Massimo Soto ’23,

By Tommy Troso ’24

The astronaut sings to the stars of galaxies. His tunes are catchy.

As I look upwards, the white clouds above me shift. I want to touch them.

When I walk on grass, I smell the fruits of summer. I like it out here.

The dolphins swim through their plastic-bound living room. Who will save them now?

In the deepest sea, the eels guard the premises; Never go down there.

By Isabella Fauber ’23

The soft amber glow of the tree illuminated the cramped corridor Packed with decorations used year after year, a reminder that nothing has changed A part of me hoped he would knock on the door carrying firewood in one hand. The other hand outstretched to me.

My mother’s shrill voice interrupted my thoughts, probably for the best

We both knew he was not coming home, yet we never acknowledged the gaping hole he left in his wake. I started counting calories like I count sheep, vigorously and desperately The therapist explained all the reasons I should stop; I can’t seem to recall even one.

Mother said my clothes fit better. I noticed she wasn’t eating either. It had always been like that, I just never realized. Now it’s what we do to cope. I also started walking a few weeks ago, around the same time Frank Sinatra started playing in every building I walked into. “Go back home”, whispered my subconscious. “It’s broken,” I responded.

Everything reminds me of him, the smell of pine, the book on my nightstand, the blue patagonia.

I’m staring through the window of the toy store we used to visit as soon as the frost began to cover the trees

I used to make a long wish list of things I was sure I needed, I was a good girl after all

I guess I asked for too much.

I can see his tired eyes, his delicate smile, his gentle dimple. I have those same features.

I must look ahead, and not inside

By Afsana Dhali ’23

I didn’t know she was counting. We were just talking after dinner about God knows what, and she said she only had a few months left with me. It’s one thing to laugh it off, but I met her eyes and saw her age 17 years in under a second.

We do a lot more together now. I teach her how to bake, she teaches me how to be resilient. My mom. I make her laugh more, so I don’t forget how it sounds. More pictures, more selfies, so I don’t forget how we have the same smile. Will she be okay? Always off-key, scared of tides and dogs and heights. The months will dwindle to weeks, to days, to seconds, to–

Have you ever seen your mother cry? In a home where emotions need warrants, I’d never seen her shed a tear. The conversation continued. I finally saw the mother in my mom. The dark hoods of her eyes, her tired smiles. The crosshatching of her skin pulled tight when she laughed. She laughs with her heart first. She was holding on to me. Clinging? Holding. Cradling.

I’m no different today than I was 17 years ago. She says so. The beginning of our end, senior year. Will she cry? She holds me differently now. Gentler. What signifies the end? The acceptance letters or the diploma?

Will I be okay?

By

Anonymous

keep your head down don’t ignore the sounds the buzz the ringings these noises will sound like singing it’s brick not cold icicles leak from your runny nose place your feet outside your hips take up room- Jesus, don’t lick your lips the four minute interval between one-tenth and ninety-sixth survive those four minutes— you’ll be a living myth when you can’t feel your fingers and the cold just lingers take the six ounce coffee cup and be thankful, real new yorker’s don’t give a fuck

Yes, you, sit down for me, hold your neck like that as I sketch you, in rough pencil first. To control your breathing form, like you controlled mine that midnight: thin blue sheets and your hand on me like puppetry.

Now, to tell you—command you—hand higher, jaw tilted. To haunt you like Basil haunts Dorian, like you haunt me. Hold your breath for me, I’ll paint you. I know all we did was run lines—playing lovers we would never be, and who were you on camera versus off ? You, so hurt and haunted by a spirit and a split.

I would love to paint you, creature, in shades of red, your supple antagonism pleasing to the eye and just to the eye. To fall for your flattery again. I would paint you, rigid, knife-sharp, Surrealist-style, I would hang the painting on my green chamber walls, between and my birth certificate. And you would hang there, pleading, powerless, panting, painting, blood dripping from your fingers like Eden’s pomegranate juice, for everyone to know what you’ve done.

For all of my future guests to see as their fingers trace my seams, so I needn’t explain to them my flinching and hesitancy, I’ll paint you in any way I please. And you are redeemed an eternal voyeur.

By Anonymous

Alex Elwell ’23

do you recognize the body you see yourself in when you stand above the pulsing waves of deafening noise, when you lay upon hands that move your body like seagrass, that yearn to snag a touch of their splayed about idol, so you can become a wave yourself seagrass, too?

will you sing for me? will you strum that guitar? pluck the strings of your bass? smash your drums? plead to the gods? shriek to the masses? cry?

will you reach up and snatch the lofty notes above that taunt you in your sleep?

did you write that? you ask and then it is yours is what music has lent you so fill a balloon with it, let it be pressurized with all that thunders, rains, and swells in your mind, you are you down below and up on high and in the liminal space between who is that creature? and you, there, paw at your sniffling nose, your grinding jaw let that cup tip backwards as you look at your cult of domesticity from afar, or just the other cults that sit at your feet and stare up at you or look on at you with sidelong or flitting eyes

Brendan Lynch ’23,

what fills your cup?

where is your baby?

are you sure it is even your balloon-baby?

have you seen Sally, your sitter?

are you a golden god?

what would you do for a case of beer? forget klondike bars it’s sad - the truth is that you are not immortal that your balloon is but your bow is not and the stacks on your desk, you’re no scrooge, they remind you that you are not the same as those who hunker in flashing dens that echo with the beats of the bolivian’s marching drums you could stop, you have the means at least you can but do you want to? do you want to leave your mottled bed that stinks of feet and unwashed bodies and is broken with crumbs and whatever drink you last spilt? stop scratching for your white nurse do you see that el diablo is smirking in red in the far corner of the room, redrum that he is staring at you as you roll about? it’s all for a parade of balloons, isn’t it? and stacks too, more of them coming soon and you know that your friends will cry and your balloons will soar, keen to avoid any sharp needles, even after the fates snip your string and your bow slowly unties and even after you wonder if time was ever actually on your side they still cry and now, as we watch those colorful balloons fly overhead, in a parade of sound, glory, and tragedy fit for the greeks, and rush to tighten their bows, we gaze up and say with a certain reverence, not exempt from dismay: shine on you crazy diamond come on, you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine come on, you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine shine on you crazy diamond

By Anonymous

Dear whoever brings sleep,

You asshole. Why is it that the night can blot out the bright sky, the only light originating from the bright white moon and distant twinkling stars, all behind the thick blackout curtains and yet you cannot find me. Wandering to my parents, even my dogs and cat, and yet you meander lazily towards me and my eyelids get heavy, you jump, silently dashing away at the slightest sound. A creak, a mosquito, I don’t even care, but then when the sun punches a bright hole in the blue sky and light pushes through my eyelids you decide to approach me then.

It’s 11:00! I’m in school dammit! Why can’t you just work on a clock! Those nights that I had to push back those times of rest were borne of necessity! Anxiety dancing on my head and shoulders, whose loud voice is only sated by work being finally completed. You’re scared of them too! You know I have to get rid of them. They’re pests (and loud ones too so I get it), but even a trace scares you off ! A remnant, a dusting of anxiety, and yet you cannot settle and let me sleep. What am I supposed to do?

By Alexandra Elwell ’23

The night is for disillusionment, to bask in the immense swath of darkness that lay its veil daintily upon the scape to be tossed around as if by a breeze, crumpled then spread flat. bright then dark then bright again is that silk screen scarf folding in the wind sat upon a glass table.

the night is for repetition, and fable.

the night is for when you can blame it on the night and emerge unchanged or changed aplenty.

the night is the obvious metamorphosis into day but also the innocuous bubble of stagnancy’s sanctity. the night blurs and makes you want to dance with a lover to blues in the street as cars murmur at 2:05 or 23:05. the night is romanticism.

the night is a humor.

the night makes you ask, “who, too, is stirring at these odd hours?” and “a car? where are they going to?” and “do you love me?” and “can i love you?” and “is my talent, talent?” and “is there someone in my room?” and

“do i need to start meeting with my therapist again?” and

“are these notes in my journal at night genius or delusion?” and “is genius delusion because i want to be remarkable and remembered?” and “shall we love?” and “are we pregnant?” and “who am i?” and “what is my age and who am i in it?” and “what time is it?” the night becomes real when a day of rest graciously dips away for a while so the night can come again and experience our awe: glimmering silver luster. the night is simple, but us romantics keep asking for and needing more. the night is a consolation and a stark noir and sudden perspiration and the shedding of clothes in the wee hours and bad writing in a blue notebook that is overwrought with wrought-iron worries and none other than delusion, all steeping in disillusionment and 1/16 carat gold anxiety.

By Talia Tirschwell ’24

These past few years with you have brought me through some of the most brilliant and soul-crushing moments of my life. As I navigated the complex maze of the world, you were always there with me, by my side, whispering in my ear. When I could hardly see the end of today, you told me it would be okay, you told me I could do it tomorrow, your voice kept me going. What would I have done without that constant support and presence? What would I have done without that comfort?

But alas, my dear, both you and know where the problems started to emerge. We dove into Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons side by side, devoted to each other, committed to our promises. I leaned on your voice as you carried me down that path. But as the sun slowly rolled across the sky and slipped off the horizon, as the world darkened to a deep, smoky black, and as the hours slowly began to tick away on my bedside table clock…well, that was when the troubles began.

Your presence would start to annoy me, to agitate me, the way you were constantly hovering at my shoulder. As the night got darker and darker, I would begin to feel quite alone, and I would turn to you, begging for help, begging for that comfort to return. But you -- you betrayed me. You stood there in the corner of my room, chuckling quietly, your easygoing, relaxed pose mocking my panic. As I begged and screamed, you didn’t even lift a finger to help, didn’t even show the faintest signs of pity. You left me alone on those nights, deserted me in the very trap you had led me into. In the moments when I most needed your support, you weren’t there for me. And that really wasn’t okay.

But when you showed up again the next morning, your charm, your allure, your soft, calming voice always managed to pull me back. I fell into the tricks of your sweet, innocent pleas for forgiveness, fell back into your cycle, fell back into our routine. And even as everyone told me that it wasn’t good for me, that you weren’t good for me, that we had to end…I didn’t listen. I stood by your side, as you had by mine, for so, so, long.

Too long, I realize now. It has been too many years of too many nights of too many times that you have left me, betrayed me, stranded me to fend for myself. And it has been too many times that I have forgiven you, that I have let it slide, that I have allowed it to happen again. I love you, and I love us, but this relationship isn’t good for me, and I’ve finally realized that it has to end. I will miss you, your comfort, your promises, and our late nights with all of my heart. But our fights, and your betrayals, and my stress, and our cycle… these are the plagues that must draw us apart.

My dear procrastination, I know with absolute certainty that I will never find another who will make me feel quite the same. Thus I bid you farewell with a heavy heart, wishing you all the best, and hoping that someday, someone will truly love you for all your strengths and weaknesses.

Sincerely, Yours Truly

Step 1: don’t

By Harper Kelsey ’24

By Kylie Oh ’24

Inhale for 4. Hold for 7. Exhale for 8.

In, 4. Hold, 7. Out, 8. 4. 7. 8. She should be asleep.

Yet her mind is loud, restless, awake. It races. Races against the clock, salvaging as much sleep as possible before the alarm. & then she is spinning, thoughts turning inside a stagnant head. Turning in space, propelling her to unconsciousness & then she jolts awake.

Her body betrays her.

The pile of clothes in the corner transforms she shuts her eyes from the girl with black hair in a ghostly dress staring at her, crouching down from her corner: w a i t i n g.

It’s not real it’s not real it’s— & then she finds herself, with shaking hands, rearranging the mess of clothes.

Her mind betrays her.

By Ava Maughan ’25

She made the glue, She placed the bricks, She designed the bridge The relationship impermanent, the creator left to be forgotten.

By Will Dupont ’25

Delighted

Old people come together and recount Nostalgic time from New York and London and Yawn

“For Students by Students”

’s mission is to create a platform for students to share their artistic and literary passions with Hackley school’s student body and faculty. We aim to represent grades nine through twelve through a vast array of creative expressions, ranging in artistic areas—paintings, drawings, photography—and literary genres—poetry, ction, non- ction. Literary submissions, maintaining anonymity, are voted on by peer readers and ultimately decided on by editorial team. Artwork is selected by sta with a focus on quality and variety. e Visionaries cra the layout on Adobe InDesign, using Minion Pro font. e magazine is printed with four color process and an aqueous coating.

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