Short Stories, Essays & Poetry

40 Sierra MacDonald ‘23 Cornered

41 Ava Yang ‘22 On Being Quiet 43 Madeleine Louiselle ‘23 True Simplicity 44 Oliver Eig ‘22 The Bar Mitzvah 50 Daniel Olusheki ‘25 Ode To The Rice

51 Elodie Harris ‘26 Fame

54 Zane Walker ‘22

56 Toby Petrzela ‘27

57 Betty Fox ‘24

Lars Olsen ‘23 58 Iris Edelstein ‘27 Blackberry Pie

Surf

Independent for 84 Years ... Backpacking In The Rockies Faces

59 Sonia Stomberg-Firestein ‘26 Lost 63 Pascal Duravcevic ‘27 A Fishy Surprise 64 Oona Obaditch ‘23 In a Loop 68 Jillian Walker ‘23 The Cafe

Short Stories, Essays, & Poems

Cornered Sierra McDonald ‘23

As a result of taking a course on feminism my junior year in high school, I learned a lot more about sexual violence. I now understand more about how common sexual violence is and was able to connect it to my parents’ concerns as I was growing up. In seventh grade, when I first began to walk in New York City by myself, my parents prepared me by testing me with situations and asking what I would do in them. For example, they would ask me: “the crosswalk says 3 seconds, would you cross?” I said, “No, I would wait for the next light.” They said, “It’s dark out.” I responded, “Call mom or dad and ask to take an Uber or to be picked up.” They said, “A man/boy approaches you commenting on your body/catcalling you.” Again I responded, “Call mom or dad, cross the street, or go into a store.” As I am the oldest, it was expected it was expected that my parents would be worried about my safety. However, the fact that my parents needed to worry about me being sexually harassed or assaulted at 13 is beyond crazy. It scares me to think about how normalized this type of crime is in society today.

In early May this year, one of my close camp friends came to visit me in New York City from Maryland. We were riding the subway to go uptown, and when we got off the train there were only her, me and two men who looked to be about 20 on the platform. I was checking my phone to look up directions, and almost instinctively, I whipped my head up and noticed the two men approaching us They continued walking towards us until they cornered me against the wall of the subway platform and forced my friend to the side. They looked me up and down, saying something along the lines of “you look so good.” I was in shock and was focused less on what they were saying and more on how to leave safely with my friend. I managed to forcefully push myself between the dirty subway wall and one of the men. I did this while saying “thank you.” I rushed up the stairs with my friend and couldn’t quite fathom why I had said “Thank you”. I attempted to laugh off what had happened in an attempt not to scare my friend. However, I was terrified! The fact that there had been no one else on the subway station to help, the fact that they felt they could brazenly do that to me, the fact that I said “thank you” … all shook me to the core. Again, like any other time that I had been catcalled, my head raced. I had been wearing oversized, low-rise jeans and a cropped tank top. I kept thinking: “Was I asking for it this time?”, ‘’Were they trying to make me feel good about myself?”, “Were they trying to show their domi-

nance?”, “Did they see how afraid I was?”, “Did it matter?”, “Is that what they wanted?” Once again, I was left disgusted and sad that society allows boys and men to engage in these violent behaviors against women. Now looking back at this experience, I can clearly see that what I had experienced is an example of toxic masculinity. Two grown men cornered me in an empty train station, because their position in society allowed it. There would be no consequence to their actions, and they knew it. I don’t know if one or both of the men felt pressure to show their masculinity by approaching me, and I really don’t care what motivated them All I know is that it terrified me, and now I feel the need to carry pepper spray for the time that “thank you” doesn’t continue to protect their egos and let me escape safely. Women should not have to endure this type of harassment and worse simply because they are women.

On Being Quiet Ava Yang ‘22

When I was seven and riding a pink scooter, I had a fruit roll-up in my mouth and choked. That feeling still resides in my throat, an immovable lump that has melded itself to me. I think I grew smaller once I entered high school. I wasn’t loud in middle school but I never dealt with speaking in the same way. There were moments, perhaps telltale signs, that surfaced. My drama teacher once told me to be louder and gave me an exercise. “Pretend there is a fire,” she said, “and scream at the top of your lungs.” I smelled the smoke, felt the flames lick at my clothes. “Fire!” I said. “Yell it, be loud.” I tried again, but the sound petered out. I would die in a fire, I thought to myself. That day I grew to envy those with clear voices. There was a new urgency to wanting to be heard, a danger that felt ever–present with the closing of my mouth. Because there is a danger in being quiet: being left behind, always seeing eyes that catch then pass over you. In middle school, there was a girl named M who spoke so beautifully that the very sound itself would make people listen. Of course, she was other things–pretty, smart, kind. But it was her voice that I wanted the most.

Being quiet is a physical sensation; my throat clamps up and my hands get cold and sweaty. I find myself unable to raise my voice, to slow the beating of my heart. In ninth grade, I woke up weightless and left school feeling each footstep dragging on concrete, fighting to right my body and move each limb. When I got home and the door shut behind me some strange spell would be broken. I could speak again. In sophomore year, I lost my voice to a cold. The strangeness of opening my mouth and nothing coming out soon dissipated as I settled into my newfound silence. It became easy. I took comfort in not having to speak, all the while knowing I was being a coward. I let others talk for me and present my work in class. Even after the morning I woke and found that my voice was back I pretended I was still sick for days after. “You’re not actually quiet,” says my dad when we argue. “See?” He tells me every time I raise my voice. I can never seem to rebuke his point because he’s right; I’m not quiet when I’m with people I know well. I feel like two different people outside and at home and they seem to be growing more and more distant from one another. The quiet Ava who chokes on her words and the loud Ava who can shout and yell. I wish I could sew them together, mend myself into a whole. But how can that be done? I’m not sure how to fix myself, not sure if there is something to fix. Maybe there is no problem to begin with; maybe this is the person whom I’ve become. I’m uncertain if quiet is what I am or if it is a foreign entity living within me. I wish I could pull it out of my body, my throat, but I’m afraid it has attached itself and won’t let go. In the end, I can’t trust my own voice. When I have a reading I practice it inside my head, even the “here” as attendance is checked in PE, repeating the word until I’m sure it’ll come out right, with the proper pitch and intonation. On some days I have no trouble, but I never let myself forget that at any moment I can relapse, trip up. I often deal with the awful strain of forcing my voice out as if it were being drawn out by a fish hook, and it sounds ugly and broken but I have to do it anyway.

True Simplicity Madeleine Louiselle ‘23

(I’m convinced when it snows time stops)

my maroon jacket was hanging so low on the kids hook the bottom was sitting on the dust bundles of the wood floor I took it off the hook and slid it smoothly over my arms then shoulders a sharp shiver traveled up my back from standing by the drafty front door I didn’t mind as I was distracted by my stale smelling jacket and the growing warmth of my body I tightened the wrists with struggling velcro and stuffed my hands into warm gloves so thick I could only wiggle my fingertips the door creaked open and I walked rapidly down the front porch steps my usually cold and burning ears were kept warm by a gray hat that my dad had bought for me as I continued toward the stone wall and the edge of my grandparents property I looked up from my snow covered feet and noticed that the longer I walked the more trees surrounded me my hair became covered with white feathers so cold it returned my youth the weight of the trees made me feel small in a world where I made myself out to be bigger then I really am only this stillness could stop something as powerful as time

The Bar Mitzvah Oliver Eig ‘22

One day when I came home from school in second grade, my mom told me she signed me up for Hebrew school. My mom converted from Lutheran Christianity to reformed (reconstructionist, if you will) Judaism once she got engaged to my dad. My Jewish grandmother protested her conversion, saying she didn’t have to if she didn’t want to and really wanted her to feel no pressure to make the decision to convert. My mom claimed that the reason she wanted to get converted stemmed from a lovely enlightening experience she had in college while taking a class on Judaism, and left it at that. She sat me down and explained: “It will be with all your friends from school, once a week, and you will all go over together right after school and eat snacks. It will be fun. It’s to prepare you for your bar mitzvah”. This did sound fun, and all my doubts went away when my dad said that he had had lots of fun when he went to Hebrew school. So that next Wednesday, off we went. We walked down to Soho, eating dried mango and beef jerky. Julian Meli brought a Mighty Mango flavored Naked drink, a name which we teased him about each week. His upper lip was coated with a bright orange. When we arrived that first Wednesday, we found ourselves buzzing around the fifth floor of a brick building with our parents, riding the elevator up, and being greeted at the door by the rabbi of Soho Synagogue and his pregnant wife. They chatted with our parents, and motioned us over to the sofa area to meet Shmuli, who was to be our teacher. Shmuli wore a black and white checked shirt which was too small for him and showed his chest hair, wore a long scruffy beard that covered his whole mouth area, and also wore, which I found to be his only look, a dark red beanie on top of his head. Walking through Williamsburg, you will see ten Shmulis. Over the course of the next two years, each Wednesday we would go and meet Shmuli, sometimes at the rabbi’s apartment, and other times at the newly established synagogue. Once the Synagogue opened I wished it would close, as we would sit on the hard, shiny, concrete floors instead of reclining on the apartment’s sofa learning about Mordecai, Esther and how he stopped the evil cookie hat man (Haman). Over the weeks the lessons became routine, and the snacks started getting old-there were only so many things we could think of to buy at the deli, and many of our parents refused to buy from anywhere unhealthier than Trader Joe’s. Oftentimes I would goof off and have side conversations during our lessons either out of boredom or tiredness/reluctance to being there and

not being home getting my homework done and going to bed. When I was learning a new story, I was all ears because that was interesting! But even Shmuli ran out of good stories once the first year was over and we ran out of new holidays. Throughout our lessons, but especially later on as he ramped up the quantity and difficulty of the material, Shmuli taught us Hebrew. He taught us songs to remember the Hebrew alphabet, the tones/vowels, the occasional prayer or two…. And that was about it. He never taught us words! Or how the grammar system worked! I am still upset about this. Why would children want to learn a set of symbols pronounced with harsh guttural throat noises and a subsystem of vowels to go along with it if we didn’t know how they came together to mean anything?! The incoherence of this teaching strategy made it difficult for me to engage in learning Hebrew, so as the weeks went on, I fell further and further behind my peers in my knowledge of Hebrew, though I didn’t know it, and if I did, I wouldn’t have cared! All I was responsible for was to go there, have a good time, and learn a thing or two. I was ten for chrissakes. During one class, Shmuli asked me to pronounce a sentence in Hebrew (again, not telling us what it meant). I tried, but gave up halfway through the sentence because I didn’t know what sound to make for the next word. Shmuli looked at me, frustrated (this was not uncommon). I guessed a few common words that looked like what I saw, and Shmuli, taking a deep breath, took me aside outside and we stood face to face next to the stairs as he towered over me. He looked down and said something along the lines of: “You are falling behind. You are way behind your friends. Why? Do you not want to learn? Why are you here? You never pay attention. You need to TRY harder and do better, or you cannot be in this class.” We were the only class the Hebrew school had. We WERE the Hebrew school. And I wasn’t good enough, not INTERESTED ENOUGH. NOT PAYING ENOUGH ATTENTION. I feel angry about it now, but felt beside myself with sadness and guilt at the time. I was distraught when my mom picked me up. In the cab ride home she asked me what was wrong. I replied and told her what Shmuli had said to me. I never went back to that Synagogue or the rabbi’s apartment again. In fact, my mom didn’t mention Hebrew school or even my future bar mitzvah for years. In the fall of sixth grade, though, she broached the subject. “Hey honey, do you want to have a bar mitzvah?”

“Do you think I should?”

“It’s definitely part of the Eig family tradition… But you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Keep in mind, though, that you can only be thirteen and have a bar mitzvah party during the bar and bat mitzvah season with your friends once. Ask your dad

how fun his bar mitzvah was! But again, totally your decision.”

“Will I have to go back to Hebrew school?”

“No! Of course not! I mean we can definitely sign you up for a new one, but we found this really nice tutor named Aitan, and if you want to get bar mitzvahed you would have to start meeting with him or another tutor in the next week or so. If you want to do it, I’ll set up a time for you two to meet and if you like him we can use him.” “Ok, I will.” So the next week after school I met Aitan. I was inside my room fixing my computer when I heard him buzz, my mom let him up, and I kept screwing a bolt on the side of the chassis shut until I heard the elevator open. He came in and I heard my mom greet him. He had a punchily loud, sort of nasally voice. I walked to the front of the apartment and met him, taller than my dad, fully bald (no hat), glasses, and thankfully, no beard. No reminders of Shmuli. We sat down at the dining room table and chatted for an hour. He told me about the plan for the next year and a quarter, what we would be spending our time on, and how things would develop as we went on. He said we would start by reading the novel The Chosen by Chaim Potok, about the friendship between a conservative and hasidic Jew in New York City. It was quite boring, but Aitan brought it to life with his friendly, patient, and vivacious personality, and I made sure to do my reading each week. Like Hebrew school, we would have special lessons on Jewish holidays where we would learn the biblical story behind them and how that relates to the traditions surrounding the holiday, and I found this still fascinating as I got a refresher from what I had forgotten from my two year break from Judaic studies. Studying with Aitan, but also even back during Hebrew school, I never truly believed in the stories as having happened in reality, or in God. I wasn’t and still am not certain about God’s non-existence, though. But I did think that these stories and the idea of God stuck around for a reason, and that it was important for Oliver Eig, as a boy of Jewish stock, to be familiar with the stories of my people’s history.

After The Chosen we read Night by Elie Weisel, a book on the Holocaust that was so touching that Aitan took me on a field trip to the Museum of Jewish Heritage, where I ate exquisite Yiddish-Jewish-American food from Russ and Daughters. In that museum I made a comment to Aitan which I have regretted since. I saw a man in a photograph standing profile, with a large hooked nose. “That guy’s got a real Jewish nose, huh!”

“There’s no such thing as a Jewish nose, Oliver.”

“Well, I mean sure there is, you have it, my dad has it, I don’t have it because my

mom was born Christian…”

Aitan didn’t respond to this, and I felt ashamed of myself. I thought the stereotype was playful when acknowledged by Jews amongst ourselves, as our family jokes about Jewish stereotypes all the time. However, Aitan’s sensitive reaction made me feel guilty, as I valued his opinion of me, especially of my Jewish identity. We kept walking through the museum in silence, and eventually Aitan broke the ice and pointed out Elie Weisel in a photo, looking gaunt in his checkered uniform and nightcap amongst other prisoners. We never spoke about this again.

After that, we were done reading books and Aitan told me it was time to start preparing for my Torah portion. He picked it out for me, and it was a passage about a famine which I had enjoyed learning about earlier in the year. He read it aloud to me, in English first, and then in Hebrew. My experience of the way Hebrew sounded then was very different to how I heard Hebrew in Hebrew school with Shmuli. This time I wanted to know what each word meant. It flowed musically and sounded ancient and mysterious. Now it was time for me to uncover that mystery. Each week we would spend time learning the alphabet, which came much quicker this time since I was a bit older and much more motivated, and learned the tones as we went along through the Torah portion. I downloaded mp3s of Aitan singing my Torah portion to my phone, and listened to it sometimes-not as much as I was supposed to because I found it creepy, and quite frankly, annoying because of Aitan’s screechy nasally voice. Eventually I was singing bits of my torah portion in the shower, you couldn’t get it out of my head. “Yaha haloam, vitziney, harafta, tahafar ha aretz, oofaratztahhhhh. Yamah, vakaidmah, vitzafonah, venechbrah…” Each time I sang it with Aitan, it was immensely frustrating and satisfying as I tried to remember the order of each verse as I read the Hebrew. But as the next fall rolled around and we reached one year working together, Aitan took away the tones as he brought in a real Torah, scroll and all. This was to be much more difficult, as I did not know the vowels and had to sing based on context and memory. My schedule heated up as the school year went on, working hard on my 7th grade colonial America project, playing on the basketball team, and acting as Orsino in the school production of Twelfth Night. October was especially difficult for me as I took on a project where I assembled twelve PCs for a learning program in the Far Rockaways for an ad campaign for Yoplait. It was the busiest time of my life. I kept consistent with my studying of my Torah portion though, and things kept getting smoother and I kept making less and less mistakes.

Soon enough, December rolled around 47

and it was time for my bar mitzvah. My whole family was invited, Lutheran-Christian on my mom’s side and varying degrees of Jewishness on my dad’s. The lights shone bright in the dark room; I couldn’t make out the faces of my friends and family in the crowd below. Aitan and his boss, Rabbi Joel, stood next to me. And as a trio we sang and recited prayers. Then it was time to sing my Torah portion. It came smooth and melodic out of my voice as I traced my finger from right to left, down, right to left, down. My face felt hot under the lights and the tension of the moment. I heard Aitan’s voice in my head as I went, him standing beside me silent in that moment. Near the end of the passage my voice broke off, I didn’t know the next word. Aitan whispered the first part of the word to me, and it all came flooding back to mind and I finished singing the rest smoothly. There was a great applause, and I remember asking my mom anxiously afterward if she noticed when I messed up, she said, “Oh, the pause? It sounded so good I thought it was on purpose!”

Next was the grandparents’ prayer. My Jewish grandparents, Baba and Papa, came up and recited a prayer anointing me as a bar mitzvah. Their accents were rough and Yiddish. Papa cleared his throat multiple times throughout and fumbled over his words. But the intent was clear, and it was enough. Next was the “Horah”... All the men at the service hoisted me up onto a chair and threw me up and down and moved me around as we sang along to the iconic Horah song. As the song ended, they lowered me to the ground, and the party invitees flooded in from the doors to the hall. Now it was party time. It all went by so fast, all that prep… for that? I felt like I lost something. Lost an outlet, lost a sense of connection and reason for digging into this well of traditional knowledge. There was relief mixed in as well, all of the tension from the months leading up to it in preparation washed away, but I also felt strangely empty, as well. I went over to Aitan, “I guess that was it.”

“You did great!”

“It went by so fast.”

“It did, didn’t it! I am so proud of you.”

I felt two hands clutch my shoulders. It was Bix. Him and my other camp friends hovered around me, waiting for me to guide them to a fun time amongst strangers. Later I saw Aitan sitting down with my Catholic Aunt Caroline, who was speaking quite loudly and drunkenly. My mom later told me they talked to each other all night.

So the fabled night went by, and I woke up the next morning a Jewish man. Yet everything felt the same. In fact, I felt the same and felt the euphoria of attention and pride that came from that night pass and fade into a distant memory as the months

and then years went by. Once a year my parents would invite Aitan over for dinner. He would stay for a few hours, and we would reminisce about the bar mitzvah and our tutoring sessions together, and we would talk about Aitan’s life plans. Every time he appeared in the elevator I was brought back to the bar mitzvah times of anticipation and excitement, and of the sense of pride that can come with adherence to tradition. Three years after my bar mitzvah, Aitan’s voice came rolling into the apartment once more; piercing and nasal, he was laughing about something my mom said while greeting him. I hadn’t spoken a lick of Hebrew since my bar mitzvah, not even during Passover for prayers or similar holiday occasions. I drifted away. Seeing Aitan, his flushed face rimmed with glasses, his kindness and friendship, tethered me back to my idea of Jewishness. We sat down for dinner and ate brisket (fitting), and my dog Frodo nudged him with a toy just as he did years ago during our tutoring sessions. He told us over a glass of wine that he was moving away from Brooklyn to tutor in Jersey City. Even though it isn’t that far away, it felt like the end of our relationship. And it was. We never had him over for dinner again, and my sense of feeling Jewish faded in his absence, with the embers of it being blown a few times each year during holidays.

Ode to the Rice Daniel Olusheki ‘25

The kitchen with a sack of rice just sitting in the corner, Church ended not too long ago fasted feeling weak the rice calls, a colosseum of tiny marble pillars like a dusty gem, Translucent and see-through So simple to understand, small just by itself, strong in great quantities, enough to conquer one’s hunger. Worth cleaning thoroughly, fluid like sand, caressing the empty pockets of your hands, dunked in the muddy water yet the rice only shines brighter, joy at its purest form, a physical representation of pure bliss.

Fame Elodie Harris ‘26

It has been 10 years since Master Chef Junior. I was 14 years old when I made history by becoming the youngest chef ever to win the competition and to become an assistant judge. I was hired for brand-deals, starred in commercials, had my face on the cover of magazines, had an entire documentary dedicated to me, made a cookbook, went on Ellen, Oprah, and many other shows, and even created my own show where I taught new recipes every Thursday at 9-10 p.m. Eastern Time on ABC. Pretty impressive - I know. So, after years and years of people seeking to meet me -- Emma Smith, the best child baker in the country-- I finally retired. Still famous and well known, but retired. I still have an exciting life, though. I wake up every morning to my mini English cream, long-haired dachshund, Casper, licking my face and ready to start the day. Ugh, Casper, it’s 8 am! Let me have 30 more minutes of sleep! So, Casper somehow reads my mind and lays down next to me, resting his golden paws on my feet. The shimmery sun shines over my bed as Casper sits up and stares at me. He whines. Finally, at 8:33 a.m., it’s time to get up. I pull my pink, silk comforter off my legs and open the curtain to see the bright, sunny day. I take a big sip of ice water from my pink glass with blossoms on it. I slide on my smiley face slippers and head to the kitchen to make my coffee and start my day. Due of my childhood fame, I was invited to go on the reality TV show, Survivor, a few years ago. It was a challenging show, we had to live and survive in the woods for almost two months! But, it was a great experience and very humbling. I learned to love nature and the woods. Most nights, I cooked for my teammates because my goal was to cook with different ingredients and use more plant-based foods. I definitely accomplished this goal while on the show. I used all kinds of leaves and bugs - things that would normally taste awful - but somehow, I made them taste good. Or maybe the food tasted good because we were always so hungry from competing in challenges every day. Every week, I would make it to the next round. The hardest challenge was during the finale. I thought that I couldn’t do it, but once I remembered that my whole family, friends, and fanbase were rooting for me, I tried my absolute hardest and won season 15 of Survivor! You don’t meet a lot of people who have won Survivor, but I am one of them! It’s one of my biggest accomplishments in life, and that’s saying a lot because I have done many amazing things during my 24 years of living. And the shower I took after I came home from the show was the best shower of my life. I felt so clean

and refreshed after being in the woods for two months. While the show was a great experience and filled with lots of amazing core memories, there was some drama. You can’t have a reality TV show without drama - that’s just a well-known fact! But my rival on the show was a girl named Clara Collins. Clara came from Australia. She loved the show as a little kid, and she was very much an outdoors person. She was good with fishing, using natural materials, building houses, and she was fast in many of the challenges. She won a lot. And by that I mean, she won almost every challenge. Clara became my biggest competitor. On the fifth episode of the season, Ready or Not, we were faced with a huge puzzle we had to solve. Throughout the puzzle challenge, Clara would not stop talking about all of the challenges she had won and how she had the fastest puzzle-solving time. She was getting so annoying and unbearable to listen to! Clara talked and talked and talked and never stopped. I think she knew that she was annoying. That was her main goal, to annoy me and kick me out of the competition. In fact, after she talked my ear off that day, I was close to leaving! But I was not done, I wanted revenge! No, I needed revenge. So, I included fish in one of the dinners I cooked, and I didn’t tell Clara, even though I knew she was allergic. I wanted her to feel the pain and annoyance that I felt as I listened to her brag about her accomplishments. The fish tasted like chicken, so she couldn’t tell that it was fish. We were all starving after the puzzle challenge so we were eager to eat anything we could. That night, after Clara ate the fish that tasted like chicken, her face became so swollen that she looked like a bright, red tomato! And while it wasn’t the worst allergic reaction ever, it was pretty bad! At 1:00 a.m., she came into my tent and screamed that this was the worst thing I could have done and that she hated me. I yelled back, denying that I had done anything wrong. “I’m sorry! It’s not like you’re the only person here, I have 15 other people to cook for! It’s hard to keep track of allergies when you are just trying to feed everyone! And to be honest, I’m glad this happened! You were annoying me anyway Little Miss Allergy Princess!” The words just came out. I couldn’t handle it anymore! So, the next day, Clara talked to the producers of the show and she convinced them to let her go home because she was in so much pain. At that point, I started to feel REALLY guilty. I knew that Clara had an allergy to fish, but I was so envious of her that I didn’t tell her it was included in the dinner. The last words that Clara said to me as she packed up her bag were, “Never speak to me again, you monster!” This incident really caused me to question myself. Had I become a monster? Had my

desire to be famous and win a reality show turned me into a person who almost poisoned someone? My whole life had been spent helping people enjoy food and now I had almost just killed someone with food. I realized that I had lost my way. Last week, I took a pilates class at my local studio. The class was taught by a new teacher named Clara. Seeing the name already made me think of my mistake. Throughout the class, Clara reminded me to breathe and let go of my negative thoughts. She told the class that in order to move forward and enjoy life, we needed to forgive ourselves and others for past wrongs. At the end of the class, I knew what I had to do. When I got home, I picked up my phone and typed in the name “Clara Collins :(” Here’s what I wrote:

Dear Clara, Hi, it’s Emma Smith from Survivor. I know it’s been a few years since the show, and I know you probably never want to ever talk to me again, but I realized that it was so wrong of me to put fish in your dinner. I was just so upset that night after I lost the puzzle challenge. Looking back, that was one of the worst decisions I have ever made, I don’t know what was going through my head. I have since been so beyond disappointed in myself, and I really hope you understand that I have grown from my mistakes, and I wish you the best always. Please consider my apology, I know it’s long overdue. Hope that we can be friends again.

I hope that you can forgive me,

Emma

A few days later, while I’m at the dog park with Casper, I get a text from Clara Collins :(

Hi Emma,

Thank you for your text. I don’t want to hold a grudge against you forever. It was wrong of me to brag about my accomplishments during the challenge, I was really insecure. Let’s meet for lunch. Just no sushi. :P -Clara

Blackberry Pie Zane Walker ‘22

Acool fog rolls out from the trees, the sun rains down on the lukewarm air, sweet voices skip up from the road, sour feelings far from sight, but they’ll always be with us in one way or another.

My father stumbles across the uneven path, my hand in his. The bowl in my other hand tosses and turns, waiting for its sweet contents: fresh, juicy, ripe blackberries, free from any sour green.

With dry dust kicking up behind us we wander off the beach road nestled behind my grandmother’s house. Dad sighs of relief, sun in his hair. Sour feelings seep back to their depths, while I search for sweet berries.

We wander and scrounge for hours down ancient paths and frequented roads, our metal bowls filled to the edge, sweet juices swirling below. I reach out for one last berry,

my hand sliced by a sour thorn. As our feet slip through damp grass my father balances my hand in his, sour red winding down my finger. He looks at me sweetly, and wipes the blood away; I run up Grandma’s hill, her door ajar.

As the blackberries fall and bounce into the sweet soft dough, and a mitted hand guides the tin down into the oven’s warm embrace, I take a berry colored deep purple, but sour juices spit down my tongue.

With the sweet smell of pie rolling through the house, I hear the door whack closed and my grandmother’s voice rise; Some sour complaint, a calculated slight, and my father recedes, done for the night.

Surf Toby Petrzela ‘27

The light breeze carries the fishy smell of ditch plains beach through the air I jump into the green ocean The sand is like a golden blanket under my first surfboard waiting for me to ride I am astonished as I learn about the structure of the waves and the way they break The feeling of surfing had been trapped inside of me for so long and it’s finally seeing the Light of day I have been to this beach before but never have I thought about the bittersweet neoprene wetsuit smell or the people surfing Until now I hear my friend’s voice softened by the crashing of the waves, say this is your wave, you got it I paddle fighting the current of the strong beautiful ocean I then feel a surge of energy and stand up I am flying

Independent for 84 Years ... Betty Fox ‘24

When you are on your own for 84 years, the idea of having someone else take your pride by taking care of you is upsetting. When you have been on your own for 84 years you become blind to your faults, physically and mentally. You do not notice how your house is messy or that you are falling onto the cold linoleum floor too often. Assistance is a call away, though your pride keeps you from making that call. When your daughter wanted you to stop driving and fall in love with the app, Uber, you declined. In a suburban place, your car being taken away is the sign that your freedom is in the past. Your close friends in your neighborhood first lost the privilege of driving, then their houses were sold when they moved into assisted living, and then they died. You believe your stubbornness will prevent you from becoming them. Your house is your last sign of independence. You do not tell the whole truth to your daughters, son, or even your sister, because, in your subconscious, you understand that if they know how difficult things are for you, they will move you - without your consent. Because in your subconscious, you know that their peace of mind is more important to them than your desires. That’s why when you fall. That fall. The fall that shows your loved ones that you are not doing well, the fall that gets you into the hospital, rehab-assisted living; you realize that you cannot hide from your truth anymore. Now your car, house, and other symbols of freedom are taken away from you. Everything, including your pride.

Backpacking in The Rockies Lars Olsen ‘23

hiss of morning bugs scent of the dark pine forest stones on twisting path

forest –– a clearing orange emperor tulips afire, burning grass

blue and cloudy sky, sunlight gleams on mountain peak glaciers chilled in warmth

Faces Iris Edelstein ‘27

The brush rolls over my face, I sigh It is amazing, the feeling of maturity that comes with owning cosmetics pinks and blues and browns and greens come from different palettes all for me to explore, an artist with my own face as a canvas. Eyeliners, mascara, lip gloss, eyeshadow, it all comes down to color, shape, size.

Painting on a mask of beauty, one that you are supposed to see but not see, not able to tell what it is unless you stare, which is the point, to stare, to be amazed that someone could be so beautiful, until you realize it’s just a mask.

Sitting on the train, looking at someone’s eyeliner How is it so perfect? I want that What is this eternal bloodlust for beauty? the unattainable, the grace, the divine the mask that we must put on, not enough to see, but enough to see.

Making yourself look beautiful. But are you actually? When you take off the mask, you are ugly you are beautiful for a moment in time, then your facade crumbles, and you crumple up into a little ball of ugly, until the next morning, when the bloodlust resumes.

Faces on hangers in the closet, try each on, settle for one, hide.

Lost Sonia Stomberg-Firestein ‘26

Isit down and put my foot on the pedal. I drop my foot and push the big green letters “Engine On.” Nothing happens. I drop my foot again and press the button again. Nothing happens. Great, just what I need right now. Just start the engine. That’s when I realize, my foot isn’t moving, against my mind’s wishes. I try again, this time watching my foot press down on the pedal. Absolutely nothing happens. Okay enough is enough. I unbuckle my seat belt and open the car door. I barely close it before running into my house. “Jack!” I shout as I unlock the front door. I don’t even close it behind me. I’m leaning on the door staring at him through the archway. He’s sitting at our white marble countertop. He’s on his phone and doesn’t even look up when he says, “What do you want,” responding ever so kindly. “I need you to drive me to Lena’s. Please. I tried, and I can’t do it.” I say with desperation in my voice. He stops moving his spoon to his mouth and takes a deep breath. He looks at me as he contemplates helping me, or letting me fend for myself. After a long pause he says, “Fine, let’s go.” He drops his spoon and gets up. He isn’t exactly running but, being the good older brother he is, he isn’t walking slowly either. He opens the door, without grabbing anything. Not his phone, not his keys, not his airpods. Thanks, big brother. My panic ends when I realize that they’re all in his pockets. I’m wearing a sweatshirt and a jacket. Dressing correctly for the brisk and windy twenty degree weather. “Aren’t you cold? Put a goddamn jacket on,” I say glaring at the back of his head. “We’re getting in the car, are we not?” he says, turning around to look at me and walking backwards. And that’s Jack. The always passive aggressive, loving older brother. Jack throws the keys on the hood as he get in the car. They slide down almost falling until Jack catches them. He smiles. I glare back. He gets in the car, and starts the engine with absolutely no trouble. I watch him do such a simple task with no trouble. I used to be able to do that before the accident. I look over at him as he drives. I guess he could sense my confusion. “Hayd, you have to drive eventually,” he says softly. I know he’s trying to be sensitive but it just isn’t a practical look for him. “I know. And I will,” I take a long pause, “but not yet.” “It’s been five months. It wasn’t your fault and you can’t let it haunt you forever,” he looks over at me, scrunching his eyebrows. I can tell he cares.

“Jack, keep your eyes on the road. Just because I’m not driving it doesn’t mean you can total my car,” I change the subject. He lifts his eyebrows, deciding to drop the subject. Thanks for sparing me, I guess. We drive in silence. I look out the window. It’s almost dark when we pull into Lena’s driveway. I jump out of the car before it even stops moving. I dash into the house. “You’re welcome!” I hear Jack scream as I disappear inside. I run past the fluffy gray couch that I usually plop down on before I even make it up the stairs to Lena’s room. I run through the doorway, past the fridge, past the counter, past the dining table. I sharply turn right, slightly banging into the side of the doorway. I’m wearing shoes so I can’t slide on my socks to slow myself down. I grip the banister and fling myself around. “Lena! What’s going on?” I say sprinting up the stairs. I walk into her room. She’s crying. “Hayden. He’s gone. Julien’s gone. I can’t find him,” she says, tears streaming down her face. “It’s okay, we’ll find him. Where’s everyone else?” “They’re up at Kristin’s big race. They’re in Okemo. Hayden, my parents can’t know.” She slows down and looks up at me. It’s at that moment that I realize what would happen if we couldn’t find Julien. It would become Lena’s fault. Her conscience would turn into mine. We’d be the same. She can’t go through this. “Should I call the cops?” “NO!” she screams. “No cops. We can find him ourselves. How did you get here?” “Jack drove me. I don’t think he left. Let me go get him.” “Go! Get him to help,” she says with despair in her voice. I run downstairs. I don’t think I’ve run this fast in a long time. I quit running. It stopped helping after the accident. I run out the door. “Jack! Jack come inside please. You have to help!” I say banging on the car window. He’s on his phone. He looks up and jumps out. What’s going on?” he says as we run inside the house. I don’t answer. “Hayden! What happened?” I turn around and stop. I look down, not knowing how to tell him. “We can’t find Julien.” I turn around. Lena’s standing behind me. She stopped crying. I swivel my head around just to see Jack’s eyes widen. He doesn’t have any words. “Jack, you go and Hayden and I will stick together. Keep your phone on. Tell me where you’re going. We have to find him. He’s my baby brother. I’m not letting him get hurt.” “Okay let’s go.” Jack says, running toward the door. He stops, turns around, and says, “Lena. We’re gonna find him.”

~ “Lena, it’s been hours. Where is he? Where could he have gone?” “I don’t know Hayden, but we have to find him. He’s ten. He can’t take care of himself,” she responds softly, but I can hear the cry in her voice. “I know Len, and we will. I promise,” I start scampering again. Looking everywhere. Screaming his name. I’m going to find Julien. I’m not letting Lena end up like me. She’s stronger than me, but no one is that strong. “Hayden. We have to find Julien. I can’t lose someone else.” I stop. Not turning around, but I stop. I wait for her to say something else. She doesn’t. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean for her to get hurt. Lena, I was in the hospital for three weeks. We couldn’t both be so lucky. I was drinking. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. She wasn’t supposed to die,” I turn around. Tears are pouring out of her eyes. “Hayden. Julien is not going to die. We are going to find him. He isn’t dying!” She says masking her despair in false confidence. I tilt my head in solidarity. I feel for her, and I know I need to protect her. “No he isn’t. Nia is dead. There’s nothing we can do about it, but she is. That doesn’t mean that Julien is. We will find him and he will be okay. I promise.” “I still haven’t recovered from my best friend’s death. My brother can’t die too!” she yells. I can’t tell if she’s screaming or crying. “Lena, I haven’t recovered from Nia’s death either. I don’t think I ever will! Her death haunts me every single day of my life. I can’t drive, I can’t run, I can’t go to Rafaelo’s. And I know I’m not the victim, but I won’t recover. I took her life. And Lena, you weren’t even there.” She disregards everything I just said. “I lost her! I lost her because of you!” “I killed her!” I say this knowing that killing trumps losing. I can’t keep doing this. I just want to find Julien. I love that little guy. He deserves to be safe, and Lena deserves to have him back. “I’m going to search his friends’ houses. If I find him, I’ll call you. Meet back at your place?” I say to her just to confirm our plan. Our fight shouldn’t affect Julien’s safety. My confirmation is a slight nod. I smack my lips together and keep walking. I don’t know where she’s going, but I know she won’t give up.

~ After going to five of Julien’s friend’s houses, going to the elementary school, going to his favorite restaurants, the soccer field, the baseball field, and anywhere else I could think of, I have two more friends’ houses to search. I’m tired, but I can’t give up. It’s Julien’s safety. A ten year old child’s safety. I knock on the Bradford’s front door. Lisa Bradford opens it. “Hi Mrs. Bradford. I’m looking for Julien? 61

Have you seen him?” I say very softly as to make sure that my anger doesn’t carry over into the conversation. Angering someone’s mother isn’t what I need today. “Julian Crosby or Julien Matviak?” “Matviak.” “Well he’s here. I told his mother that he could come over,” she says, sort of confused. I have never been more relieved in my life. I smile. “He’s here?! Can I take him home please?” I ask “Yes. Let me get him.” she says, still confused. “Julien! Hayden is here to get you honey.” I call Jack and Lena. I tell them I found him and he was just at a friend’s house. I take him home to Lena.

~ “Hayden? I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. Nia’s death wasn’t your fault even if I need someone to blame it on,” Lena says with sorrow in her voice. “I know hon. Thank you. Even if it was my fault.” “And thank you. You found Julien. You found my brother.” She has a certain ring to her voice that isn’t always there. It was there when I woke up in the hospital. I’m not sure what it means. Maybe sorrow, maybe love. All I know is that tone is what makes Lena, Lena. That is her personality in a sound. That is my best friend. We hug it out and all is well.

A Fishy Surprise Pascal Duravcevic ‘27

The second I lay eyes on the big gray fish My stomach jumped into my throat, I was told there were no sharks. My brother was laughing I was not

Danger was in the air I felt something was wrong. I felt the blood rush to my fingers a certain tingling sensation running through my body My veins throbbing My heart pounding

I yelled “Shark!” and everyone on the beach ran towards the water. Taking out their phones and squinting so hard that you could not see their eyes.

My body froze

The shark swam in the other direction Swimming away from the commotion and the splashing Solace fell over me like a blanket.

I was safe.

In a Loop Oona Obaditch ‘23

Iwake up every Monday morning greeted by the same feeling of exhaustion and anger because the earth decided to continue its cycle and not add a few more hours into its night. I lay in my bed, my tired eyes still closed as orange washes over my eyelids from the glow of the January starlight. Through one breath I transport my mind to summer, when my body was light and constantly floating, not weighted by my worried thoughts or my heavy mood. When I wasn’t fighting for friendships or secretly trying to ruin them. When I didn’t used to feel the way that I do every winter morning, like I’m surrounded by navy and shades of dark blue. But I’m soon reminded when the faux summer light disappears from my eyelids as quickly as it came that I don’t have time to reminisce over easy days. So I allow the gravity of my responsibilities to drag me out of bed, make my hands reach over my head and crack the bones in my back. Yet another winter week has started, and I’m sure I won’t be able to tell it apart from the last. It’s cold in my room, my beautiful room that has witnessed my entire life unfold for the past five years. My poor decorating choices, my dying thirsty plants, my violin playing progression. She holds the memory of it all in her tall white walls that are not insulated well enough. So there I am every morning, my body standing in hesitation to change into my everyday clothes because my bare skin will be exposed to the bitter 64 degree inside air, even if it is just for five seconds. I repeat all the same steps as I have done for the past six months. Brush my teeth, wash my face, untangle my stressed hair, look in the mirror and decide if I like the way my body looks today. Grab a cup of coffee, in the biggest mug I can find, and drink it between the intervals of applying my mascara. Turn on my speaker and adjust the volume to an appropriate level for early mornings, as there is still someone sleeping in the house, across the hall. I skip the songs at least two times because I never seem lucky enough to get the perfect one first, but no more than three because I have precisely 35 minutes to get out of bed and walk out the door, or else I’ll miss my train. Every night before I go to sleep with no more energy even in the tips of my fingers, and when my skull gets pulled to my pillow, I tell myself I’m going to wake up just 10 minutes earlier so that I can enjoy sitting down with my coffee and maybe having a moment to think. But I never do. And I know I never will. Loops don’t have room for change, and I am deep in one. I walk to school and the Tuesday clouds are sitting heavy in the sky. I relive the same spring daydreams, and listen to the same set

of songs I have obsessed over that month while I try to decipher their shapes. I catch glimpses of myself in the reflections of the warped glass walls of the stores in the mall that I walk through. I can almost see the trail of blues and blacks that follow behind me and swirl around my head. I miss when those colors were yellow and white and made me feel like I was the weight of paper, instead of the way these ones pull me down. I can see the entirety of myself in the glass reflections. “I’m too short, and I wore these same jeans last Thursday. Will people notice? I should buy another coffee at the Dunkin next to me, but I don’t think I have time, or the willingness to spend three dollars. I swear Dunkin coffee used to be two”. I walk back outside into the cold, and it almost burns my face, but I haven’t been warm in months, not the kind that leaves you comfortable and content. I’ve been off-balanced, inconsistent, feeling like I’m at the bottom of an exhale for weeks; it’s as if even my breathing doesn’t work right this time of year. My 20 degree blood heats up to 110, as I sit underground amongst the smell of sweating sewage in many layers of coats and sweatshirts. I see the same woman that I do every morning. She’s young and in her 20s. Once again wearing the same style of jeans that she has in at least 4 different colors. I can tell why she wears them so much: they complement her body the way you wish your clothes did. The same way they do on models in the pictures of online stores that you assume will look the same on you, but they never do. But on this woman it looked better, maybe because she was the model. The jeans have a long slit at the ankle that reveals the back end of her white chunky Gucci sneakers or her petite black Chanel heels. She always carries either a powder pink Chanel bag, or a black one. She’s tall, skinny, and has the best posture I’ve ever seen. Her face is expressionless. It’s expensive, but robotic and lifeless. She acts as if there’s a set of tasks encoded in her which she follows without opinion. Only the weight of her eyelashes makes herself blink just like all the dolls we have hidden in our cabinets. I’ve decided that she’s deeply mysterious. Like she knows everything about the world from its surface to its core, but likes to be deceiving and pretends she doesn’t. Or she has not a gram of substance within her. But we part ways when she veers to the right and I go straight after we get off the train, and my acknowledgment of her existence fades. I’m not a stalker, I swear, I just notice these things after seeing them every day. My commute overlaps with several people who go to my school and I do my best to avoid them. I’m careful with my steps, the train car I go into and where I gaze. Eye contact means we see each other, avoiding it makes me innocent for not speaking to them. It’s not that I’m a people hater, I

just value my walks to school even though they’ll never change and will always be waiting for me every single day. It’s just the one thing I don’t like to share with anyone else. Chambers, Franklin, Canal, there’s time for at least two normal length songs. Houston. It’s like getting out of bed all over again. I was perfectly situated in my orange seat where I could preserve the caffeine in my veins, and not waste it all by standing up. I was at a just right distance from the strange puddle of liquid on the floor, and at least 3 seats from another person. But I had to get up and walk out the train car doors. It always seems like I’m leaving good things. My Wednesday hair is up in a ponytail and I fidget with the ends during my classes. The same classes I’ve had for months now. I know the ones that I like and the ones that I don’t. The rooms that I like and the ones that are cold. My opinions never seem to change, and neither does the temperature. It’s all just the same. My moods throughout the day have become a reflex, muscle memory, only ever familiar. The thought of change by now seems explicit and impossible. I have patterns and places I need to be, and I can only pray that the people around me can disrupt it. Sometimes, I appreciate disruptions more than I realize. I appreciate the comments people make and the questions they ask. I appreciate all conversations I have even if I don’t like the substance of them or the people I’m having them with. I like to look at the arches of people’s noses and the shapes of their eyes then fill in the rest of their face with my imagination, but that only works with the people I’m not so familiar with. Faces are refreshing, and their voices are like sweet notes and calming vibrations. Maybe even one of their hugs could save me and warm up my cold bones, maybe wash away the dark shades of color that hang above me, just enough to make me want to get through this season. People are the only things not swallowed by winter’s predictability. You never know what they’re going to say or do, you don’t know what gossip is hiding between their teeth, or what thoughts are going to jump off their tongue. Everyone is layered with all sorts of mystery, some more than others, but all are more mysterious than I am to me. I’m tired of knowing myself and all my opinions. I’m tired of my same insecurities and my awareness of my unhealthy habits. I’m tired of knowing that I’m realistically not going to do something in the time I say I’m going to. I’m tired of having the same thoughts and being stuck with the same feelings after I think them. I’m tired of looking at myself in the mirror every single day, and I’m tired of overthinking how scary it is to be the same person your whole life. Thursday’s shower washes away my chaos so I can start fresh. The water falls down my body past my birthmarks and scars in wind-

ing lines, then drops to the floor. Sometimes I wish some parts of me would wash away with the water and be a passenger on its journey to the drain. To fall down and drown and end up somewhere else no longer connected to me. But I’m told I’m supposed to love the entirety of me, so I must try that first before I start to scrub it away. The Friday sun has set and navy floods the sky. I lightly place a shimmer on my eyes, and it reminds me of July when I used to live in magic. I make myself look pretty, intentionally make my cheeks a little rosy, to cover the cold paleness of my February skin. My freckles have all vanished. I miss when the sun used to leave a kiss on my face. You can see them if you look closely, but no one really does like I wish they did, so I don’t mind painting over them in pink. I repaint my chipped red nails from the wear of the week, only one coat, that lasts for two days if I don’t get too sad and pick it away. Then I can watch them age and crumble and do it all over again next week. I coat my neck, my wrists, and my hair in expensive perfume from Christmas, so that when people hug me they’ll want to keep their arms around me and remember me when I walk away. It’s yet another routine, but maybe one that I enjoy for once. I grab my coat, grab my keys, tell her I’ll be safe, and leave. Tonight is my gap in the loop, as nothing is constant or promised, and I find it refreshing. Like an ice cold blood orange San Pellegrino on the beach. I love Friday nights and the sweetness they bring. But everything soon blends together in my Saturday morning brain, and my cloud of colors finds its way back to me. It’s now purple, and black, and blue, just like a bruise that has taken too long to heal. There I am, stuck again in a winter loop. But it’s strange, this loop doesn’t bloom with the flowers, or release into the air on the tips of the pollen, nor does it cover the ground amongst the dried yellow leaves. It only exists on the branches of the bare trees and in the pockets of my coat. Something about these months make life seem so dull no matter how many people surround me. No matter how many times someone kisses me or tells me they love me. No matter how many times new things happen. The cold air just strips away any specialness and puts everything out of focus, where I’m not happy nor sad, but feel unwelcome in the in-between. So I just have to patiently wait until March 20th when I can leave all of this behind and be released from the tethers that bind me to repeating moments and heavy colors.

The Cafe Jillian Walker ‘23

She smells of coffee and cigarettes, the milky foam of a latte as a makeshift ashtray. Her awning acts as a rough, indestructible skin. A red and white striped fabric with her name in cursive invites outsiders into an even more welcoming interior. Staring off into an empty brick road, she greets her customers as they start their day, knowing she’ll be used for a moment and forgotten the next. Her teacups are stained with red lipstick, lifted by the gentle fingers of women in berets and men with croissant crumbs in their mustaches. Her menu, decorated with green borders and laminated paper, is only in French, her native tongue. Her customers move too quickly to notice her beauty and that of her surroundings. Once they’ve paid the check and run off, they leave her dark wooden tables covered in crumbs and stains, ignoring the material that’s nearly impossible to clean. She doesn’t mind the mess, though. She likes the reminders of baked goods and coffees from the past. She knows who sat where and how her umbrellas, blowing in the breeze like long, flowing hair, protected these customers, whom she thought of as friends from the hot summer sun. She loves listening to the chatter of her customers, especially when it overpows the clanking sounds of the chefs hard at work. She likes when tourists stop to smell her blooming roses, living in wooden boxes under her windows. She likes listening to them try and speak her language when they get lost on her mile-long menu and use their dying phones to form a simple, yet translated conversation with her waiters. She likes seeing new faces, but even more so, she likes when the same ones come back time and time again. She lives to serve others, to make them feel welcome with her paintings of the city of love, ink on an old canvas, surrounded by a golden frame, or her soft music, played live by the same band she’s had for years. She wants to make sure her staff is the very best in all of Paris, so that critics and tourists alike would know her name. But most of all, she wants to be remembered. Her neighbor, connected by a battered brick wall, is a used bookstore. While he has no awning, his storefront is an old wooden surface, covered by a chipped, indigo paint. Under his name, written in a golden Times New Roman Font, it reads Est. 1890. His door is made of glass, frail enough to be shattered with one touch of a pebble tossed by a child. He doesn’t get visitors t often, but when he does, the small bell by his door rings with nothing but excitement. The inside of his store is dark, but easy to navigate. He does what he can to welcome visitors, even though deep down he knows

he’ll never be written about in a magazine or newspaper like some of the other stores on the block. While his bell may ring with excitement, he has a general disdain for most of his visitors. When he lets someone in, he waits, hoping they’ll understand him, the books he has to offer, what he has to say about the world. But when they leave empty handed, he’s reminded once again that his many years of wisdom have little value to anyone but him. On the rare occasion that someone does buy and read one of his books (aside from his few loyal customers), with a broken spine, yellowed pages, and annotations throughout, he remembers his own purpose. He lives to teach others, to expose customers to new authors, new stories, regardless of their loyalty. He’s seen people come and go, words being read and written, but never appreciated. The truth about being a used bookstore is just that: that he’ll only ever be seen as used. Across the way from the café and bookstore, there lies a new flower shop. Opened last week, her bright pink store front and neon sign alerts everyone in Paris of her existence. Inside, she’s blasting music, lyricless and made by a machine, and smells of strawberry champagne, complimentary to every customer. While having only been open for one hundred and sixty eight hours, she’s brought more attention to herself than any other store on the block. While most other flower shops sell bouquets for funerals, weddings, or any other milestone, her neon colored shelves are filled with flowers for the most unspecified of occasions. But her customers don’t mind. They like the mystery of buying black, dying roses made of mostly thorns for Valentine’s day. They like to surprise their loved ones with a bouquet of chrysanthemums as red as the wine they drink routinely. She’s new, she’s flashy, she’s what Parisians think of as innovative and brilliant. But one day in the future, tourists and locals alike will forget her name. They’ll be bored with the neon and free alcohol. They will want something more new, something more innovative. One day, she’ll be just another store, waiting patiently for a visitor. And though by then the café and bookstore will be long gone, they’ll remember each other as friends who shared nothing but a wall.

72 Sierra MacDonald ‘23

Emma Hirsch ‘22 73 Benjamin Brinson ‘23

Sam Saslow ‘22 74 Miles Friedman ‘22 75 Shoshi Fine ‘24

76 Grey Raphaely ‘24 Freddie Fine ‘22

77 Miles Horner ‘22 78 Benjamin Brinson ‘23 79 Ian Schearer ‘25

Io Weintraub ‘22

80 Ellie Hemingway ‘25 81 Amelia Langton ‘22

George Lupinacci ‘23 82 Kate Rotundo ‘23

Emma Brunner ‘22 83 Ely Silverman ‘22

Benjamin Brinson ‘23 84 Sakari Sylvester ‘22

Zain Erakky ‘22 85 Nicholas Centena ‘24

86 Ellie Hemingway ‘25

Tilda Sutter ‘22 87 Marlowe Glass ‘22

Maia Cooper ‘23 35mm color film 35mm color film 35mm color film 35mm color film 35mm color film 35mm black and white film 35mm black and white film 35mm color film

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