lamplight as he pours a viscous scoop of thick, creamy risotto onto his powder-blue plate. The lyricism in his speech reflects his taste for seasoning, as he spices up the course with a shake of salt and pepper and a light sprinkle of cinnamon. At another plate, my close friend and younger cousin each dip a grape leaf dolma in the traditional tzatziki sauce, sharing a bite of the crunchy leaf leading to the soft rice roll inside.

After the vibrant parade of appetizers comes the meat. The rate of words rushing down the eloquent tongues of customers reaches its peak. Thias and thios dig their forks into the main dishes, spearing a couple of gardoumakia. This Cretan treat of boiled lamb small intestines wrapped into coils and served with egg-lemon sauce blesses the taste buds with a soft and savory burst of flavor. The sense of stories and connections between people is evident in the way they share food. In Greece, people

do not order dishes for themselves, but engage in an exploration of their appetites by taking portions of the numerous courses in the middle.

In an example of Cretan hospitality, a dessert of myzithropites, watermelon, and cake is granted to our table on the house. As the beautifully chaotic energy of the day begins to wind down, our jaws sink into honey-drizzled cheese pies and ecstasy soothes our active minds. The refreshment of summer is embodied in the slices of cold, juicy watermelon that make up the final delicacy of the evening. A meal at Erganos is not just a gustatory experience; it’s an all-encompassing odyssey of the senses, Cretan community, and age-old tradition.

Anna Augart-Welwood ’23

Skull Still Life

The Rules

1. Do not go out alone at night.

2. Do not go out alone.

3. If you must go out alone, bring your dog.

a. Be ready to let go of the leash and run.

4. Do not welcome a dog that appears on your front porch.

a. If it is your dog waiting on the porch, stay inside.

i. It is not your dog.

ii. Your dog was dead from the moment you stepped outside alone.

5. If a stranger offers you some jam, count their fingers.

a. 9 or less: it is safe to take. It will be delicious and sate your appetite well.

b. 11 or more: politely decline.

c. Exactly 10: walk away without saying a word. Do not look back.

6. Gentlemen must never accept the invitation of someone with sharp teeth.

7. Do not accept meat whose origin you are not absolutely certain of.

8. Five dollars is not an adequate sum to pay the toll man.

a. Slightly relatedly, it is in fact enough for the tall man! He appreciates the company.

i. He needs the company. Be kind to him. Please. He needs it as much as you do.

9. Maps lie to you far more often than you think they do.

10. Red lines are safe to follow. Yellow will get you killed.

a. Be careful on streets.

11. The toll man may look like he has your dog. He does not.

a. Please don’t try to get that dog back — you’ll get hurt.

i. Your dog is gone. I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do.

12. Allow your eyes to slide off of others’. Forced looking will be received poorly.

a. Maybe you are not supposed to see their eyes, hmm?

13. Be kind. If you cannot, be polite. If you cannot, you’d better be lucky and fast.

14. The cottage between the meadows and the forest is safe.

a. The man inside has tea. He thinks it’s good, but he has had no one to try it and find out, so he does not know.

i. The tea, at least, is safe. Everything there is safe. He will protect you as best as he can.

15. Do not eat any peaches. They do not grow here naturally, and no one ships them in.

16. You are not the only lonely one. It may be worth the risk to try and find others.

a. Being with someone is safer, anyway.

17. Crisp, clean suits are impossible here. Anyone who has one is untrustworthy.

a. It may be trickery, or they may just be rich and spoiled. Both are bad, no?

18. Mud can be used as a salve.

a. Preferably wetted with rain, but any liquid will do in a punch.

i. In a poncho? A panache? I am . . . not sure.

19. The sun is safe.

a. Relatively. As much as any passive thing can be safe.

i. Passivity can be kind. Or cruel. What do you think it was for Icarus? Perhaps seeing the sun was worth the crash of the ocean. I don’t know.

20. Do not go out alone at night. Please.

Kaeleen Chen ’23

Crushed beneath a bulbous mind, I lie. The Dark rushed in through tears inside my mind. With a soft smile, I was ushered from my confines. He put a finger to his lips and hushed me as the embers died.

Hush child, He whispered, soft as velvet in my ear. I’m here to usher you, return you home To a place of night. Now rush, or you’ll be trapped alone. Just take my hand and come with me, or I’ll be crushed, my dear.

My hopes! My dreams, my lights were crushed and gone. But when for his hand I reached—in rushed Fire, glowing full of life! It slew the Dark and ushered me from fractured claws of strife. No longer hushed, I turned and fled into the healing dawn and light.

And, thus, the hush of Darkness broke in shattered gleam. The embers glowed and ushered me into a burst of something new. I was free, alive as day! The light rushed in as the Dark withdrew. Now in radiant flames, I stand, no longer crushed.

Finn Hoebelheinrich ’25

Linocut Moth

How can I part with this beautiful sky?

The glowing embers of a once passionate fire, pink foam caresses a periwinkle sea: the final glimpse at a life’s worth of daydreams.

A proud sun erupts, vermillion in its last attempt to scream Please, pay attention to me. Please? I only appreciated its angry words once they were the last.

I stretch out my trembling fingers and childishly clench the parting light’s rays, yanking them like tethers. But you can never pull away the loose string on a sweater.

I scour for that magic, head-turning, time-stopping, Hallmark movie, deus ex machina phrase. Uttering those words is not enough to say — Goodbye.

As vibrant paints melt off the aether’s canvas, I wonder if it will miss me the way I do.

When the last traces of its warmth part with my skin, I smile and say, The sunset was beautiful, wasn’t it?