Calliope Magazine 2022 by Marianapolis

Nº 32 PHOTOGRAPHY • ART • POETRY • PROSE AUGUST • 2022 An annual student literary and visual arts magazine CALLIOPE

This year’s issue displays a wide range of visual & written work; some touching pictures, stun ning drawings & paintings, and truly unique written pieces. They stretch over a broad variety of topics, each thought-provoking, educational, creative, vulnerable, beautiful, powerful, and much, much more. I was honored to look through each and every one of these pieces, and extend my deep thanks and appreciation to the work included here & all those that weren’t ultimately published. Your stories, your art, and you are so, so valued. So, so irreplaceable. Thank you for the opportunity. Thank you for your bravery. Keep being the change.

I first joined Calliope as a freshman. Picture a scrawny kid with a still-childlike face and the outfits of someone approaching their seventies, oversized glasses, messy hair, and with a buoying interest in poetry. I’d been a storyteller in one way or another for as long as I could remember; writing & drawing & performing stories of elves and unicorns and runaways and disaster, of recovery. But my teenage years had opened up a new land: memory. Possibility. Yearning, regretting. For the first time in my life, my writing & art had become a deeper reflection of myself, at times painfully honest, unpolished, but entirely therapeutic. And to put it briefly: my work was nothing to write home about. Nevertheless, I showed up to my first meeting, brimming with excitement. I knew very few people at this point; I was acutely lonely and fearful. Self-confidence was something I couldn’t even conceptualize. By the end of the school year, I found myself surrounded by friends and chosen family, truly, truly welcomed. Holding in my hands a real, physical publication with my very own writing in it, with memories of one of the most formational years of my life. I could barely believe it. Better yet was the deeper change I’d felt in myself and in the school. I no longer felt that I had to apologize for my presence. I knew more and more who I was, who I wanted to become. There was a small, barely perceptible current of change lapping against my ankles and running through the halls of Marianapolis. There are many ways to change the world, to change our worlds… and one of them is creation. Honesty, with ourselves and others. An uncommon openness. If I was to transport myself from 2018 to the year of my graduation, 2022, I would not rec ognize our school. I am privileged; even so, I never conceived of viewing the brick walls and worn leather chairs of Marianapolis as a safe place. As a home, a place to reunite with friends and family, challenge my mind and change the world. Hallways decked out with fas cinating art & information, full of smiles and welcoming faces. Accountability. Many organi zations at our school, many students, faculty, and staff have made and continue to make these incredible, beautiful changes possible… and in my opinion, Calliope is one of them. A friend of mine says often that self-expression is life-saving, and I couldn’t agree more. Through the best and worst of times, Calliope has continued to provide a space for our cou rageous, talented community to express joy, process grief, and share windows into their life with us. The kind of imagination, creativity, candor, and vulnerability created by this annual magazine has, through the years, truly helped us join together as a community, and as an alum, I can’t wait to see the amazing art so many future Marianapolis students will gener ously share with the world.

LILY MUELLER, EDITOR IN CHIEF 2

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

3 EDITOR IN-CHIEF Lily Mueller WRITING EDITOR DanielElizabethTwohig-MannWalker ART EDITOR Olivia Sczuroski EDITING TEAM Abbie O’Brien Astrid Bidwell AveryBKurzontkowskiHannon Clara Olivia-MaeDonovanRubiralta-ValdeHendrickElenaPolskyEmilyShambackEmmaRussellKieraMacKenzieKlaraElezajLucianaNajjarMackenzieJutrasAcquaah-HarrisonSophieHendrickVioletaTorres FACULTY ADVISORS Lydia KatherineTourtelloteWelch FRONT & BACK COVER: DONOVAN HENDRICK

METAMORPHOSIS,(ONGOING.)

the thin drywall of my childhood bedroom held flurries of moths just under the muraled surface, eggshell, epidermis. i’d open the windows in the summertime to let in a breeze or possibility, wake up and find them: living envelopes, borrowed clothing, a fragile beating against the dark. it makes sense that i’d one day become the thing that kept me up at night. in our cocoons, we completely dissolve. imaginal discs exist inside the bo(d)y to carry what the moth will one day need, the wings and the reckless and flutter of it all.

LILY MUELLER

picture that - a scrapbook of everything we could imagine for ourselves: your mother kneeling over a notebook, six months pregnant and planning the days you’d one day spend together. those times you swore you’d become a dancer or a memory. the tiny world scrawled in notebook margins you’d retreat to on friday nights. there is no fragment left behind, none of the fingerprints of what happened to us we burned the report cards, the doctor’s notes, the love letters had to hide that picture of you, six and shining, in the pocket of your ribcage those were the years of dreams and novelty bandaids and misplaced emotions you were born early, but by god, you would never leave this place took a disaster carving a slit down its side, you: tumbling into the brightness eyes new and burning, body raw and unwanted, shoulders heavy you shake off the weight, unfurl your crumpled-paper-wings, take first, unsteady flight your canvas open like an ocean after a ruby-colored sunrise you will become a home. haven’t you heard? the whole world waits for us, these new, fragile, alive, things. how many breaths are left on your clock? don’t keep her waiting.

5 LUCIANA NAJJAR

The brightness of them was appealing to the eyes as they stood there...quietly, not making a sound for anyone to notice them, but me... I noticed them. I noticed the way they’d shown the brightest amongst the rest of the group. They never made a sound, nor did they try to gain the attention of commoners around them...they just stood there, silently observing life as it passed them. No one ever tried hard enough to look for them or notice them, but that was the beauty of life, it was going to pass you... whether or not you noticed was up to you. The way their color brought joy to those who noticed was blissful and enticing. The way they could bring contempt to even the worst creatures. I noticed them, and that itself was the greatest gift life offered. My pure and silent contempt.

YELLOW FLOWERS LAUREN GINGO ANONYMOUS

She

Drowning

This

To ButPleasePleasestopstopjuststopI’dratherdrown

The sun sets on these unforgiving skies me in the grayness of her clouds me in her mist that I can’t escape from She recedes and I follow She leaves and I grasp on to her clouds unforgiving world sad and lonely sky tells me to leave I tell me to leave beg myself in the quietness of my mind before I leave rather drown too

Swallowing

This

She’d

SHE’S THE STORM AND I THE SUN SOPHIEKLARAHENDRICKELEZAJ

MACKENZIE JUTRAS

Running, I could feel the cold, salty sweat falling from my forehead. The sun faded as soon as I entered this parallel imagined universe. My heart leapt into my throat and I was trembling inside. I had been running for hundreds of hours or days or months, the time did not matter anymore, it felt like I was stuck eternally in endless darkness of that confusion of my thoughts. Everywhere I turned I saw myself, in a way I had never seen before, distorted, petrified. I was surrounded by thousands of mirrors, each one reflecting myself. I had no way out of it. Every path was a choice that I could choose, an opportunity, a chance for my life. I would find a way to go inside of them and then see so many images of myself suffering or regretting my choices. I clenched my jaws together and with no torch or guide, by only listening to my heart I got the power to find what I was searching for. I urged myself to run again. This time faster. I could hear the echo of my footsteps. The ground was solid and a fetid smell was in the air. I was surrounded by darkness. Trying to reach something, I laid my hand on a cold surface, which transmitted the cold to me, as I was a lifeless piece of metal, and gave me goosebumps. It was the lifeless wall of the maze I hadfallen in. My heart started beating quicker as if it was screaming inside of me. It was only me. RUN!!! I told myself. RUN!! I had to get out of that immeasurable labyrinth I was stuck in. I slowed down. I could hear my heartbeat all over my body, shaking in every step. My hands and my whole body were shivering. There it was. Just in front of me. In a corner, a bright ray of light was shining through. It was hope!! Finally hope!! I was filled with energy once again for the last time. I finally found my light and it was just one step away from me. As soon as I turned from that certain lonesome corner, darkness had taken its place. I lost myself again,drowning in darkness, hopeless, unwilling to continue my journey, unmotivated to find my path. Soon enough, my energy had left me, my bones, skin and a very tiny piece of my soul were the only things I had from my being, and every second that passed I was losing them too. There was no way out of there. I was stuck in this gloomy bubble, filled with insecurities and mixed up mystification. I was stuck in an illusion. An illusion I had created myself, with no way out, all alone, by myself. I decided to wait, I closed my eyes. I was laying on the muddy, motionless surface of the floor. Smelling the petrichor scent of the soil, myriad of memories of my life passed by me. Hugs, laughter, love, joy that were once part of what I indicated as the colors of my life, together with tears and hard moments, had made my own unique life. That life that I missed profoundly at that moment, the warm love of my family and my friends, the things I enjoyed most and what I detested most in my life. All of it was passing through me. Like a powerful flow of energy, I could not stop. I realized that I was on my feet and walked a few meters from where I had been just a couple minutes before, or that was what I thought. Now I was standing in front of a dim, dirty mirror that was reflecting myself, but I could not see it. It was an old mirror, an old wish I had always carried with me, hidden in my soul and never been in light before. I tried to wipe the dirt from it with the thin sleeve of my shirt. I tried once, twice and the mirror radiated light. My light. My green light. I had found myself, my position in the world, my own identity, my own path in life.

KLARA ELEZAJ

GREEN LIGHT

SABOTAGE ANONYMOUS

I had been walking for days in the inextinguishable heat. The rain had stopped, and I found its refusal to appear again quite bothersome. It was my only source of water ever since I left the lakes and entered the melancholic forest where the trees grow so closely together not even a stream could snake its way through. Due to the lack of rain this region has obtained in the last few months, the leaves were dying and therefore provided no canopy to block out the blistering rays of the sun. The short shower that had befallen just yesterday was an anomaly, but it was ever so welcome. I clenched the map tightly in my hands, only looking down at it once every couple of hours. I was able to hide it in my bag as soon as the rain had started so it wouldn’t be ruined. Not that it would have mattered too much since I have it ingrained in my memory. My journey over the past few months has required me to stare at it for days trying to unravel the mysteries hidden deep within its iambic dialect. The words followed the trail on the page, providing help, but only if one could figure out the riddles. Thankfully, over the course of my travels, I have dissected them quite well. The trail laid out on the map is hardly the most exciting thing that it has to offer. The endgame, as one might call it, is the thing that drives me forward. Where the golden marking has made its home on the parchment, just half a mile from where I am, is the secret to everything. More importantly, it is everything; gold, knowledge, power, and much else. My heart hammered in my chest, and my feet staggeringly helped me forward across the “SELF”

11 disheveled terrain. Anxiety and excitement welled up in my bones, making it hard to breathe. I am so close to reaching the one thing I have sought my whole life. The one thing that I have dedicated everything to finding. The one thing no one else will have once I’ve obtained it. The forest only became more gloomy as I pushed on through. The trees warped in all ways, like claws and teeth. Their outer layers rotted, and their limbs threatened to fall. I tripped several times over the roots that sprouted out of the ground at odd angles and over the decaying shrubbery hidden low atop the dirt. The air had become thick and stuffy. The repulsive stench of the dying flora burned through my nostrils, making me shudder in disgust. I stepped up onto a fallen tree that had blocked my way. As I got my right foot onto the other side, my left fell straight through and into the heart of the wood. The map fell from my grasp as I tugged on my leg, which had gotten trapped. I finally got it free, but I frowned when seeing that the bottom of my pants right above my boot was shredded from the splintered wood. With a sigh, I reached down and picked up the map. I unraveled it to make sure I was in the right place. My eyebrows furrowed, and a nervous feeling crept into my throat when I saw it was blank. I closed my eyes tightly and opened them a few times to see if I was just hallucinating from dehydration. I was not. I put the parchment close to my face and examined it thoroughly. To my surprise, there was a thin glimmer and shine atop its surface: gold. My head shot up, and I was met with an opening in the trees that had not been there before. I trudged forward, slightly limping due to the pain in my leg. I was met with a perfectly circular clearing. Where the grass was once dead was now a beautiful green lawn overrun with flowers and clovers. The decomposing trees seemed to lean away from the clearing like it was the poison. Yet, compared to the deplorable forest, the small flourished meadow was hardly toxic. It had a beauty to it, something that I had only seen when passing through the pristine ice spires of the arctic. There was an oddity at the center, something that I wasn’t expecting—a door with a simple oak frame and a brass handle. I was a lot more taken aback by the lack of all else within the clearing. My eyes roamed the minuscule space for another possibility because there was no way that this was the answer to everything. I expected a book at the very least. I tried to calm my nerves, and there was obviously a larger picture. Maybe behind the door was the answer. However, there was every possibility that the door just opened to the clearing. Shaking my head, I walked up to the door. Up close, I could make out small words inscribed on the wood. Too eager to find my answer and too impatient after all the waiting I’ve done, I didn’t find it necessary to read them. My hand quickly reached for the handle, and I tugged it open. I stumbled backward for a second. After everything I had seen on my journey, this was even less expected than finding a door in the middle of a forest. Behind the door was an empty space. Literal space. A dark and seemingly quiet abyss of nothingness. An overwhelming feeling of rage coursed through me like a wildfire. This is all I find! After months of traveling! After years of researching! My head fell into my hands, and I tried breathing to calm myself down. And it happened in a matter of seconds, a time my brain could hardly comprehend. There were footsteps, a scream, and a painful push on my spine, causing me to lose my footing. I collapsed forward, my stomach falling to my feet as I tumbled through the door. My breath was caught in my throat as I vanished into the chasm. My last glimpse of light before I dissolved into nothing was of the person who pushed me. The person who ended everything I foughtImaginefor. my surprise to see myself.

VIOLETA TORRES

Allground.these problems are extensions of something larger. At their heart, they are consequences of our knowledge-born corruption, and if we do not begin to

PHOTOS: EMMA RUSSELL

“Insofar12 as understanding grants the ability to change the world around us, it is power. For over two thousand years, human beings have been amassing understanding—and so power— at an accelerating rate. However, power, as is obvious in any history of politics or disaster, tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. As our understanding has increased, it seems that a certain kind of corruption has risen in its shadow. This corruption takes the form of reckless innovation. It has led people to change the world heedlessly, creating grand technologies and innovations that have irreversibly and damagingly changed our environments, and which have ultimately put humanity’s survival at risk.” The outrageous leakage of manmade chemicals exemplifies the danger of our reckless innovation. Per- or polyfluoroalkyl substances (PFAS) are artificial chemicals that you might have found in your McDonalds McChicken wrapper1, or your non-stick pan, or your water, or all your groceries, and much of your clothing. You certainly did find them though. They are inside your body where they will circulate forever because they do not degrade. Beyond your body, PFAS are everywhere, from Antarctica’s polar bears to the peak of Mount Everest. These chemicals have shown signs of being damaging to life (research still can’t confirm their effects on humans or other organisms), but that is not the worst issue they present. The spread of these chemicals represents a radically new situation for the planet and its life. We are now unleashing new varieties of matter into places that have never encountered such matter before—everywhere and often without intention. This matter is bound to cause widespread damage if it continues to accumulate. Studies have shown PFAS to be harmful, but they are just one class amongst many: microplastics, phthalates, Bisphenol A, pesticides, POPS, and PAHS2. Now more than ever, we are beginning to overstep the boundaries of nature; it is our supreme workhorse, and we are running it into the

address this problem, humanity will certainly struggle to continue. Life on Earth developed over thousands of years, atom from atom, structures rising and falling at the whim of forces and particles in constant interaction. The foundations of life stood the test of chaos and time, and now we are interfering with these foundations with all our tools, from the molecular to the colossal. Prospective structures of life fall because they are incompatible with the workings of their environment. We are changing the workings of our environments radically—down to their elemental composition—and we can only hope that our own structures of life can continue.

DANIEL TWOHIG-MANN

2010 beef heatfridaytallownightsfromacracked stovetop CD skips he shouts, doesn’t know click and banter of the nightly news school clothes smell like whatever’s cooking, chlorine the dog lays dying on the kitchen floor and it is peaceful. she lights a candle. soon, up to your waist in a lukewarm bath baby oil, watermelon, fabric softener, bleach the moss from your scalp pajamas say they’ll make sure you go to heaven have to climb a mountain to tuck you into bed so small, think you’ll never reach the stars. at night, you keep your eyes wide and open until they fail and the world folds in daytime is kind compared to this taking and taking and thesetaking,childhood dreams refuse to make sense she eases you to sleep and talks about another life. we’ll do anything to explain the gaps. sweet… girl, there is no world where you become without this place.

ANONYMOUS

PHOTO: KLARA ELEZAJ swallow angels in shallow breaths and lay long as the ocean across your childhood your fingertips smell like rot and you’re asking me, am beautifuli lungs become cities or bell jars resting on a bucklingshelf.

ANONYMOUS

you

It’s been about a week Since that fateful day The day I got the news That you had passed away

WHEN I FELL APART

You should’ve slipped me candy

You should’ve ruffled up my hair

Checked in with the family

It’s been about a week Since that fateful day The day we buried you And I should have been okay

Flashed across my mind

And that’s when it hit That’s when it hurt When I saw that you were gone That’s when I fell apart

‘Cause you weren’t there to greet me

I was standing in the kitchen Thinking I was fine ‘Til something like your smile

When I remembered that you’re gone That’s when I fell apart I went by the house the other day

Barely got through the door

And that’s when it hit That’s when it hurt

But you didn’t do anything ‘Cause you weren’t even there

B. HANNON

You had no more time And that’s when it hit That’s when it hurt When I learned that you had gone That’s when I fell apart

I was standing in the kitchen Thinking you’d be fine ‘Til I got the message

17 KLARA ELEZAJ KLARA ELEZAJ

As I sit in class and I try to pay attention to the numbers etched across the board, stories flash across my eyes that sit at the tip of my fingers waiting to be expelled from my mind. I try to grip my pen harder, I try to take a sip of water, I try to snap myself out of the trance, but my brain always wins against my better judgement, and when I start writing, I cannot stop. Before I know it, class is over, I have no relics from class showing my science or math engagement, but I have a story to show for the lecture in my google docs that has nothing to do with the class, but everything to do with my imagination.

In the eighth grade, Mrs. Lewis had us start a blog as a school project. Not one assignment in any of the thousands I have done has impacted me as much as this one has. Four years have gone by, and out of the 500 other kids that were in my grade in public school, I am the only person who still continually updates my blog. Mrs. Lewis challenged me to write more in depth, she challenged me to explore the topic I am scribing better. She taught me tactics on how to focus by not using control, but rather taught me personal choice, and how my actions affect others and myself. My blog became an outlet for my thoughts, my feelings, my worldview, my interests, anything and everything that came to my mind and kept me distracted during class or up at night, my blog was my outlet. I’ll never be able to thank her enough for that. My blog taught me how to code a website and put eve rything I learned in computer science to use. I learned how to format my work, and add photos to supplement it. I was able to take my words that I could never stop speaking and put them down to be read by others who actually want to hear them. I was able to make some people laugh, and connect with kids in my class who also enjoyed writing who I would have never talked to otherwise. I joined groups online of other bloggers, and I learned how to engage more people. I’ll never be ashamed that I only recieve four viewers a month on my blog because unlike originally, other people reading is not what motivates me. Reading my own work and seeing my improvements motivates me to write more. I write to escape the mortal world my feet tread. My boredom is never present when I am able to flow my ideas onto my website; I can take the thoughts I pos sess that I feel as though nobody else has and give it to the world. When will I ever run out of ideas, when will my thoughts finish? I simply cannot imagine my life without words, my life without the flow I have right now as I type out my thoughts onto this virtual paper. My brain is circling the globe and shooting up into space and beyond, leaving behind all of my commitments as my body sits in the Knight’s Lounge at Marianapolis in Thompson, CT. My fingers are a jet engine flying my words away from my brain and giving them to this computer. Words take me away from the non-existent friends I cry over. My writing allows me to escape the torture of living in Massachusetts, and the two years I still have to spend in the cold tundra which I despise WHY I WRITE

No matter how much I exhale, no matter how many sheep I count, no matter how many times I tell myself writing can wait until tomorrow, the ideas will not al low me to rest. My thoughts give my brain a reason to live for tomorrow.

In the second grade, Mrs. Carlson told me I must put my books down during math and I have to multiply numbers with the rest of the class. I was one step ahead of her, I always kept three copies of my novel inside my desk to back up the one she took away. Mrs. Carlson, as a punishment, refused to allow me to participate in third grade English with the “gifted” students. Mrs. Carlson told me I must not talk when coloring to stop me from distracting the other students, even though everyone else could speak. Mrs. Carlson told me I can not use two papers instead of one when writing my stories during Language Arts, because I would just be “blabbering”. Mrs. Carlson attempted to make me a less-confident eight year old. I grew up with the will of Galileo proving his scientific findings. I grew up with the will of Hamilton shaping the United States Treasury. I grew up with the will of a thousand ants moving a piece of bread. I refused to back down in spite of everyone who at tempted to stampede on my intellect. I cannot just ac cept that others know better than me without sufficient evidence. As a child, I would challenge my parents when the reason I had to go to bed at 7 PM was because “I said so”. As a pre-teen, I would challenge my friends when they said the reason they would not go to Barnes and Noble with me was because “the movies are more fun”. As a teenager, I challenge rules with no reasonable explanation. I cannot take no for an answer if I cannot understand why it is a no. And that is why I write.

They come to me when I close my eyes to go to bed, when I have no outlets to distract me from myself. I want to be away from my brain, escape the constantly turning wheels in my head, take a deep breath, relax.

19 with the might of a thousand suns. Essays and stories remove me from the athletics that I cannot stand to endure, but I let leave my brain with words. I’ll never know if I prefer nonfiction or fiction writing, but I know I prefer words. In a non-narcissistic way, I obsess over the thought that I can string whatever words the English language gave me in whatever way I want, and every which way they are put together, my brain will interpret them differently and make me feel differently. I know I hyperfixate, but writing allows me to expel my hyperfixations and be done with my obsessions before I am something to be perceived as annoying. I write to let the talkative side of myself stay with myself, and whoever on earth wants to meet her can, through my blog. Since I was six months old, books kept me consumed for hours on end. I could not walk, I could not talk, I could not control my bowel, I could not do any basic human functions. But I knew I loved words. They fas cinated me. My mother tells me stories of finding her baby on the floor surrounded by picture books, staring at pictures and words for hours, flipping pages. The baby had no interest in blocks or dolls, just books. As the baby grew older into the woman I am today, the one thing that stayed consistent was her love of words, and creating strings of words. I write for consistency. I write for escape. I write for reminders of different times in my life. I write for the beautiful purple Inkjoy pens at Staples. I write for my older self, who will wonder what her younger self thought about. I write for my younger self, who could not wait to see how writing could make her something that was not an elementary school loser. I write for my biographer, who will wonder when I am long gone what I published as a juvenile. I write to prove nothing. I write to give the world everything I can offer.

KURZONTKOWSKIKLARAELEZAJ

AVERY

20 MACKENZIE JUTRAS

“My silences had not protected me. Your silences will not protect you.... What are the words you do not yet have? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? We have been socialized to respect fear more than our own need for language.” - AUDRE LORDE i wrote once that my queerness preceded language. i don’t have those stories of being three and insisting that i was a boy, or a picture of me kissing a best friend on the cheek on the playground, circa 2009. i grew up loving the spoils of femininity. i liked feeling pretty. i loved pink and purple, loved my drawer heaped with second hand princess dresses, loved tucking a family of dolls with perfectly curled hair into bed. i went to dance classes from the time i could talk, looked for fairies on rambles through the woods. I was raised with a rich lexicon brimming with things like “pretty,” “small(er),” “princess,” with “girl” forced in cramped cursive between “good” and “loved.” the world’s most beautiful birdcage. but in my dreams, i was a knight, wanted to rescue everyone from a tower, fight for what was right forgive me, i was eight resisted every urge to buzz off my hair with a stolen razor, beg for the summer when i could go swimming in my brother’s swim trunks and roughhouse until the lifeguards told us off denying children the vocabulary to express themselves doesn’t do anything but leave gaping, infected wounds where things like words and joy should be. we knew who we were the missing pages in the dictionary, the encyclopedia we weren’t allowed to pull from the shelf, the moment right before your father flicked off the news with the heaviest hand you’d ever seen. we knew what was missing. living in the corner of your eye, the space between heartbeats, that poem about girls kissing in the alley of a lesbian bar, that bright-eyed camp counselor or long-faced teacher, smudging makeup across your little sibling’s face, tiny and unaware, the pride flag hovering over worcester, where you once swore unicorns ilived.amsick of conversations (arguments) over the dinner table (battlefield) to have an uneventful existence is a privilege that i hope more of us will one day be afforded. the day i learned to read was the day i knew words would be the strength of me i demand my right to expression. we demand our right to exist. “...that’s all.” “that’s everything.”

A YEAR OF SILENCE ANONYMOUS

A tree of the spring, the season of rebirth, rises from the white winter snow bringing a new beauty and makingjoy those who pass smiles glow. She’s often seen as the tree of Easter or the resurrection of aChrist,treeof new beginnings and second chances, a new beginning with different circumstances.

Victorian Suitors use her flowers as signs of affection, gift giving is something in which she has a special connection. Her blossoms, white, a symbol of purity and innocence, give the facade of fragility, but when faced with harsh sheconditionsshows the world her durability.

Later in her season blossoms begin to turn pink as she realizes what her tree garden family must think. Her blossoms now turn from white to brown to pink. The blushing of her blossoms don’t stop there.

The twisted branches shape a promise kept, breaking that agreement is something she will not accept.

Once self consciousness starts it’s as easy as breathing air. She started realizing other things like how her tree bark was shedding and her branches weren’t as strong as they used to be. Oh little tree why won’t you let yourself be free.

Dogwood’s shame and regret wouldn’t matter if she gave

DOGWOOD

During poor Dogwood’s early days, she would struggle from Botrytis Cinerea; being different from her sapling friends brought her to a state of Thehysteria.disease turned her joyful presence down, her white innocent blossoms became a horrid brown.

Some say a devil of self hate tried to damage her blossoms that day; he wanted to take it out on her family of trees, her garden. She gave her own flowers tiny spiked centers, to make sure her tree family would have a pardon. She grew to believe that she needed to be her garden family’s protector but, all the garden family wanted was to check on her.

In Dogwood’s case each petal represents her color and life White,cycle. brown, pink, and now, a bright red, the color change that was most vital. Red the color of love and passion. That’s what little Dogwood was missing, self compassion. Self love was the answer to her shameful pink, she found her missing link.

With love, she found her solution for shame, helping others, could be changed into a passion. Before, it was a way to make up for her lost connection with her tree brothers. Dogwood ends her spring season flaunting her bright red petals; they were like her personal self growth medals.

Now Dogwood knows the way to spread love is to love who you are. And with this we end the Dogwood and REDACTED memoir.

WRITING: GRACE RHOADS

Legends say that inside her were little people who protected the newborns and the elderly from outside Dogwoodattack. decided to spread her seed looking to help her elder trees and little sapling siblings. Her fellow trees appreciated her generosity but Dogwood’s tiny tree heart was still an atrocity. Her petals come in groups of four. Like a lucky clover or a cross which many Christians adore.

Children safely climb her twisted branches of promise and Thesecurity.elderly see her as a symbol of the ultimate second chance in their maturity. Lovers show their affection harvesting her lovely scarlet Teensblooms.pass and decide to enjoy her beauty instead of watching cartoons.

PHOTO: EMMA RUSSELL

Theback.Native

24 DONOVAN HENDRICK

PETRICHOR

ANONYMOUS

I was taught how to be self-reliant when I was young, how to hold myself high. How to prepare myself to conquer the world in which I learned easily only to cry behind closed doors and dim lights.

Because giving up is always an escape route. And you can always tell when the rain is coming. At 17 the world could tell you that it’s ending and you’d believe it. The world could be ending, but it’s only just the rain that attracts you. If I could stand to talk about it I would.

I never thought I’d make it far enough to graduate. It was always certain that I would give up before then, and my fate was something I never planned to fantasize.

“I love you and I’m glad you’re here” she says So thank you for that, and what else can I say?

“It just takes time.” she says. But she’s been saying that for 10 years now.

26 ANONYMOUS

I was silent for a moment, trying to search for the right reply. A resolution... I couldn’t. These were questions I couldn’t answer myself. Truly, I loved mom a lot. I knew that she worked hard to raise me, more than anyone else, even more than I could fathom. Her success was not readily handed; it was an arduous one. She had to walk on a rugged path before arriving at this rosy garden. But as detached as this selfish son had been, who was I to say I loved her and that I recognized her hardships? I never seriously opened up to mom. The emotions were left confined; the words were dropped unspoken. Our thoughts – the gap in our intellect, education, and outlook – seemed so far apart that I felt hesitant. The fearful possibility of her reacting in an unwanted direction disrupted all my short-lived excitement to share something. Most times, our conversations circled simple subjects like daily meals or weekend plans. It was very superficial, this relationship. She did not know about my haunting pressure to do well in the upcoming Bio exam. She did not for once hear of the painful cries I had in times of intolerable mental exhaustion. Deeper topics or big things that I dedicated true attention to were never covered. Even this hotline. I told her my friends did it.

“I can say from my situation that your son may be having a hard time too, just like you.” I spoke again. “You are there for him, but he cannot find the right way to reply

“Hello.” Older woman’s voice. Deep. Croaky. Desperate. She might just have a terrible cry.

The input went on with my heartfelt story. “I have a similar experience. My mom is never a star student, but I am. She does not regard education with the same weight I do. It’s hard for me to explain stuff – like research or AP classes – to her. So I choose not to speak about them. Well... your son probably feels the same.”

“Can it mean my son doesn’t love me? Or have I done something wrong?” There was a trace of agonized qualms in her tone.

27 Public library. 11:47 pm. I was finishing a college report when my second phone rang. It was for a hotline I started in high school.

“Thank you for calling The Missing Piece. We are run by young people who are available 24/7 to give advice to fellow young people. How may I fill your gap?”

“Perhaps he is afraid you won’t understand him.” My empathy flowed into words. “It’s better to stop a talk before it turns miserable...”

A short pause. “Oh... I’m not young, actually. Umm... I’m a mom who wants some advice about her son.”

“It can mean so, but sometimes it may just be him not wanting to lead your relationship into an uncomfortable position. You know... he cares a lot about you; it is just his own way of expressing; please think about the situation like that–”

Just earlier today mom visited my apartment, hoping to stay with me for a night to check how my new college life had been. She thought I must be homesick. Homesick! Yet she didn’t know how much I had always wanted to leave home, ever since I got my acceptance letter last March. There wasn’t any “fit” back there.

“I see. We welcome everyone!” A buzz of anticipation filled me up for this unusual case. “What concern are you seeking advice for, especially from a rather immature view?” “I want to understand my son better. Opinions from someone his age – your age – may show me.” Fortunately it was me on duty. My rough relationship with mom could be of help. “We rarely talk.” Her forlorn voice led the dialogue. “He is a bright, bright child and I am a lucky mother. But my education is lacking. I hardly understand when he talks about his,” She did not know the right word, “.. intelligent life. Eventually our conversations always end with an empty smile ‘it’s good, you don’t have to worry about my grades mom.’ He is given something I was not. His presence is my pride, my biggest treasure!” The sound slowly turned thicker with tremulous feels. “I care about him so much! But still... still... he feels distant.” How relatable. It reminded me of mom, a single woman who dropped out of high school to help her poor family. And with untiring perseverance she built for her a stable career. I entered the view somewhere in the middle of her life. A stark contrast, me and ma. I had the academic excellence and the opportunity to go to a prestigious college that she never had.

“But isn’t it better to be honest? How can you say you care about someone without showing it?”

THE MISSING PIECE

“We will soon be serving you – our valuable customers – the most delicious noodle bowls. Please allow us ten minutes before the counter starts taking the first orders of the day. Thank you–” The corner speaker relayed an announcement to the modest room already crowded with customers. This restaurant was the most famous one here, with people lining up long before its opening time. It was not daily that I visited the place for a grand treat.

As I stood in line, the call last night wandered into my mind. I was trying to advise on something I couldn’t even find a way out. Did the mother really think it helped? Or did I just spill some random nonsense and she was being nice? I suddenly felt double-faced. Double-faced, a decent word to describe my relationship with mom. I was not the perfect student that she thought I was; my meticulously fabricated positivity fooled her. Her acts of concern were frequently replied with redirection; she never recognized. She was glad to always find cheerful smiles on my face and thought I was having a good time at school; she was wrong. My thoughts were overflowing when the speaker brought another message. “Exciting news! We are now open! Our renowned dishes are ready to be served, steaming hot and tempting! If this is your first time here, we suggest you try our signature menu. All of our customers are familiar with it. It’s...”

The mother remained silent awhile before her sincere question was delivered: “Is there anything else I can “Ido?”understand that there isn’t much you can do in this situation, but to me, all I need is for my mom to support me if I need her, to show me her love and defend my dream. Please let your son know that you will always be with him in his academic pursuit and life goals, although he isn’t ready to share these with you yet. Even now I still cannot fully open up to my mom. Your son may also need some time; it can be very long and needs a lot of patience. One day, I believe he’ll be ready!”

“Hi, may I have beef noodle soup for take-out?” Phew, my turn to order. “Can you add some extra beef slices and broth too?”

“Thank you...” * Noodle restaurant. 6:25 am. I spent the entire night at the library. Yes, yes... I was a heartless son, leaving mom alone though she came to visit. But was it better to come back and endure the achingly shallow conversations between us? She might have already been asleep when I left so late last night. It did not make a difference either way.

On rare occasions she would sense the untruthful mood, where she tried to speak to the real me only to be rejected. In the end, it was me who chose to shut my life from mom and pushed her farther away, to refuse to open her plainly visible box of care. This last puzzle piece would forever be amiss.

“Sure! ... Oh I remember you, the one who always orders chicken-flavored stuff. Well... Is this for someone “Ahelse?”yes. It’s my mom!” There was a swift glimpse of glow in my eyes. “Her favorite dish!” * Apartment. 7:08am. I finally arrived home. Before I came to the bedroom to check in on mom, I visited my kitchen to heat the already-cooled noodle container. On the counter I saw a chicken porridge bowl and an envelope. The bowl was still hot; it seemed like mom just made it for me. And what about the Asenvelope?Iwaswarming up the noodles, I went to find mom but she was not there. Assuming she must be visiting the nearby market to get more food – her habit – I returned to the kitchen and opened the envelope she probably left me. A newsletter? Electricity bill? Some sort of invitation? None was exact: pages of handwritten notes were folded inside. Perplexed yet curious, I sat down and calmly unfolded the pages: Dear my precious, I waited for you the entire night. I didn’t know where you went;

28 to your love. He does not know how to properly start the conversation. In the end, it becomes a habit to turn away from you... Maybe... Just maybe you should begin this difficult talk for your son and leave him time to figure things out.”

Argh, mom knew nothing about my study and the serious goals I wanted to pursue in life. She supported my major choice when the sole knowledge she had was it would make lots of money. She did not know that her son couldn’t figure out several scientific terms and struggled to write his English essays like other students; I just never asked her for help. Even now, mom was still misled. I to her was only half of my true self; the other half I kept alone and ranted it all in my journal.

I knew you would want to talk to a teacher or a friend about the academic pressure more than to this unknowing mom. You hid all these tough days from me, worrying that I wouldn’t understand your situation and couldn’t of er valuable opinions. But... I love you so much, so so much. I know you also love me a lot. You struggle, and I am struggling too. All I want is to help you. I just want you to know that I will always be here. I’ll try my best to understand your challenges

I felt helpless; I couldn’t be more helpless. Deep down inside my heart, I’m sorry that I couldn’t be a more reliable mother to you. The desperation reached a point where I truly needed some advice. I called the hotline you told me about the other day, hoping that your friends could offer some reassuring comments about you. To my surprise, the voice of my dear son greeted this deeply troubled mother... You didn’t recognize me; perhaps my earlier cry helped conceal the voice. Then we talked. You knew what we talked about. The call ached so much for me, knowing that this barrier had been here for years and you couldn’t open up.

ELENA POLSKY

I got impatient while waiting, so I went to your room to search for signs of where you could be. After all, the fact that you didn’t return meant that you didn’t want to be with me; calling wouldn’t help. There I saw an open journal on your table. The last page was from today. It showed: “I don’t want mom to visit. How could she just come like that! Hey myself, next time remember to appear okay-er and smiley-er in our video calls.”

I read about your dif icult college application season that you felt blessed you got through with your friends. “I love my friends!” I read about the depressing nights you had, where you tried to keep your weeping volume down so I wouldn’t find out. “I hate that mom was in the next room.”

I flipped the pages. I read about the academic stress you had and how you came to a teacher to seek her advice. “I love my teacher!”

I just hoped that I could say ‘good night’ before we both went to sleep. But it was late and I realized that you wouldn’t come back...

THU HOANG DONOVAN HENDRICK

30 and every time after our conversation, I will look up the terms you mentioned that I haven’t heard of. Now that I know what you went through, I can promise you that I can help; I want to help. The only thing is whether you want to accept this earnest request from me. Think about it slowly; take your time! I can always start the conversation and hug your scared soul tightly when you feel unsure. By choosing to write my thoughts down rather than speaking directly to you, I hope you know that I can wait and let things come when it’s the right time. With that said, I’m going home soon after writing this to leave you some space. It’s also what advisedyoume to do over the phone last night... Don’t forget to eat the porridge bowl I left for you - it’s your favorite flavor! I also filled your fridge with some fresh food; please don’t eat noodles anymore just so you can “save some time to finish my overwhelming work and let my stomach suf er later because I’m a rotten student who couldn’t turn in his work on time.” I love you.

Silent. The letter was still in my hand. A sob. The words turned blurry. More tears. I covered my face with a quivering palm. “I’m sorry...I’m so sorry mom... I’m sorry, sorry, sorry...” And abruptly, there was a long-awaited realization. I found my missing piece.

The mountains were named after a Crow Indian woman who lived in them after she went insane when her family was killed in the westward settlement movement. Before the colonizers, the Crow people called the mountains Awaxaawapìa Pìa and were famous to the Crow people for having metaphysical powers and being unpredictable—a place used for vision quests. Here I was, 200 years later, donning my bright orange backpack and brown boots, trampling the fallen logs and stones, scattering the trail. We hiked four miles upward, found a spot to lay our tents, and roasted rice over the fire. The stars above looked down on the successors of the colonizers who murdered the natives. The natives, who for thousands of years prior, had trod the land with undying respect for Turtle Island, which had nourished them. We, the successors of the colonizers, pitched our plastic tents on the dirt that lay below our shoes. Our fire burned bright, but in no comparison to the light of the stars. Fourteen teenagers. Two 21-year-old women. Not another soul of a human for miles around, only the bears and coyotes who call the trees home. The stream rapidly rushed by our settlement. Half of us took the liberty of sleeping in through the morning. The other half began our descent down the stream. The cool nature of the water numbed our toes and cooled our clothes. Not a foreign matter on my body, I lie in the stream and let the cool water right off the mountain rush through my hair, under my arms, over my thighs, and between my feet. I was encapsulated by nature, and lie there for some time, listening to the sounds of the birds above my head. I saw trout, shimmering in the stream. They touched my fingertips, and although I was a stranger to their waters, they sensed my soul as one of their own.

RIVER AVERY KURZONTKOWSKI

AVERY KURZONTKOWSKI

I want to say I am connected to the earth. I want to say I am a child of nature. I want to say I came from life in the forest. But it would be a disgrace to do so.

My ancestors murdered those who relied on the earth. While the native people ate the fish and drank the water of the stream, my ancestors came in on horses with their muskets and murdered them. The native people wore the skin of deer and lived in the lean-tos made of trees. My ancestors boasted the bounty of their heads and burned the wood tents they called home. These thoughts rush through my mind as I lie in the river. My soul is tied to the clouds above my head, and the pine trees are my haven. The moss might as well be my deity in the way it comforts my body over the sharp rocks. As much as I crave attesting my life to the essence of nature, the actions of my predecessors cannot be excused, as, without their despicable acts, I would not be here.

The Native Americans should be here, feeling the melted snow as it rushed off the hills. They should be in my spot, tanning under the blinding sun, eating the berries, admiring the wildflowers. But instead, they are bound to the trailer park, selling their beads by the side of the highway, attempting to preserve their language but dying from a lack of nourishment before they can pass their culture to their children.The unpredictability of the peaks is because of their nature. The snow that melted to fill the river I lie in, and the rocks that build the character of the hill, every aspect of the forest makes the peak unpredictable to the human. The black bear that eats the rabbits sees the peak as consistent, but the hiker sees the cliffs as daunting. The perspective of the soul depends on the form it is in, and my soul in human form sees the wilderness as an area I can visit and love and cherish, but not something I can ever come from. Nothing will ever change my history.

My people took this land from those who named it. We named this land after the effect it had on the people it came from. The natives fully believed that nobody owned the land, but according to my ancestors, the only people worthy of owning the land are not the earth, but themselves. That selfish nature is what caused the homicide of millions, and caused centuries of despair to the natives who lost all they knew and loved when they could not match the musket.

So there I sat. Lying, in a freezing stream, in the woods where we had no way to tell the time, but the sun’s place on the horizon. My friends were down the river, hiking the side of a cliff to touch the ice in mid-July. I sat alone, in the river, with the souls of the animals and plants around me. Thousands of years of stories held in that stream rushed by me, cleansing me of the industrial land I came from. The deer who drink from the river are connected to the dinosaurs who swam in the river, and the plants that soak up the water were the same ones eaten by the natives who relied on the land for a home. I want to say I am home in solitude, alone in a river. I want nothing more than to slip away into the rush of the water, and swim with the trout. I want to escape the bounds of where I came from, and fully accept a fate of wilderness. But it can never be, as I was never supposed to be here. My ancestors call for me to build houses on this land and make money from the timber around me. The native Americans were forced out as a result of this idea, and I will never share a history with them more than empathizing. A girl of colonizer descent who loves the wilderness will never be the same as a girl who loves the wilderness whose ancestors lived off the land. My companions came back after an expedition to touch the cold. They laughed and told me how bored they were, and wanted their phones and snacks. I smiled and walked back with them. Maybe they will never understand. At least I can’t relate to that.

33 ABBIE O’BRIENABBIE O’BRIEN

34 in january, we were small and feverish, blood bubbling to the surface of our faces. ribcages just blooming, only enough space to hold our golden and curious hearts. his smile a crooked ladle dipping into muddy waters, back burned and pleading to freckle. we knew enough of love to catch it with bare hands, watch it thrash in a cracked plastic pail. we tear laundry off the burning line, split the blanket and leave ashen. responsibility a cool skipping stone in our bellies leaving us heavy with a beast named guilt or truthpossibility.betold, you are nothing but a misplaced memory I enjoy rewriting again and again. in another life, whole volumes of us spilling off the shelves, through the kitchen, and into the fire. my mother cannot recognize you anymore, which means you do not exist. i spend springtime bringing flowers to the grave of the little boys we used to be. BOYS LILY MUELLER

35 MACKENZIE JUTRAS LINDSEY PARADISE

36 AVERY KURZONTKOWSKI

DISORDEREATING

ANONYMOUS

37 my favorite memory of you is laughing on the bathroom floor, immortal girlhood spent painting our nails counting calories and searching for skeletons. watching rom-coms on the weekends, going to a shining sort of war at the dinner table. the truth is, you will never be just a lesson. you are in my chemistry. you’ve carved through my bones, pushed your way through to my scar tissue, the shape of my face. there will always be your grapefruit presence, startle me in the dark, at my wedding, with my child, with my lover. without you, though, where would i be? would i have this joy for every small thing, the grateful sigh with every stretch, barely audible relief when i dress every morning and i am not yet torn? god, i hope so. i like to imagine a world where you never saw the light from the back of my skull and decided to call it home. a beacon. a shore to return to. i hope we will one day be like old friends, like, maybe i will think of you only on holidays. or your maybebirthday.iwill forget you completely, just feel an unnameable tug when i lean over the counters of my childhood home. maybe. A LETTER TO THE

38 i sit, i watch, i wait, and i stare looking at the world, gliding through the air waiting for someone, something with a sigh to tell me what to do, where to go, what to find UNIVERSE ANONYMOUS

39 ALL PHOTOS: KLARA ELEZAJ

With these sickly sweet words, Because a man three times my age Is looking at me with something in his eyes I don’t want to see We’re told it’s our fault That boys will be boys And men will be men But they’ve never been terrified

When you’re seventeen And gifted pepper spray, Clips to cut seatbelts or smash windows, Emergency buttons that call 911

It’s hard to look forward to something When everyone tells you That you’ll need a buddy That you can’t go anywhere alone

THE OF

(GREAT) FEAST

Because it’s never the men being taught It’s always the women having to change Having to go out of their way to stay safe Because it’s not all men But it’s almost every women

Walking alone by a group of men To the grocery store As they all stare at you And you worry, Are they going to be here when I come back Will I be safe?

These things are all tainted

When someone compliments us To smile and laugh; Thanking them for their words

We are told to be happy

But what do we do when it’s unwanted?

MEN

Aren’t you looking forward to college?

To always check under your car For people hiding there

Followed by two men And told how pretty you are Pretty, beautiful Your hair, your skin, your lips These words put a sour taste in my mouth

When you’re sixteen And walking down a street

41 SOPHIE HENDRICK To lock your car as soon as you get in When you’re eighteen And you still have to hide your body Because now you’re not a minor So if anything happens It’s probably your fault Due to what you wore Or how you did your makeup Now those horror stories hit too close to home This contemporary day This modern world For as much as things have changed They still remain the same Being unable to control your own rights When people march against them It’s a feast for modern men And women are but the servants The TheNeverNeverentertainmentatthetabletakenseriouslyfeastofmodernmen And the starvation of modern women DONOVAN HENDRICK

In this life, we are in love. Both girls once, small and not knowing our own courage, the songs of our soft bodies. I don’t know what happened. Where the words went. We stood on the cusp of Autumn and you reached for my voice, 14, cheeks burning red and inimitable. We loved and lived the only way you know how when it’s all new, destined to last a lifetime or until the season turns.

ThisChildren.time, I had to become her, sharp body and a fraught adolescence, but an adolescence nonetheless, meet the love of my life and learn our bodies before our names, she says when I dance I’m the center of the universe, that I’m a dream, we watch the sky in the early morning from my childhood bedroom and just breathe. The night we met, you caught my bleeding heart in your cupped hands, learned you could be gentle eyeliner and lipgloss and sparkling girls weaving their bodies around yours, the rewards of this fierce-captured femininity. Yet another. I wake up with my hand on the sternum of some wiry almost-man, comb through his hair and find the first graying strands, angel’s silk. Can see me loving the idea of him, his glasses on the nightstand, smiling in the kitchen and singing too loudly in the shower. He’s tall. Takes me dancing and makes me laugh, the way he looks at me Friday nights, that dress, boxed wine and how he drives, how he laughs, the look in his eyes when he wonders.

The one where I am him, lanky and awkward in a way that charms, a perfect and glowing girl on my arm, shining at the party and carrying her on my back, skinny dipping in August and letting her paint your nails, tuck flowers into your hair, buzz it down in June, hope to do it all again, dine on cheap beer and peach preserves, Youbaby.fell in love with the sun dawning on her cheekbones, how she looks in a sundress, looks at you, smiles like you’ve said something right, always, laughs into your shoulder, moving with the waves, the air Finally,itself.the last story, where we had the same soft boyhoods spent up to our shins in pond-water, searching for a new imaginary friend and melting our sandals on rooftops pretty thing, beautiful boy, house smells like a locker room and vanilla but that’s just the breath of it, sheets like downy and one tiny closet between the two of us, everything sharp-edged as affirmations, this time. Watch nimble, buckling fingers, golden flyaways, gentle tuck behind the ear, and goddamn, if i can’t find the barely-hidden softness to fall into - the tenderness between the lines, picture him as a small boy collecting

MILLIONLIVESLITTLE

WRITING: ANONYMOUS PHOTO: DONOVAN HENDRICK

43 bouquets of dandelions and suddenly he is something to be loved Pictureinfinitely.the grown out hair, summer buzz cuts on the back porch, the gentle turn as dawn creeps in, remnants of freckles dancing across his nose in the shambles of autumn.

I tell the doctor I want to live a million lives, want to show them the photo albums, the scars, the heartbreaks. Tell them about how there are never enough summers, never enough space between the time you begin to blossom and the point where you realize it, blushing in a July haze, but there are just words, here. I was always just the girl, forgiving and nameless, never was going to know how to fall in love, would always be afraid to let her heart meet rhythm. Always going to be this, less a husk and more a cocoon, a hibernation. Dreams of surviving the winter. THEY ARE NARROW AND BOLD-FACED, ROUGH-CUT HAIR DAMP WITH SUMMERTIME, INK OOZING THROUGH THEIR VEINS. SQUARE FRAMES AND STRENGTH. SKIP RIGHT FROM JEALOUSY TO MOURNING FOR A LIFE THAT NEVER WAS AND NEVER WILL BE. TOO MUCH SOFTNESS. TOO MUCH FEAR. TENDERNESS AT A COST. YOU WILL NEVER BE THEM. TALL AND UNSHAKING. ARM OVER THE SHOULDER AND GRINNING. KNOWING JUST WHAT TO DO. THERE IS NO WORLD WHERE YOU BECOME THIS UNNAMEABLE FORCE THIS FIRE-AND FLOWER-FORGED MASCULINITY BECOMING YOUR RIGHT AND YOUR TRUTH. TOO AFRAID TO BREATHE IT IN. TOO AFRAID OF THE BLACK-EYED NIGHTS THE LEAVING. AND THERE’S ANOTHER UNIVERSE WHERE YOU SPENT WEEKNIGHTS CLIMBING OUT A BEDROOM WINDOW AND LOOKING UP TO THE STARS AND THESE WOMEN HOW THEY GUIDED YOU. YOUR HANDS. ROPES. TREAT HER WELL. DREAM WHERE YOU WERE FIFTEEN AND UNKNOWING. DANCING WITH GLOWING GIRLS LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT. HEART SCREAMING. YOUR DANDELION-FINE HAIR FALLING INTO THE KITCHEN SINK. DIZZY WITH THE JOY OF IT ALL. FIRST TIME FIRST NIGHT FIRST DAWNING HAND-ME-DOWN LOVE. THESE STRANGERS WHO RAISED YOU. NOT SURE IT THEY EXIST OUTSIDE OF THE FENCES OF THIS TOWN. NOT SURE IF ANY OF IT DOES.

There is something shifting and shuffling . It has crept in struggle down the nerves of my hand. It’s the buzzing in the brain. It broke thought and parsed the jagged pieces on the subconscious floor. That malformed being came from the detritus there. It works in the way of water. It only creeps now, and it keeps me in Stasis—suspense—but it will crash, Violently and everywhere, From my mind And into the fingers And all the way down onto the page. ANONYMOUS

I. Is that my heart which beats, Beats against the boundaries of my chest and Rolls from left to right, Which weighs me down upon my seat, And quickens circling worry as it tears across the brain? II.

45 MACKENZIE JUTRAS

46 ANNA WILDES

ANONYMOUS

And I know that I am often sad, but right here in this moment I can’t find a reason to be. Just be with me and let me adore the world, and fall in love with the way my chest rises and falls.

There are parts of my life that I don’t remember but this one will always be locked in my heart.

It’s getting darker earlier and I’m getting under the covers earlier than I should be. Staying in the shower for longer than I should be. But I’m always cold and you know that. And I like being on my own, but you might be the only exception.

Because I am too deeply in love with everything else.

And even though I think I may be a terrible person the stars will convince me otherwise.

47 WORDS I WANT TO SAY BUT CAN’T

And even though I may be a terrible person I still love the way that I would much rather listen than talk. The way that I hold my memories close in little insignificant things. And I love the way I am deeply emotional sometimes, too emotional, maybe. The way I find the urge to say “I love you” every second and mean it. I am not falling in love with myself, and don’t think I will for a while.

Because even though the world is ending the stars still live above me.

48 EMMA RUSSELLCLAIRE MARCHAND

LILLIAN BELSITO 49 ELENA POLSKY LINDSEY PARADISE

MARIANAPOLIS PREPARATORY SCHOOL THOMPSON, CT CALLIOPE 2022