Pegasus - Winter 2024

“What you’ve got to say, you say.”

- Shel Silverstein

Mission Statement

The Haverford School’s literary magazine—Pegasus—was created to bolster the creativity of our community by spreading the passion of its artists and writers. At a time where it is so easy to overlook the creative contributions of young people, we seek to draw attention to them—to render them as the loudest voices, brightest painters, foremost thinkers. In our bi-annual issues, we trace the soulful and beautiful; the uplifting and heart-wrenching; the past and future.

On that mission, the job of the literary magazine staff is to compile the best works of our school and support those works with a beautiful magazine of cohesive design and visual appeal. The hardworking staff utilizes the extra time they have in their schedules to collaboratively piece together each and every edition.

Letter from the Editors

Dear Reader,

Welcome to this print edition of Pegasus! If you haven’t met us before, here’s a brief introduction: we’re the collective product of Haverford’s literary and artistic communities—the literary magazine.

For years, Pegasus has embodied a simple ethos: promote writing, display art. Yet, as we look beyond our corner on Lancaster Avenue, we realize this mission itself is changing. At the heart of our process, we rely on the dexterity of human touch, and the portal of the human psyche. Our avenue of creation was self-evident: students.

With the change in digital scape, we—as all artists—are reconciling our position in literary creation. We ask ourselves the question: what is the nexus of art? What is the motive for writing?

While we’re not sure we have all the answers, we believe firmly in the human mind and soul as vessels for artistic ingenuity. That’s why in this edition of Pegasus, you’ll find our own search for social consequence and raw emotion. In these pages, Pegasus opts for a return to the root of artistic creation. At the heart of every idea, from the budding rhymes of Shakespearean sonnet to the paint bristles of Picassian abstraction, is a template—human sketch.

That’s why we’ve filled this edition with hand-drawings, sketches, and artwork tailored toward our contributors. We curated this issue to embrace the writer and artist at the center of the page, personalizing creativity in the way it should be. We hope you, too, will find solace in the intimacy of this handmade issue.

We owe massive thanks to Ms. Smith-Kan and Ms. Hitchcock for their leadership and assistance. Every year, we rely on their mentorship as an integral backbone to Pegasus. Both of them continue to push the magazine forward, proving true ambassadors of our mission to center voices in our magazine.

Finally, we owe our gratitude to the students who submitted their work for this issue. It is you who make each and every issue of Pegasus possible, after all. Thank you for your daring prose, insightful poetry, and compelling art. We hope you’ll enjoy this assortment as much as we do.

Best,

Pegasus Team

Romeo

In the heart of the beholder, beauty’s grace, Yet who, dear soul, mirrors your sweet face?

Thy charm, ageless, defies the fleeting stream, Eternal, steadfast, an enduring dream.

Like summer’s warm embrace, profound and deep, I find myself amidst a world where passions leap. Where friends and strangers alike, in search they roam, Chasing love’s elusive light to call their own.

But I, perhaps a curious outlier in this quest, Observe the fervor with a heart at rest. For love, to me, remains a subtle mystery, Like Rosaline in Romeo’s tale of history.

Romeo, once enamored by Rosaline’s grace, His heart entwined in a brief, fervent embrace. Yet as the moon’s phases change their tune, He spied another star, and his love did swoon.

This rapid shift, this change of heart’s direction, Leaves me in introspection and reflection. For why, I ponder, does love’s fervor sway, So swiftly in the hearts of those I survey?

In shadows and light, emotions do twine, But will they, like dusk, fade with time’s design?

I stand, bewildered, by love’s potent potion, A spectator to their fervent devotion.

While others seek the depths of passion’s tide, I remain upon love’s shoreline, mystified. Why does this ardor, like a fleeting wisp, enchant, When I, like Rosaline, can’t grasp its fervent chant?

To comprehend this riddle, I aspire, As others chase love’s flames and never tire. For now, I linger in this realm of confusion, Observing love’s illusions, a silent fusion.

In the heart of the beholder, beauty’s grace, A puzzle I shall unravel, in its own time and space. For love, like Rosaline, a story to unfold, Leaves me in wonder, a perspective yet untold.

Perfect McDonalds Run

McDonalds

Get your boys and hop in the car

Bump some music and drive pretty far

Going out for food But not to a bar

Find a McDonalds in your town

Some juicy McNuggies will turn your frown upside down

Pull up to the drive through

Wait our turn

Hungry as hell

Our stomachs churn

Order your food McChickens first

I bite into that sandwich and it bursts

Next it’s my turn boutta cop a meal

10 McNuggies an M&M McFlurry will many my tummy squeal

The guys order cop the food

McDonalds late at night put you in a special mood Park in a spot

McNuggies nice and hot

As devour my food faster than a robot

Eddie Kohn

Leaving

We hummed, once, on fallen leaves. Our arms interlocked. Now, September rebirths with its sweeper, harvesting your body from the porch. We pack

your memory into a cardboard box, lined with souvenirs of a life

we’re holding. Lay down the jar for fireflies. At night, their bulbs

glitter through the gaps in our fingers. Our bodies, shadows on another shore. In the light we see ourselves. Your sketchbook

filled with your pen’s whispers, remembering. Spider nations

from broken lamp shades. Draw their furniture on each page.

Youth left us earnest, with love. Overalls splattered with paint.

Paint spread across the mezzanine, delirious for meaning. These days,

I-95 gets the final word. Mute pigments rusted into silence, no longer in motion. Our dreams merge on a wooden canvas. We step on it. It’s dry.

Untitled Unnav Sharma

The Haverford School Haverford School

Empty cup in hand I struggle to watch you drink it all. Dribbling like a baby, the nectar seeps out of your lips like a spigot in disrepair—shabby spigot.

Rust creeps around the corners of your lips. My parched throat longs for your soothing current. Nectar, what drips down from your chin and splatters on the concrete floor is lapped up by the dogs at our feet.

Tongues ablaze—scraping—the illusory promise of more. Their teeth scrape our legs, gnawing on a false hope.

I sit and watch you, here in our lucrative isle of poverty. Kings of Catacombs. Mouth agape, drawing in the must of dead and dry flesh

Bare bones and brittle joints. It would be so easy to nudge your arm out of its socket—take your hand and watch it turn to ash. Sifting through my fingers as it falls to the ground. Impalpable.

Outstretched, your palm falls upon our kingdom, its presence wafting through our barren cell. It stings my eyes. The dogs clawing at my feet whine.

Tears cascade, my hollow cheeks face the brunt of their fall, eroding a stony blank expression. Inhospitable. Fleeing the hate, torment, and malice that I crave, the water streams from my mind till the riverbeds are dried and cracked and the frogs don’t sing and the blades of grass lacerate skin and the cacophony of a dried dirt dust bowl envelopes every waking moment.

We are devoured by shit-eating dogs and call ourselves soothsayers. We eat with our hands as liquid gold gilts our teeth. We online shop and call it sport—a tower billowing smoke— young nimble fingers binded to needle and thread. Pennies delivered to our doorsteps. Open it up. Take off the deceitful guise of opportunity and take a whiff of the future.

My nostrils burn as soot cakes my throat. The smoke of your toil fills the air and becomes a gelatinous entity Its tendrils, a suffocating warm hug, lodge themselves in my throat. My lungs, disparaged under their weight, cave in.

Ribcage crumbles

Flakes of skin fall to the floor

Combusted under a heap of rubble and sweat I join you in our desolate burial, united at last.

Nightwatch

“ There is a poem in this .”

- Smile Jiang

On this night, let’s climb to the twelfth floor and travel past the moonlit doors. Let’s break curfew—the stars have turned serene. We construct a home in the rotunda: couch pillows thread as roofs. They stand. Outside, hickories make way, bending their rooted backs to constellations. Their bark unfurls its stories in the night. We ride fireflies with our gaze so we might rewrite ourselves with them—so we might forget the world still spins us closer to day. At this hour, the river only ambles past Main Street. Say, tonight, I am the loudest. We let the night make sense of itself, urban light swallowed by the pines. We are only witness to day. We wed our youth— hands linked at the fingertips. Tomorrow, we’ll have memory.

STEM Poetry

Nicholas Lu

I. Number Theory after Dr. Seuss

There once were numbers, big and small, Primes stood tall, defying all. Some were even, some were odd, In their patterns, a mathematical nod. Fermat’s last theorem, once a playful tease, Was solved with grace and utmost ease! In the realm of digits, large and wee, Lies an ocean of mystery, as deep as the sea.

II. Algebraic Geometry after Walt Whitman

Oh, the fields and curves! Intersecting, spanning, In the grand tapestry of spaces, chanting, Algebra whispers to geometry’s song, A fusion where numbers and shapes belong. Varied spaces, manifold, and diverse, Their algebraic tales, poets rehearse, In the dance of equations, so long, Lies a harmony, profound and strong.

III. Machine Learning after T.S. Eliot

Amidst the vast data, patterns emerge, Neural pathways form, as algorithms surge. Seeking the essence, the meaning, the core, In the endless quest to learn ever more.

In the cathedral of code, machines now dream, Of a world enlightened, by the data stream, From bytes to wisdom, they tirelessly forge, Navigating the abyss, on knowledge’s gorge.

Untitled Unnav Sharma

The opportunity to attend college and leave behind a poverty-stricken life shined a beam of light onto him. Even though the light was surrounded by the abrasive clouds of struggle, he embraced it and took the opportunity. Now, it was no different. My dad was pushing through the long hours to further himself and our family. His story was inspiring; I knew I wanted to be just like him. A flame had been lit in my heart. Eventually, however, that flame dwindled and died until it burned dimly. Soon enough, the flame burned no longer.

I was stuck on a small island in the middle of an artithmetic sea of numbers...

Middle school was a tough time. After transferring from my old school to Haverford and the outbreak of the Covid-19 pandemic, I was completely worn out. During this time, I also struggled with some of my classes, especially math. It felt like I was stuck on a small island in the middle of an arithmetic sea of numbers, variables, and functions. I related with Jacquie from Tommy Orange’s There There, who said, “It’s just, it’s that you get stuck, and then the more stuck you get, the more stuck you get.” In the perpetual struggle of life, Jacquie was trapped in a never-ending cycle of failures. I also felt like I was trapped by my failures. Every class, I would try to build a raft to escape the monstrous sea. Unfortunately, the raft was never quite sturdy enough to make it off the island.

After meandering through my classes for a year, I decided that I had to get my act together. I had given up, but I knew someone who never gave up, even in the most challenging situations: my dad. Of course, my dad knew that I had been struggling, but he never said anything. Maybe he thought I would be embarrassed or that he would say something too harsh. Either way, I will never forget what he told me that day when I sought his guidance.

My dad told me a short story that took place when he attended a boarding middle school. At the time, my dad’s brother was also enrolled at the middle school. The days were long and hard; they would have to wake up before school to start studying. Classes would begin early in the morning and would last until the evening. The only break was for lunch and dinner, which was

usually tasteless rice and dry zha cai. After class, they would study some more before finally going to bed. A few months later, my dad’s brother reached his breaking point; the mountainous workload and arduous schedule were too much for him. In the end, he decided to drop out, even though he had been a good student. My dad, however, persevered and got through those hardships.

I thought that my dad’s story left an elephant in the room. “What happened to my uncle?” I asked.

“Years later at my college graduation,” my dad replied, “your uncle told me that dropping out of school was a decision that haunted him to that day.”

I had never considered the consequences of my inaction. I had always assumed that success was inevitable. My dad’s words brought me back to the previous incident in second grade. I remembered my dad working overtime to improve our family’s quality of life. I thought of how I had seen the world with a new tint and of the hearty fire in my heart. And then, everything came back. If I gave up on my studies, I knew that I would regret it. Even though I had been pushed onto the ground, I could still get back on my feet. My dad was able to persist through those difficult days at school and the long hours at the lab so that he could have a better life. I was not going to throw that all away.

Since then, my flame has been rekindled. I take my classes more seriously and ask for guidance when I need it. If nobody can help me, I scour YouTube to see if someone has created a guide or search Google for tips. I dedicate more time to my schoolwork and anything else I do to ensure that I create the best product I am capable of. No assignments are set aside for later, which turns to tomorrow, which becomes overdue. I have constructed a sturdy foundation for my escape-raftturned-ship and sailed off that desolate island into the now charted arithmetic sea. And shall I ever crash into another island, stranded in the murky depths of the sea, all I need to do is remember my dad’s stories, our stories, and persevere in constructing another stable steed. In Tommy Orange’s There There, Opal’s mom tells her, “...the world [is] made of stories, nothing else, just stories, and stories about stories” (Orange 58). Stories are everywhere. Some make us laugh. Others make us cry. Some teach us a lesson. Others keep us entertained. Regardless, everyone has a story to tell, and consciously or not, we are all influenced by such stories. Many say that actions speak louder than words, but stories can be just as bold.

Sunrise

Matthew Jones

Casco Viejo, Panamá

Liam French

And with that, Ms. Miller turned and swung the silver doors open; her perfume and her card were the only traces left of her presence.

Deal turns to the man, although his attention is still focused on Ms. Miller as she prances down the street. He waits until she is far enough from the shop to resume the conversation.

“At last,” Deal begins once more, “precaution is needed, I apologise. So—where were we? Which watch would you like to purchase?”

The man in the suit hesitates.

“Which watch do you want?” Deal asks once more, this time with a bit more emphasis.

“That one looks great, I suppose,” says the man, with little enthusiasm as he points to a dusty watch. “I’m in a rush. I was told to come here before work. I need to go before I’m late.”

“This is how I run my shop. I’ve been in this business for thirty years. I’m not going to change the practices I have in place that have kept this operation running for years to accommodate your schedule. Okay?”

Deal snatches the watch that the man had pointed towards. “Let’s bring it to the back to examine further and check the quality, shall we?”

The man in the suit snorts with frustration.

Deal steps towards the door behind his counter. The door is worn and cracked from being opened so many times, and from thirty years of being pushed through a frame too small. Its once rich honeyed colour has faded into a pale tan, and the edges are splintered. He reaches for the knob, but suddenly pauses, distracted by the memory of an erstwhile shop housing the most fashionable watches.

“Goddammit, what now!” The man cries.

Unphased, Deal smiles and thinks for a moment. “You Wall Street men. All the same. In thirty years of doing business with you boys, you are all carbon copies of one another. Always crisply dressed, emotionless, and in a rush. So paranoid about the world you live in, of what could become of you if the public knew your little secret. Sometimes I wonder what will happen to Wall Street when I die.”

The man in the suit just stares at him. “I’m in a rush. Can we please just finish this?”

Deal twists the bronze knob, and ushers the man into the room. Their words are unintelligible from the other side of the door, and their time is brief. After only a few minutes, Deal looks through the peephole of the door. Once he determines no one is in the shop, the two

men return into the main room. But now, something is different. The pupils of the man in the suit are wider, and some of his fingers are reddened, almost burnt. In his hand is not a watch, but a small grey pouch.

“I’ll see you next week!” The man in the crisp suit exclaims on his way out, though his jacket now seems less crisp.

He could recall the bright blue colour of the car carrying his only child as it tumbled and flipped through the busy highway.

Deal sits behind the counter for the remainder of the morning, conducting his business and remembering the day in which all that he loved was lost. Deal could still hear the moans, the primitive noises that had spawned from his own chest. He envisioned the slam, the ensuing chaos, and the flames that had erupted in front of his eyes. But most of all, he could recall the bright blue colour of the car carrying his only child as it tumbled and flipped through the busy highway while he drove behind. From that day on, he understood that no consequence of his actions could inflict any more pain than that of his son’s death. After that loss, he cancelled the orders he had placed for new watches and changed his profession. The skin of his previous, law-abiding self, was shed as though it had never existed.

As 6 p.m. rolls around, Deal’s door is once again flung open, this time by a plump police officer stuffed into official looking clothing. The officer has a bushy moustache and a deep, booming voice.

“Evenin’ Deal. Hand it over,” he orders.

Deal reaches under his counter and pulls out a sealed white envelope which he had prepared moments before.

“I trust that this is the correct amount? By the weight, it seems as though you’ve had a busy week!”

“You know it’s the right amount, John. This isn’t my first time. Remember what happened last time when I tried to keep some extra for myself? I certainly do.”

The cop laughed, Deal mustered a weak smile, and for another day, Wall Street didn’t collapse.

Test 917

“Test 917. Current Time: 0:600 PM Eastern Time on August 5, 3994. Time of Arrival: 08:30 AM Eastern Time on August 5, 2122. Systems. Check. Transmitters. Check. Flex Capacitor. Check. All Systems are a go. And initiate.”

SHWOOORMM.

All was quiet. The light blinded Adam even though he put his hands in front of his eyes to block it. Through the air he could hear the birds singing, the waving of trees, and the dancing wind on the tall green grass. He opened his eyes to marvel at the new world. A world without violence, terror, and death. A world of peace. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He checked his watch and the clock hands were spinning violently. He had no sense of time but had a sense of urgency. His mission was clear. He had no time to waste. He saw a house, a wooden one, atop an enormous hill. The morning sun hit the front of the house, turning the dark brown wood into an orangish color. The windows of the house reflected the blinding light of the sun, shining on the morning dew in the tall grass.

Adam ascended the creaky wooden stairs of the house, each one making a squeaky groan. He knocked on the door with a fast tempo, inhaling and exhaling as he calmed himself down.

Adam began to run, each stride getting harder as the elevation rose. The grass faded into rock as he ascended the massive hill and a few flowers grew on the small patches of grass the top of the hill had. When Adam reached the top he looked back at this new world. Sweat was dripping down his cold face but he didn’t care. He saw a village, mountains, valleys, rivers, pines, all things that the world, even Adam had forgotten the look of.

Will Bradford

Adam ascended the creaky wooden stairs of the house, each one making a squeaky groan. He knocked on the door with a fast tempo, inhaling and exhaling as he calmed himself down from running up the hill.

The door opened and an old man stepped out. He was strong, had white, silky hair and had a stern look on his face.

“What do you want pardner,” the old man said.

“Sir. You have something of value that, if not handed over to me, there will be consequences,” Adam said quickly.

“And why do you suppose I do that stranger. I don’t even know you. Are you robbing me?”

“No. I’m not trying to rob you. You have something that is important for the fate of this world so hand it over now. ” Adam demanded. The old man looked nervous. There was a sense of conflict behind his eyes.

“Look something is going to happen in less than 5 minutes and if you don’t do as I say then mankind will die. Listen to me now. Lead me toward your basement. I know you have what I am searching for,” Adam exclaimed. The old man then showed the first signs of fear. His hands were shaking.

“W-Why? I don’t think I want to let you in my house. What if you want to hurt me?” The old man said nervously. He began to back up toward a table where a six shooter lay. He bumped into it and grabbed it in his right hand. The light on the table rattled with the shaking of his hands knocking a stack of books off of it.

“Don’t you think about shooting me old man,” Adam said. “If you kill me, you will be the cause for the end of the world.”

“Everything will be ok. Just relax. Be calm. Breathe in, breathe out,” the old man said, as sweat and tears dripped down his shaking head.

“Lead me to your basement, now,” Adam demanded.

“Everything will be ok. Just relax. Be calm. Breathe in, breathe out.”

“Hello. Lead me now. We don’t have much time.”

“Everything will be ok. Just relax. Be calm. Breathe in, breathe out.”

“LEAD ME NOW.”

Untitled Unnav Sharma

The crisp, cold wind howled as it blew against the windows. The powdery snow turned brighter and brighter as the sun slowly crept over the horizon. It was February 19, 2021, the day I would achieve a goal I had thought about for weeks. As I arose from the warm covers of the bed and stepped into the kitchen, I was already filled with excitement. My grandma had made me an omelet before the big day, “Over my dead body, will you leave hungry while I am here”. Russian grandmas are always so paranoid about their grandkids and food. I stepped out into the chilly, cold air, snowboard in hand, and began walking to the bus, where I would drive to the next mountain. From there, I would take the ski lift to the top and hike for 2 hours until we finally had the chance to ride down from the summit of the mighty Aspen Highland Bowl.

At over 12 thousand feet tall and with howling winds that complemented the thick clouds, The peak of the Bowl had an ominous feel as if it was trying to hide itself from nature. Some people had hiked up before, not knowing it would be their last time going down. Others became trapped in their bodies, unable to control themselves from fear or panic. However, I was confident in my ability to finish this run, so the hike began. Being from the tremendously mountainous state of Florida, I struggled to breathe for only 2 out of the 2 hours and 15 minutes of hiking. (Seriously, though, the altitude was no joke). At first, the hike seemed fine as we walked on a comprehensive and even path where snow plows usually drive by. It wasn’t until we reached the actual incline that my troubles began. Although the hike initially seemed gentle, surrounded by trees and staying flat, it soon became a treacherous scare. ten inches on our left was a painful fall that led into the steep and rocky bowl. However, ten inches to our right was a horrific drop thousands of feet down to the valley below, where you would be buried by an avalanche and hit trees or rocks as you went down.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I cleared this narrow and scary path, which was quickly replaced by a much steeper and slightly less narrow path. The final challenge before reaching the top. No matter how tired I was, I did not dare take a break, for if I stepped to the side, it risked sliding down to God knows where. It was tiring, it was scary, and it was stressful. But to take a quote from the John Wick movies, I was an individual of focus, commitment, and sheer fuckingf’ing will. All that was left after overcoming this section was a big, wide path for one hundred

feet before I could begin the journey down. As much as I wanted to lie down and nap, I had a job to finish.

I placed my snowboard into the wind-crusted snow, strapped in, and began the descent down.

I placed my snowboard into the wind-crusted snow, strapped in, and began the descent down. I could hear my snowboard scraping against the now hard, icy snow. I kept thinking, “Left turn, right turn, left turn, right turn.” Being nearly entirely blinded by the conditions on that day, it felt as if, out of nowhere, I hit a chunk of ice the size of a bowling ball. I tried to regain balance, but there was no hope as the mountain swept me away. As I began sliding down and the speeds grew quicker and quicker, it became difficult to remain calm. I tried to stand back up, but it was no use. I tried clawing with my hands, but the gloves made it nearly impossible.

Finally, in a last-ditch effort, I used all my energy to spin myself around so I was face down on the ground, which thankfully brought me to a stop. As I lay there in the snow with a panting breath and clouds forming from my exhale, I couldn’t help but think about what if something went even worse. What if I couldn’t stop? What if I hit a rock or a tree, or what if I fell forward rather than backward while on the top of the slope?

As I got back up and brushed off the now powdery snow at the bottom, nearly burying me, I looked back up with disappointment as I had tumbled down most of the run. It was also at this moment, however, that courage truly came into my mind. Although I failed in successfully snowboarding down this mountain, I still gave it effort. I could have looked at the narrow hiking path and decided to turn back; I could have gone down very slowly and not tried any turns. Even though the day was wasted, I felt a wave of pride and self-confidence sweep over me as I decided to go for the challenge, and despite the obstacles, I persisted. I believe courage is not just a straightforward definition but rather filled with layers of meaning. If I ever get another opportunity to go on this journey, Hopefully, I can continue discovering previously unknown layers that courage has to offer.

Heroes and Villains

Grant Oliver

“It’s over.”

The remains of the city were quiet apart from the active fires and the occasional crack of crumbling buildings.

“It’s done,” he said, looking to the lifeless body held by the throat.

The body was wearing a bright red and blue costume with a cape rimmed in gold attached to his back. In any other scenario, the uniform might have been quite the sight, now though, it was in shreds, coated with blood, with a corpse occupying it.

“I won,” he said.

There was no one to hear the man as he reveled in his own glory. He laid the body down and flipped it over, removing the cape, and placed it on his own shoulders.

“I am the hero.”

The man walked over to a pile of debris. He studied it for a second before finding an adequate spot. Once he found one, he dusted it off, and took a seat. The man looked up at the sky for a minute, acknowledging the red tint made from the smoke, acknowledging what he had done.

“I’ve won,” he said, spreading his arms out and looking up. “I’VE WON,” the crumbling city echoed his screams, “SO WHY DO I FEEL NOTHING?”

“Because you have done nothing to deserve the feelings you desire.” A man shrouded in all black stepped out from behind some rubble. “You have done nothing but kill.”

The other man remained seated, now slightly tense. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“A nobody,” he replied. “Think of me as a consequence of your actions.” The man was completely covered in shadows, looking as though he was made of darkness.

“I suggest you leave,” the sitting man said. “Your last feelings shouldn’t be regret”

“Oh, I am well aware of your power, Harte.” Harte suddenly stood up at the mention of his name. “I know why you killed all those people. I know why you leveled this city.” The man swept his arm around, mentioning

to the piles of debris and fire, his sweep ended with him pointing at the corpse lying on the ground “I know why you killed him.”

“You know nothing,” Harte spat out, now irritated.

“Oh but how very wrong you are, I know everything about yo-”

Before the man could finish, Harte raised his hand, and a massive beam of energy shot out of it, vaporizing everything in front of it. Once the light cleared, all that remained was a gaping hole in a collapsed building. He let out a sigh of disappointment and turned back to go back to where he was sitting.

“I thought you were smarter than this,” The man was now sitting where Harte was.

“What the–?” Harte jumped back in surprise and confusion. He pointed to where the man was standing. “I vaporized you, this isn’t possible, how are you alive?”

The man gave a shrug with a smug look on his face. Harte raised his hand again and let out another blast of energy.

“I’ll give you one more of those until I start calling you insane,” the man said, now standing atop some more rubble.

Again Harte raised his hand and shot the beam at him.

“Alright, you’re insane,” the man said, now on ground level, leaning against a broken pillar. “Did you know the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over expecting a different result? It’s fascinating.”

“What are you?” Harte said, still shocked at this man’s existence.

“Like I said, a nobody.” The man smiled Harte had already raised his hand, ready to blast him again. This time he hesitated a second, he thought about what the man had just said, and put his hand down, ready to listen.

“So you do have some brains in that thick skull. Glad to see I could get through to it.” The man walked over to a bench, brushed it off with his hand, and sat on it. He patted the spot next to him and said, “Come here, let’s have a chat, shall we.”

Harte thought for a second. He had no business with this man, why should he humor him? He thought for a moment longer. This man did seem to be of interest though, someone who could dodge his attacks was someone who should be treated carefully. If he had to kill this man later, he should learn as much as he can. Harte approached the bench carefully, expecting some sort of offensive. The shadow man seemed unamused, even yawning.

Harte approached the bench and cautiously sat himself down.“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“To be quite frank, I should probably be asking you that.” the man responded.

“There is not a chance in hell that you, whatever you are, came all this way through this wasteland of a city, just to mess with me,” Harte reasoned.

“Or maybe there is?”

Harte was becoming more and more impatient with the man and was starting to consider blasting him again.

“Alright, no need to be so dramatic,” he said. “I’ll get to the real reason I’m here, to talk about what you’ve become.”

Both comments took Harte by surprise, but the first is what really concerned him. He had shown no sign of his irritation or dramatics, keeping it internal. This man must have some sort of telepathy.

“So, considering you seem to know so much, what have I become,” Harte asked sarcastically.

The shadow man laughed, “It’s not that easy, you have to realize it yourself, but I’ll do the courtesy of making it slightly easier.” His tone shifts. “Was it worth it?”

Harte sensed the shift of tone and tensed up. “Was what worth it?”

The man gestured to the destroyed city again.

“ENOUGH” Harte raised his arm and let out a blinding beam of light, incinerating everything in front of him to dust instantly. He didn’t stop though, he kept going, pouring more and more energy into the blast. The man knew too much, he had to die. The energy kept pouring out, the beam growing larger and larger. Harte had to take a knee to stop himself. Then it stopped, the beam receded and the energy faded. Such energy had literally turned the ground into glass, anything not directly hit by the beam was reduced to nothing more than a molten mess. Harte collapsed onto his hands, panting heavily.

“You thought you were doing the right thing.” The

man walked out from behind some rebar. “It’s not every day you acquire the power to shoot beams of energy as hot as the sun. It does seem like quite the tool for revenge, doesn’t it?”

“Go.fuck yourself,” Harte said, venom dripping from every word.

“Was it really necessary, killing all those poor scientists? They only tried to revive your daughter. Was it necessary to level this whole city in the name of finding one man? I will give you credit on one thing though, it takes some serious ingenuity to almost collapse the American government as an individual.” The man kept walking, going behind one pillar and appearing next to another. “All this in the memory of one person, just to prove a point”

“It..was the …right thing to do…” Harte stammered “I was…. The ..he..hero”

“Do you truly believe that, from the bottom of your soulless heart, do you?” the man asked, standing directly over Harte

Harte hesitated a moment.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well good thing that’s just not true, otherwise I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Harte was simply too tired to fully grasp what the man was saying.

“When you were with your daughter in her final moments, something came to you didn’t it? A small black tint rounding your vision, I doubt you noticed it considering the rage you felt in that moment, but what about the other times? When you killed those scientists, did you notice it then? How about when you rampaged the Pentagon for information on him,” he points to the corpse again, “Did you feel the darkness seeping in?”

A hero, he thought to himself, I killed a hero.

Harte was starting to understand where the man was going with this, but he simply refused to believe it.

Still pointing at the corpse the man asked, “How about when you killed him, you must have seen it then. To end the life of someone who has done so much good just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “You must have felt it.”

Harte tried to stand up but failed, he couldn’t run from this, he had made his first critical blunder since trusting the Hero.

The ship’s prow, its beautiful figurehead worn to its simple, enduring oak base, pitched down into the relentless sea. The furious waves launched their seventh assault that day on the beleaguered crew. The weary captain, his proud jacket worn to threads, gazed out with the solemnity of a waning star.

- Reilly Pryma

Flash Fiction

50 Words

3 Given

As Jacob watched the life wane from Thomas, his once-friend, he remembered what brought them to this point. “It didn’t need to be like this,” Thomas said, the pitch of his voice low. Jacob shook his head, slowly, taking a deep breath. He knew that base desires must be satisfied.

- Mr. Kolade

As the light began to wane, all became silent. The consistent buzz of crickets had no pitch and the world fell into disarray. The moon blotted out by the haze of nothingness. He lay at the base of the tree whose now gone branches lay scattered. His eyes closed.

- Mookie Dombar

He was working overtime. Again. Before he knew it, he missed the careless days of his childhood. Arguing over the difference between base and bass. Wandering through the streets when it was pitch black. Watching the waning moon glimmer in the night sky. But they were never coming back.

- Avery Jones

I step out into the base of my new home. As I look around, taking in the waning skyline, I hear footsteps approaching.

“How did it go?” I say, expecting a somber response. A face pitched deeper than my own informs me of all that I need to know.

base pitch wane

- Adam Brown

The base of the shuttle was roaring with noise. The engines started flickering with light, getting ready to take off. The pitch of the ship angled towards the sky. With the waning moon in the background, it took off, soaring through the sky to its destination: Mars.

- Harry Koenig

The cacophony of crashing rock brings him to the ground—a cave in. His flashlight breaks against a stone and showers him in bright but waning sparks. Fallen boulders cover the cave’s exit. In the pitch black, he only has his base instincts; the only sound is his jagged breathing.

- Elliot Lee

Untitled Unnav Sharma

Art Gallery

The Creation of Adam Christos Patterson

Amphitheater Sketch

Jay Tyson

5 Values Painting Will Bradford

Black-Capped Chickadee

Jay Tyson

Colophon

Front Cover title is Cormorant Garamond (Regular) 125pt; front cover sub-text is Cormorant Garamond (Regular) 26pt; spine text is Cormorant Garamond (Regular) 18pt; back cover text is Comorant Garamond (Regular) 28pt; table of contents title is Adobe Garamond Pro (Bold) 40pt; table of contents entry titles and page numbers are Alegreya Sans (Regular) 14pt; table of contents entry authors are Alegreya Sans (Light) 12pt; prose and poetry titles are Adobe Garamond Pro (Bold) 40pt; poetry and prose authors are Helvetica (Light) 18pt; poetry and prose body text are Alegreya Sans (Regular) 12pt; prose pull quotes are Alegreya Sans (Light) 18pt; all artwork and photography titles and credits are Alegreya Sans (Regular) 12pt. The software utilized is Adobe InDesign 17.0.

Cover designed by Liam French Table of Contents designed by Elliot Lee

Awards:

Columbia Scholastic Press Association

Silver Medalist (2013, 2014)

Gold Medal Winner (2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019)

Gold Medalist with All-Columbian Honors (2015, 2016)

Gold Crown Award (2020)

Editors-in-Chief:

(Leadersofdesignandwritingfrominitial layouttofinishedproduct)

Elliot Lee

Christopher Schwarting

Staff:

(Continuestheprestigeoftheliterary magazinebywritingandcreating designs)

Alex Borghese

Will Bradford

Kai Degenhardt

Liam French

Nicholas Lu

Xan Matuch

Grant Oliver

Jay Tyson

Advisors:

Ms. Emma Hitchcock

Ms. Taylor Smith-Kan

Acknowledgements

The Pegasus editorial board thanks the following:

Mr. Casertano and Mr. Fifer for their support;

The Haverford School English and Art Department faculty members for their encouragement;

Dr. Ward and the Creative Writing Club for their frequent contributions;

The Haverford School Custodial Team for accommodating our late hours;

Lulu Publishing for its press resources;

Ms. Smith-Kan and Ms. Hitchcock for their extended patience while advising the meetings;

All of our contributors for their hard work and limitless talent.

In an anonymous screening process, the Pegasus staff considers submissions and selects works for publication based on creativity, quality, maturity of style, and variety. Editors reserve the right to make technical corrections, although authors and artists reserve all rights to their individual works. The views expressed in this magazine’s published works are those of individual contributors.

W. Bradford

A. Brown

M. Dombar

L. French A. Jones

M. Jones

D. Khan

H. Koenig

E. Kohn

L. Kolade

E. Lee

N. Lu

G. Morgan

G. Oliver

C. Patterson

R. Pryma

C. Schwarting

U. Sharma

J. Tyson

S. Wang

H. Williams