Prologue

Letter From the Editors

Dear Reader,

This year, faced with tension and isolation, we have turned to art and expression more than ever. The mindset that, through community and self-reflection, we can persevere and find beauty in small moments has guided our approach to this edition of The Rough Draft. As many of us graduate from the security of childhood into the terrifying environment of adulthood, we are navigating the coexistence of nostalgia for the past and wariness for the future. Every story, told through writing or art, carries a unique and personal significance which then resonates differently with all who experience it.

After reading this year’s submissions, it became clear that the Flint Hill community was experiencing a similar sense of nostalgia, a paradox of freedom and captivity. We received truly incredible work, and the increasing length of The Rough Draft reflects the difficult process of selecting pieces for publication. Working in a virtual setting provided its own set of challenges, but we are so proud of the work our team has accomplished; we believe that The Rough Draft is a student publication in every sense.

On the very special anniversary of 20 volumes, we present a chronicle of three acts. Within them exist sentiments of a time period that will shape a generation. We share the anger, yearning, confusion, grief, and resilience of this community through the art they have shared with us. We hope you enjoy this year’s literary magazine, and that you, too, can find moments to treasure as we all discover what it means to move forward.

— The Senior Editors

“Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition” — James Baldwin

you’ve grown up

Emily Townsend

nostalgia is an Unwelcome Guest––an estranged friend, a distant relative who shows up at your door with a sheepish grin, a suitcase, and a sob story. it sits down in the big leather chair in the corner of the room, kicking off its loafers and casually sipping iced tea. (it plans to stay awhile.)

childhood left a long time ago, buzzing out the door at age sixteen, like a swarm of flies in the sweltering summer, like a kid with brand-new car keys, like nothing you could ever understand. childhood returns for a sad show-and-tell; its pitiful remains are laid out on the kitchen table, displayed for crowds of nosy neighbors to see at the annual holiday party.

behold! the remnants of innocence: headless Barbie Dolls and chocolate-smeared letters to Santa, the cookie jar with the chipped lid, your favorite grass-stained corduroys. fluorescent ceiling stars & stuffed animals & secrets, stubby colored pencils and dainty construction-paper crowns. photo-booth strips from the arcade, sticky hands, kindergarten sweetness. (this is all you have to show for yourself?)

proceed with caution: you will never be 6 years old again. you will never be 16 years old again.

nostalgia is an Unwelcome Guest, but it plans to stay awhile, so you might as well scoot over and make room on the couch. there’s plenty of iced tea for everyone. (but please, no tears tonight––we have company.)

Act