2023 Vibrato

DEAR READER,

There is no one emotion that provokes creation. Positive or negative, firm or fluctuating, any feeling can give rise to art. Even on that wide spectrum, the same emotion in two different people will never result in identical products. So what happens when you take a school of teenagers with vibrant, dynamic feelings and you attempt to embody them in one book? There is no perfect reflection of a student body, but just like a rainbow suggests the existence of all other colors, the selection of art, literature, photography, and media that we have collected in this edition of Vibrato alludes to not only the experiences echoed between the covers of this book but also those that are not directly expressed. Like a rainbow includes a broad range of colors and shades, we hope that this book evokes the diverse experiences, perspectives, and identities represented by the creators in our student body.

The Summoning - Jessica Chung

The Heart - Neha Gottimukkula

Over the Horizon - Angela Fan

Kintsugi - Diya Cadambe

When You Left Me - Caroline Stevens

Harvest - Elise Cho

What My Momma Told Me - Princess Ogiemwonyi

Plastic Grocery Bags - Annie Hurley

Interstellar Mirage - Lillian Rubarts

Pretty as a Princess, Ugly as a Maid - Anya Aggarwal

Hidden Treasures - Princess Ogiemwonyi

Seasons of Shakespearean Love - Jessica Chung

Tarot Cards - Elle Chavis

The Woman Beyond Her Skin - Princess Ogiemwonyi

Impressions of Haldi - Danya Risam-Chandi

A Memory Immortal - Christina Dong

Queer Magnetism - Annie Hurley

Autumn - Christina Dong

Grievous Gold, Ominous Ore - Angelina Dong

Grandma’s Old Loquat Tree - Tonye Zhang

Mass Murderer’s Magic - Danya Risam-Chandi

Whole - Tyler Kinkema

Hockaday Feminist Essay - Aubrey Burns

Blank Space - Elle Chavis

Salt to the Sea - Elle Chavis

When [] Open [] Eyes - Elise Cho

Katie Longlegs - Madeline Chun

Crossroads Baby - Sonali Konda

The Great Language Barrier Reef - Angelina Dong

Shrine - Elle Chavis

Youthful - Anika Proddutoor

Sailing Summers - Stella Monteiro

A Dove - Elise Cho

Snow on a Busy Street - Khushi Gohel

Memories of my Home - Anonymous

Glacier - Kaitlyn Chen

My Dearest Enemy - Elise Cho

Apocryphal Deaths - Annie Hurley

Horror Story of Nest Flies - Annie Hurley

Seasonal - Anjali Konda Nightfalls - Elise

Blackberries and Ginger Ale - Sonali Konda

I am not a Poet - Princess Ogiemwonyi

I Love You So Mush - Emily McShane Walking on Glass - Asha Gudipaty

116-117

118-119

Bubble - Ava Bob

Path in the Dark - Sasha Kitson

Autumn - Eva Spak

Blumishütte - Lola Barnard

Intersecting - Jessica Cai

Levitate - Caroline Stevens

DREAMS 4 - Eva Spak

Kaleidoscope - Sasha Kitson

A Parallel World - Kristy Chen

Spiraling - Kristy Chen

Clutter - Caroline Stevens

Nomadic Life - Kristy Chen

Neon - Bridget Qiu

Winter - Eva Spak

Pleats of Dawn - Julia Zhao

Railway - Anisha Sharma

Golden Leaves - Diya Cadambe

Man vs. Nature - Sasha Kitson

Wedding - Jordan Hanna

Half-Illuminated - Christina Ding

Arizona - Sasha Kitson

Droplets - Anjali Konda

Water - Jessica Cai

Fallen Petals - Paige Glowacki

Through the Alps - Lola Barnard

Trapped - Audrey Liu

Tucked Away- Nina Ohler

In Motion - Maia Hartley

Mountain and Lake - Anisha Sharma

Bird’s Eye View - Shruthi Juttu

Paris - Alice Navarro

Bonfire - Sasha Kitson

Light Reading - Tianxin Xie

Still (2) - Paige Glowacki

Zenith - Tianxin Xie

DREAMS 1 - Eva Spak

Birds Silhouetted - Mabry Dawson

Back Into The Mountain - Diya Cadambe

Daybreak - Tianxin Xie

Curiosity - Sasha Kitson Spring - Eva Spak

Open Invitation - Alia Chand

A Swim in Iridescence -

Balance - Eva Spak

Flee - Emily McShane

My Eye - Olivia Zambrano

Taj - Siri Cherukuri

Lanterns - Vicky Santana

Kaleidoscope - Vivian Sun

Narrow Escape - Diya Hegde

The

- Emily

THE SUMMONING

Jessica Chung

Come brothers, Come sisters.

Come madams, girls, boys, and misters. Come, for the newborn sun awaits Her people to open the enclosed, heavenly gates. Let us rise together in this blizzard and fight, though it may be a treacherous, long, gruesome night. Join hand in hand to reach the foregone conclusion of bliss, or stay by thyself and be deemed as worthless. Sacrifice your safety to the greatest of great lengths, But fear not, for you will find in each other a rising tower of strengths. What is done is done, and we may not change the hummingbird’s hums, But let us unite for something wicked this way comes When our time has reached its end, and we hold onto a singular breath, You will know and feel the joy in the purpose of your gallant, untimely death.

Let rise the sun over the horizon, Let chirp the birds atop high branches, Let day awaken, And bask

In warm rays of sunlight, In peace knowing, That sun rises every morning. Through clouded sky

Through rushing rain

Through turbulent tides That sun rises, Then sets. With trust

See past the lightless hours of today To the unbounded tomorrow

For whether we wish it or not, Time flows on Today turns to yesterday And yet tomorrow rises the sun Over the horizon.

INTERSECTING | JESSICA CAI | PHOTOGRAPHY

KINTSUGI

Diya Cadambe

All they see are the fractures. The scraggly, twisting rifts in your body. They see Lichtenberg burns crackling along your being, unceasing and undying.

They say Franklin himself studied your lightning. I think so too. But not because of the jagged, endless crevices. I mean the spark in your eyes that rival any fraud key and kite experiment.

The fissures in your body should be studied by the greatest minds. But please, save the ones in your heart for me. Unlike them, I won’t scorn them, I won’t sneer in disdain at them. I won’t hide your imperfections.

I’ll make them like the rest of you.

Flawed. Beautiful. Breathtaking.

Imperfect. Jaw-dropping. Divine.

Liquid gold drips out of a cup onto your coffee skin. Emphasizing the cracks. Highlighting the fissures. Focusing on the fractures

The contrast of your skin and your perfect flaws make me gasp. You always have been beautiful, but I can’t take my eyes off you.

My eyes wander along the sparkling ruptures. I know you see them reflected in my eyes. I know you have to face them after all you’ve done to avoid it.

But I’m here.

I’m looking at your cracks.

I’m pouring the blood of the gods into them, to make you shine like the star you’ve always been.

Gleaming like glass. Shining like silver. Glistening like gold.

Cracked under pressure, but mended like kintsugi.

WHEN YOU LEFT ME

Caroline

Stevens

Lying flat

Arms out wide

Embracing the warm breeze that falls upon me

Crickets chirping

Quiet winds whistling by Ocean waves still and mellow

I exhale

Relaxing my whole body, feeling each grain of sand pressing

Against my skin

Your laugh is like the summer rain

I so thoroughly enjoy

Pattering on my forehead

I don’t mind

I can hear the ocean waves crash softly

Washing in and out

Like the way new conversations arise between us

Sand all over

In my hair, between my toes

I don’t mind

I found a seashell

Pink and ridged

It echoed of such harmony and grace

Like you did before

Leaving me all alone, in a place I’ve never been before

You didn’t come back

I do mind

This time

HARVEST

i squint over the lights, fluorescence haloing your head, and when my eyes slide shut, i see you smeared on the lids: you, eclipsing the sun. it seems so simple in your hands. while clothes split down sown lines, no easy seams were stitched on skin. but in quick flicks of silver — white light glancing, breath catching — you undo me. in glistening carmine lines — tugging the thread, peeling me out — my tangles unravel on the table, life fluttering under motion, touches skimming, unbruising. you're gentlest on your work.

| ANNIE HURLEY | ACRYLIC & PAINT PENS ON CANVAS

Elise Cho

Princess Ogiemwonyi

When writing this poem I tried to look at the moments and people in my life that taught me to love and no matter what I did I would always go back to one person my mom Because my momma always said baby love can solve everything and I never really believed her because honestly if love could solve everything why is there war and why are there people crying and dying and so much more and all she would do is smile and look down she would tell me baby I love you, my momma would always say baby love can move mountains so love big and I would always retort with if love is so powerful why can’t it make all pain go away and why can’t it make all parents stay and those times she would look down with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes and say baby child of mine I love you my mother always tells me to love myself she always says if you can’t love yourself no one else can except for me because I’m your mother and you’re stuck with me and I always try and listen but it is not always easy in a world that tells me I’m not its standard beauty and I know it might sound dumb but that stuff really gets to me but I try I wake up every day and tell myself I’m beautiful and worthy of any love I receive even on the worst days even when I don’t fully believe it I’m always astonished with the amount of love my mother seems to have I mean she is so full of love that she made it her last name and every time I ask her why her response is because there was a time in my life where I didn’t think I had any so I made it my last name now it will never leave me so it would always be with me and even though I’ve seen my mother cry and can only imagine the amount of pain she’s been through its always in those moments where she says isn’t love amazing doesn’t it just fill your soul doesn’t it make you want to sing and dance across the room and I can honestly say I’m not quite there yet but I try to be and so in those moments on those days I try to remember what my momma always told me.

If stories are plastic grocery bags, then my mind is the cabinet underneath our kitchen sink: positively crammed with them, yet, always collecting more.

Annie Hurley

Lillian Rubarts

when i’m alone, i can see the stars. i close my eyes my lids forming a perfect circle until they crumple into each other that’s when my eyelashes slash through my cheeks like shurikens, muscles straining so my lids stay together, but they’re a proton and an electron they never want to be near each other, so it hurts.

but my world doesn’t darken, oh no, it brightens.

phosphors of gooey plasma obscure the blackness, amalgamating into lustrous clouds of colors mixing and melding together until they reach their brightest, thenthere, i can see them! the stars! they’re little dots dancing, laughing and radiating with joy like little lightning bugs playing tag. they want to join hands when they catch each other so that they can reach beyond this world and stay together forever, but it hurts.

because they can’t quite reach each other’s hands yet, the stars glow even brighter. their light uncurls like fingers from a fist extending into a twirling diamond desperate to hold each other, becauseall they want is to be bonded together forever and be more than just a mere singularity but that’s unrealistic. there’s a certain beauty in them indulging in their fantasy but no matter how far they run, their light remains years apart from each other they’ll never make it, and it hurts.

the colors contort into hideous shades of stormy grays then those clouds overtake all vision. the stars flicker like candles burning out, their dream was always ephemeral, after all. so they don’t try anymore. they turn away from each other escaping my eyes in the colors’ pouring rainfall dripping from my shurikens to dampen my cheeks. i open my eyes and i reenter a world of darkness. alone. it hurts.

PRETTY AS A PRINCESS, UGLY AS A MAID

PERSPECTIVE FROM CINDERELLA’S STEPSISTER, DRIZELLA

Anya Aggarwal

I remember the day I turned ve. My mother, the great Lady Tremaine, carefully arranged my hair and gi ed me a little jeweled mirror. She told me, “Look into this mirror every day and you will nd a beautiful princess!” A er that day, she stopped me every time I tried to play in the sand or eat a sweet treat. “Not for my little princess!” she would warn. When my father died, it all began to make sense. e fairy tale tends to give stepsisters a bad rap, but I’m here to set the record straight. It was a race to secure the highest bid for my hand, just so we could survive, but it was far from what I ever wanted. My sister, Anastasia, and I became prized porcelain dolls, thrust onto display at every banquet to see who could solicit the wealthiest suitors. Scathed by the blazing spotlight, I was fortunate no one could see how viciously my mother had cinched my corset or how adamantly she tightened my curls. When I nally got to unravel it all for bed, my mother would slip into my room, not to tuck me in or give me a kiss, but to whisper, “Drizella, don’t forget to use your facial peel. Your skin looked a bit too ruddy today!” Even as a rst-born child, receiving all the attention, I couldn’t help feeling alone under the pressure of discerning eyes. Little did I know, I would spend the rest of my life pruning myself, not to become a princess, but to marry a prince.

I remember the day I received the royal invitation. “Let me see!” squealed my sister, as we jostled each other to get a good look. The gold-plated card summoned every eligible maiden to grace the presence of the prince, but I knew my mother was already crafting plans to ensure it would become the prelude to my wedding. This was my one chance to finally prove myself worthy to her. I frantically pulled out my best crimson laced dress, pins, shoes, buckles, and curlers and yelled down to my stepsister, “Cinderella, come up here and help me!” She couldn’t fathom all that was at stake because she had always been taken care of. After her parents died, we graciously looked after her, but the burden I bore for the future of our family was mine alone.

Cinderella slipped in to lace up my dress behind me. I caked on makeup to keep my eyes from tearing as I thought, “My father died years ago too, but no one ever heard me complain.” As I watched her in my mirror, her reflection couldn’t have looked more naturally softer or sweeter. She had the glow of the love of her parents, even if they were dead, without ever having had to earn it. She was everything I ever wanted. Now, she got to saunter around in her comfortable old gray smock and talk to her pigeon and mice friends while I worked tirelessly with bleach, tweezers, and wax, just to look presentable.

I closed my eyes to imagine the prince’s palace glitter with hundreds of chandeliers and red velvety carpets. I would have only a few moments to gracefully ascend the gilded steps, grab the prince’s attention, and return with his private engagement. Everything had to be perfect. My mother had instructed that Cinderella stay home to eliminate even the slightest of my competition, so she had added extra ashes to the mantle for her to clean that night. How could she look so effortlessly beautiful despite all that soot on her face? I breathed in as I saw my mother enter to inspect me. “You look pretty,” she admitted as she examined every detail. “But, I think you should do your hair just a bit more to look like Cinderella’s.”

I knew that my mother could never be free of the blindness of envy and greed. I knew that Cinderella’s beauty could not be tarnished because she never had to lift a finger to look regal in the first place. But, for just that moment, I wished I could trade places with her in the story. Even if it meant cleaning ashes from her mantle, fixing her hair, or attending to her dress - perhaps I could at least be seen. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have to marry a prince.

HIDDEN TREASURES

Princess Ogiemwonyi

A window is all you need to know somebody When you look through it you see all the things they tried to hide

The pain as they enter the room to cry

The words they practice saying before they leave their solitude

The skeletons of all their past lives

All these windows in my eyesight and I all I seem to care about is what is going on behind mine I bask behind the comfort of my walls

Only stepping out when Im ready to share the best parts of me

Because in this society it is normal for us to shame those whose secrets lay out on the street We cover our noses and We move to the other side

Refuse to help

And shut our blinds

SEASONS OF SHAKESPEAREAN LOVE

Jessica Chung

Autumnal scents intertwine with the breeze, Warm-toned hues adorn every inch of sky. Only one awaits who needs to be pleased: The fresh lover to which feelings arise.

Winds turn icy as the world glows in white, Mugs of boiling drinks, the sole remedy. With crowds and crowds the skating rink ignites, Share passion with the friend once enemy.

Regeneration, renewal, rebirth. The busy bee gathers nectar in grace, As hyacinths and lilacs spring from earth. Mother sparrow cups her baby chick’s face.

Seasons do pass in infinite series, But enduring love faces no queries.

TAROT CARDS

Elle Chavis

“What does your horoscope say?”

You asked me that question every day. I never believed in things like that, In something I could not see or touch ruling my whims, But they ruled your whims, And you ruled mine.

So, you made me believe in the stars and tarot cards. You made me believe in destiny and fate. Maybe, that is why it all crashed so quickly: My belief never came from me. It came from you, For I always believed in us. With you, magic did exist, And I could believe we were somehow tied together. Forever.

“You are my fate,” you whispered in my ear. And, I believed it

Because your silver tongue made everything warm. You filled my head with fairytales and hope and angel numbers. Thrust me into a word of belief and manifestation, Wrapped me up in empty words.

I check your horoscope every day now. Though those things have no holding over my life, I know they have a deep hold on yours. The whims and fancies of the sun and stars, Have always moved you, and I would be a liar If I said I did not miss the way you move.

“What does your horoscope say?”

I ask myself that question every day. Not for me, but for you.

I wonder where the stars and sun have moved you now, After they decided I was not worthy of your love.

Maybe to a girl with a stack of tarot cards in her hands. A girl with tattoos of her angel numbers. Someone who repeats her manifestations, Everyone morning in the mirror. Someone who can match your faith in destiny and fate.

“You are my fate,” you whisper in her ear. I wonder if you really mean it this time. Your silver tongue makes her warm and melt And she needs no urging to believe in impossible things, Or your gentle push to be thrust into the world of Fairytales and tarot cards.

THE

WOMAN BEYOND HER SKIN

Princess Ogiemwonyi

I was born on November 12th which makes me a Scorpio and if I’m being honest I’m way too invested in what that means;

I am 5’5 and 3 quarters allegedly I wear a size 9 in shoes I don’t know how to cook, and I have a weakness for guys with dark circles under their eyes;

I’m still learning how to open up I’m often closed off in times I should be open and vulnerable in places where I know I can’t get hurt;

so, most nights my closest friend is my pillow as I spill my fears and darkest secrets into its nonexistent ears sometimes in the form of tears.

I like Hot Cheetos. A Lot I think brown is the most underrated color and I Really don’t know how to cook I am so bad at it I somehow turned a green pot black and ever since that I’ve had a pact with my mom to stay out of the kitchen;

secretly I get really annoyed when people smack I have a bad habit of biting my nails I can’t remember the last time I received mail and deep down I am really afraid to fail which is why I often quit things before I get the chance to, its sorta another bad habit thing that I do;

I’m not sure if I believe in love but I do want to get married I think that life is too short to have regrets but life itself can be scary;

I often find myself double guessing and for some reason I’m always stressing I think that kids are, well can be a blessing and that music is the only thing I need to convince me that God is a real entity;

lastly I am a black woman I say it with pride however it is funny how that is the last thing I used to describe me, but it is usually the first and only thing people choose to see when they look at me.

I think it goes to show that even though I could be the first person to land on mars, make the world’s fastest cars or heck I don’t know catch a shooting star the fact that I am black woman is all some people would ever know.

And what I hope that this poem shows is that Yes I am a black woman but I am also a black woman who stands at a whopping 5’5 wears a size nine who’s a sucker for sleep deprived guys thinks that brown should be more recognized and loves a good bag of Hot Cheetos or fries who bites her nails is terrified to fail and wishes for a letter in the mail who needs to stick to books because she really can’t cook is so so tired of being labeled as just another black woman when she is all that and way way more.

IMPRESSIONS OF HALDI

Danya Risam-Chandi

I make my way up the staircase and wander through the parlor. A shehnai plays and a gaggle of people sit huddled around as the pundit chants blessings for the bride. She sits on the ground with her head bowed, holding the hands of her mother, father, and brother. On such a momentous occasion, the bonds of family hold strong. This is the haldi. A few days before a wedding it is commonplace for the bride’s friends and family to lather her in a bright yellow turmeric paste. The haldi may seem light and fun on the surface but lurking beneath its happy-go-lucky exterior is the gritty reality that soon their daughter will leave her home and their family life will be changed forevermore. I consider it a pre-wedding facial with a side of emotional heartache. So it was not unusual when the bride’s brother tentatively scooped the silky paste in his fingers, adjusting to its texture, pausing, savoring the ever shrinking moment between the chapters of his sister’s life. He waits as long as he can, the aromatic paste clutched in his palm. The thoughts that fill his mind are broadcast to the room. Every furrow of his brow, hunch of his shoulders, darting of his eye exposed him. The moment the paste touches his sister’s skin she will be changed. No longer will her duty be as daughter and elder sister. She will be a bride, and not long after, she will be a wife. An unshakeable title that will fill her every waking hour, her every breath. Every god given duty will belong to the title, “wife”. Just as that thought passes through his mind, a tear falls into the paste. It is absorbed. He is applying it to her skin, weeping at the reality. I avert my eyes. It is too intimate for me to watch. In his eyes every memory held with his sister flashed, every wish of happiness, every mourning of their life thus far. The indescribable bond held betwixt two siblings sat quietly between them. A bond, I knew nothing of. He dabs some turmeric above her eyebrow. My thoughts drift to my own wedding. Who did I expect to look at me with such fondness? My parents growing older each year provides a harsh reminder of the solivagant reality that rapidly approaches. Who did I expect to look at me with the weight of such ingrained memories, should my parents fail to make it until my haldi? He kneels down, applying the paste to her feet. The answer was abundantly clear: no one. I will be coated with turmeric paste at my own haldi. I may be showered with a hundred well wishes, but it would never compare to the look that passed her brother’s teary eye. It would never equate to the tears that fell on her face, hands, and feet. He passes the bowl to the next in line and quietly brushes his tears aside, unknowingly marking himself with the paste as well. This day marks us all.

A MEMORY IMMORTAL

Christina Ding

Centuries ago, I was revered, My influence vast, my very name feared. Thousands of temples, how they carved my name. Thousands of people who witnessed my fame.

Who in the land of black fertile soil Has not beheld the proof of my toil? Like the flow of the Nile, my followers sing, For I am their pharaoh, their immortal king.

Gaze upon me now, simply a relic, In the afterlife, a spirit angelic. Yet merely a memory of forgotten reign To those who only perceive my pain.

Now broken and battered, eroded and worn My authority shattered, my honor torn. Now who could see my former glory? When they look at me now, what is my story?

When we move on from the land we love Can we control our future from up above? Can I ever become the pharaoh of the past? Or was my name never meant to last?

I LOVE YOU SO MUSH | EMILY MCSHANE | ANIMATION

QUEER MAGNETISM

Annie Hurley

almost every friend that I’ve ever had has been queer, even before we knew what the word meant. a statistical impossibility, but perhaps it is like this:

we are magnets, drawn to each other. non-parallel lines, bound to intersect. a mathematical certainty. planets that find themselves caught in the same orbit, both pulled in by all-encompassing grasp of gravity.

(we will find each other every time.)

AUTUMN Christina Dong

Today a leaf dropped Into my hand

Painted bright orange

Like the rest of the land

It had made its way down

From an old oak tree

And went floating off

To visit me

Then suddenly

The wind whipped around

It tussled my hair

And the leaves on the ground

It whistled its song

Like the howl of a ghost

Then took my book

The one I liked most

It tugged at the oaks

And dropped a bird’s nest

And laughed sneakily

While performing its jest

Then it flew away

Back up to the sky

And called out once more

As if saying goodbye

The whistle died down

The harsh winds stopped

And all that was left

Was the leaf that was dropped

LANTERNS | VICKY SANTANA | ACRYLIC AND COLORED PENCIL

GRIEVOUS GOLD, OMINOUS ORE

Angelina Dong

All that glitters isn’t gold, What may be perceived isn’t always true Like a burning desire you try to hold, That escapes your clutch, falling through. The moon that glitters through the night, Too soon obscured by the light of day. A wish upon a star, still within sight, Only to escape, flying away. But if you take this risk, this golden chance Before it withers, a moment, merely fleeting A short-lived dream, a passing glance. Then follow these words, for they are worth heeding. Be wary of this gold, a precious ore. For it might have misfortune lying in store.

GRANDMA'S OLD LOQUAT TREE

Tonye Zhang

Past the narrow bluestone pavement, past the flickering maroon lanterns, past the mottled azure moss scattered on the stone bridge, past the deserted stage of the once flourishing theatre, I balked at an aged wooden gate. Gently touching the somber wrinkle that scarred the all too familiar door, I pushed it open, almost afraid to interrupt the tranquility with a creak. Wisteria and ivy clung to the garden walls, weeds and dandelions overgrew the secluded courtyard. In the corner of the garden, a dying Loquat tree stood forlornly in chains of frosty silver. The withered foliage fell, like torn parchments from ancient volumes, like fading butterflies embracing their destiny. Suddenly, I spotted a tiny patch of gold between the branches. This streak of sunlight tickled my hands with its layer of white fluff, whispering nostalgia for my childhood memories. It all begins with a loquat seed sneaking out of a young girl’s hands and settling in the yard thirty years ago. Loquat sprouts in autumn, blooms in winter, bears seeds in spring and ripens in summer. By the time that girl had become my grandmother, she was already a fairly old tree with lush, leathery textured leaves and luscious fruits. In the piercing cold, feathery snowflakes silently floated down and purified the clusters of snowy loquat blossoms, as modest as Grandma’s white apron. By midsummer, small lanterns of amber and honey yellow could be seen dangling from the thick bough, hiding behind the dark green. I would eagerly spring up the rough trunk and pick the ripest, sweetest loquats, when she would benignly hold me up. On those clear balmy nights, Grandma and I would sink down in a rocking chair under the Loquat tree and watched the stars — Antares, Alioth, Venus, Polaris. Accompanied by the low chirps of insects, she would gently fan the cattail leaf and tell stories about her youth in a calm and soothing voice. Often, she would make me a bowl of iced bean jelly drizzled with osmanthus honey and a pyramid of pale loquat pulp.

The Loquat leaves rustled softly in the evening breeze, crooning me a lullaby. Moonlight smoothed away the clouds and peeped through the luxuriant canopy, veiling the courtyard in a gauzy silver. Sleep eluded me. I thought of the young couple, whom Grandma said bought the house and was having the garden demolished and the Loquat tree hewed. I slipped out of bed and climbed to my secret spot on a high bough. I perched on the bleak branch and bid farewell to this benevolent protector of my family. Startled by a subtle crackling sound, I glanced back and saw Grandma standing under the dim, lonely light. A sudden fear of loss submerged me. I climbed down the tree and threw myself into her arms. She tenderly stroked my back and assured, “The Moon waxes and wanes, yet it will always rise. When the God of Fall arrives, you will have your own Loquat tree.” On that moonlit night, Grandma taught me how to preserve the remaining loquats with brown sugar and white wine and sealed them with red mudstone and hemp cord. She passed me the loquats, hands engraved with the growth rings of age, as wrinkled as old bark.

In the mellow dawn, Grandma rested on a rough elm stool and made plump wontons that quietly crouched in the bamboo weavings. I trod along the quartzite path, under the black tiles, and by the white walls. A few pastry shops steamed with a faint scent and the fragrance of tea dyed the misty rain. The vendors’ street cries blended with the soft patting of water on the light boat. I bought an ice-sugar loquat and slowly nibbled the sparkling crust. Occasionally, a white cat strolled leisurely across the foggy alley, or a couple of swallows glided under the eaves.

MASS MURDERER'S MAGIC

Danya Risam-Chandi

The husband and wife sit contentedly by the fireplace. The woman strokes her husband's hair, humming. The arrow cleanly removes her head.

Next house.

He kneeled on the edge of the rooftop, arrow strung, waiting. The joyous couple made their way down the soft lamplit street. The girl laughs contentedly as he twirls her on the pavement. Thud. She screams.

Next house.

The murderer went on, hour after hour.

Till one day, his crimes compounded. His karmic payday arrived. The feared assassin became a babe.

His arrows remained, but their purpose forever changed.

Happy. Valentine’s.

xoxo, cupid

WHOLE Tyler Kinkema

For as long as I can remember

I’ve had a hole inside me

A deep, dark pit

In the middle of my chest

Probably not the one your picturing

This one has curved edges and jagged corners

And for all my life

I’ve tried to fill it with things

Things like books, grades, sports, approval, love

But nothing fits

They all just fall right through

So I wrap bandage, after bandage, after bandage

And from the outside

Nobody can tell a difference

But from the inside

I’m a shell of a human

I will scour every corner of the earth

Till I find the piece that fits

And I will not stop

Till I am whole

HALF - ILLUMINATED | CHRISTINA DING | PHOTOGRAPHY

HOCKADAY FEMINIST ESSAY

Aubrey

Burns

I am raised in a bubble of power

All the while knowing what’s in the wind

Still, it’s almost been long enough that I forget Because forgetting is easier, weightless

I am raised to whisper the voice of a passive anger And I wonder

If the fear of the fall will hurt my throat

– More than the weathered rocks below

BLANK SPACE

Elle Chavis

WHY SHOULD I READ BETWEEN THE LINES WHEN ALL I FIND IS THE BLANK SPACE YOU ONCE FILLED?

SALT TO THE

Elle Chavis

Bend but never break, they say. Be exible but stern. Like salt to the sea.

Salt dissolves into water, and the water will forever be salty a erwards.

It will never be clean and pure again. Now it is bitter and sharp. Undrinkable, yes, but strong. If you must break, they say, come back as something even better.

Like coal into diamonds.

All the pressure and the stress will make you shine. What you went through, they say, will make you stronger.

I never wanted to be strong. Like Tungsten or steel.

But once the coal has cracked, once that salt has dissolved,

Nothing can turn it back to what it once was, So I suppose I must be strong like tungsten or steel. Shine under pressure like coals into diamonds, And bitter like salt to the sea.

WHEN OPEN EYES

Elise Cho

[ ] gurgle around mouthfuls of black bile and in between canine teeth — feel the puncture — something (sanguine, if you or [ ] could see) spilling, staining. [ ] sigh in exhalation, exaltation. you stir with unclouded sight. It crows; YOU stare. [ ] bow [ ] head in guilt — no weight should remain YOURS — until It begins, It gnaws — feel the undoing — do you scream in horror? the keen knife sees not the wound It makes. in perfect synchronicity, the world beats and beats — the hellish tattoo — oh, hideous heart — and WE are the confluence on which firmament and earth churn; WE are blest eternal, fixed. but hands grip OUR shoulders, shaking, shaking, shaking. gods cannot forget, but there is something forgotten — a paradox of the highest level. WE should dismiss — but WE miss — WE need not — WE want? — no, — [ I ] LOVE. —

KATIE LONGLEGS

Madeline Chun

Katie is the girl with long legs and shiny hair. When she walks into the chapel, always fifteen minutes late, the sermon stops, and her painted nails unravel all the gospel in the boys’ ears. When she walks out during the benediction, the women sigh, and the men’s tongues slacken as the Holy Word washes over their prayers.

Katie, how do you cast that look like a double hook on a fishing rod, leaving them gaping and gasping? And if I wear satin skirts, will I be “90% legs” like the boys who sit in the back pew say? From you, I learn how to apply mascara and how to sleep with your bangs over your eyes during Pastor David’s sermons and what Yejin and Noah did behind the chapel last summer.

“There are two types of people,” you say, tallying red fingernail indents up your pale arms, “Those who envy and those who covet.” The fifth grader who watches you and scribbles in her devotional journal: green and white skirt, velvet headband, maybe $40 total? The unnis1 who cover the pew with their Bibles so your longlegs have to sit alone. The old clergyman who scrapes aishhhhh across his implanted molars as your boots click down the aisle.

Katie, did you know my mother is scared of you? She tells me to stop accepting your hand-me-downs. She says no skirts with hems that say something they shouldn’t. No shoes that vibrato your ankles. No lipstick that stains the communion cup. And absolutely no red.

During the Thursday evening prayer circle, Mrs. Kim whispers behind folded hands. “You wouldn’t believe what I saw,” her creped lips crinkle, “it’s sickening.” When those legs walk by, the men stare and stare. Yes, the husband who sweats while he prays. Yes, the deacon who first offers her the communion tray. Yes, him in the back left corner. And him, front center pew.

“Eve. Jezebel. Delilah.” Pastor David spits. “Be careful.” He looks right at Katie, sweat on his brow, bangs over hers. “Proverbs 2:16. Wisdom will save you from the immoral woman.”

“See what they do?” my mother sighs. It’s easy, too easy, to twist her long legs into serpents and melt her eyes into nectar. A pillar of salt that scatters to the wind for everyone to taste.

Translations:

1 Unni is the Korean word for older sister or an older female figure.

2 “Be careful. Do you understand?” “I understand.”

"조심해. 알겠어?" "이해합니다."

CROSSROADS BABY

Sonali Konda

there’s no peace, no peace for these pieces of me, these shards of gem-bright rain-gray glass.

welcome to the crossroads, baby. welcome to the home of the fragile the frantic the fragments. come, meet my roommates, the never enough the always something to prove the caught between worlds and tell me —how can you tell me— we belong.

but i have no energy so instead i wish. i wish instead of glass my bones were dandelions so i could float on this summer wind away to a place with sunshine.

i am not a dandelion light and drifting on wanderlust. i am a glass mosaic breaking and turning jagged edges inwards. i am a crossroads baby.

a foot in two worlds doesn’t mean we are amphibious slipping between water and land and surviving in both. a foot in two worlds means existence is a balancing act. now i have fallen.

look at me where i lie shattered at your feet with bones of glass scattered at your feet. i could put me together, build a mosaicstainedglasspicture of what i should be, what i think they think i should be, what i think you think i should be.

NARROW ESCAPE | DIYA HEDGE | ACRYLIC PAINT & COLORED PENCIL

I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for my mom, For my grandparents, For my obligation as a filial granddaughter. Would you like to join the call? The press of a button. A blurry, wavery screen appears. Wéi ?

My mind halts— races to a million places at the same time. Faces of my grandparents waver across the screen, like the turbulent surface of a pond, putting me into a trance, a deep sleep. Will I ever wake up?

Ni hao Bao Bao Bèi Bèi ! I snap back to reality, try to organize my thoughts. But I can’t.

Characters and phrases, so many of them, Swim around my mind until I feel almost sick. For the rest of the call, I plow, through a deep pool of stagnant water.

The words lie—

Down Down Down at the bottom of a deep well, but I cannot seem drag them up. My speech fails me.

The only thing preventing me from drowning in this Great “Language Barrier” Reef is every breath I draw in, every word I draw out, every small thing closing the gap between me and my grandparents, one stroke at a time.

Angelina Dong

SHRINE

Elle Chavis

He took all the pieces of myself I gave him and built a shrine to someone else.

YOUTHFUL

Anika Proddutoor

Headaches, and silver linings, and ultimatums. Smell after the rain, the glovebox of a car, gaps of memories

Barely remembering the giant oak tree of colors

Or the poster of that silly boy band that’s been up for centuries

Flash forward a little to the yard with the splashes The house that creaks a little in the night, The heat shutting off and your silly mug collection That I add to everytime I see you bright

We’ve been native to this exact town for years We can check out the new park down the street But have yet to explore, too busy to see new places, Yet it’s artificially made of concrete

You sleep on my couch, as a song plays from your phone Some slow random song you showed me Oh, but when you look so excited to share bits of yourself I find myself at night listening to those melodies

I wish I knew more languages, For when you speak, I want to translate your words And preserve them forever

Just like the old gothic novels you read to me Or romantic era poetry

MOUNTAIN AND LAKE | ANISHA SHARMA | PHOTOGRAPHY

SAILING SUMMERS

Stella Monteiro

Do you know what I miss?

I miss the casual summer days. I miss being Soaked to the bone, you In your awful jean shorts, your Short hair wild with salt water. I miss my stupid Nylon shirt stuck to my skin My arms, tan and strong, hands callused From pulling on ropes from dawn to dusk.

I miss the windless days, when Our friends would Take the motorboat, The one called Popcorn, and Pull us out into the middle of the Harbor, and watch us float and Laugh and make fun of the Silly, WASP-y boats, Of the yacht club boys in Their little sloops, with their Fancy boat shoes and collared shirts. I miss the days that Were windy and we’d Almost capsize, sliding Back and forth as we tacked Aggressively into the waves. I miss when the little kids Would come and sail alongside us, in Their little Optis, their swimsuits wet With rain and salt and the Water in their boats. I miss Laughing at your bad jokes, and Listening to your Silly stories, and knowing that You’d listen to mine, if I wanted Your opinion, or Even just a listening ear. Maybe one day we’ll be 16 again, and the Wind will be back in our hair and We’d laugh together once more.

A DOVE

Elise Cho

a shape, a blur — too far for straining sight — faintest hint of white, a feather soft and fair. and right before i lost its turning flight, there – a dove looping, looping in air!

appearance fools — a dangerous thing. to quell: resolve-wrought death, the required sorrow.

i nocked the bow and looked for damning tell, there– in soaring bend, metal's route t' marrow.

in bouts of practice, nike's name i crowed. but before the final blow struck fast and true, my hand shook– shook– as i threw down the bow. there– just as yesterday, away it flew.

aimless weapon, the unused marksman's smarts. a white elephant, the child's bleeding heart.

SNOW ON A BUSY STREET

Khushi Gohel

1. What a day to ride a bike,

2. in what way, did I think it was all right.

3. In the “Fifth Avenue in Winter”, the foggy breeze was not a surprise. However,

4. the hazy sleet blinded my eyes.

5. Whoosh! Into the horse I ran.

6. “Oh My! Oh My!” the children cried; Some people came to see the sight.

7. My pasty hands and blood-soaked hair weren’t the only things lying there,

8. the packhorse lay flat, with drenched hooves, no one can sell those nasty shoes,

9. not even the stores here, on Fifth Avenue.

10. Guy Wiggins and his red motor car, trotted forward from afar, While the snow

11. was whizzing by, I started to close my weary eyes, waiting for a doctor to arrive.

12. I saw large pillars, then heavenly gates,

13. before realizing, it was, too late.

BONFIRE

I walk through the old cobbled streets where moss grows in abundance, reminiscing the days of my childhood. I stop by the dilapidated baker’s shop, wishing for the smells of the raspberry-filled buns and the coconut candies with swirls of chocolates inside. But when I sniff the air, I wrinkle my nose in distaste at the smell of mold and dead rats. I walk from house to house, mourning the sagging roofs and crumbling walls. Everyone is gone, as we had left years ago in search of better jobs to support our families. There is not a soul to keep me company. I walk down to the crystal-blue lake, only to realize it was not clear anymore. The lake had turned brown, a murky body of water, and who knows what lay under the surface. In the middle of the lake, an old frayed rope with a tire seat attached to it floated on the surface. And our tree! Our beautiful oak tree whose branches had stretched up to the heavens and gave us joy was no longer here. A sad, lonely stump stood in its place. And across the river, in the distance, the fields were overgrown with weeds. The little remaining plants were hunched over as they slowly decayed in silence. Behind them loomed enormous cities—the buildings reaching toward the clouds. The air was full of gray smoke curling into spirals. And instead of the soothing song of birds, there was a distant cacophony of beeping horns and rumbling traffic. Sometimes in the city, I see a childhood friend, but with their blank stares and worried looks, there is no recognition between us.

The past and present were two opposite worlds. And I was trapped in the past. The stark contrast between the old and the new hit me like a bullet train. And to survive, I had to move on. I walked towards the big city, with the polluted air and the crowded streets.

MEMORIES OF MY HOME

Anonymous

I remember. I remember the delicate song the birds used to chirp. I remember the way the bells used to ring through the streets. I remember the laughter of children and the sound of their feet running after school. I remember the baker’s sweet face and the desserts he gave us for free. I remember the kids jumping into the lake, swinging on the rope tied to the old oak tree. I remember the quaint cobbled streets and the brightly painted, small townhouses. I remember playing hopscotch with the other kids, trying not to lose my balance. I remember racing from one part of town to another. I remember everything and I remember everyone.

Once, flower pots lined the roads, and the village women competed to see who could grow the best lilies. The lake was crystal blue and you could see all the bright orange and red fishes darting around the children’s feet. The aroma of the baker’s pastries and sweets wafted into the homes, filling the entire town with the smell of freshly baked bread. The shoemaker smiled and nodded at everyone who walked by. A neighbor’s house was our house as well, even if we had no relation. The children were free to run as we wished, it was common for all the children of the town to gather in someone’s backyard, playing cards or simply chasing each other. Past the lake, into the distance, miles of green fields stretched, where the farmers would harvest their crops every spring.

Now, it looks like a disaster zone.

WALKING ON GLASS Asha Gudipaty

S T I L L 2

GLACIER

Kaitlyn Chen

Sheet upon sheet, a silver masswill the sun fly low once more? and the bears do wake to a violet sky gape wide but a frail roar. and her fur runs thin around ink-stained eyes as out dribbles a feeble pleaso she stands upon ice of a thousand shades that will soon be a mere span of sea

ZENITH | TIANXIN XIE | PHOTOGRAPHY

i want to press a knife into the hook of your throat and feel you reach around to do the same. such a steady hand on someone so insensible. strange, then, how quickly you lost it fumbling at your lighter. you could never stay away from the worst things — isn't that precisely why you haven't sent me choking on my own blood, lungs neatly speared, heart ready to burst? what a shame, to be rid of your very worst so soon. and what a chore, to find another, to even try! who else could know you the way i do? who else could provide the only type of help you would ever receive: to grip your hand in mine, to press it right above my heart — can you feel the beating? — to show you exactly where to cleave. who else?

MY DEAREST ENEMY

Elise Cho

APOCRYPHAL DEATHS

Annie Hurley

Another lost name, another lost face of the people that you swore to always remember slipping through the cracks in your memories, their visages eroded away by the inevitable passing of time –as unstoppable as the sea, and stinging just as harshly.

These ghosts aren’t deceased –at least, not that you know of. You mourn them anyways.

How many dead numbers in your phone, useless permutations cluttering your contacts, no longer in service? No way to speak to them, no way to rediscover their names.

How many people have you forgotten?

(she was important to you, once. you cried when she left. you cannot remember why you cried, just that you did. )

(will you forget him? you swore that you could never, how could you, except you thought that about the rest of them, hadn’t you? and? what are they now to you? nothing. nothing. dust. how could you? how could you forget him after everything he did for you, how could you, how could you, how could you?)

HORROR STORY OF NEST FLIES Annie Hurley

A

August 13th

ere is a nest of ies in my house. I am certain of this.

My friends do not hear them; they tell me that I must be imagining things, that there are no ies. ObsessiveCompulsive, one of them suggested quietly. at I am demonstrating signs of the mental illness, that I am so obsessed about cleanliness that I have somehow convinced myself that there are ies in my house, and that’s the reason why I spend hours scrubbing at myself with soap, rubbing, rubbing, until my skin is bloody-pink, and the noise of ies is drowned out by the sound of my heavy breathing.

It does not really help my case that both me and my friends have spent hours scouring the entire place from top to bottom, and no nest can be found. I even hired some exterminators to nd what I could not, but they also had no luck.

I suppose that I am writing all this down to make a point of my own tale. A point to my own sanity. Proof that I am not lying. Proof of the passage of days. Any of that.

ere is a nest of ies in my house. I am certain of this.

ey buzz incessantly, a melody that follows me with every step I take. Each breath comes with a thrum, an irritating hum of insects. It is as if they are just behind me, hiding just out of my sight, but each time that I whip around searching for the source of the sound, nothing is there. Just me, and that damned noise.

e cleaning is not because of the ies, though I understand why my friends might correlate them. No, my hours of grooming in the shower are because of the dirt.

e dirt is always there. I cannot get rid of it. is is not helping my insistence in my own sanity, but I beg you to believe me. I nd dirt in every crevice: underneath my nails, in my ears, caked between my toes. I do not know where it comes from. I wash and wash and wash and every day I will wake up and the dirt has returned. It is as if I will never be clean.

August 14th.

I suppose I am ill.

Not mentally, I hope - though can you ever really know – but I mean that I feel physically unwell. Nauseous all the time, and shaky. Eating does not interest me anymore, so maybe that could be the cause to all the nausea. I have tried to, you know, I know that alive people need to eat. It is quite important. I just cannot bring myself to do it. e food tastes like nothing, like rot, and it never stays down. I really try to, I swear.

Writing tires me. I spent a while trying to write everything yesterday, and I fell asleep for a while after that. I must admit, the date on this diary entry is merely a supposition, as it was dark when I embarked into my slumber, and it is light now. To be fair, I am not entirely certain if yesterday truly was the thirteenth. But I must assign numbers to things, otherwise I will lose track. Forget. It is good for me to remember.

e ies have not quit in their torment, unfortunatelyrather, their vociferous hum grows with each passing day. Beyond that, I have begun nding their corpses upon my pillow. ese bodies were not there when I fell asleep, but they appear when I wake, brown smudges of dried blood and appendages stuck to the fabric in a grotesque display of death.

Proof in my nest theory, however, I still cannot nd their origin. It sickens me, that I am sharing my space with such vile creatures.

My limbs ache, and I fear that I may fall again into this depthless slumber once again, only to wake up in a scene of carnage. I will write again once I get the chance.

August.

I do not know how long it has been.

I do not remember.

e ies drown out my thoughts, and exhaustion follows me in my waking hours. I do not feel human anymore, just an embodiment of lth. I lack the energy to clean, however, so I have no reprieve from my crawling skin and the dirt that cakes my hands. Laundry also remains an unachievable task at the moment, so I have found myself falling back upon that blood-crusted pillow without a second thought.

I wish this had not happened. I think I am wrong, in a way. I am not supposed to be here.

August.

I think I have found the nest of ies. I cannot remember where.

August.

I think I have found the nest of ies. I think they are inside of me. I think they have always been, since my rebirth.

I do not know who did this to me, who dug me out from the endless sleep, but I detest them. is is not a true existence; this is the false puppetry of a decaying corpse. I detest them. e ies inside of my hum, and all I can think of is returning to sleep. Yet, I keep waking.

I am the sins of a corrupted nature. I should not exist. I am all alone. I am so incredibly lonely, and, more than anything, I want to sleep.

SEASONAL

Anjali

Konda

Dappled shadows on dewy grass, Fond memories of days past

The sun forgave the moon, Sharing the heavens at noon, Butter yellow butterflies

Forgotten off-white lies. Honey lavender hugs, cold hands, warm mugs, chock full of hot chocolate

Sight blurry, up late laughing stress away, heavy eyes-someone’ll pay. Blizzards of busy-ness

Her problems are her business

Stress flurries, drips to a flood

She worries her lips to blood

Melting to soggy dead grass

I don’t think winter wonderlands last Tulips wake first Showers fall to quench their thirst

As night makes way for day And the critters come to play Tired grins bid the year to end, Ready to do it all again?

NIGHTFALLS

Elise

Cho

sun o'er moon, around, around– to nightfalls again. in time, whisp'rin taunt, i hear you!

my tired haunts wreathing 'round shadowed halls, and in closed eyes, i can believe you true. listen, just once. don't leave, not yet. i know, three a.m, then four, then to breaching morn'. near the bend, worn tracks steadily followed, and end begins, beginning ends in sight. moon o'er sun, with no trace, no sound, you're gone. is it a gift to be wished happier, to simmer in unfulfilled hope you brought? again, left to haunted thoughts, i wonder: did you need me without wanting? or instead: you want me without needing?

BLACKBERRIES AND GINGER ALE

Sonali Konda

let me remember the taste of carbonated laughter, sweet electricity, blackberries and ginger ale.

let me remember how we sparkled, bubbles in a glass, black and white and gold, laughter lines and shining eyes.

let me remember the theater we built for ourselves: let’s take centerstage for once. clasp hands, bow to the dark house. this won’t be the last triumph.

let me remember this promise we made. we are five beacons and balustrades. five lights through the fog when we don’t know where else to go, how to get there. five shoulders offering to take the weight, hands extended without terms and conditions.

let me remember this little family not born but built, just five kids searching for a home tonight because we need somewhere to celebrate and scream where we can’t see the eyes of elsewhere shining in, where we can’t see the eyes of the future and past.

let me remember that radio silence doesn’t exist, that we are never out of range and even when the channel is static there is always someone sitting on the other side, ready to turn the mic back on.

let me remember with certainty that though i will have gone you will never let me wander too far.

I AM NOT A POET

Princess Ogiemwonyi

I am not a Poet

I am a girl who writes poems and enjoys listening to poetry But

I am not a poet

I do not move mountains every time I open my mouth my metaphors do not soar up to the heavens and touch the clouds

I do not sing similes in my sleep

Iambic Pentameter means nothing to me

I am not a poet

I still await my epiphany allowing me to see what other poets see But

My advice do not underestimate me

I am a woman with a dream and you will remember me not as a poet but as the living entity of poetry

MANY THANKS TO

Mrs. Copeland for always, always supporting us. No matter what we need – whether it is InDesign tips, design and color ideas, cures for our ailing computers, or bagels and tea – you’re always there with a smile. Your advice fuels our creativity and inspires us to do our best. Your efforts, guidance, and values are a lodestar to us not only during the process of creating a physical magazine but also as we explore our identity as a magazine staff. Neither Vibrato as a magazine nor Vibrato as a group would be where and who we are right now without you. Your impact on this publication can never be overstated or forgotten.

Dr. Leathers, Ms. Culbertson, and Dr. Kocsis for encouraging the student body in their creativity and for always supporting Vibrato.

Cindy Salome at 360 Press Solutions for all of your printing tips and for sitting through all our frantic questions. Your positivity and support are an incredible foundation for Vibrato, and we are so grateful for you.

Every student who submitted their art, literature, photography, or media. The magazine would not exist without your bravery, tenacity, and perseverance to submit your original creations. We are all so grateful for your vulnerability in sharing them with us, and every single one of them is truly beautiful.

Vibrato is a student-run and student-led class that uses literature, art, media, and photography submissions from the Hockaday Upper School to create a literary magazine. Students submit their original work to the magazine. Then, together, the Vibrato staff reviews the pieces anonymously and selects each piece carefully, considering the content, message, and design. Our magazine is an exploration of our community's talent and expression coming together to form a whole. We hope you join us on this journey and appreciate the art and artists as much as we do.

The titles of the literary pieces in this volume are set in Hypatia Sans Pro. The body text is set in Adobe Caslon Pro. The literary, art, and photography credits are set in Hypatia Sans Pro. Variances in size are used for titles of literary pieces, art, and photography, as well as names of authors and artists. The table of contents is set in Hypatia Sans Pro with variances in size for titles and subtitles. The magazine was designed using Adobe Photoshop 2023 and Adobe InDesign 2023. The 124-page book is printed on 100# silk coated stock by 360 Press Solutions.

COLOPHON

OUR STAFF

Sonali

"what about dread"

Konda

Co-Editor-in-Chief

Lillian "vibrato mom"

Rubarts

Co-Editor-in-Chief

Diya

"vibrumbo cash"

Cadambe

Managing Editor

Bronwynn

"early bird"

Blair

Art Editor

Sasha

"do we have tea"

Kitson

Asst. Art Editor

Kristy

Shruthi

"have you seen..."

Juttu

Communications & Web Editor

Yoyo "powerhouse"

Yuan

Photo & Media Editor

Isabella "it's a frog 10/10"

Luo

Asst. Photo & Media Editor

"shakespearean trauma"

Chen

Asst. Communications Editor

Jaden "respectfully..."

Thomas

Literary Editor

Ryan "wait pause"

Brown Asst. Lit Editor

Annie "digital artistry"

Hurley

Asst. Web Editor

Julia "infinite insight"

Copeland

Faculty Adviser

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