The Arrow 2024

The Arrow Spring 2024

Student Editors:

Ellie F., Connelly F., Henry K., Navika K., Caroline R., Shaleen S., Sarah S.-O.

Faculty Advisors:

Jessica DiFalco & Monica Carrier

With Special Thanks To:

Shazia Durrani, Damon Hall, & Brigid Moriarity

Faculty Support:

Ellen Ferguson, Ashlin Halfnight, Merideth Maddox, Trevor Ogden

Contact Information: jdifalco@hackleyschool.org or mcarrier@hackleyschool.org

Hackley Middle School

Literary & Art Magazine

Cover Art: Avery M. ‘29

Tian Cheng W. ‘28

Where I’m From

Cecelia F. ‘31

I am from homemade popsicles in the freezer next to solid-hard peas, from Smucker’s peanut butter and American Standard shower heads.

I am from the warm pink-themed room full of swimming medals and ribbons, safe and cozy. It felt like luck and joy running through my clean house.

I am from the rivers I watched my sister and dad fish from as I caught worms for bait, from the dandelions I kicked when they were all white and would fly up like smoke.

I’m from driving to the Outer Banks every summer with my whole family and always being too early to events, from Grandma Sandi and my little cousins Casper, Simone, Sal, and Franki.

I’m from the left-out folded laundry no one wants to put away, the Nerf gun fights with my dad, from “Finish your food” and “Stop fighting with your sister”.

I’m from my best friend Arianna that I’ve known for six years and has always been by my side. I’m from Brooklyn and Germany.

I’m from Panera’s kitchen sink cookies and my sister’s famous homemade meringues, from my Great-Aunt Sponsa who opened many orphanages and helped kids struggling in war who were malnourished and in need of families.

I am from my uncle who served in armies and hid his identity to stay in them. I am from swimming and lacrosse, creativity and power.

Heidi C. ‘28

The Universe Unfolds As It Should

Henry K. ‘30

Reminiscing on Thanksgivings with her mother, a woman wandered around a book sale as the leaves crunched beneath her feet, and the November air bit her cheeks. Then, she saw it, the New York Times Cookbook. The woman flipped through the book. And there was the stuffing recipe from back when she was a child. She remembered sitting in her childhood bedroom on Thanksgiving, the smell of rosemary drifting in from the kitchen. She closed the book quietly and her eyes too. And at that moment, her mother was with her.

Johannah H. ‘29

Waterfall

Xi H. ‘30

I think the river is like long, snow-white hair smooth and wavy, flowing through rocky fingers adorned with emeralds as a woman combs her hair after a sleepy afternoon.

Milky streams fall furiously— a violent rush of pounding thunder as foamy white water froths and churns.

The rock walls drip with water from the moisture, a home for mosses.

An iridescent rainbow shimmering in the shafts of swirling mists.

The basin is clear, pure, and cold, deeper than the wise could fathom. Someday, looking into the depths of the mirror into the past, they will learn the meaning of all.

Downstream, minty blue-white water easing down, the stream slows and gentles. and the evergreens, tall and dark and shaggy, and the moss, gilded golden green, and the ferns and the branches, bending down to greet the creek and life, in every golden, buzzing drop —the valley of eternal sunlight.

Colin M. ‘31

Every Day

Josie M. ‘29

Every day that I walk into this door, and walk up these stairs, and down this hallway and to my locker and my homeroom, I am at school.

Every day that I say hello to my friends that I saw a day ago, or a weekend ago, or a spring break ago, I am at school.

Every day that I am asked the same question by everyone I know, like “How was your spring break?”, or “What’s your spring sport?”, or “What class do you have next?”, I am at school.

But every day that I am at school, I am at home.

Memories and Mash

Kate F. ‘30

The sun slid down the horizon on a crisp September day. With every gust of wind, you could hear Mother Nature whispering: Fall, fall, fall. You could smell the beautiful aromas of apples begging to be picked. I was maybe six months old. The sun had just gone down, and the stars had only started to wake up. They blinked a drowsy white light. It’s hard to separate memories from my parents’ pictures and videos of me, but I think this one is a real memory.

I was wearing a pair of red PJs that made me feel like I was wrapped in a cloud. They were covered in white polkadots and had a reindeer embroidered on each foot. I was sitting in a black, clip-to-the-table-type kiddie chair.

My mother placed a translucent plastic bowl and metal spoon in front of me on the table. Like the bowl, the table was small and old. The light brown wood grain of the table made the food in the bowl – mashed potatoes – stand out. The mashed potatoes were almost the same color as the table legs, off-white. I could tell how they would taste: like a blanket, fresh out of the dryer – warm, comforting, and bland. They looked delicious; fluffy and light but also somehow creamy and dense. Then my mom, with a great big smile showing her gleaming white teeth, lovingly sat down next to me.

She picked up the spoon, and like a knife cutting butter with little effort, scooped the perfect amount of mashed potatoes for a little baby mouth. I felt a slow, warm, wet trickle of drool slide down my cheek and then my chin and onto my precious, polka-dotted pajamas. I was ready to eat! Gently, she let me suck the mash (short for mashed potatoes) off the spoon. I have a twin brother, and after I got my spoon half (it wasn’t really a spoonful; it was a spoonhalf), he got his. This was good because I savored it for as long as I could, but as soon as the next spoonhalf was ready, I swallowed and slurped.

Memories and Mash,

Kate F. ‘30

This memory was playing in my mind when my baby sister Grace had finally come of age and was ready for real food – mashed potatoes. The first real food you eat after bottles has to be memorable and lovingly prepared, especially if it is the same food your siblings and parents ate first. For years, I would watch my mother make me this delicious snack. Eventually, I helped make the mash, and I practiced a lot. So, when my family trusted me to make this delicacy for my sister for her first meal, I was honored. My mom had told me what was going to happen only a few hours before I was to make them. I got tasting spoons ready, a fork to mash the potatoes, a knife to cut the butter, the milk, a bowl for all the ingredients, and a spoon and bowl for my sister’s mash. I set out to meticulously prepare them, chasing the memory of my first meal. It was such a pleasure to be a part of this memory for her. I hope she remembers it as vividly as I do. Maybe, like me, the memory of the meal and the pictures taken will get mashed together.

Evelyn W. ‘28

The Scarf

Ellie F. ‘28

“Is this alright, Grandma?” I ask, presenting my scarf to her. She smiles, and her happiness replaces the ache in my heart. She steadily lowers my arms and cups my face in her hands.

“It’s perfect, sweetie,” she replies, her eyes interlocking with mine. For the first time in a while, I give her a bright, genuine smile.

“Grandma?” I ask, “Can you tell the story of how you met Grandpa again? It’s my favorite!” I look up at her, my eyes glistening with interest.

“Yes, of course,” she chuckles. “Your grandfather was a very intelligent man, an explorer in fact. We met while he was on an expedition in Chile.”

“Ow!” I yelp, interrupting the story as the knitting needle pierces my skin. Grandma whips her head around, urgency plastered across her face; blood oozes out of my finger.

“Here, give that to me,” Grandma murmurs. Her fingers brush against mine, the touch of her hand surprisingly light and icy cold. “This shouldn’t get infected; go get a Band-Aid so it can heal properly.”

I dart out of the room. The sound of my heart hammers in my ears. I grab the Band-Aids and hurry back, a feeling of uncertainty rising in my throat.

“I’m back!” I pant.

“Perfect, sweetie,” she says.

But something doesn’t feel right. I try to remember, but my mind is cloudy. The air around us suddenly grows thin as I extend my arm. Grandma reaches to touch my hand, but her solid form slowly disintegrates. My head is heavy as the room circles around me. A tsunami of memories crashes into my mind, and my eyes blink open as if I’m waking up for the first time. My heart rate slows as I begin to process the reality I’ve been dreading to face.

A scream of terror escapes my lips.

Grandma is not there. Tears pour out of my eyes as my gaze switches from the empty chair to the vase of ashes on top of the fireplace.

The inscription reads: “Doris Steiner, beloved wife, mother, and grandmother, 1950-2023”

“Grandma?” I cry. There is no reply.

Tristan S. ‘30

Frozen Windows

Sarah S.-O. ‘28

Through the glass, I look at a time long past, glazed with the cold memories of icy dreams. Arms reach for me, their history in their jagged edges, trying to pull me beneath the surface. I lean forward and shatter the glass, the mirror showing things I do not want to remember. Cracks distort my face as I fall and join the collection of lives trapped beneath layers of ice.

Jack M. ‘28

Where I’m From

Kai H. ‘31

I am from pens.

I am from old cottages and hammocks that have been passed down for generations; they each lie perfectly nestled on two trees. It felt like laying on a field full of flowers, calm, quiet.

I am from the Dogwood tree, the Hickory saplings, young and excited to grow.

I’m from fireworks and peace.

I’m from happiness.

I’m from Jaime and Roger.

I’m from smart minds and kindness, from “Go play” and “I think everyone’s tired”.

I’m from happiness when I look out at a deep blue sky.

I’m from New York and Denmark and Canada and Michigan, pears and apples, from the tooth I lost to a lunchbox the day I moved out of chaos.

I am from rock climbing, swimming, whittling, strong minds and hearts, and caring for others.

Adelle H. ‘29

The Tennis Ball

James C. ‘30

These guys are ruining my hair. When I got out of the can, I was bouncy, fluffy, bright, and glorious. Now, after hours of suffering, my fuzz is flat, my skin is pale, and I have lost the energy to bounce high.

I cannot take any more of this. I am tired and have felt the harsh strings of both opponents’ rackets. As I soar through the air, I am happy to fly in peace. But then, of course, the suffering resumes as I am violently struck with a forehand.

Despite this harsh punishment, I have been able to see the different emotions the two players show after each point, one happy, one not so happy. Of course, the not-so happy one takes all of his anger out on me by striking me harder. Plus, whenever I come close to the players, I receive the pleasure of watching the beads of sweat drip down their necks and smelling the stench of their body odor. But, of course, that is my sole purpose in life, to smell body odor and get furiously whacked by tennis rackets.

On the hopefully final point, when I think it is almost over, I am back at it, being bashed in a tiebreaker. When will this end?

It is finally the last point for sure. A few shots in, one player hits me out, and the other player is finally given the victory. Personally, I don’t care who wins; all that matters to me is not being furiously whacked anymore.

Grow Up

Amy Loreen C. ‘31

When I first saw the world, I was five and filled with joy. No one told me that I had to grow up. I walked the street with my mother, holding her hand. A man on the street said, “Do you wish to grow old?”

I responded, “Yes, I wish to grow up faster.”

Grow up.

I blinked once more, and it was my birthday; I was now seven. I asked my stuffed animal, “How are you?” He said, “You’re eight now.”

Grow up.

My little heart shattered. I threw him, and he yelled. I simply responded with, “Grow up?...”

My parents called me for dinner. My feet grew bigger with each step until my slippers were unwearable. I took them off; in my head, those words lingered, Grow up.

With every step, I grew older until I was at least ten. I blinked, and suddenly, I was in an argument with my father. His face melted into a terrifying smile.

Grow up. Grow up. Grow up. Grow up.

Grow Up,

continued

Amy Loreen C. ‘31

I said under my breath,“I wish I had never grown up so fast.” I blinked once more. Where did my parents go?

I was alone on the streets. I saw a little boy walk past me. He said, “I’m not a mama’s boy! Grow up, Mum!”

People from the village surround me and the boy, shouting.

Grow up.

Grow up.

Grow up.

I felt a kiss on my forehead. I woke to find my mother and father around my bed saying, “Happy birthday! Don’t grow up, mihija!”

The boy was outside of my window, smiling.

Heidi C. ‘28

Heidi C. ‘28

My Potato

Tristan S. ‘30

I have a fascinating potato.

Any normal potato is quite round, but mine isn’t normal.

My potato changes shape.

Any normal potato is quite small, but mine isn’t normal.

My potato is massive.

Any normal potato will live inside the Earth, but mine isn’t normal.

My potato moves around.

Any normal potato will live for a year, but mine isn’t normal.

My potato can live for a long time.

Any normal potato is a vegetable, but mine isn’t normal.

My potato is my dog.

Joe B. ‘31

Ways to See the Ocean

Katie S. ‘30

Calming and cooling, a mystifying blue as clear as glass and as hypnotic as a siren’s song

* Dark and harsh, the navy waves crash over me, filling my lungs with the deep scent of ocean salt and looking for a sliver of hope in the dark murky waters

* A looking glass showing me what hides beneath the soft shapes that are the waves, under the surface, I see the coral where the fish play hide and seek. I see the trenches where the deep ocean creatures go to think, and I see the currents where sea turtles raise their young.

* Healing and mending, fixing what is broken and misshapen, the ocean heals sadness and rage, depression and loneliness as much as it heals our cuts and wounds. Both can leave scars that run deep.

Misha P. ‘30

Ways to See the Ocean,

continued

Katie S. ‘30

* Cold and cruel, the ocean will hang on to you. It decides when you come and go. You can only hope it will give you its mercy, and if you receive it, don’t look back. Run as fast as you can because some aren’t so lucky.

* Bouncy and happy, the ocean will play, splashing you ever so slightly. It will tease you and laugh, bending the rules for its own enjoyment.

* Two-faced, the ocean puts on a mask, lulling you into a false sense of security before hurting you like a knife to your stomach.

A Lure With a Mission

Wythe R. ‘30

The roar of the motor becomes a low bellow, then a moan, then silence.

I hear the waves attack the hull of the boat as a boy arms my sharply-barbed hook with a potent ribbon of squid. The other lures and I are dangled off the side of the boat; I stare down into the abyss.

All of a sudden, we fall into the water. As I plummet toward the bottom, I feel the dark water speeding by my weighted head as we free fall. At first, the rocks in the black abyss are only specks, then stones then boulders.

I count the seconds until we make contact with the bottom: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

POOM

With a sudden jolt and a plume of sand and pebbles, we hit the bottom, and the line goes slack.

I watch intently at the vivid crabs, glowing shrimp, and fish so silver. They look as though they are made of iron scatter. But I have no time for that. I have to conquer the king of the ocean floor.

The line goes tight then loose as I start my dance. Sharply bouncing up, closing my dress of long fibers, then gracefully down, opening the dress.

I am like a ribbon dancer,

A Lure With a Mission,

continued

Wythe R. ‘30

waving the squid strip in a zigg-zagg formation, emitting the potent, fishy smell into the water.

It’s not long before there is movement in the freckled sand. I continue my dance, until…

An unseen force engulfs me in a flash of sand and pebbles! As soon as I gather my senses, I jab my hook into the black void.

I did it! We are on our way up. I conquered the king of the ocean floor!

When suddenly we start to go back down, I feel so confused, but I keep my hook steady, and we start to ascend again.

Through a gap in the creature’s mouth, I can see the surface.

But the creature saw it too.

It makes a final attempt to escape. I maneuver to use the creature’s moves against it.

Once we are on the boat, and the boy extracts me from the creature’s mouth, they let it go.

Before it fell back into the sea, I gave it a little nod of approval. The fish did the same to me and returned to his kingdom.

Mo Ting W. ‘30

Xi H. ‘30

The stars await you, a hard brightness, beautiful and distant glimmering at Destiny’s end. Your sails are swept with inky black.

O, voyager, voyager of the cosmos, voyager on a ship unknown, you unfurled your sails to travel beyond that land. Even yet, you remember those golden sands.

But oh, voyager, each memory of that life left behind passes like a fleeting dream, wisps of smoke hovering over a swath of sky. The beach is lost in blue.

How soon you forget what it was like to be among the gulls and fish. The waves are awash with your hopes and cries. You long for a slash of green in the eternal sea.

I see you, a ghost neither alive nor dead, a lonely ship at the ocean’s edge. You hear the crash of waves tumbling into the void, void that drowns all voice.

Blakely H. ‘31

Delilah M.-H. ‘30

The noise surrounds you, screaming crying laughter, but soon, the best of all, the one you long to hear. Except, there is no sound, silence, a trance with birds in a blurred sky. A blue sea, fresh salty air makes you laugh and smile. Not an inch of trash to be seen, the voices turn back on.

Rain clouds in a grey sky, a brown-ish green sea. Smoky air makes you cough. Trash floods you back into reality. People don’t know what to do, so silence will never be true.

Jack F. ‘30

Airbase

Nolan P. ‘31

DAY 3

The next morning, everyone woke up at different times because they had worked out a lot the last day and a half. Because everyone woke up at different times, Mike called it a long breakfast. After breakfast, Mike discussed the game plan for today, which was to pass their mission worthiness test. It was a twenty-five-page, multiple choice and short answer quiz about maneuvers and what to do if caught or downed. “We’ve passed these before, and we can do it again,” Mike says. “The test starts at 11:00 hours. Be in the conference room by then.”

Finally, the time for the test had come. By 11:35, everyone was done writing. The scores came out five minutes later, and everyone had gotten 100%. “You are cleared for the mission,” the Colonel said.

“Heck, yeah!” TNT yelled. “We’re cleared!”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, TNT. We still have to complete the simulated mission course!” Mike reminded.

Now, it was lunchtime. “Let’s discuss the formation for this mission,” Mike said. “Birdie will fly behind me, slightly above. TNT will fly below us for obvious reasons (not getting hit by bombs). As I said two days ago, Skyscope will be flying tens of thousands of feet above us, at 35,000 ft AGL.”

“Slipstream will fly below me but above TNT, slightly behind.”

“Got it, guys?” Mike asks.

“Wilco!” everyone yells.

Emerson P. ‘28

Beware the Beast With One Eye

Raine L. ‘29

A hole rips through the sky with a sound like thunder. The sky turns red, an impossibility to say the least, as the clouds become bloodstained and lightning strikes implode to a single point. She watches, horrified.

The waterfall rises, red as blood, ascending to the clouds, while its cliff shrieks with a terrifying cave full of razor-sharp teeth. All the clocks stop, and the birds, once carefree in their soaring, freeze in midair, neither falling nor rising.

She tries to scream, but the sound is lost to the terrified people.

The rip in the sky expands, opening into nothingness, fringed with yellow against the sickeningly red sky. Sinkholes open in the ground, falling to sky-blue nothingness.

She is struck by some invisible force, drawing and repelling her from the hole in the sky. All her instincts say to flee, but she cannot.

The rip flashes in indescribable color.

The world flashes, blinks, and fades.

She sees nothing.

A flash of yellow.

It fades.

It leaves behind an eye.

An indescribable eye.

And a horrific voice screams, “Welcome, one and all, to WEIRDMAGEDDON!”

She startles awake, terrified. She looks out the window to console her shocked mind. Outside, the sky is lightening as the moons fade and the sun glows faintly in the cloudless blue.

She sighs in relief, thankful her imagination had simply been playing tricks on her. What she didn’t notice was the red tinge spreading through the sky.

Emerson P. ‘28

“Hurry up! We’re almost at the top!”

My legs are burning, wobbling under me as I climb. Getting up to see the sunrise was supposed to be fun, but I’m hating every second of it. The cool wind is biting my face and whipping my hair around in a frenzied dance as I steady myself against the metal ladder of the fire tower, reassured by the smooth balance it brings. I breathe deep, feeling how the fresh air fills my lungs with a sweet, cold taste. I call back up, making sure my voice is calm and steady, “Coming!” I pause for a second with my feet on cool metal, calming the swooping feeling in my stomach. So close, I tell myself. I look to the side of me, careful to keep my eyes up as I take in the slowly lightening sky with pink wisps of clouds against a periwinkle night. I reach above me, and pull myself onto the next bar and then the next. I barely feel the tightness in my throat anymore or the lurching of my stomach. I regain my confidence and approach the last ladder rung, but just as I’m reaching up, the rusty metal bar that’s holding my weight breaks. Every muscle in my body clenches in terror, and I feel my stomach plummet. I quickly grasp the beam above and bring my feet back onto solid metal, but I make the mistake of glancing down. Panic spikes through my veins, and I become lightheaded. I see stars in my vision, painful bursts of light against the deep green of pine trees below. I’m falling, I’m falling, I’m falling… The last thing I see before my vision blacks out is a golden egg melting into streaks of blush-colored sky.

Mayhem at Grandma’s Mansion, excerpt

Aila R. ‘29

Cast of Characters:

Grandma- very irritable, clumsy from her arthritis

Johnny- very optimistic, high-pitched voice, four years old

Bartholomule- very thick high-class accent, intelligen, nine years old

(Lights up on Johnny opening the creaky front door of Grandma’s old mansion)

CREEEEAAAK (front door opening)

Johnny: ...Grandma?? Are you home? (beat) We brought green bean casserole…

(Bartholomule peeks through the door and comes inside.)

Bartholomule: (whispers) Johnny, I dare say; I don’t believe our grandmother lives in such a creepy old mansion.

Johnny: C’mon, Barty. (pats shoulder) We have to deliver her painkillers. After her knee surgery, her arthritis has been acting up.

(Door creaks open; Grandma comes in. )

Johnny: AHHHH! (Falls over)

Bartholomule: Oh,dear me. Bless the shining stars!!

Grandma: Who goes there? (brandishing slippers)

Johnny: Grandma!

Mayhem at Grandma’s Mansion, excerpt, continued

Aila R. ‘29

Grandma: Who are you, and what are you doing in my house??? (advances with slippers, Bartholomule hurries to hide behind Johnny.)

Johnny: Grandma, you have such a cool house!!

Bartholomule: SHUUSH!

Grandma: Who. Are. You?

Johnny: Grandma...did you forget already?! (hurt)

Johnny: We’re your grandchildren!

Grandma: I don’t have any grandchildren…I’ve worked in the CIA all my 82 years of life! I don’t have any time for grandchildren!

Bartholomule: (peers behind Johnny)Johnny, I have reason to believe that the arthritis is getting to her head.

Grandma: You want to say that again, lad?? (shaking fist)

Johnny: Granny, we baked this green bean casserole all by ourselves!! Would you please try it?!!

Grandma: Well… I suppose it wouldn’t hurt…

Bartholomule: And after that, we can give her the pain killers!

(Johnny and Bartholomule grin, relieved. Johnny and Bartholomule stare at Grandma expectantly.)

Elizabeth S. ‘28

From the Sun

Nora E. ‘28

I am from beach chairs, from Sun Bum sunscreen and Island Surf bathing suits. I am from boardwalks leading down to the beach, warm, cozy, familiar, sand on your feet. I am from waves crashing on the shore and with the satisfying rumble when it hits the sand.

I’m from bonfires on the beach and matching dresses with my sister on the fourth, from Claire and Grace.

I’m from my dad teasing my grandma about her strict rules and playing guitar under the stars. From being told to swim on an angle if you are stuck in a rip tide and always being urged to try your best.

I am from going to church on Sundays, and being amazed by the stained glass. I’m from New York with barbeques every weekend and pizza on Mondays.

From my Uncle setting fireworks on the beach, and the whole family going to Jets games.

I’m from the family photo where my sister, brother, and I make a sandcastle, from the watch that gets passed down when you turn sixteen, from my great-grandma, grandma, mom, and to my sister, leaving their legacies behind in the watch.

Mariana D. ‘28

Saifan M. ‘28

Aaron K. ‘28

“Alright guys, let’s start working on our microfiction challenge,” says Mr. Ogden. Ughh, I think; I despise fiction… the countless concepts which we have been told to use, whether it be vivid verbs, similes, or other academic lingo. I begin to work on my similies, attacking the matter with the bravery of a lion and the tenacity of a kitten chasing its tail. I am the Plato to Mr. Ogden’s Socrates; I’m the Lisa to Mr. Ogden’s Ms. Krabappel; I just take it all in. Next, I move onto vivid verbs. Strolling, creeping, admiring – I use them all.

Although the work is tedious, by the power of perseverance, I survive the class period. I confirm that I have used a sufficient amount of “fancy words” such as kakistocracy, troglodyte and equivocacy. I yet again keep the story fresh and not repetitive. At last, I finish the story, print out a copy, and hand it to Mr. Ogden. He looks at it for a second and then looks up. His face is red and full of contempt. He yells, “Where is the imagery? We have been talking about it for countless lessons!” Devoid of words, I flail like a fish on a hook. He continues, marching towards me, waving his hands. I dash down the stairs like a subway rat. With his cat-like reflexes, Mr. Ogden chases me. I run and make my way into the Johnson Center. I jump into the pool, figuring he won’t be willing to follow me. But Mr. Ogen has a better idea. He pulls out his semi-professional titanium fishing rod, and casts it into the pool. Before I know it, I’m hooked. He begins to reel me in. As I’m being dragged out of the water, all I can hear is “imagery, imagery, imagery…”

People Are Like

Stella M. ‘29

People are like rocks, multifaceted, complex, hiding secret treasure within, sometimes delicate and broken barely held together.

People are like books, misleading, intricate. The outside does not reflect what is within, never quite what you expect some boring, some captivating.

People are like puzzles, confusing, perplexing, often different than you expect. When you figure them out, it all makes sense. They are made up of many things.

People are like equations, basic, simple.

The answer isn’t always what you expect. More complicated than they seem, something new comes, and it all changes.

People are like poetry, inspiring, quirky. There are endless different types, beautiful and wonderful. Sometimes they don’t make sense.

Caroline R. ‘28

Kayla R. ‘28

BOOM! More chunks of rock plunge into the ground. BOOM! I’m running as fast as I can towards the rocket; it’s the only ticket out of here. I look back to see it in all its glory: that humongous, off-gray, crater-filled sphere. The sky turns a red-orange while rocks fall from overhead like raindrops hitting every inch of the earth. I face forward to see the colossal, 800-foot tall titanium rocket and faceplant straight into the ground. The taste of dirt and sulfur fills my mouth. I grunt through the pain. Something is definitely broken. But my wails won’t do anything; everyone is just running past me, not even giving me a second thought. All of a sudden, I hear a familiar voice. “Rachael!” It’s Mom calling from outside the rocket. A feeling of relief washes over me. I limp as fast as I can. When I finally arrive, we hear the worst possible news, “I’m sorry ma’am, only one more person can fit,” the military personnel say without stutter or sympathy. What? I look around. Everyone else is still futilely running towards the rocket. “We must depart now,” they say. My mom sighs. She has the saddest expression I’ve ever seen on her face. Tears start to flow as she hugs me like it’s the last time she ever will. Then, she whispers in both agony and somehow reassurance, “I’m sorry. I love you so much.” My body crashes to the ground; I‘m too exhausted to do anything. The rocket starts rumbling, and my body is forced against the floor. Eventually, I’m able to drag myself over to a window. I look outside, but after one glance, I can’t see a thing. Water just keeps pouring from my eyes. The entire world is engulfed in flames.

Evelyn W. ‘28

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

BRIANNA: polite, kind, college freshman, pretty

ANTON RANDOLF: narcissistic, misogynistic, rude, unhygienic, college senior

MOM: goofy, wants grandchildren

WAITER: Italian, male, thick Italian accent

(Lights up on BRIANNA, wearing a fancy dress and full glam makeup, on the phone with MOM in a fancy Italian restaurant with dim lighting)

BRIANNA: I can’t believe you guilt-tripped me into this!

MOM: I did not! (indignant) We both know you need a man.

BRIANNA: No, you think I need a man. I told you I wanted to focus on myself and my studies.

MOM: You know this is good for you. (mumbles) Plus, I want grandbabies.

BRIANNA: I heard that. Where is he anyway? We agreed to meet at 6:00; it’s 6:45.

(ANTON walks into the restaurant with a baseball cap on backwards, gold chain, full Nike Tech wear, and red Yeezys. BRIANNA sees him)

BRIANNA: Oh God, I think I see him. Mom, what the heck?! You set me up with him? Okay, whatever, gotta go.

(BRIANNA stands up to greet ANTON, as he walks over arrogantly. She stretches her hand out to shake, but he fakes and dodges her hand.)

ANTON: Psych!

The Ick, excerpt, continued

Evelyn W. ‘28

(BRIANNA rolls her eyes when ANTON laughs loudly at his own joke. BRIANNA has a visibly upset expression, but ANTON does not notice.)

BRIANNA: Mr. Stevenson, should we take a seat?

ANTON: You can call me ANTON. Better yet, call me Babe. (ANTON winks at BRIANNA.)

BRIANNA: Let’s...(makes gagging expression) refrain from that. (WAITER comes by to take their order.)

WAITER: Good evening, what can I get for you?

ANTON: Shoo! Come back later; I’m not done. (WAITER makes an offended expression.) Nevermind, come back!

WAITER: What can I get you, sir? (note of annoyance in his voice)

ANTON: I’ll have the calemeri freetee, g-nochee Sorrento, and halato.

(BRIANNA covers her face with embarrassment. WAITER’S eye twitches.)

WAITER: Calamari fritti, gnocchi Sorrento, e gelato, and what can I get you, Milady?

BRIANNA: I’ll have the...

ANTON: She’ll have the salad.

WAITER: Coming right up! (WAITER exits. Silence, while ANTON fixes his hair and smolders at her, biting his lower lip. An awkward silence of five seconds passes.)

B. ‘29

A Dog’s Thanksgiving

Caroline R. ‘28

Every year, the humans gather. They sit all together, surrounding the food. When I was a not-so-wise puppy, I didn’t know there was food up there. It always smells so good. Why can’t I have any of that food?

The big, fat, juicy turkey gleaming on its plate, I can just barely see it from down here. The humans laugh and talk, busy with their food. The turkey is ignored for a few seconds. Now’s my chance. I sneak, quickly trot under the table, just barely brushing against their legs. I’m drooling all over the floor. I want that turkey. I need that turkey. I see an opening; I crawl out and secure a spot on a chair. The humans all turn to face me now, and before I can close my jaws around the turkey, I’m yanked down from the table, …and once again they leave me by myself with only a bowl of kibble and no turkey.

Emma M. ‘29

Oh, Tiger

Benjamin S.-O. ‘29

Oh, tigers, how great and mighty!

I just love them, alrighty. Tiger, Tiger burning bright, shining like the morning light. Oh, tigers never go extinct, running and moving in a blink.

Oh Tiger, why not live with me?

Oh Tiger, please come to a tea. Hello my dear, how are you doing? I might sneak up on you, but never would I be booing.

Sneaking up on the hunt, always the hunt, its teeth sharp as knives, never blunt.

Oh Tiger, the time has come.

I’ll see you like the tip of my thumb.

Maddy C. ‘29

How I Made It to the Clouds

Vivian B. ‘28

My family and I were in San Francisco, biking along the ocean with a fresh breeze tickling our noses. We had picked up our bikes from the roughed-up store on the side of the street. We were stuck with janky, rusty bikes with brakes that didn’t work. We slowly peddled to the Golden Gate Bridge. It boomed above us with its vibrant red and gushing white caps below us. While biking, the wind would swirl like a hurricane and take control of my bike. To make it even worse, bikers coming the opposite direction were passing me in the cramped lane of the bridge. I could just hold my ground enough to let the bikers pass while willing my legs to keep pushing against the harsh wind. As I was passing another pillar on the path, the relentless wind striked again. It was perfect timing, as even more serious bikers with tight shorts and sports glasses tried to pass me. My bike halted and tilted against the wind, right in front of the biker.

“Move! You’re holding us up!”

Little me, with a laughable amount of strength, attempted to push against the relentless wind. Nope, can’t do this anymore. I succumbed to wind. I let go of my bike and willed the wind to take me to the clouds. Slowly, I was lifted off my bike, into the crisp, whistling wind, the only thing keeping me flying. How do I move? I made the motions of a bird, flapping my arms, but much less majestic.

I finally made it to the clouds, where I found many whimsical, soft houses to choose from. They were creamy white with soft bubbles. Now, I live happily ever after in the soft clouds looking over the victims of the wind from the Golden Gate Bridge.

Isabelle G. ‘28

The Loop

Norah M. ‘29

I have many lives and many families, many stories and many milestones, many romances, and many heartbreaks, many puzzles, and many solutions. I’ve experienced days, months, years, decades, centuries, eras.

And with years, come knowledge. I’m solid, withstanding, tough. Through crises, Coronaviruses, cyclones, and Crayolas, I do my job. I protect. I lend a safe frame for comfort and care. I am a shell, a fresh slate.

I seem like the light, but I’m only the lantern, like the gift, while I’m merely the wrapping. Like the story, but I’m just the cover. I am a host and a viewer, a caretaker and a campaign, a safe haven and a battlefield, a house and a home.

Maddy C. ‘29

Inside My Heart

Jack F. ‘30

Inside my heart, lives a single scholar ready to learn, two joyous parents, three amazing letters: G, J and K playing together, four e-bikes dancing in the barn, five homeruns hovering in the beyond, six pieces of Mom’s delicious chocolate marbled banana bread, seven amazing trips to the Poconos, eight stupendous birthday parties with 800 cards, nine tickets to all nine Star Wars movies, ten seeds to plant an old oak, and a loyal lion.

Dustin R. ‘29