The Loyola School Literary Magazine Presents: Urban Ecotone 2023-2024

The Literary Magazine Presents Urban Ecotone

2023-2024

Cities and nature

This year’s theme was chosen for its impactful nature in the upbringing of much of our staff having grown up in New York City. Finding our own ‘secret gardens’ in New York City and exploring them through writing, photography, art and more our staff is proud to present this year’s edition of the Literary Magazine.

We encourage all of our readers to find their own ‘secret gardens’ and escapes of nature throughout the cities they encounter in the world.

PhotographybyHelenaFynn‘24

Our staff

Editors-in-Chief

Annabel Kurman ‘24

Helena Fynn ‘24

Olivia Romano ‘25

Writers & Contributors

Oliver Smith ‘24

Michael Farrell ‘24

Veronica Gannon ‘24

Danny Rosado ‘24

Meg Croston ‘24

Alice Greene ‘24

Eden’s Absalon ‘24

Maya Staunton ‘24

Ella Guarino ‘24

Greyson Sweeney ‘24

Penelope Henderson ‘25

Meghan Teeter ‘25

Vita Klien ‘25

Allison Roman ‘25

Jay Pieper-Wetmore ‘25

Sophie Rossouw ‘25

Lucia Pastore ‘25

Gabby Castillo-Lopez ‘26

Colin Fuller ‘27

ML Balestriere ‘27

Juliette Chen ‘27

A big thank you to our faculty advisor, Ms. Kiefer (‘07)

Cover Artwork by Danny Rosado ‘24

Famous Structures 2. Walking in the City

At Home

In the Park/Secret Garden

With People Back Cover Artwork by Lucia Pastore ‘25 PhotographybyAnnabelKurman‘24

FamousStructures

Falcons by Colin Fuller ‘27

New York City is an iconic place, known throughout the world for its hectic pace and unforgiving nature. Many people hear ‘New York City’ and picture skyscrapers and bustling streets filled with yellow taxis and hot dog carts. As a tourist destination for many, people usually only see aspects of the city commonly portrayed in popular culture: the Empire State Building, Radio City Music Hall, and Central Park, just to name a few Wildlife and nature, however, is not something that comes to most people’s mind when they think of this city As a Manhattan local though, I have learned about an aspect of this so-called concrete jungle.

Many birds of prey, such as the fish-eating Osprey, predatory Red-Tailed Hawks, compact Kestrels, and, most notably, the insanely fast Peregrine Falcons, call New York City their home. These birds of prey nest, hunt, and live high up around the tops of buildings. I find it amazing that in such an unforgiving environment such as the city, these birds thrive, becoming the apex predator in an ecosystem that, as a whole, seems constantly on the brink of disaster. I think that the most notable of these species are the Peregrine Falcons and Kestrels, as they are an example of a species that has adapted to live effectively in an environment such as NYC, (fascinating that they hunt where we normally live).

Peregrine falcons are probably the most iconic birds of prey, known for their impressive speed. Many do not know that Peregrine falcons hold the record for being the fastest animal, with a diving speed of 240 miles per hour, faster than some small planes. Peregrines are less known for this, but they are also excellent hunters. They hunt other birds such as pigeons, striking them in midair with their sharp, curved talons. They mainly nest on the bridges of the city

Experts look at the peregrine falcon population of New York City as a testament to the success of recent conservation efforts.

Kestrels, a lesser known bird of prey in New York, are tiny, compact hunters about the size of a bluejay. They measure about 9-12 inches. Their small size has given them the alternate name of ‘sparrowhawk’

We spotted a Kestrel last spring on my block, oddly perched on a police car at street level. The Kestrel sat there on the car for hours while dozens of people passed within feet of it. Perhaps it was confused by the thick, dark smoke that had just engulfed the city from wildfires in Canada. I find Kestrels very interesting because they basically share all of the aspects of a predatory falcon but are around half of the size of many common falcons.

Walking in the City

PhotographybyHelena

And in the pallid face of subway travels I curled on the blue chair.

Rolling past beige and green and brown until the conductor came in walking,

In the blaring bleary beams, amongst the blue and white.

I walked up while she walked down and hide under the seat when she came close And take off at my stop swiftly and quietly, Disappearing in the swarm and the gray, Until the next time

In the swirl of blue and green and gray.

Stowaway on a train by Helena Fynn

“The Scourge of Amesover”

I awoke suddenly to the sound of church bells ringing, calling all citizens of Amesover to the town square. Why were they ringing? There was no holiday or day of devotion to bring our attention to. But nonetheless I got up and allowed my eyes to adjust to the room around me. I saw dull streams of light cutting in through the just ajar curtains and briefly illuminating the cold, bare space my family inhabited.

Then next to me I heard ruffling and I looked down to see my younger brother Caleb stirring awake. Once he opened his eyes and saw me he asked, “Faith? What is happening?”

“I do not know, '' I replied, rising from our shared bed and hesitantly placing my feet on the cold wooden floor I must get used to that as it will only get colder, “Come on now,” I said, pulling Caleb out of bed, “We must get a move on lest we get labeled slothful heretics.”

I helped dress Caleb and then myself, careful to lace us both up tight. I noted that father and Caleb’s jackets would need to be stitched up in the coming days. As I eyed my father ’s jacket I finally noticed his empty bed, “That fool!” I thought to myself, starting the day’s work utterly exposed. It’s though he’s begging to catch some affliction.

Grabbing Caleb’s hand I lend him out the door and past our home’s small stable where the family’s cow sat still asleep, as though she knew there would be time to milk her this morning. Once we reached the street I was able to hear the mass of footsteps all moving toward the town square. It wasn’t abnormal for people to wake up this early, rather, it was quite common for people to be about at this time in order to get a head start on the day’s work. But why mobilize the whole town for seemingly no reason? Fog from the night prior still clung to the cobblestone streets and the rows of wooden houses and shops sat empty and unlit as though they themselves were not awake yet.

As we got closer to the town square the sound of footsteps morphed into the sound of talking, then as Caleb and I made it to the square the sound of talking morphed into shouting as we tried to scan the crowd for our father. Thomas Abbot was far from an easy man to miss, but even standing at six feet tall with striking auburn hair similar to my own was not enough to make you visible in this two hundred-some thick crowd. Then from beside me I heard, “Faith! Caleb!” and I turned to see my father walking to join us.

I began to ask, “Why were we called here––'' but I was sharply interrupted by the church bells ringing once more as Reverend Bartlett stepped up onto a platform before the crowd, immediately silencing them. Amesover ’s town square is a wide, empty stretch of land, bordered by buildings, with the town’s large church at the center.

The Reverend stood before this church and said, “Hail good citizens of Amesover township, it was not my want nor is it my pleasure to gather you all here today I am here to share with you a most distressing piece of news.” This pushed the crowd to begin its nervous murmurs and speculation. But before they could get too carried away Bartlett continued, “A member of our very community, the pious Goodwife Prudence was found murdered this morning.” While I expected the gathering to regress back to panicked shouting, everyone was left in shocked silence for a few moments, and then Bartlett continued, “It is in the face of these senseless acts of violence where we all must come to know ourselves.”

As everyone stood and took in what was being said, someone from the crowd called out “How was she killed?” which snapped everyone back to focused attention. The Reverend stumbled on his words for a moment, then he composed himself and said, “She was found with her throat cleanly sliced open and…” he hesitated before taking a quick affirming breath and finishing with, “her eyes ripped out.”

Before anyone could stop and take in the information just given to them, a village elder in the back of the group called out, “It was Elias Morey!” and the crowd fell back into rabid howling. And as the crowd picked back up, I felt as though some unseen force or figure was staring at me through the throngs of people, its gaze baring into the back of my head. As I turned around to try and see what was behind this I saw nothing, though the chill in my spine persisted.

The name was familiar to me. Everyone in the village knew the story of Amesover ’s wicked founder, the infamous Elias Morey, rumored to still haunt and curse the town. But Morey had been dead for generations, and the stories were just stories, right?

As I pondered this, I felt my father grab both me and Caleb and pull us away. “What are you doing?” I asked, shocked. It was not typical for him to act in such a way or for him to try to shield us, especially me from the happenings of the world.

“I don’t want you two out here, around these people,” my father said, having now pulled us to the outskirts of the crowd, “It isn’t safe.”

“But we won’t be any safer at home,” said Caleb hesitantly, his face pale and clearly deeply rattled by The Reverend's revelations. I nodded in agreement adding on with, “It isn’t like Elias Morey is lurking behind every corner and alley,” which I would quickly regret saying as my father ’s face hardened and he pulled the two of us away from the crowd and back into town with nearly enough force to rip our limbs off. He was so single mindedly focused on pulling us away from the town square that he missed several people trying to get his attention and calling out, “Goodman Abbot!” as he just kept pulling us away.

But as my father pulled me, I felt a strange pang of emotions. Beyond just the natural stress and fear one would have in the situation, I also felt anger, violent anger. Toward my father his vice grip nearing to bruise my arm, toward the people in the town square, though streets

away, their shouting reverberated quakes in my skull, and most shockingly even toward Caleb, his fearful whimpers putting me in a state where I just might––

Then my father released my arm and I realized we had arrived home. With that my violent thoughts subsidized and I was left to ponder what spurred them. “That couldn’t have been me,” I thought, that’s not who I am… right? But as I tried to shake the last pangs of my confusion, I once more felt the same sharp gaze that was cast upon me in the town square. But this time, it felt as though whoever was behind the gaze wanted me to do or feel something. I quickly darted my head to my sides and behind me but saw nothing and no one; I was entirely alone on the street. As I walked into my house I could only wonder what had befallen Amesover, and what more was to come.

That night I was feverishly hot. I do not know how or why, but while Caleb and my father both slept peacefully under furs and blankets, I was grasped awake by an unholy amount of sweat. Eventually I had evidently sweated too much, as I was set upon by a brutal headache wracking my body as though it was soil before the plow

So I got up to get a drink from the well across from my home. I wrapped a fur from my bed around myself; though I was sweltering inside the house, nothing can halt the cold autumn winds in Amesover “Perhaps the cold air will be good for me. ” I thought as I quietly made my way outside, taking every step deliberately and slowly so as to not wake my family.

Once I made it outside, I relished the cold air as it danced across my skin and eased the relentless beads of sweat. I made my way to the well and rolled the bucket down. As I made my way to take a sip, I heard a whisper cut across my ear, “Faith…” The “voice” was cold and inhuman as it passed through me.

I recoiled in shock, dropping the bucket back down the well and called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?” But there was no response. I had forgotten about my thirst and began to make my way back home. I held the fur wrapped around me tight and close to my body, suddenly very cold. And as I was within arms reach from the door I heard the voice once more echo, “Faith…” but this time it continued with, “Kill…Continue my legacy ” I turned around in shock and saw across from me standing right next to the well where I just was, two deep amber eyes shrouded in shadow.

I tried to scream, but found as I opened my mouth all I could do was choke as I buckled over and threw up. In the weak moonlight I could not discern the vomit's color, but within it I saw two amber eyes staring back at me.

I tried to look back up at the figure but as I struggled to raise my head my vision began to blur, and with the thud of my body falling against the door, all went black.

I then felt something pushing up behind me. I opened my eyes to find the sun was beginning to rise. I tried to stand up but my knees buckled beneath me. Sure I was going to once more fall on the ground, I braced myself, but before I hit the ground, I felt two hands catch me. And I heard my father say, “Faith? What happened to you? What are you doing out here?” Though his voice was caring, I felt an undercurrent of scorn beneath his words.

I tried to give him an answer, but I could muster nothing. My mouth still stung with the taste of bile, but when I looked down my vomit was gone, as though someone took a bucket of water and doused it like a flame. But the ground where it was remained stark dry as if nothing had even wetted it. What is happening to me?

My father led me inside saying, “I don’t know what happened or what you did last night

but you need to rest today…” he trailed off once he looked at my face for the first time. “What is that?” he asked pointing below my right eye, “That hasn’t always been there.”

Finally mustering words, I replied, “What are you talking about?”

I watched as my father went to a drawer and retrieved a knife. Instinctively I shuddered as he walked toward me bearing the blade, but then he handed it to me, my reflection visible in the metal. I took the knife and grasped it in my hand. My grip tightened as I assessed the knife’s weight and sharpness. “Dull, but still serviceable to slice through––” I began to think until I saw my eyes in the metal and was pulled back to reality I peered down and saw what my father had pointed out: a thin, already-healed scar resting below my right eye.

This is new, I knew that. But it couldn’t have happened last night and been healed like a ten year old wound this morning, and as well I know I didn’t get cut… At least not that I remember. I looked at my father, and all I could say was, “I don’t know.” My voice was a sad whisper, as though I was trying to convince my father as well as myself that I wasn’t spiraling.

“Well, whatever it is you need to rest today I’ll have Caleb pick up your share of the work,” said my father, leading me to bed and waking up my brother.

And so that’s what I did. All day I rested, my first taste of peace and serenity since this whole murder crisis started. “Who knows?” I thought, “Maybe this all was just a strange fluke, and the murder was just a murder and my strange visions and feelings are just because of stress.”

It was night now and I allowed myself to believe that as I calmly drifted off to sleep, safe in my bed.

Then the next morning I woke to the ringing of church bells and the process began again. I dressed and made my way to the town square, this time with Caleb as well as my father.

Reverend Bartlett announced that there had been another murder, Goodman Richards. Killed in the same fashion as Goodwife Prudence, throat slit and her eyes ripped out. My stomach churned at the thought of the eyes, lurched from their sockets. Then like clockwork, the crowd began shouting, angry and fearful. Again, my father led Caleb and I away, this time we don’t fight it.

Once we arrived home I looked at my father and said plainly, “What do you know about Elias Morey?” I knew the name and I knew that he did something horrible, but there were so many conflicting stories and so much hearsay gossip that nothing people say on the matter really means anything. But I trust my father and I trust he’ll give me the truth, or at least what he knows of it.

At first he looked upset, mad that I was getting wrapped by the town’s superstition and fear. But then his face softened, realizing that I was just scared and wanted answers. So then he got up and retrieved a stack of papers from under his bed. I had no idea they were there and I hadn’t even ever seen them before.

My father sat me and Caleb down at the table and first showed us a hand stenciled drawing of a man. He had plain unassuming features and curly brown hair, but what struck me most was the scar under his right eye, in the exact same place as the one I had woken up with the prior morning. In response I gasped and asked, “Is that him?” and my father nodded.

Next he produced an old yellowed piece of paper and began to read aloud, “In the home of founder Elias Morey, specifically in his basement was found a book of incantations toward the devil, as well as the components to complete said incantations. Found in a circle of black sand and candles was the body of Elias’s brother James Morey with his throat slashed and his eyes removed.” At this detail I instinctively grasped Caleb’s arm, though protectively at first, I

quickly found it hard to remove my hand as my grip tightened. I only let go once my father pulled out another piece of paper, this one smaller and began to read.

“Date: October 3. Executed: Elias Morey. Method: Hanging. Crime(s): Murder, witchcraft, devil worship,” said my father as he put the paper down. Then he looked at me and Caleb before continuing, “It has been five generations since the founding of Amesover and the death of Elias Morey, and once in every generation there is a string of murders where the victims are killed in the same way as James Morey. People in town like to speculate and say that due to his dealing with the devil. Elias Morey still haunts this town and must spill blood to maintain his devilish pact. In truth it’s likely just some provector seeking to cause a stir for some reason or another.”

I think back to my encounter with the shadowy figure and my feelings of violence and being watched. I love my father and I do truly trust him, but I fear he is wrong. I asked, “These are official town documents, how did you get them?”

My father responded, “We had an ancestor, Daniel Abbot who worked in the town court back at its founding. He thought this case was important and decided to stow extra copies of the official files.”

Nodding, I looked at the stack of papers and noticed one on the bottom that my father didn’t show to us. It looked something like a family tree. I began to reach for it, but my father smacked my hand away quickly and said, “That’s not important.” He then rose and put the papers back from where he fetched them. When he returned to the table he said, “Alright, we’ve wasted enough time. Time to get to work.”

That night I laid in bed thinking about everything my father told me. There must have been something he’s missing. I knew that what I’ve been seeing is connected to the murders. So

once again, I crept out of bed and grabbed my coat. Quieter than a mouse, I grabbed a lantern and stepped outside to make for the church, where the town archives were held. I looked over my shoulder constantly on my walk over, keeping an eye out for both people and shadows.

Once I made it to the church, I went in through the west entrance, remembering its door ’s faulty lock. I opened the door carefully and slowly, so as to not creak the rusted hinges. Inside the church, my lantern reflected shadows from every pew and statue, as if trying to taunt me. I quickly found the stairs down to the archives. Though I try to step carefully the wooden steps wined and creaked at every little pressure of my foot.

I reached the basement and quickly made my way to the oldest section all the way in the back. As I passed through the years, the aging bookshelves got dustier, their wood more rotten until finally I found what I was looking for. A leather bound book titled “The Founding of Amesover Township and its Founders.”

Hastily I flipped to the section on Elias Morey. Much of the information there is the same as what my father told me, but as I reach the end of his section, I found details of the spell he performed. “In exchange for riches and power after death in Hell, Morey had to spill the blood of the one closest to him. But he was found and executed before the spell could be completed, so rather than be rewarded for his sinful act, the soul of Elias Morey was forever bound to the town of Amesover, cursed to stalk in the shadows and prey on the people of the town.”

When I reached the final page of the book there was an addendum added to the back cover “After his execution, the wife and children of Elias Morey changed their surnames to Abott in order to escape the social condemnation brought about by Elias's crimes.”

I gasped and dropped the book. Elias Morey is my ancestor. That monster ’s blood flows through me. That’s why my father had all those documents; it’s not just town history it’s family

history. “Does he wish for me to continue his legacy of violence?” I wondered, thinking about all the strange occurrences from the past few days, trying to assign reason to them. And then I felt the all too familiar gaze of Elias Morey on my back.

I turned to face his piercing amber eyes. But now they feel familiar, as I know them and they know me. I ask, “What do you want from me?”

Elias’s shadowy figure shaped vaguely into a body, close enough to seem human, almost, and he said, “It’s not what I want, it’s just what you are. My blood and my sins flow through you. They are a part of you and you cannot escape them. I know you Faith Abbot. Or should I say, Faith Morey.”

His words enraged me. He has no idea who I am, damn his blood. I looked around me, desperate for something I could use against him, something to fight back with, and then I locked eyes on a loose, rusty spike sticking out from a nearby shelf. As I grabbed it and felt its weight. The metal was cold in my hand, it felt right. It felt good…

Charging at him I yelled, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME.” I stabbed and stabbed at his shadowy simulacrum of a human body As I was stabbing I felt blood splash against my face and I briefly wondered, “He’s just a spirit, he shouldn’t bleed.” But I didn’t stop.

Once I finished stabbing my vision was blurry and my hands were sore, but I was smiling. I stopped him, I saved the town. But as my eyes came back into focus and I looked at the ground, I didn’t see the shadowy figure of Elias Morey. Rather, I saw the nearly indistinguishable body of my brother Caleb. The blood and stab wounds that covered his face and body made it almost impossible to tell it was him. But I knew that it was. I knew.

I fell to my knees, cradling Caleb’s body. Then I look at my hands; there was not an inch of skin not drenched by my brother ’s blood. I try to wipe the blood off on my coat but I couldn’t,

I rubbed my skin raw trying to. His blood stuck to me as though it was tar. “I am stained forever by the sins of my forefathers, and the sins of my own.”

I no longer feel Elias’s gaze cutting into my back. Rather I feel him roiling in my brain and flowing through my veins. This is how it was always meant to be, or maybe this is how it always was. I could never escape what I’m made up of. I grip the spike and rise, ready to invoke Elias Morey’s wrath back upon Amesover.

At Home

New York Winter

OliviaRomano‘25

We shared a meal every day at six or seven o’clock; the table would be set with an off-white New York snow cloth and glassware that wouldn’t break if it was dropped.

Sister would cry about school

While Father blubbered into wine And Mother gazed at the terrace across from our window and coveted the outdoor space. I would sit with the sun beating on my back and watch the three of them stare past me at the shrubs and trees and vegetables growing fifty feet in the air.

31 October 2023

Wondering in the Window Seat

Sitting at the window in row 13, I felt stuck to my seat, searching the homogenous stretch of land for an easy answer to the question, “should I stay or should I go?”. I sat holding two pieces of paper in my sweaty hands; In my right hand was my acceptance letter from Cornell University, and in my left was the letter from the talent scout with the directions to the recording studio. My mouth went dry and I felt as if I was falling, falling down endlessly, never reaching solid ground.

I found myself falling into a deep cave, and as I fell, never reaching the bottom, I saw a seven-year-old girl laughing while playing Guitar Hero with her dad, wearing ripped skinny jeans with too-big Nike high-tops and a chain necklace because she wanted to be Austin Moon; I saw a ten-year-old girl building her IKEA bed, wearing a tool-belt her parents got her which kept falling off because it was twice her size, her parents grinning as she says, “I want to work at IKEA just so I can do this all day!”; I flinched as I saw a thirteen-year-old girl on the floor of her bedroom, crying, writing songs to put her anxiety on paper, playing guitar quietly without a pick so nobody would come in. I landed hard on the very bottom of the cave, the wind knocked out of me. I was surrounded by shallow water spanning for miles; surrounded by my parents, my idols, myself in other realities; surrounded by my memories and dreams that flowed through the water around me just out of my grasp. Perhaps I was still in my window seat in row 13, but I felt short

of breath, feeling the sting of the stares from younger versions of me, feeling very much alone in the deep, empty cave.

I took in my surroundings and got up from the two-inch-deep water. To my left, on a pitcher ’s mound ten feet from me, sat my acoustic guitar on its stand with my warm, orange songbook leaning against it. Ten feet to my right, there was a desk with school books and a toolbox and a Cornell flag on a cork board floating above it tauntingly I heard a song in the air, but I couldn’t place it, I was too busy focusing on the overlapping voices. My parents saying they wanted me to be happy and have an easy life; the talent scout telling me I have a gift that would be a shame to waste; ten-year-old me repeating how much I would love to work at IKEA; my brother telling me I can get into so many good schools because I’m a “woman-in-STEM”. I heard drops of water falling in the cave, almost like they were ticking down the seconds until I had to choose my future. Paranoia, I suppose, but the clock kept ticking nevertheless.

I looked up at the mouth of the cave, the voices increasing in volume. My parents were there, my brother was there, and my great uncle the engineer and my late grandmother who was an actress were there, and the dream girl I met this past summer was there smirking and shrugging, and Billie Eilish and Finneas O’Connell were there with guitar and microphone in hand, and my professors from the pre-college program I attended were there, and Mr Wallace was there, chatting up a storm with Mr Phyll, and the Eagles were there and Hannah Montana was there with Miley Stewart, and a band of people - they wore t-shirts with my dream band name on them - who seemed oddly familiar were there, and the talent scout was there, and Keith Chapman was there, and Margot Robbie holding a hammer was there, and right next to her, Emma Watson was there - standing behind a podium for some reason.

I looked down from the mouth of the cave, and silence fell around me as I found two people, one standing on each mound. To my left, my future wife, looking at the guitar, then looking at me with her head cocked to one side. To my right, the senior I idolized when I was a freshman in highschool, the Cornell flag in her hands. I felt my legs moving before I could think this through any longer The choice was made. I blinked and I was back in my window seat, in row 13. I crumpled the letters in my hands. I hate flying.

Falcons at Dawn by

Helena Fynn

Ricardo Kos stirred in the sphere of warmth created by the layers of blankets. His eyes remained closed but he now lay fully awake, his mind already moving.

He remained there in bed, letting himself breathe in the silence. While life in their secluded area in the country was always quite quiet, only in the mornings did silence exist in a way no other moment of his life could touch. The silence existed in a fog so thick he could breath it, could feel it; in no moment could he feel the raw core of himself more than in those moments of palpable silence.

His eyes cracked open and he sat up, dark brown eyes almost matching the color of the surrounding dark wood that made up his 6’x8’ room. The various books and journals arranged in scattered piles provided one spot of color, albeit a dull one, with their faded green and blue and red and black covers. He dressed quickly, taking care not to knock over the mountains of books, his ribs showing as he put all his layers of clothes on. He tried to remember the last time he had eaten but felt no urge to, no appetite. He caught a glimpse of the outside sky, a lovely, deep indigo.

He marched out of the room, still drinking in the silence. His body moved instinctively, knowing where to move and where it was headed. He flew through the family’s small halls, already catching glimpses of the outside colors, already beginning to pale in the sunrise. He flicked through the kitchen/eating room/den, everything of that same wood, until he burst outdoors on the deck.

He loved these mornings.

Today the sky’s early morning sky held a periwinkle-indigo color already paler than his earlier viewing. The air, cold and crisp, filled his lungs with a delicious frigidity, erasing the last blurred edges of sleepiness in his eyes and bidding his attention only to the scene before him. The classic rolling green hills of Scotland trimmed in a white frost sprawled out in front of him. He could breath in these mornings and he could forget the truth and his emotions, in these mornings. The latter lay out in his mind like a gnarled knot. He wanted to take a comb and attack it, untangling it to neat, straight strands but made no action to do so.

He breathed in the morning coolness for one more moment and, in a moment that always felt too soon, he prepared to step back inside and to everything that came with it.

The latest conversation threatened to return to his head. His mother’s words, concerned and frustrated in frazzled Spanish stabbed his heart at just the thought of them. The anger that burned from these conversations circled his head. He yearned to punch something again and the longing to be the villain and not to care resurfaced, filling his mouth with so many unsaid words and an unrestrained anger that it left an iron taste in his mouth like blood. His mind grew darker as it swirled in every awful thought of the last month, the anger stewed as he settled on the idea that no light existed, that he might as well…

A loud cry burst in the air, shocking Ricardo out of his vat of despair and his head snapped up, looking for the source. The rest of his setting now remained stubbornly silent, of course, as his eyes scanned the area, seeing nothing.

A bout of rustling in the neighboring thicket gave him his only clue. He crept towards it, curious but also wanting to enjoy the rest of his life with all of his limbs intact. His gloves, his cousin’s gloves, proved their use as he fought against the thicket, its entanglements of branches

and thorns more painful to navigate than he imagined. After what felt like an eternity and making little progress, Ricardo agreed with himself that the noise was probably some prey long gone and if he found nothing after getting through this next entanglement he would return to warmth and an area free of thorns. He broke through the next patch and found a brilliant bird in front of him.

Ricardo had never seen one like it up close but some distant bell in the back of his mind rang at the sight of it- its glowing gray feathers with powerful talons and shining yellow eyes.

But what drew Ricardo’s attention the most was its panic as it could barely move in the thicket, its wing at an awkward angle and blood staining the white feathers of its chest. It let out a soft cry at the sight of him and tried to take off, only moving to draw more blood and Ricardo felt some distant pull on his heart.

He acted without thinking; shrugging off his outermost layer, a task made nearly impossible in the thorns, he put his coat out in front of him and took the bird in the sort of swaddle he learned with his baby sister. The bird let out another cry and in a flash of talons

Ricardo ’s own arm carried an eight inch long gash through his clothes which turned red with his own blood. Ricardo let out a gasp of more surprise than anything and bit back a scream. His eyes watered and he felt the red hot anger coming, the pricks of the thorns nothing compared to this. He saw how stupid this act was and longed for the comfort of his warm home away from thorns. The anger made him want to push back to revolt but his eyes opened but he saw the bird once again, more scared than he.

Shame at his reaction bubbled inside him and he secured the bird in his grasp. To his relief the poor creature stopped thrashing once in his embrace and he pulled himself out of the

thorns, sustaining many more scratches in the process. The bleeding on his arm had slowed slightly, just enough for him to keep working.

Ricardo burst out of the thicket into the light wanting to kiss the openness of this air. He looked down to the bird who grew more and more silent in his arms.

He moved quickly. He ran to the closest village, a pesky trip down and up the next two hills. The village was the closest thing to a town within a hundred miles of him even if there were only, at most, two hundred people.

He ran down the one street, the place empty and quiet on Sunday morning. Not knowing where else to go he knocked on Ms. Smith’s door, the town’s librarian/guide/person-in-charge.

She opened her door with a smile quickly fading at her complete shock at the sight of him.

“Please, Miss” Ricardo begged, surprised at the own level of desperation in his voice. “I found this falcon and he’s hurt and I want to help him…”

A mutt tried to push its way through the door then and as Ms. Smith held it back as she looked again at Ricardo and the bird.

“This town is too small for a vet” she began, her thick Scottish accent making Ricardo pay special attention. “But you can try Old Jim’s place. It’s just outside of town, at the top of the next shorter hill. He’s the resident hermit but also our one and only falconer”. She smiled then and added “Don’t let anything he says get to you. He appears gruff but he loves his birds”.

Ricardo’s feet already began to move. He thanked Ms. Smith and ran. Ignoring his awkward style and heaving heart he ran until he came to the only home on top of the next hill.

He tried to avoid stepping on the mouse skeletons and knocked on the front door with the falconshaped knocker.

A grizzly old man wearing a classic, tweed flat cap with a fading gray coat and two huge tan gloves opened the door. His face, worn and wrinkled with years of sun and partly covered by a whiskery gray and white stubble looked at Ricardo with no change in expression.

“Please, sir” Ricardo began. “I found this bird and he’s badly hurt and I want to save him and someone in town told me to go to you because there is no vet… please help him”.

“How do I know you did not shoot him?” Asked the man.

Ricardo froze, not expecting this question. “I don’t think I could even if I wanted to”.

The man, Jim, did not say anything but leaned forward and peeked at the bird through the jacket. “Bring him in,” he muttered, trooping back into his house.

Ricardo followed him, observing the house’s cold stone walls, bare, and the few scraps of scattered furniture. Jim cleared everything away from the one table, no bigger than a card table, and motioned for Ricardo to place the bird there which he did without objection.

“Let’s see here” the old man muttered, extracting some glasses from his pocket as Ricardo laid the bundle of jacket and bird on the table. Jim opened the pile, the bird barely even flinching at the change.

“He was moving and thrashing when I found him”.

“Aye, the adrenaline will do that for you but now we have to make sure the shock doesn’t kill him”. He looked up and saw Ricardo’s arm with its torn sleeve and blood. “Clean yourself up by the sink and then use one of the bandages I’m about to pull out”.

Ricardo listened, doing his best to clean up the mess of his arm while watching the man. He came back to the table and placed a bandage on his arm as he watched. Jim worked methodically and stoically, never taking his eyes off his project whilst never making a sound. The closest he came to showing emotion came in the form of a moment's mumbling.

“Sorry?” Ricardo asked.

“This bird’s a peregrine falcon and a beautiful one at that,” he muttered. “Some daft bugger probably fancied him for a trophy”.

Now Ricardo recognized the plumage from one of the books he and his cousin had pored over in one of their library exploration sessions, something that would never happen again.

Jim continued steadily for over an hour, cleaning, surprising Ricardo by pulling out a thread and needle. His hands moved delicately over the wound as they stitched more gently than Ricardo imagined to be possible. Ricardo watched but he understood little. Eventually Jim straightened up and looked down with a satisfied nod. “Alright, there we go,” he said, lifting the bird and placing him in a row of cages under a hot lamp. “It’s up to him now”. He turned back to Ricardo. “Cup of tea?” he mumbled. And moved back to the kitchen, making the motions.

“You Edward and Alondra’s boy?” He asked. Ricardo started but nodded, not expecting the man to know anything about him.

The man nodded grimly. “Sorry about your cousin. That is such pain, when a child feels so terrible that they have to make that choice”.

Ricardo looked up, ready to snap back some defense, an art he had refined in the past month but no words came to his mouth as he looked at the helpless bird laying there huddled and

terrified, just like Isaac’s cold body resting in bed, eyes closed with the peace he never found in life.

And to his horror he began to cry.

He tried to stop the tears with a clever cough or timed sneeze, something he had become skilled at in the past month, but the flow did not stop and soon he was howling and banging the wall next to him. The screams that came from him sounded distant as he cursed himself for not acting, only wanting to do the impossible and go back. The pain burst out of him wanting to rip and tear something until it only settled into carving a deep hole of darkness in himself.

Jim stayed silent as he cried. Eventually as the tears dried and his sobs simmered to the occasional sniffle, the old man got up and fussed about in the kitchen and came back with what looked to be a quarter of a pie, smothered with jam, eggs, bacon, and a thick slice of some sort of cake smeared with butter.

“Eat,” Jim said simply.

While still sniffling, Ricardo felt an exhaustion consume him but heard his stomach growl. An unbearable hunger struck him as the wafts of food hit him and, tired and not knowing what else to do, he pounced on the food in a way similar to a starved stray dog. He did not think he could finish it all as he finished nothing these days but in no time the plate looked as pristine.

Jim still said nothing, standing up and bringing the plate to the kitchen. He checked on the bird one more time and then motioned to Ricardo.

“Come on, then. We’ll just wait for him to come out of his shock now and you can help me outside”.

Ricardo looked up to see Jim almost already outside and without thinking, scurried to catch up with him. They trooped down the hill and then up the next one, Ricardo beginning to pant slightly at the exertion. Jim showed no signs of weariness with the hike.

Eventually they came to the top of the hill where Ricardo gasped at the view. This mountain must have been one of the tallest as he looked at their small patch of Scotland. The green popped out vividly in the standard cloudy sky and he watched as the region began to wake up in its Sunday morning, the occasional car strolling past or a light turning on in one of the stone towns in the distance. It was the general cacophony of life and it startled Ricardo to think of all that happened in this morning and month and how everything still continued.

He turned to Jim but he found himself alone. Eventually Ricardo looked back to see the man fussing with a row of tall cages behind him. He emerged with a magnificent, proud bird, perched on the thick glove of his hand. With a small flick of his wrist, the bird lifted its wings and flew, whooshing past Ricardo so powerfully he felt the wind behind it. His eyes followed the bird until it disappeared.

Ricardo turned back to Jim. If he did not know any better, he would say the man’s expression almost looked smug.

“That… was…” Ricardo started to say.

“Aye, they’re powerful ones, the Gyrfalcons. Here…” Jim began walking him through the process of falconry, the birds names, their stories, as he took out and released more of the birds, a Prairie falcon, a Golden eagle.

“But… will they come back?”

Jim nodded. “Aye, in some form or another, they always come back”.

Ricardo looked out to the view once again.

“I think I want to call the hawk I found Isaac,” he said.

Jim met his eyes for a moment.

“Aye,” he said.

13 December 2023

Whispers of the Woodland

Rain splattered against the window. The steady tapping of water almost lulled Bernard to sleep, but he had a plan. He would stay up late, so late that every single animal in the surrounding forest would be asleep. There wouldn’t even be an owl asking “who?” Bernard was beginning to think that the time was there, it had been thirty minutes since he’d heard the owl outside his window hoot. He wriggled out from his snug blankets and swung his legs off of the side of his bed. His feet hit the floor with a thud, and he creeped into his little brother ’s room.

He’d been waiting for this night since his family moved there on Monday, when he and his brother had devised a plan to explore the forest at the edge of their property Bernard and James had moved to North Carolina for their dad’s new job, and they’d heard myths about the Appalachian forests which encompassed their new home. In Arizona, they hadn’t had nearly as much forest to explore for their ghost hunting adventures, so saying Bernard and James were excited to move to North Carolina was an understatement.

Bernard gently shook James’ shoulder. He didn’t stir, so he shook harder. James’ eyes stayed closed, but he cracked a smile. James soon opened his eyes. “I’m awake, I’ve been awake for hours,” James laughed. “Shhh! We’ve got to be quiet, remember?” Bernard questioned, annoyed with James’ antics. James pulled off his covers to reveal a backpack, tucked close to his side. “Have you got everything we need?” Bernard checked. “Yeah of course. I’ve got the

2 flashlight, the granola bars, water, and walkie talkies,” James assured his brother. Bernard nodded and motioned silently for his brother to follow him.

They crept down the stairs, and past their parents’ bedroom. Bernard handed James his coat from the coat rack, as he pulled on his own. Bernard pushed the creaky back door open, and let James outside first before following behind him. He made sure to leave the door unlocked, so that he and James wouldn’t have to wake their parents to get back inside in the morning.

The wide expanse of trees stood tall in front of the two young boys. Bernard breathed in the crisp air which burnt his nose. He wasn’t yet used to the blustery weather, still accustomed to the warm Arizona air James looked to his brother, cheeks already reddened from the cold. “Are we going or what?” James asked with a playful smirk. Bernard rolled his eyes, and took the flashlight out from James’ backpack, and doled out a walkie talkie to each of them. “Now we can go,” Bernard said with a small grin. He clicked the flashlight on, and led him and James through the forest. There were large logs, covered in moss and fungus, that he had to stretch his legs over Bernard almost tripped a couple of times, and James joked that he should’ve left him behind because of how clumsy he was.

Eventually, they reached a clearing near a huge pine tree. Bernard felt his stomach grumble. He sighed, and unzipped James’ backpack, grabbing a granola bar. James laughed, watching Bernard hungrily scarf down the snack. “Jeez we’ve only been hiking for twenty minutes and you’re already hungry?” “Shut up, we’ve got to stay focused,” Bernard grumbled, wiping crumbs from his mouth. James pulled on his backpack, stuffing Bernard’s granola bar wrapper into the side pocket. Bernard followed a roly poly with his eyes, until he spotted an odd impression in the soft soil beneath their feet. Something clicked in his brain as the shape of the indent registered in his head. It was a footprint. “Look,” Bernard whispered excitedly, tugging on

James’ jacket. James searched the leaf-littered ground before his eyes landed on the clear outline of a shoe. “This doesn’t make any sense…,” Bernard stated, “No one has access to our property other than us, and this footprint is clearly fresh. It had to have been from tonight, otherwise the rain would have washed it away by now.” James looked to his brother, smiling wide. “I’d say it’d have to be from the past hour or so at least!” James said, excited at the prospect of a real mystery

They hiked onwards, and the rain eventually let up. The brothers followed the footprints and disturbances in the path before a familiar scent stopped Bernard in his tracks. “I smell smoke,” Bernard whispered, motioning for James to stop. Bernard would go camping with their dad all the time as a kid, so he would recognize the smell of a campfire anywhere. They walked closer to the clearing, and could soon make out the glow of a bonfire. A hush fell over the two of them, as they both spotted a boy sitting on a log by the fire. He was dressed in the oddest clothing, seemingly crafted out of oak leaves and bark, but somehow the earthen material came together to perfectly fit his frame in the way typical clothing would.

The boy’s face and hair were streaked with mud, which made it hard to make out his features. However, as the boy looked up, Bernard could clearly see the boy’s piercing green eyes.

The boy’s lips inched across his face, morphing into a somewhat unsettling grin upon seeing the brothers. James panicked, and immediately started tugging on Bernard’s coat sleeve in an attempt to get his brother to start running.

Bernard was frozen in place, he was convinced that there was something familiar about the boy He seemed almost like an old friend. Bernard shook off his brother and made his way into the clearing, the warm glow of the fire illuminated his face. “Hello,” the boy murmured. His voice was airy and light, like the whispers of the wind as it winds through the trees. “Hello,” Bernard replied.

The boy’s unsettling smile had faded, and as Bernard walked closer, he could tell the boy was young, probably around his age. James carefully made his way to Bernard’s side, less fearful than before, but still very much unnerved.

“My name is Isaac,” the boy said after prolonged silence. “My name is Bernard, and this is my brother, James,” he answered. “What happened to you…?” James asked hesitantly, motioning to Isaac’s tousled hair and muddied body “I’ve lived in the woods, since before I can remember,” Isaac answered. His eyes flitting to the floor, before looking James in the eyes.

James shared a concerned look with Bernard at Isaac’s reply

“Isn’t it lonely, or dangerous being out here all alone?” Bernard queried, worriedly observing the long, scarred over gash on Isaac’s arm. “I have friends, and I’m very capable of living on my own,” Isaac replied defensively

“Oh…ok,” Bernard said, awkwardly trying to come up with some sort of reply “Well, maybe you can come along with us, we’re ghost hunting,” Bernard offered. Isaac seemed elated at the suggestion and quickly accepted Bernard’s invitation.

“Ok! I’ll come with you, but we must make a temporary camp somewhere,” Isaac proclaimed. “There are many entities that live within this forest, and most of them have bad intentions. We’ll set up camp in the forest’s heart, it’s safest there.” Isaac stood up, and grabbed a branch. He began to move through the clearing, using the thick, knobby branch as a walking stick. James darted after him and Bernard followed, struggling to keep up.

The further, and deeper into the forest the boys walked, the more alive it seemed to become. There were wild squawks and the fluttering of wings.

It felt as though no matter how fast the boys moved, a pair of eyes stalked them from a distance. “Here!,” Isaac proclaimed, “We shall set up camp!” James groaned in annoyance, “We

just came from a perfectly good camp!” “True,” Bernard agreed, “Why did we have to come so deep into the forest anyways?”

“This is where the ghosts live…,” Isaac whispered. “We’ll find some real creepy things out here,” he affirmed. As Isaac spoke a bird shrieked from above. “We must get a fire going,” Isaac warned, “It’s the only way to keep the creatures at bay.”

Bernard and James set off, gathering dry sticks and branches from the forest floor in order to start a successful fire. As they collected firewood, their voices hushed in the eerie silence, they stumbled upon an old, gnarled tree. Just as they were about to gather some fallen branches near the tree, a rustling behind it caught their attention.

A peculiar creature emerged, its presence both enchanting and intimidating. It had large, shimmering wings that glistened with iridescent leaves, and the body of a stag. Bernard and James shuffled back, wary of the daunting creature’s intentions. A rumble began from within the creature’s puffed chest before it spoke, "Children, heed my words," it said in a melodic tone.

"The boy you travel with, Isaac, harbors secrets darker than the shadows that dance within these woods."

Bernard and James exchanged bewildered glances, their worry almost palpable. “What do you mean?” James asked cautiously. “Isaac is not what he appears to be. He is a lost soul, a ghost bound to this forest by tragic circumstances. He yearns for companionship, yes, but his intentions are not pure,” the creature explained, its voice laden with urgency. Bernard looked up at the creature, before timidly asking, “What does Isaac plan to do?”

“Isaac has the power to ensnare those who befriend him before sunrise. If you're here when the morning light touches this forest floor, you'll be trapped here forever, just like him.”

Bernard's heart raced as the weight of the creature’s words sank in. He glanced at his brother,

sharing a silent understanding. They needed to leave before daybreak to escape their impending fate. “Take this compass, it will always point in the direction of your home,” the creature assured them, dropping a bronze-embellished compass from its folded wing. James cupped his palms and caught the enchanted compass. He inspected the talisman before confirming with Bernard that they had to first travel north. Bernard and James thanked the creature for its help, and hurriedly followed the compass’ direction.

Isaac's laughter echoed behind them, haunting and anguished, as he realized his plans were unraveling. He pursued them, his ethereal form rushing along through the trees. Isaac howled, pleading for them to stay, promising camaraderie and friendship.

But James and Bernard, guided by the compass, pressed forward, navigating the twisting trails and evading the forest’s hold. Tree branches desperately reached out for them, forming into cracked, bark covered hands. Bernard’s chest heaved as he narrowly avoided the trees’ evil clutches. He couldn’t keep up with James, he soon realized. James had always been the more athletic of the two, and he was well aware of the fact that daybreak would be any moment now

James sprinted through the maze of trees, his breaths ragged and panicked. The forest seemed to conspire against him, every path twisting and turning, leading him deeper into the sinister heart of the woods. Bernard's voice echoed behind him, calling out for help. Panic surged through James, torn between loyalty to his brother and the urgent need to escape from the forest's grasp.

James pressed on, the forest closing in around him. Twisted branches snaked across his path, clawing at his feet, their grotesque fingers trying to ensnare him. The air grew thick with an ominous silence, broken only by Bernard's cries fading into the distance.

As James ran, he became confused and disoriented. Shadows danced in the corner of his vision, taking on insidious forms that seemed to mock him. Whispers floated through the air, carrying haunting echoes of lost souls and forgotten pleas for mercy.

As he ran, the bronze compass held tightly in his trembling hand began to flicker erratically The needle spun, pointing in every direction, refusing to settle on a fixed path home. The forest around him seemed to contort into a nightmarish labyrinth.

In a panicked frenzy, he called out for Bernard, his voice echoing through the trees. But there was no response, only the silence of the forest.

The first light of dawn broke through the canopy, casting long, menacing shadows across the forest floor, yet James saw a small opening amidst the trees. Without looking back, he sprinted toward it, each step feeling like an eternity With every stride, memories flooded James' mind, a montage of cherished moments pushed him onwards. He saw his mother, dressed in her Sunday’s best, as she led Bernard and James to a pew. He saw his father, smiling down at James as he used his chubby hand to grip his first baseball bat. He recalled Bernard's infectious laughter as they raced each other down the old, creaky staircase in their childhood home.

Gasping for breath, heart pounding in his ears, James burst through the final veil of trees and stumbled out into an open clearing. The cold morning air hit him like a slap, and he collapsed onto the ground, panting and shivering. He glanced at the compass clutched tightly in his hand, its needle pointing steadfastly toward his home. Relief washed over him as he realized he had escaped the forest, but an unfamiliar sorrow seized his heart. His hands clutched the grass, covered in permafrost. As he dug his fingers into the mud in an attempt to ground himself, tears began to stream down James’ face. He choked out a sob. The guilt of leaving Bernard behind, forever lost to the depths of the woods, consumed him.

ArtworkbyMegCroston‘24

31 October 2023

Wondering in the Window Seat

Sitting at the window in row 13, I felt stuck to my seat, searching the homogenous stretch of land for an easy answer to the question, “should I stay or should I go?”. I sat holding two pieces of paper in my sweaty hands; In my right hand was my acceptance letter from Cornell University, and in my left was the letter from the talent scout with the directions to the recording studio. My mouth went dry and I felt as if I was falling, falling down endlessly, never reaching solid ground.

I found myself falling into a deep cave, and as I fell, never reaching the bottom, I saw a seven-year-old girl laughing while playing Guitar Hero with her dad, wearing ripped skinny jeans with too-big Nike high-tops and a chain necklace because she wanted to be Austin Moon; I saw a ten-year-old girl building her IKEA bed, wearing a tool-belt her parents got her which kept falling off because it was twice her size, her parents grinning as she says, “I want to work at IKEA just so I can do this all day!”; I flinched as I saw a thirteen-year-old girl on the floor of her bedroom, crying, writing songs to put her anxiety on paper, playing guitar quietly without a pick so nobody would come in. I landed hard on the very bottom of the cave, the wind knocked out of me. I was surrounded by shallow water spanning for miles; surrounded by my parents, my idols, myself in other realities; surrounded by my memories and dreams that flowed through the water around me just out of my grasp. Perhaps I was still in my window seat in row 13, but I felt short

of breath, feeling the sting of the stares from younger versions of me, feeling very much alone in the deep, empty cave.

I took in my surroundings and got up from the two-inch-deep water To my left, on a pitcher ’s mound ten feet from me, sat my acoustic guitar on its stand with my warm, orange songbook leaning against it. Ten feet to my right, there was a desk with school books and a toolbox and a Cornell flag on a cork board floating above it tauntingly I heard a song in the air, but I couldn’t place it, I was too busy focusing on the overlapping voices. My parents saying they wanted me to be happy and have an easy life; the talent scout telling me I have a gift that would be a shame to waste; ten-year-old me repeating how much I would love to work at IKEA; my brother telling me I can get into so many good schools because I’m a “woman-in-STEM”. I heard drops of water falling in the cave, almost like they were ticking down the seconds until I had to choose my future. Paranoia, I suppose, but the clock kept ticking nevertheless.

I looked up at the mouth of the cave, the voices increasing in volume. My parents were there, my brother was there, and my great uncle the engineer and my late grandmother who was an actress were there, and the dream girl I met this past summer was there smirking and shrugging, and Billie Eilish and Finneas O’Connell were there with guitar and microphone in hand, and my professors from the pre-college program I attended were there, and Mr Wallace was there, chatting up a storm with Mr. Phyll, and the Eagles were there and Hannah Montana was there with Miley Stewart, and a band of people - they wore t-shirts with my dream band name on them - who seemed oddly familiar were there, and the talent scout was there, and Keith Chapman was there, and Margot Robbie holding a hammer was there, and right next to her, Emma Watson was there - standing behind a podium for some reason.

I looked down from the mouth of the cave, and silence fell around me as I found two people, one standing on each mound. To my left, my future wife, looking at the guitar, then looking at me with her head cocked to one side. To my right, the senior I idolized when I was a freshman in highschool, the Cornell flag in her hands. I felt my legs moving before I could think this through any longer. The choice was made. I blinked and I was back in my window seat, in row 13. I crumpled the letters in my hands. I hate flying.

In

Secret Garden

September 15, 2021

Do we need a carbon conscience?

Carbon footprints, often overlooked in our daily lives, are pervasive and profoundly affect our world. They're not just about technology, fossil fuels, and food waste but also about the clothes we wear, the buildings we inhabit, and more. It's our duty to shrink our carbon footprint as it fuels global warming. By doing so, we can curb greenhouse gas emissions, thereby safeguarding the planet for future generations.

Global warming is an increasingly dangerous problem as our oceans rise, resources diminish, and the environment dies. Global warming is not always very obvious in everyday life because the oceans have taken the brunt of the effect. The oceans absorb most of the carbon dioxide we emit and produce into the atmosphere. This causes ocean temperatures to rise rapidly while global temperatures rise more gradually. Coral bleaching is a prominent issue directly caused by rising sea temperatures, greenhouse gases, and pollution, which damage the atmosphere and allow stronger UV rays to penetrate it. Coral bleaching has destroyed the ecosystems and homes of millions of sea creatures, causing thousands of sea creatures to die or become extinct.

Another effect of global warming is water shortages, which cause droughts in many areas and turn once lush environments into deserts. One example of this is California, where frequent droughts have caused forest fires that run rapidly through towns, destroying the homes of thousands of people. The water shortages mean firefighters may not have enough water to put

out the fires, causing even more environmental damage. This causes the destruction of the homes of millions of wildlife.

One of the most damaging effects of global warming is the increasingly intense ‘natural’ disasters and the damage they leave behind. While hurricane season is already a common occurrence in the northeast United States, the increase in hurricanes from summer to fall seasons and their damage have caught entire cities off guard in recent months. For example, hurricane Ida hit New York in 2021, and no one was prepared for the extreme flooding from the already full sewer and storm drainage systems. Any person living below 50th Street in Manhattan experienced flooding, and thousands of people were unable to get home because of the flooded streets, subways, and transit stations. Cars were abandoned on highways for weeks, and 43 people in New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut died as a result of the flooding. Over 150,000 people were left without power

Greenhouse gas emissions are a significant contributor to global warming. They trap heat within the atmosphere and cause extreme weather conditions, wildfires, and changes in agricultural cycles, disrupting food supplies. Greenhouse gas emissions are mainly caused by carbon footprints, including the burning of fossil fuels for electricity, transportation, heating, and cooling services. If everyone switched to clean electric transportation fueled by wind, solar, or geothermal power and only used electricity when necessary, greenhouse gas emissions would decrease considerably. This decrease in emissions would allow us some time to heal the Earth and attempt to reverse the damage done.

During quarantine in the spring and summer of 2020, many people stayed inside, did not use much transportation, and cooked their own food, decreasing their carbon footprints. The most significant reversal of climate change occurred in those few months; the state of the seas

and oceans improved enough for oysters to return to Orient, NY, and dolphins to swim in the usually polluted waters of the Venice canals in Italy. These positive impacts of the pandemic further proved the argument of climate change and each person’s individual and societal responsibility to reduce their carbon footprints.

Our final responsibility is to leave the Earth better than how we found it in our lifetimes. We hope that future generations will be able to thrive on our planet and continue to improve society and technology through innovation. This will not be possible without our effort to slow global warming and change our ways of living to reduce greenhouse gas emissions and slow climate change. If we do not work to bring these issues to government officials and people in power with the resources to make a real enforced change, there will not be a world left for future generations. One of the most vital values of human nature is legacy, and in order to leave a legacy, there must be a future generation to receive it.

My Secret Garden by Juliette Chen ‘27

Beyond the smoke and buildings tall, Right through the dark and heavy pall, There lies a tree with branches long, As if orchestrating a hidden song.

The tree is old and gray with age, Wise in years like an aged sage, Within its branches, birds do hide, Trumpeting their songs one syllable word with pride. It is here - beneath this tree, That I find my inner glee, Though the world is turn to turn, Here is constant, here is firm.

October 16th. 2023

Haitian Boy from Brooklyn with ambitious dreams

Teething the mango whilst the cool breeze whispers juices flow down my chin from the tropical fruit

The sound of domino pieces smacking the table coming from the front yard sings to my ears

Arrived my sister, prompting me to bathe

filling up the recho with warm water

Arrived the water with a temperature of 212*F

I grabbed soap and a towel and took the recho

The small brown wooden shed awaited me

After my shower, I played Fifa 15 against my cousin

El Clásico, Barca V. Real Madrid

The game ended with a penalty kick from Suarez (4-3)

I could never lose to my cousin in a game of Fifa

The smell of fritay invaded my nostrils

The aroma lite the room’s atmosphere

The sudden urge to ravish the fritay

“Eden’s, Benben vin manje”

The plate of banan peze et griot awaited me too

Kouzen Serigino always has the most pleasant surprises

Wake up, play soccer, eat mangos, play fifa, sleep, repeat

A summer routine in Haiti, where I spent with my family

An outlet from my friends back home and from my parents

Living a life like a dog in a world of cats

A life my cousins wish to escape

They strived for better and reminded me to do the same

Don’t take things for granted

Cherish what you have

These words of encouragement dictated how I live my life

They inspire me to try to be the best me I can be

“What colleges are you applying to?”

“Where do you want to go to college?”

“What do you want to major in?”

Mindless questions that encapsulates

My life at the moment

I envision myself on Emory’s campus

Walking from the Goizueta Business School

To the Woodruff Library to complete

The java homework assigned to me

Catching up with friends in the Student Center

Playing a game of 21 in PE Center

Driving around Atlanta looking for a good time

A simple envision created based

On a recent visit there

I aspire to go to an amazing college

I aspire to have a cool car

I aspire to have a great job at FAANG company

I aspire to have a beautiful family

I aspire to live my life to the fullest

Aspirations based on the life I currently live

Based on the past, the morals, and the life I used to live.

A future I began to peek through as I submit my college applications

A future that can very much change with a sudden perspective change

A future that is not guaranteed.

As my mind wonders off and I begin to ponder aimlessly in class,

What is my future going to be like?

You are the product of your actions in the past

and your thoughts/intentions for the future

The identity of self is defined by a person’s motive

Defined by a person’s thoughts

Defined by a person’s actions

Defined by a person’s feelings

Defined by a person’s environment

Defined by a person’s genetics

Defined by a person’s goals

Defined by the person themselves.

One must go through a state of self reflection

Think about your greatest successes and your greatest failures

Think about moments where you felt fear and how you overcame it or didn’t.

Think about moments where you felt triumph and how you harnessed it or didn’t.

Moments where you can grow from or deteriorate into.

Think, Think. Think…

Now think about what you want for yourself or others.

Think about what you want your future to look like and who you want to surround yourself around Do you want a more conceptual positive future or negative.

Think, Think, Think…

That is the product of self!

AliceGreene‘24

My Favorite Place

I chose to emulate Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey by William Wordsworth. I related to how he described his favorite place and what he felt after not visiting it for a while. I also related to how he talked about nature's beauty

Up in upstate New York, where I find my peace,

This is my refuge, where I rest.

Beneath the sky is where my soul rests

Nature's warm wind blows upon me

The woods is my heart

The sticks crack beneath my feet

Flocks of deer and turkey run

Nature's pure beauty shines through

The river I overlook is shining diamonds

Geese honk and fly over

Fish wiggle below the shining water

Canoes set foot on the sea of diamonds

Secret forts lie behind the trees

Memories of the previous summer erupt

Running around carelessly in the grass

Forts out of sticks and bark

Over the wall, where my friends used to lie

The wall has been built up 50 times

Moss-covered stones it's built up

Occasionally a bark is heard

In the grass the flowers bloom

Rabbits and foxes run about

Butterflies fly around

The sun dips low at the end of the day

The night sky appears

Millions of white dots above me

The moon overlooks the river of diamonds

I stare out the window at the stars

In the morning, the birds chirp and sing

Their melodies bring peace

Upstate is where nature can be heard

Nature surrounds my being

The winter brings golden snow down on the grass

The river frozen and barren

The trees are empty and stale

Fireplaces are lit to fill us with warmth

Blankets of snow cover the once-green grass

The hushed lights of the street bring warmth

Days of building igloos are long gone

But the memory resides in nature

The spring leaves come back once again

The bunnies return, and the butterflies fly about

Green grass is shown once again

The smell of freshly cut grass fills the air

Smells of chlorine invade our senses

The sounds of bubbling water

Sounds of water crashing

People diving below the surface

Summer arrives with the smell of sunscreen

Sounds of tennis balls hitting a racket

Kicking around soccer balls with my father

Sounds of cicadas all around

Summer nights are warm and humid

Riding my bike down the main road at midnight

Getting ice cream and going for a midnight swim

Watching the stars move above me

Down in the basement, we play

We reenact acts from our shows

We douse ourselves in fake blood

We pretend to be anywhere but there

Up in upstate New York, is where my peace lies

My worries are no more

The nature brings warmth

I am with ease

OliviaRomano‘25 Hydropower

Dr Montoya religiously watered the vines that were beginning to crawl up the sides of the abandoned spacecraft in the far field. When asked why, she replied that it was her religion. Dr. Hopkins was not happy with her answer.

In the years since its angel wings had failed and it plummeted from heaven, the weeds had climbed the craft’s steel shell and begun to cross and twist around each other Patches had browned from rainfall. There was a film of dirt over the entire base. It was a gradual process as intimate as watching the decomposition of a human body. The vines devoured that rocket like worms.

The Space Exploration Base’s cadets played a shrewd and brutal game, parasites eating away at each other and the ground beneath their very feet. The main headquarters lay just half a mile from the failed Kennedy IV. After the crash, the building had been relocated by an airborne crane from its previous location in Texas. Dr Hopkins’ team had been working tirelessly at collecting data from the spacecraft, searching for any surviving information from its brief tour, coroners at the scene of a murder. It only made sense to streamline the process.

My own existence had never directly come into contact with Kennedy IV. I wasn’t a cadet, but an observer to the operation. Ever since being brought on the team, I was constantly reminded of how little I knew.

Dr. Fritz had taken care of me from the start. She told me that I was there for a reason; I had a destiny to fulfill. She gave me a bedroom with a view of Kennedy IV. She took me on tours of the headquarters and the grounds surrounding it, but never beyond the wrecked ship.

“Think about something you like, something you want to experience,” she instructed me. I couldn’t think of anything but the sterile room I spent my days in.

“Now think for a second about everything else you could possibly experience.” I stared at her, not understanding. “Not necessarily in specific terms. I mean the idea of everything else possibly out there in the world. There’s no way to possibly know all of it, and you can’t miss what you don’t know.”

The following day I asked Dr Fritz if I could see more of the world. She said she would try to clear something with Dr. Hopkins. She eventually came back to me with a t-shirt and jeans instead of her white coat and told me to follow her.

She led me to a paved area a short walk from the headquarters, where a few cars were parked. She took me to a rusty pickup truck and opened the door, which shed layers of old paint and dust from the hinges.

Dr. Fritz stuck a key in the ignition and violently turned it right, then left.

“God, this thing doesn’t even work.” She slammed the dashboard once, twice, three times, until the truck hummed to life. We drove over the grass until we reached a narrow dirt road. “I bet Hopkins told me to use this car because he knew it wouldn’t work,” Dr. Fritz said aloud, to no one in particular. “He wants to protect you. But how can I keep you safe if I’m driving a broken car, for crying out loud.” She threw one hand off the steering wheel.

Dr. Fritz seemed to catch herself mid-outburst; she froze, arm in the air, and silently put it back on the steering wheel. She opened her mouth a few times, before closing it and staring straight ahead.

We drove until we were driving into the horizon. Dr. Fritz stopped suddenly, and the car jerked and rolled backwards before coming to a stop. I didn’t notice that we were going uphill until I looked down and saw that we were perched precariously on the edge of a stony, barren ravine. Where golden sunlight hit the stone it glowed in layers of terra cotta and burnt orange.

Dr. Fritz didn’t say anything for a while. We both sat in the car watching the world slowly darken. We were the only two souls within miles; not even animals seemed to live here. After staring into the sun for some time, it felt like a third life with us, and we were watching it lull to sleep.

Dr. Fritz and the sun were the same. Fiery and infinite, and just as likely to burn you as to warm you. Dr. Fritz hit things when she was angry. She pounded tables to make a point. She was not afraid to let anyone see her temper, not even people she loved. And when she loved things she wanted to take care of them, and her love was boundless. Even when her eyes were closed against the hostile glare of the sun, her face showed love in the slight curve of her lip and the gentle flutter of her eyelid. I wanted to know love like she did.

We got back in the truck and drove back to the base. My steel bed was suddenly colder than before. The view out of my window was blocked by construction.

The next morning I went looking for Dr Fritz, only to be intercepted by Dr Hopkins in front of her office.

“I’m afraid Dr. Fritz had to depart suddenly for some important business,” he informed me, “I suggest you go back to your room for the day.”

The thought of existing inside that cell for any more time made me shiver. Instead, I went outside and roamed the grounds. The cadets moved urgently, talking to each other in hushed tones. As I passed by, they tried to hide their glances in my direction. Dark gray clouds had rolled in: a bad omen in the dry climate.

I found Dr. Montoya in her big denim overalls, crouched by the edge of the building. She was placing big bulbs inside holes in the ground. I hadn’t realized it was her day off; it was strange seeing her without her starched-white lab coat. She saw me approaching and stood up to reveal dirt coating the knees of her pants, and waved at me.

“Nice seeing you here,” she said, “I was just getting some gardening done. These are tulips. They’ll lay dormant until they bloom in the spring. Wanna help?”

I got on my knees and the two of us dug holes in the ground while the clouds only thickened. I squished soil between my fingers and wondered how something so soft could exist in the same world as the dry sand of the desert.

“Nothing growing here is native,” Dr. Montoya informed me, “Not even the grass––granted, that’s one thing we didn’t plant. But the flowers, the trees, the vines; I planted it all myself.”

I stared at her, confused. My hands were still covered in dirt. It started to smell like oncoming rain, both polluted and purifying. A single droplet fell from the sky and onto a single blade of grass, where it hung for a breath before sliding off into the ground. People in the distance shouted at the sky as if it would listen to them. Dr. Montoya only smiled.

“Rain is the only thing we haven’t learned to control yet.”

I turned my head to the sky and let uncontrolled raindrops hit my face like tiny pebbles. It would all end up soaked in the soil regardless, running through the roots of plants. Clothes would dry inside with time. But buildings are never forever. Rusting spaceships don’t belong on Earth. The rain was destined to destroy it. Nature would reclaim its autonomy.

The rain fell for the rest of the day. I could still hear it when it was too dark to see the gray clouds. It rained the next day, too. Cadets threw a blue sheet over the spaceship. They nailed the corners into the ground. But then it rained the next day, and the next. The rain caused the soil to loosen around the pegs, and the covering flew off the ship into the far field. The ship

was uncovered for a full night, before the youngest cadets were sent out to retrieve it, with weights on the corners instead.

On the fifth day of never-ending rain, lightning began to crack in the sky. I overheard a remark by one of the cadets that even airplanes wouldn’t fly in this weather. I hadn’t seen Dr. Montoya since the day the rain began. I would catch glimpses of Dr. Hopkins through the window of his office every so often, hands behind his back, pacing back and forth. I hadn’t heard from Dr. Fritz. I walked by her office three or four times a day and peeked in the window each time, but it was always empty.

The rain ended after seven days. The next morning, a cadet brought me to see Dr. Hopkins. He was in Dr. Fritz’s office. Seeing him in her chair was strange, like plants growing from clouds. His posture was less guarded.

I could see uncharacteristic tension in Dr. Hopkins’ mouth. I had gotten good at reading that, almost as good as reading letters and numbers. “I need to show you something,” he finally said. “Follow me.”

I trailed behind Dr. Hopkins as he stalked the winding hallways of the Space exploration Base. The walls and floors were sterile white everywhere, impossibly clean, and harsh fluorescents were the only source of light. I had come to appreciate the sun even more after being stuck in a building with only artificial light.

We went down the last stretch of the hallway before making a turn, and then we made a turn before descending a flight of stairs. We came upon a door, which Dr. Hopkins used his key card to unlock, but it was pitch black on the other side. After walking blindly for a while the lights slowly turned on, at the half-brightness that made the room sound like it was squealing.

Three more doors, with three more keycards to open. Until we came to a large chamber, where the ceiling towered over my head like a finite sky. The chill hit me as soon as we walked in. There was a freezer on the opposite side of the room.

“Dr. Fritz didn’t want you to know about this,” Dr Hopkins said, almost as if to himself, “But I think you deserve to know You have great capacity to comprehend complex concepts, and this is what’s best. The most we can do is inform you.”

I looked up at him at the mention of Dr Fritz.

“Dr. Fritz is dead. Killed.”

I looked back at the floor. This floor was rough cement.

Dr. Hopkins walked closer to the freezer and pointed to it. “That’s where you came from. That’s 3221. You’re 3222.”

At first I was confused. I needed to walk to the freezer before it hit me like a strong gust of wind.

Inside the freezer was a body, propped upright. It was my body, but not mine. I was still in my body, but the creases and curves and lines and colors of this one were identical to mine.

3221. 3222. From one came the other. I came from 3221.

“Five years ago, we sent our best scientist into space on the Kennedy IV to collect data on life outside of Earth. The ship crashed back on Earth and he wasn’t inside.

“But when you did crash, we needed to move fast. Get to you before someone else could. When we finally opened the door of the ship, though, you were in there with this.” He gestured to the large glass case, as if it were as commonplace as dirt on the ground. “We ran tests and confirmed it wasn’t alive. It survived the illness but not the sudden change in atmosphere. We thought that you wouldn’t survive leaving the ship, but then you did. Then we thought that you wouldn’t survive the night, but you did that too.

“Someone suggested that we dissect you to study your anatomy, understand your species at multiple stages of life. But then someone else suggested that we keep you alive and observe your ability to thrive, your intellectual aptitude, and your capacity to feel. And I must say, I am glad we went with the latter. Your growth over the years has astounded me. And now we need that ability to do something really important.” Dr. Hopkins knelt down to be eye-level with me.

“There is a disease on the Kennedy IV brought from space. We have two options: the disease can remain contained in the ship, until an accident inevitably happens and it spreads to all of us. Or we can use it for the greater good of humanity.”

I slowly digested what Dr Hopkins told me. Although he was revealing my origin and my identity, I felt a strange detachment from the whole thing. Why did the very beginning of my existence matter when I had lived so much since then?

“You survived the illness on the ship. You are acclimated to Earth. You know our language, you are slowly learning to think like one of us. And I think you love this planet,” he

said, staring at me intensely. “We repaired the ship, and you need to fly it. You need to crash it into a location we will give you. We kept you on this planet to achieve this goal.”

I stood there, between Dr. Hopkins and my dead relative. I wondered if 3221 would have cared for me as Dr. Fritz and Dr. Montoya had, in another life. I thought about canyons and sunsets, and then wet soil and rain.

The preparations were done swiftly, and my recollection of them is a blur, as if the whole thing was done half-asleep. As soon as I agreed we left the chamber, and Dr. Hopkins began taking calls. I followed him as he spoke urgently into his phone, while pressing buttons lined on the walls. He took me to a room where I immediately felt the violent sprays of hoses from every direction. I turned around only to find that he had left me there, alone.

After being sanitized I was put into a heavy suit. The weight on each of my extremities made me hyper aware of any movement. I was led out a sliding door through the field of putrid green grass to the door of the spaceship. Cadets were lined up, gas masks on, watching me pass, like pawns on a chess board.

Inside the spaceship I was warm and dry. It was riddled with nostalgia deep beneath the surface, nostalgia for a time I did not remember. Being nestled in the cockpit was as comfortable as sitting on the edge of a cliff while the sun warmed my face.

I sat in the cockpit and thought about how things tend to change. The very spacecraft I was about to fly had been a product of the Earth, but the beyond metamorphosed it into something different, poisonous. I was a product of something beyond Earth, but the planet changed me as fundamentally as if it changed the chemicals in my body. The Earth was beautiful in a way the diseased, green film on the dashboard was not.

As the spaceship rumbled to life, I watched listlessly through the window as it rose into the air.

It felt like the only possible ending at this point, to spread evil. I had been kept alive for the purpose of destruction. Everything I had seen, everything I had felt up until this point was pointless in these final, powerless moments, where all I could do was watch clouds drift by the window The sun would set. The rain would cease. The world would still become infected with the disease I was carrying, permeating the air around me.

The rain couldn’t take me out, but this last voyage was sure to do it. And I would obliterate this beautiful world in return. It dawned on me, looking down at the expanse of green

and blue and brown, that I had only known a minuscule corner of the Earth, despite how vast it felt. Even if I could crash somewhere else, I had no way of knowing whether it would just cause the same destruction.

But then I considered the other option. Fires, people dying, people screaming. The faces I knew were limited to the faces of the scientists, so I found myself picturing Fritzes and Hopkins and Montoyas running around, panicking. Would the world darken under the falling ship, like the sun was setting? Or would it crack like lightning, burning everything in its path?

No amount of water could put out a blaze that big. Unless it rained again, hard, for seven days. But I couldn’t make it rain.

I saw blue in the corner of the window I pictured a splash and flying droplets cleansing the sins of scientists, their relentless desire to make marks on humanity by erasing the world itself. The drops would soak back into the soil and start everything anew

Time was a gift. Under gentle rain showers, soft wet soil, precariously balanced on the edge of a cliff––you get so scared that everything seems to slow and suddenly you can really see beauty––golden suns, worms––every tiny life that you don’t notice, life on every plane of existence––the way other lives can so greatly impact your own, and your body is littered with jagged craters from every collision.

I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want love to hurt this much. But the water wouldn’t hurt me; it was an all-consuming peace, the destructive means to a new beginning.

I grabbed the steering wheel and veered off-course.

The engines’ explosion was suppressed as I crashed the spaceship into the ocean, letting water spray gracefully as its steel structure imploded.

The Television

Every day, Adam the farmer would tend to his animals and crops. Every day for longer than he could count. The farm is where Adam grew up and it was where he excepted to die. He lived alone on the farm and always carried out the same weekly routine and used only the same supplies. Adam shunned all new technology because he feared what he could not understand or control. Although everything was always the same, the repetition never bored Adam. He found comfort and contentment in the familiarity of his work, never allowing himself to lose focus.

Waking up at the crack of dawn to the sun peaking through his window and a familiar tune playing on his radio, Adam would swiftly get out of bed and prepare for the day. His wardrobe consisted of seven blue cotton tshirts stained with his sweat, four pairs of denim overalls which he had worn down at the knees from his constant kneeling attending to small animals and plants, and an assortment of socks and underwear. He purposefully limited the variety in his wardrobe in an attempt to prevent himself from getting swept up in modern fashion trends and becoming concerned with his appearance.

Every week consisted of the same routine. Beginning on a Monday, he would travel into town on horseback to pick up any and all supplies that he would need for that week. He had a usual pickup of groceries, fertilizer, toilet paper, and soap, with an occasional order of extra toiletries, tools, or wood and screws for fixing damages around his farm. When Adam returned home he only had a little time before sunset as the trip from the farm to town took about six hours round trip. He would spend the time he had left checking on his animals and sorting out his new supplies. Although the journey into town was long and tiresome, he found comfort in it as he did in many parts of his routine.

Tuesdays through Saturdays were always spent on the farm. Planting, harvesting, tending, caring for animals, and fixing anything in need of repairs. Finally came Sunday, his day of rest. Adam was a devout Christian who put God before anything. Every Sunday, he would wake up before dawn and put on his special Sunday best; a clean white button-down, a pair of dress pants, shiny dress shoes, and a bright baby blue tie, although it was extremely difficult to do while surrounded by animals and dirt, Adam was always sure to keep his church clothes clean. When he was dressed and ready, he would embark on his three-hour journey into town in the dark to arrive at church on time. Never straying from his weekly routine, Adam was able to sustain a happy and healthy farm, until one day, everything changed.

There came a day, unlike the others. A day that Adam strayed from his familiar routine. He began his Monday as usual; by getting dressed and preparing to travel to church. He calmly strolled to the barn which housed his horses and slowly opened the gate of his strongest horse; Michael. As he prepared the horse he noticed something strange; his clothes were covered in horse hair, Michael’s hair. Adam suspected something was wrong but refused to worry himself, so he decided to travel on Michael anyways. As he mounted his horse he could feel him trembling under him. It was as if Michael was trying to keep his balance during an earthquake. He quickly dismounted and as he did the horse fell to the ground. Startled, Adam was hesitant to examine the horse for fear of what happened to it.

Letting curiosity overtake him, Adam took a closer look at his horse. At first glance, he could see that its breathing had slowed and its eyes had turned bloodshot red. He slowly reached his hand out to touch the horse, and just as he did, its breathing stopped. He could feel that Michael’s fur was thinner than that of a healthy horse and his body began to turn cold. Michael had died and Adam was scared. He had dealt with animals dying before but never like this, never this sudden and unexplainable.

Adam began to cry. No matter how hard he tried to stay strong he could not stop his heavy tears from breaking through. He could feel them trickle down his face as he sat motionless beside Michael. Then something happened that hardly ever does; it began to rain. The rain itself was not uncommon but began to pour. Much like the sudden surprise of Michael dying it began to pour. Out of nowhere, Adam could feel the cold hard raindrops

beam down on his skin. He hated to leave Michael but he also knew it was too late so he ran back to the barn for shelter. He waited inside for the rain to stop and knew this would make his journey to gather supplies even more difficult.

As he waited, he began to look for another horse to ride into town. As he examined the other horses, he noticed that many of them were exhibiting the same symptoms that Michael had; his horses had been infected.

Frightened, Adam was reluctant to travel by horseback into town. Luckily his travel was not limited to his horses. He had two donkeys that were perfect for situations such as this. When the rain came to an end, Adam mounted his strongest donkey and headed into town.

Upon his arrival, he picked up his usual order and some extra supplies so he could fix anything that he suspected to have been damaged by the rain. “Adam,” a voice cried out in the distance, “Adam!” Adam turned around and was greeted by a woman in a long white jacket and scrubs. It was Mary, a doctor whom he had met shortly after his mother died and he started traveling to the market alone. “Hey Adam, pick up anything cool this week?” Adam never picked up anything Mary would ever deem as “cool” because he never picked up anything new.

“Nope,” Adam responded blandly, “same order as usual.”

“Maybe next week. You should check out this new store. They have a whole bunch of new things, including this really cool moving picture box!” Adam nodded his head in amusement hoping to end the conversation with Mary. He did not enjoy talking to her, he did not enjoy talking to anyone. Adam liked to do things his way and he did not appreciate any input on anything from anyone. “Do you wanna go check out the store with me?”

“No,” Adam replied calmly. Mary was always badgering him with questions, he wish that she would just leave him alone.

“Oh.” Mary felt hurt by Adam’s avoidance and felt as though he wanted her to leave him alone (he did).

“Where’s Michael?” Mary asked in a last-ditch attempt to continue the conversation.

Adam felt his face get hot. He was quickly overwhelmed with sadness and wished he could dissolve into the earth and let his problems melt away. But that was impossible, so he replied in a trembling tone, “He got sick. All my horses are sick. Michael died this morning.”

Mary did not know how to respond to this. Flustered, she replied the only way she knew how in an awkward situation like this; by rambling on until she could no longer speak. “Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that Adam. I heard that this is happening to horses all over, they call it horse fever. A silly name I know, but there’s a really simple solution to it. It’s a medicine and it-”

“Now Mary,” Adam interrupted in a rage, “you know I don’t get into those, those, those modern temptations! God gave us everything we need we have no place to meddle on his earth!”

“I know but modern issues require modern solutions. I just think you should consider it is all I’m saying.” Mary said apologetically. She rushed away from Adam to avoid any further conflict.

Adam was relieved that she finally stopped talking. “Medicine, no way I will ever try that.” He said to himself. He packed up his supplies and got his donkey ready to go home. He knew that the donkey was slow and his three-hour trip home would soon turn to five. As he was leaving, heard a commotion coming from around the corner of the market. He followed the jumble of sounds and as it got louder and louder he saw a group of people huddling around the display window of a store. Violently pushing past the herd of people in curiosity, he made his way to the front of the display window and was amazed at what he saw. It was the moving-picture box that Mary spoke of. Made his way inside the store and was treated by an overly-enthusiastic worker whose name tag read, “JUDE”

“Hi! What brings you here today?” Jude exclaimed, “Are you interested in purchasing a TV?”

“Uh…” Adam replied confusedly, “what’s a ‘TV’?”

“A television! It’s like a radio that you can watch!” Adam was intrigued yet weary of the concept. He cringed in confusion and so the salesman continued to describe all the seemingly magical features of the television. Jude described it in a way that Adam never thought possible. For the first time, Adam understood something new. At that moment, all his problems melted away and he felt free.

“In that case…I’ll take it!”

“Excellent!” Jude cried. They proceeded to the checkout where Adam spent as much as he would on twelve weeks of groceries. He packed it onto his donkey and began the long journey home.

When he arrived home it was long past dark but he could not wait to set up his brand-new television. After fiddling with his old electrical system (that he never updated because he never learned how), he was able to get it up and running. Although he was tired he stayed up for hours watching. The characters danced across the screen like skillful ballerinas. He was hypnotized by this modern creation of man.

For the next two weeks, it became harder and harder for him to pull himself away from it. He would dash away during commercials to use the bathroom and eat. His eyes were practically glued to the screen. For the first few days, he would try to continue to tend to his farm, but as time progressed, he stopped completely. He stopped showering in fear of missing something and his health began to decline due to his lack of physical activity and eating.

For the next two weeks, his farm went to ruins. The sickness that his horses faced was only worsened. More and more horses began to die, and the death of his favorite horse Michael left him with an empty hole inside of him. He knew he had to save his horses but he could not bring himself to purchase the medicine to save them. He was overtaken with fear and he used the television to escape from his reality. His farm was falling apart and every day he waited it got worse.

One day, he was awoken by a familiar voice calling his name. At first, he thought it came from the television but then he felt something tug at his arm. He slowly opened his eyes and had never felt more relieved to see Mary standing above him in her white coat and scrubs. “Adam wake up.” She said fighting back tears, her voice trembling.

“Mary!” Adam exclaimed.

Before he got a chance to say anything else, Mary began to ramble as she always does, “I was so worried about you, you missed church two weeks in a row. I’ve seen a lot of things but I’ve never seen you miss church. I figured it had something to do with the horses so I brought the horse medicine. There was only one left to save, I’m sorry Adam. At least the disease is eradicated and you have one horse left. It got your donkeys too by the way.

Oh and you got a tv, when did you get that…” Mary’s voice trailed off as she began to cry. She had no idea what to think anymore, Adam had become a completely different person.

“Mary I’m sorry,” Adam whispered, and for the first time, Mary was speechless. Adam got up and curled his

fist. He was squeezing his hand so hard his knuckles turned red. Without saying a word, Adam smashed the television. “I’m sorry Mary.” Adam broke down in sadness. Mary put out her arms and embraced Adam as he cried. For the rest of the night, Adam explained everything to Mary. He explained that he was scared of things he was never taught about, that he hid from change behind his routine, and that he was glad she came to help break him free of his cycle.

Although the farm was far from town, Mary had a car so it made the trip better. Mary came after work every day to help Adam restore his farm. She taught him about new things and helped him not to be scared. Now Adam the farmer does something different every day. He tends to his crops and animals with Mary and no longer lives alone. Mary and Adam got married on a Sunday at the same church they would go to every week. Now neither of them are ever alone or scared.

DeDication

We would like to dedicate this year’s edition of the Literary Magazine to our principal, Mr. Lyness, who is stepping down this year to semi-retire while continuing to teach AP Calculus.

Mr. Lyness has brought so much to Loyola, with many projects, improvements, and expansions of the arts, sciences, facilities, and more.

Mr. Lyness is truly our best example of academics and the arts.

2023-2024