Pennyroyal Art and Literary Magazine - 2021 by pennyroyal_litmag

Art and Literary Magazine 2021

Pennyroyal

Pennyroyal The Pennington School Art & Literary Magazine Copyright 2021: The Pennington School This issue of Pennyroyal is one in a series of art and literary magazines published annually. We have selected a variety of poems, prose pieces, and artworks by students at The Pennington School to showcase. Some of these pieces were created for English, photography or art classes at Pennington; some are the product of students’ independent creative explorations. This is the first digital edition of the magazine: in response to the pandemic, our team has adapted our publication to reach members of the Pennington community who are spread across the globe. We are especially grateful for the opportunity to come together and celebrate the creativity of Pennington students during a year which has been anything but normal. The editors and staff of Pennyroyal would like to extend our thanks to everyone who submitted pieces of writing and art this year. Whether or not your name appears in this magazine, we appreciate your work and encourage you to continue creating and to submit again in the future. A special thanks goes out to the English department faculty who submitted student writing, as well as to Mr. Ross and Ms. Hall for encouraging students to submit photography and artworks. We hope you enjoy this year’s edition of Pennyroyal! Editor-in-Chief: Lizzy Adams ‘21 Assistant Editor-in-Chief: Suhani Gharia ‘23 Senior Editor: Beatrix Kim ‘23 Editors & Staff: Isabel Adams ‘23, Ruby Grisin ‘22, Susie Xu ‘23 Faculty Advisors: Ms. Leader Cover art: Speak Speak Speak | Gloria Liu ‘23

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Jane’s Recs

Corinne Coakley When the road is slick with melted ice I listen to new music. Musing on the meaning of beats and metaphors and album covers that belong in museums, hung up on white walls inspected by art history majors, old men with white beards and green sweaters, kids on a class field trip. When the sun sets and deer eyes glow like flashlights in the trees, I listen to new music, and I think of Jane. About the time she passed us in her black Jeep on the highway with a golden retriever’s head out the window and we followed her to the beach. She said she was lost. She said her hands were flying like the palms of someone in a fit of road rage, like the palms of a conductor in a trance. She said she was listening to old music.

Record | Evin Roldan 3

The Broken Engagement | Chloe Boocock 4

psalm for a spider-killer Beatrix Kim

i wouldn’t wish for much; no, not much at all— just love, just love. someone to clip my nails when they’ve grown too sharp and i haven’t noticed; someone to steal an eyelash from my skin and tell me to make a wish; someone to kill spiders when i can’t (and i never can); someone to peel an orange when my fingers ache too raw; someone to come home to everyday, every night— no, i wouldn’t say i’d wish for much at all; just this love, this love which is not much at all.

Entomophobia Corinne Coakley

They shoot the praying mantis full of holes. Your cousins sling their BB guns over their backs like mini soldiers, like mini versions of their gruff, veteran father. You feel as though they had pointed the guns at your own stomach, your own legs and arms and back, as you watch a green insect struggle in the midst of death spasms. You close your eyes and see the groundhog family, massacred by your own German Shepherd, and your mom hugging you and whispering that the groundhogs are OK, they’re only sleeping. Like mini soldiers, and all you can see is the picture of their father in his Marine uniform, straight-face and frown lines. You think of the praying mantis who befriended your aunt last summer, how it lived in her screened-in porch, posed for high-definition photos, and followed her around like a loyal lapdog. She had named him Fred, and left him microscopic food crumbs on little dishes for whenever he felt hungry. But it’s different down here, where the air is hotter and the days are longer; you’ve never felt it so much before. Shooting the praying mantis was like shooting you in the heart. Your dad says the pain from a BB gun starts with the impact and then moves to the sting. It’s all mushed together now as you try to catch your breath on the front stoop of a house you once liked. When the ringing in your ears finally stops, you hear that they’re laughing, telling you that it’s just a bug and that you shouldn’t act like such a “God damn girl.” But you don’t listen and you can’t peel your eyes from the messy carcass of a gentle creature. Where are the parents you wonder? They’re inside reminiscing over bottles of wine and the kids are outside killing. Will picks up his foot, dangling it torturously over the praying mantis, chuckling at your distress. This time, you don’t just watch. You push him, hard, down onto the cement and his head bumps the porch swing. It creaks eerily, rocking back and forth from the impact of a child’s skull. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!!” you scream, finding a violent voice after a violent act. You see that his hands are red, the concrete tore them up, gashes stretching from palm to fingers. But you don’t care. You remember when Will was a toddler, when he only had a soft scraggle of blonde hair on his head and he loved giving you hugs. You dropped him once, onto the tile floor of a bathroom, but he still hugged you. He doesn’t hug you anymore, you don’t think he hugs anyone. Tonight, you don’t feel bad for hurting him, not like the “day of the drop.” That day you had cried and cried, until his mom found you and told you he was OK. “Just a bump,” she said in her naturally-soothing way.

“Don’t be such a God damn girl,” you sneer at him, angry tears welling behind your eyes, as he struggles up from the ground. It’s then that the front door swings open, releasing the sounds of adults laughing and eating and chatting, the sounds of a rowdy late-night dinner where parents forget they have kids. Lane walks out, little five year old Lane, who still likes to hug and sing songs with you in the car. The sound of his scream pierces your ears and interrupts the insect orchestra. He is staring at the praying mantis filled with holes on his front porch. You all stand there, watching him collapse into a fit of tears, not knowing what to do. James, his older brother, the one who shot first, moves toward Lane. “It’s OK, buddy. It’s just a bug.” But Lane knows better, he’s still like you, and he jumps from his brother’s touch, understanding that the weapon on James’ back is what brought death to his doorstep. He sprints away, barefoot, and once he’s past the streetlight at the end of the driveway, you can’t see him anymore. You run into the night, the gory image of a mangled insect gone from your mind, calling for Lane. You try to shout into the dark abyss that the creature was just sleeping. When the other boys catch up to you, you want to hit them, punch them, push them to the ground and yell “you did this, you did this.” But you wait, and listen for little kid noises in the distance. The last time you see Lane, his face is illuminated by rapidly-moving headlights. Instead of the thud of car against person, you hear the shots of a BB gun and the sound of wings shredding. Lane is just sleeping Lane is just sleeping Lane is just sleeping Lane is just sleeping... If only you’d moved the praying mantis, carried its body off to the grass in the palm of your hands, like the person at a funeral who walks the casket down the aisle past grieving relatives. A proper farewell for an innocent soul.

I Prefer Honey, Thanks Olivia Schroeder-Positano

I remember You You came and went when so-and-so Did something-something. You were accompanied by the swift-footed Faim-faux in my stomach And the bubbling scream in my throat That erupted and oozed Just a month or two ago In my empty kitchen. It took a month to get the stains out of the tile completely. Yet still, I love You. You push me around some days You sit heavy and raw at my core and cause me pain Yet I accept You for that. You are one of many equally dazzling constellations Composed of my actions that define You And you are beautiful for that. Welcome back. Please wipe your dirty shoes on the mat. Would you like one lump, or two?

The Waiting Room | Alessia Scanlan

Follow the Light | Lauren Woodroffe 10

dear x, the bed has eaten you away Beatrix Kim

somewhere, i know you’re wearing mismatched socks because today i found one of yours wedged under my mattress, but it’s too silly to call you just to pick up an old sock

Damnation Bradley Sendak

Once the greenest oasis The lackluster green bushes are the only reminder Now barren, like a saltine cracker Plants line the alien landscape, clinging to life, Doomed to a melancholy existence They sit and wait Shadows hiding from the sun Sitting, waiting for motion Then a single line of dust painted on a blank canvas by 850 horses on the sunbleached landscape Sound of screaming, firing cylinders echo in the ancient mountains, Jetting and speeding off into the distance Dust never settling—like a nomad Breaking its soul free from damnation.

Watchmen | Suhani Gharia

Evening Boat | Susie Xu

Skyscrapers and Farm Minnie Wu

Separated by ripples, farms contemplated distant skyscrapers. Skyscrapers gazed at the fainter stars that were hung in the universe. The son chose the flourishing skyscrapers and sailed away with the sunset by well-designed, little boat. The vast nets of lives between people begin with their stories. A bleak pair, husband and wife with patches on their elbows, stood in the dry pea-green grasses. The surface turned into a supernatural red. Waves fluctuated…

How Do Dreams Die? Suhani Gharia

I couldn’t see the fire, but it was closer than I thought. Dreams do not just die they are killed, murdered and assassinated, slashed down by the violent hand of Reality; a reality composed of dead dreamers, and after their dreams disappear, a vengeance possesses them to continue the cycle. For dreams to die, though, they must be born first. Born of innocence and hope and naivety... Dreamers are fueled by the word of other unsuspecting dreamers, high on their soapbox preaching to the masses. I do not know specifically how dreamers die. If they are slashed or hanged. Tortured or burned. But I do know that ‘to find the truth about how dreams die, one should never take the word of a dreamer.’ *Last line is from Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye

Bridge | Evin Roldan 17

Ugly Break-Up, Hopeful Make-Up Jonell Adu-gyamfi

So, you’re asking for my forgiveness? There are so many reasons why I’d give it, But there are so many ways you hurt me, So much pain and restraint—but my love for you drives me insane. I love you, America, but who you have been to me Has stirred up a concoction of disgust That I am slowly getting over as I am quickly getting older. You made me feel like I wasn’t worthy of being loved, Made me weep in the arms of my exhausted mother. Tore me apart with every unit of CO2 slithering from that little mouth of yours, The pit, the ditch of misery, that bit with the power to smother, That pit was your mouth, its contents were your words. Ouch! You shook me up like a Black momma’s whooping, You stole from me like John Doe did to all my lunch money in elementary, You scraped at my sores before they could even get the chance to fester, You made my stomach ache and growl by taking all the food for yourself, You made me believe that conniving lie—that you were better, lighter, you patronized You sprinted that 100 meters before the gun sounded and still got a medal. You put me into captivity for so long, And now you decide you wanna play savior. Huh? Is that fair to me? You think I want to get over you And everything that comes with you. Heck to the no. But I now know exactly who I am. I took Momma’s leftover Sobolo scraps and composted them. Now, I am a rejuvenated, educated, celebrated, and most hated being. I donated To the “I’m the Bigger Person” charity fund, and best believe the money accumulated. So I’m fresh out the shower, well-rested. I’m stove-ready Jollof Rice on a Sunday morning. I’ve reevaluated things. I’ve calculated the problems at hand. I’ve reassessed the assessment. There’s more to me than my anger. Oh, don’t get me wrong. You still did me dirty. Shackled me until I hanged my head. Did you realize I couldn’t breathe? Your actions spoke louder than words, so I don’t need to snitch.

Extra! Extra! Read all about every Indigenous killing, every Negro lynching, every stupid complying— Okay, it’s okay. I may have gotten a little carried away. Reporting back live to the positivity. I’ve taken the time to review your exam, And you’re damn sure lucky I’ll give you another chance. I never forgot, I will forever acknowledge that MY life matters. But let’s try this again, America. News flash, you threw me into a sunken place for centuries And I’m still digging with my phalanges to get out, But I’ll also use these phalanges to shake your hand. Let’s try this again. Why? Because I believe in us. That doesn’t mean, “Screw our history,” But I hope my retaliation is your motivation To form a collaboration on this new creation. Yes, I believe in us, but making us “great again” is a lie Because we were never great, America. “Great” is too minuscule compared to what we could be. I believe in us. Let’s try this again. Maybe we can start off as close friends, start it from the bottom, Until you can start coming by my house again, Until we can travel the world together— Get married and have children, products of the alluring atmosphere we have made. No need to apologize for the pain you caused me, dangerous and wrong. Let’s actually try this again—and I might even let you take me to prom.

Monaco

Bradley Sendak People who do not know me ask if I am ever afraid of what I do, afraid of death. I usually respond, “Death and I have a love-hate relationship.” One wrong calculation, off by a quarter of an inch, and death wins. It means I won’t leave in my orange racing suit, but in a black bag in the back of an ambulance. No lights flashing, no heli-vac off the track. Knowing the force from the impact could kill me instantly. It’s something I always say to myself and to my parents: if I do not make it off the track today, you know I went out with a smile on my face. The intoxicating smell of racing fuel and burning rubber, the roar of the V-6 engine like a wolf howling at the moon, the orange flash rounding a corner at 129 mph— all fueling my euphoria. I had no business being there, but I was. Being in a hot car for hours is like sitting in a pressure cooker, slowly dehydrating, tenderizing. By the end, you’re cooked like a brisket, your body so tender you can pull the meat off the bone. I walked out listening to Biggie’s “Juicy” as the screaming from the heavens echoed. My imaginings had finally become reality, and the lyrics, “it was all a dream” resonated deep within my soul. Welcomed by the massive organization, team, family I was now a part of—a three-year contract with McLaren was my golden ticket. I did not care about the pay. I was just happy to be there. Literally, I could’ve been paid in coal like a naughty child on Santa’s bad list, and that would have sufficed. As the starting lights shifted from red to yellow to green, it was as if heaven had opened its gates, and the trumpets blared. The bone-rattling roar, which never gets familiar, meant the race had begun. Monaco, the most urban and curvy venue, created a dance—cars going in and out of the turns as if choreographed. It never gets old. The adrenaline pushed my five senses to their very limits. But on that track, on the twelfth turn, it all ended. My life flashed before my eyes as I went speeding into a wall. It tore the car apart like turkey-vultures eating roadkill, thrashing around, pulling at their meal. The car looked like a soda can at the bottom of the sea, unrecognizable, with me still inside. I reached for the eight-point harness. Do dreams die with the rising of the sun? Or with the final shovel-full of dirt that covers the coffin? Gone in an instant, that feeling of suffocation, replaced with warm light striking my face. Was it all a dream? Just a fantasy that lived in my head? Thinking back to the beginning, was it too good to be true?

Phantom Moves | Suhani Gharia 21

Disconnected | Hieu Nguyen

The Circle

Alexander Huang-Menders Soft chirps of birds Awake the gentle morn And with each passing day I find myself reborn

With every passing hour To grey the clouds are turning Today no better than the last Of this I’m just now learning

I rise and am reminded Of every ache and sore, But with each step I take I shed the day before I rub my groggy eyes And colors turn to grey Does it even matter? Life goes on anyway

As the sun starts to set It is dark before long And all that I can ask myself is Is where did I go so wrong? Every star above me With its glowing flicker Beautifies an aging world That’s only getting sicker

Put on a weary smile The morning dew is drying The coffee’s in the pot The eggs have started frying

And me? It’s time to go So I lay myself to rest With one final exhale One last fall of the chest

The sun peaks in the sky Shining ever stronger Only to remind me The day’s just getting longer

Soft chirps of birds Wake the gentle morn And with each passing day I find myself reborn.

Despite my constant breathing It’s hard to feel alive I’m slowly suffocating I work a nine to five

The Things She Carried Zoe Eaton

She carried Goldfish and gum, Quarters and nickels, A calculator, Worries, Notebooks, Songs stuck in her head, Her fears, Resistance to what others expect of her, Expectations she has placed on herself. The denial of her obligations, Which comes with a burning desire To scream when she is supposed to be quiet, Dance when she is supposed to keep her head down and work, But the heaviest thing she carried Was her desire to belong, So heavy she carried it with both hands, So heavy she didn’t dance. But carrying such things Made her feel like she had a purpose, Like Sisyphus trudging up the mountain, propelling his boulder. The boulder was heavy, but at least it was his own. Without these things, She would float up into the sky like an abandoned balloon. These things at least were her own.

Clutter | Miami Celentana

Ha Giang, Vietnam | Hieu Nguyen

Cholly

Zoe Eaton I once Was a child An orb of form Neither good or bad, An untouched awareness Until I was poked, pushed, pressured No time to play, or soak, for nakedness I am sinking, slipping, beginning to shatter Self-loathing is deteriorating, I cannot escape myself So I escape others, I escape love, I wear armour, I am fragile I wave a sword of inarticulate fury and aborted desires to fend off, I extract my pain onto a new, innocent piece of form, this is all that I know I am a soldier, I am destruction but I am also a child crying for help, pleading. Believe me when I say there is still a child buried underneath this armor. There is a weeping face hiding behind this mask that I wear. Teach me how to love and I will drop my sword. Listen to the cries of this child I carry. The man before you is ruined. “You would not understand This is not how I am” But hold me. Citations: “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

Faster Than They Will Ever Know Mame Baffour-Awuah

We were forced to say goodbye to them Left pondering for years why they cast us to the very land they abandoned They too, said goodbye but on their own accord They voyaged to the “land of the free” In search of something our drained land couldn’t offer them In search of something to aid in the birth of their new life Attempting to escape the grueling truths of their past Only to trudge into difficulties hidden behind the illusion of this dream

Mr. Jones, report to the cashier number 4 please rung on the intercom as they strolled through the aisles. Speaking in native tongue, The only safe space they had left, The look of disgust and disdain uttered the following words— Where the hell do you think you are? Can you not speak English? You probably don’t even understand what I am saying anyways a chuckle Silence then footsteps marching towards the yeasty aroma that smelled warm This— This is the dream? This was the next thing to protect us from

But protect us? We were not children We did not get to be children We lost the light in our eyes When we saw them try Try to avoid a wound by clawing to place the shoes on our feet But we were already scarred, healing We saw them get slaughtered Their joy, their happiness, spirits— Slaughtered. I was— am young but walk around with the oldest soul We were brought back Didn’t have to say goodbye anymore

We can only afford certain things, Mame We are sorry, we are trying our best. Welling up with tears, I, at twelve had to nurse them Nurse their trauma as I tried to nurse mine The bells chimed for what felt like an eternity Do you speak African? Why are you even at a school like this? A chuckle Silence Alright students, let’s open to page 56 in Romeo and Juliet I captivate teachers the key to my future Mame, you are wise beyond your years But you stress too much about what’s to come Thank you! I’ll try not to But only if you knew We have always been the only hopes The only hopes that this voyage was worthwhile The only hopes that the sacrifices were worthwhile The only hopes that the trauma was worthwhile But we shut our mouths to the thought of it So yes, my brother and I grew up fast Faster than they will ever know.

Listen to Me, My Child — A Poem to Five-Year-Old Me Susie Xu

It was a time of fresh dream and lovely fantasy: You embraced the sunlight, the sky, and the moist soil, You heard the murmuring river Rushing joyfully across the canyon; The waving emerald tapestry of trees; Your flowing red dress, and the silver lock ’round your neck Shining, tinkling with crisp and timid sounds; The colorful beads on your hat like an ancient pattern Hanging around your hair, dancing to the wind. O look at your curious shining eyes, Searching, wondering, imagining— You, the fairy daughter of Nature, Plucking red roses petals and humming tunes, Found the magic and joy of existence, Passing a flame of light through your angelic smile, A soul as white and clean As intact new snow on a pine. But listen to me, my child, One day there will be A frown between your brows A sigh from your lips A tear in your eyes A bruise in your heart. For here is a world of human imperfection When magic can grow dark, rose thorns bloody your fingers, When the silver lock of safety tangles your dancing limbs, And a gray cloud shadows the scarlet dress. Listen to me, my child, there is Something to hold on to and keep, Something you were blessed with when you walked into the world: Your mind is full of colorful stories to tell, Your imagination will shelter you When the world is too cold to bear. And then you will revisit and embrace, Those rainbow dreams of a girl Who sees not the grief, but the hope and love of the world.

Art as Imagination and Fantasy | Gloria Liu 31

My Mama Once Told Me Kenza Idrissi

My mama once told me to look up at the stars. She said, “Shut your eyes and dream of what could be ours.” My eyes half open, begging from within, How can I rely on something beyond the boundaries of my skin? Oh, what thought so foolish that lay upon me! The clouds vanishing, the falling of the leaves, and the rise of the sea. How am I supposed to be Someone who accepts that my fate is beyond me? Tiny specks connect only once in a lifetime, But how can I sit and wait? A death sentence for the most violent crime. The projection of the moon beaming—ripped in half, Just take it all. C’mon, stop teasing, I’ve prepared the epitaph. My mama once told me to look up at the stars. I’m looking, but from behind these bars Of steel, of negligence, of what it could be, That my power, my value, is really beyond me. I watch my mama lie next to me, As a grin appears that stretches to her ears. Silence, the solace that consumes her mind, For her dream, I cannot believe, is something so simple to find. My mama once told me to look up at the stars. She said, “Shut your eyes and dream of what could be ours.” But why must I only hope and dream, When the world, so green, is right in front of me?

Awaiting the Moonlight Princess | Olivia Schroeder-Positano

Sunshine Soul | Kira O’Neil

Autumn Gaze Susie Xu

My mom and I don’t look like mother and daughter… not right away. Yet if you look closely enough, slowly, traces will begin to emerge in every passing expression. Our gentle frowns, our reticent smiles, and, of course, our gaze. Unlike the grey, dispassionate rocks sitting matter-of-factly by the mountain, our gaze is a dreamy river, flowing seamlessly onward. I remember strolling along a dusty path beside our apartment with my mom and grandma. It was late autumn, and the path was strewn with scattered yellow ginkgo leaves. Although I had seen this scene many times in the autumn of Beijing, at that moment, I felt a light tug on my heartstrings. As I looked at the fallen leaves clustering and snuggling around the roots of trees, a tinge of warm tears swelled up my eyes. I’m not sure why I felt that way, but I did. “Look at the wafting ginkgo leaves returning from their journey in the wind,” I wondered besides the trees, “Aren’t they beautiful—sad but beautiful?” Grandma looked at me, slightly amused. She has always found my sentiments adorable and childish, but before she let out any word, my mom smiled and marveled: “They’re like children coming back to catch the last sight of the earth. Isn’t it fascinating—only when they approached the end of their lives could they be so close to the root of their Mother tree, the source of their life.” And that was exactly how I felt. I couldn’t have put it into words any better. In the crisp autumn wind, my mom seemed so tender yet so unwavering, and when our eyes met, it was as if two rivers joined into one. We smiled. It was comforting to have someone who knew me even better than I did. In the same autumn, I made a decision that would change the direction of my life: to pursue an education in America. Although my family approved of the education in the U.S., they were unwilling to let me go at the young age of fifteen. In the chorus of disapproval, my mother’s voice rang soft yet clear: “My daughter, if this is your choice, I will support you to the end. America will be the best land for you to grow and realize your future dream. Never fear to fly into the broad sky and stretch your wings. Be prepared for a tough journey my girl, but remember: no matter how far you go, home will always be there for you.” Thus, I became a wafting ginkgo leaf myself, riding the wind to the distant land of America. Yet the connection between my mother and me was never broken, and the distance only made us realize how close our hearts and souls were. In moments of loss and loneliness, I looked into the mirror and despite the mist of sadness veiling the surface of my face, I saw another pair of dark brown eyes gazing back at me. Those eyes held so much tenderness, hope, and strength that I recognized them as my mother’s gaze. Then, a smile wrinkled her lips, and I found myself smiling back.

The New Forests Avani Prakash

I couldn’t see the fire, but it was closer than I thought. The heat stung my face when I stepped outside— I knew it was burning all across America. When the sun set and I saw the treetops aflame, Only then I understood what we were losing. It was the promise of freedom and equality; Signed on stolen land, Columbus was no hero. A nation founded on murder and enslavement We must own up to the past and to our faults— Only then can America forge ahead. I heard flames crackling, branches snapping; Bodies slamming onto concrete, bones breaking. A justice system with no justice, a society of hate; We must change it to love all the innocent— Only then can we lead fulfilling lives. Above the flames I saw planets and stars, The sun which brings light to the moon; An offering of hope for a brighter future, The rain must beat down; Only then will the flames go away. Millions of water droplets fall from the sky— Together we extinguish the flames, the hate. The smoke hovers over us; it takes time to dissipate. We must learn from the past, from our mistakes— Only then can we prevent history from repeating itself.

Guiding Light | Avery Sichel 37

Our Garden

Mateo Lopez-Castro We hold onto our dream, carefully coddling it within our palms, hopeful that with our care, it can flourish and root itself within our garden. We plant it and begin to nurture it. We tend to it, feed it, Whilst continuing to blind ourselves with its beautiful illusion. It grows quietly, patiently waiting to bloom. But it never does. It becomes gray, then black and white. It ages slowly, becoming outdated, wilting in the sun of a new era. Yet we persist, and continue to watch over it, Its wilting corpse sending us deeper into a convoluted fantasy: Our dream stands alone, a white picket fence suffocating its lawn. It stands alone, shadowed by the white house with the four small windows. It stands alone in the midst of a game; a catch between father and son. It stands alone, awaiting mother and daughter. They haven’t finished their lemonade.

It stands alone, a single breath of life in our garden, for we have not tended to the other seeds. What if they were tended to? What if our garden could erupt? A thicket of maturity sprouting from even our most infertile soil, Soil that teems with the roots of progress. A sea of grain, with its rolling amber waves That paint the earth of our garden. A sanctuary of prosperity with an insatiable appetite for sunlight. A white picket fence that is overwhelmed, its anemic walls smothered By a cascade of fierce vegetation clawing its way to freedom. What if? Let us not allow ourselves to become satisfied with one seed. Its death is our white picket fence, Bounding us from ever blooming.

Floating Home | Avery Sichel

The Eagle Ruby Grisin

A bald eagle ascends from his nest, wings slicing the crisp morning air as viscous amber sunlight oozes over distant peaks. He surveys the New World, our “blissful utopia.” From sea to shining sea, he sees it all. He examines what we have created: tall edifices, jutting into the endless sky of boundless possibilities; specks following the flow of traffic mindlessly, up the street on one side, down the other, forming a mural of movement for him to see. Cottages sprinkled over hilltops, enjoying their placid existence. Each chipped wall calls to mind silhouettes. The missing paint, if you peer a bit closer, reveals outlines of people and places long forgotten. In each pair of eyes, complex and unique as worn walls, a story resides. The eagle’s eyes tell a story. In his sandy irises is worn parchment: the parchment that we used to declare our independence, the parchment on which we crafted the Bill of Rights and Constitution, that Thomas Paine distributed to 150,000 pairs of eyes unknowingly seconds away from being persuaded. This is the parchment that has sculpted our country today. A pen, wielding raven-black ink, that graces the blank page is the most powerful tool of change known to man.

With each glance, the eagle’s pupils, dim as the night sky, remind us of the injustices that still exist, of the lives that have been so suddenly stolen from us. Remember their names. George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, and many, many more pairs of perfect eyes. Remember their names, remember their stories, but do not be discouraged. The potential of our country is immense— it has been since the first sheet of parchment all those years ago, and it will continue to be until we no longer make it so. The eagle, with his wings becoming weighty, and his eyes wanting to be blanketed by his tired lids, hesitates for a brief moment, but then recalls the light and dark, the paradox of history, his story and ours— the mural of America. And with that, he flies toward the ever-rising sun, knowing its light has already made it above the Rockies and the only way it moves is up.

Around the Bend | Suhani Gharia

Corners | Hieu Nguyen

Safe Flights

Aishwarrya Arun Stranded within the safety of the warm leafy nest, hidden among the autumn branches, the shivering figure of a humble sparrow looks out upon the cold, unknown world. It hears the swoops of mother bird’s wings as she delivers newfound feed to her eager little sparrow who joyfully anticipates its warm, sweet flavor. With the rising of the sun, mother bird ascends again into the cold winter sky as the contented sparrow watches, admiring, from its caging nest. The impatient sparrow skitters to the edge of the nest’s threshold and leaps onto its raspy lip to peer down at the unattainable world. Perched high in the trees under the soft pink sky, the eager sparrow anxiously flutters its wings as it bounds into the aromatic air. Arisp wind rushes through the maturing feathers as the small sparrow hurtles towards the ground, furiously flapping its toiling wings. But not to worry. When at last the wind gusts through the skies, the rejoicing sparrow finally flies. 44

Melted Winter Shealyn Tirendi

The chill in the air subsided and blades of grass began to poke up their heads from the frozen earth, New growth and fresh blooms were plentiful, Excitement and nervousness whipped around her head; A new beginning was here. Young and impressionable, she walked through the doors on her first day of freshman year, A million thoughts and questions pushed their way to the front of her mind: Who would she sit with at lunch? Would her classes be difficult? How would she ever manage Her busy schedule? Amongst the backdrop of these ponderings, she realized that this was a time to find out who she Really was—to find what her purpose was. She, like those blades of grass, would poke up from the ground and embrace her new surroundings. One by one, leaves cascaded downwards and were reunited with the earth, The sweet smell of apple pie filled the air, and the world took on a magnificent orange haze. The sun began to pull away earlier and earlier each day, She touched each bumpy pumpkin to find just the right one. All life seemed to transform. Come sophomore year, she had established a routine, There was a certain monotony to things. To her, the order of each day was both entirely expected yet also comforting in its routine. She, like those leaves, would fall down, but she would always get back up. Snow blanketed the ground, and all went quiet as it absorbed the sounds of the earth. Insulated coats were pulled from the back of closets, A feeling of internal warmth masked the cold that lied behind the doors. Holiday cheer encompassed each day as anticipation continued to grow. Nights were long, cold, and dark. She stayed up with the moon, typing away at her computer, listening as the fire crackled and the world stood still. There didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day to accomplish her work. She, like the snow, would absorb the information hurled her way. The sun beat down, thawing everyone and everything on Earth. Waves lapped against the shores and sandcastles were built by the masses, Jimmy Buffet seemed to be on perpetual loop, Rarely were the car windows rolled back up. The taste of the salt water remained on her tongue all summer long. Relief washed over her as typical stressors seemed to fade into the abyss, There was a weight lifted off of her shoulders. Summer went by in the blink of an eye. Senior year was finally here, and she knew it would go by in a few short months. She was ready for a year free of stress, a year that would be remembered forever. What she got felt a little different, but she made it work. She, like the sun, hopes to warm all those she meets. 45

A Good Bike Ride Can Fix a Lot Heidi Vander Schaaff

I believe that a good bike ride can fix a lot. The less you want to go, the more you need it. One cool fall Sunday, I was lying in bed feeling both stressed and bored. I had countless homework assignments, and countless thoughts on my mind, but no motivation. My sister felt the same way, so we decided to bike to a nearby park. It was cloudy when we left, so I was expecting us to have to turn back, but the sky cleared up and the sun felt warm on my skin, which lifted my mood. My sister and I stopped at an ice cream shop on the way to the park to get our favorite flavors: I got vanilla, and she got chocolate. Our frozen treats started to melt when we left the store, so we sat down on a bench to eat them. When we were done, we got back on our bikes and rode down the hill to the park. The cool air rushed against my face as we coasted down the gravel path leading to the observation tower. Sunlight peeked through the trees lining the path, flashing through my sunglasses so brightly that I needed to squint. The sun was warm, and the shade was cool. The narrow path soon opened to a bright field filled with tall grass, green weeds, and colorful flowers. I heard the sounds of nature—the birds chirping and the bugs squeaking and hissing. I heard a deer rush through the trees behind us and the sounds of approaching bikes and happy people. Paying attention to what was going on around me, I became much happier than I was when I had been lying in bed just an hour earlier. I no longer dreaded doing my homework or worried about the school day that would follow. I forgot what was going on in the world for a short while with no concern for politics or the like. And Mom, if you’re reading this: yes, I wore my mask. We soon rode back home because I realized it was almost four and that I should probably start my homework. While we rode home, I found everything to be very peaceful, the sound of the gravel under my tires, the buzz of the bugs around my ears, and the talking with my sister. My mindset had changed completely, going from negative to positive. While I knew that this bike ride did not fix all of my problems, it changed how I perceived my tasks and worries. Whenever I feel down or just plain unmotivated, I take a break. When the weather allows it, I bike around my neighborhood or out to the park with my sister. I always look forward to the hills. The fresh air rushing on my face and the dropping feeling in my stomach. The hills are like my own life, in the way that I put in hard work to get to the top, and the sense of accomplishment and exhilaration I feel after as if I am going down. I believe that a good bike ride can fix a lot.

Against the Sky | Mia Gorczynski

Holding Home | Makenna Urbanek

The Night Slipped Away Sandhya Mahadevan

The night slips through my fingers like a piece of silk. I reach my palm up to feel the tar colored canvas, but I can’t touch it. Orion gazes down at me, sword drawn. My soul becomes frightened and I retract my hand. The sky— so beautiful, I can almost sprint alongside it infinitely. My eyes begin to grow weary, sleep creeps up my back and crawls into my soul. The night covers me like a blanket, coiling around me, granting me warmth. When I wake up, my soul feels rested and well. The sun has come out to play, but the night slipped away.

The Smoothest of Seasons Stas Korzeniowski

A vibrant array of Fall leaves at mere ease, silently descending. In perfect chaos, they form a canvas that nourishes the photographer’s dreams. A rebirth, A revival, A resurrection, The fresh autumn foliage fills the void of summer’s drought, the constancy of spring green, and the Numbness of frigid Winter. The scent of opportunity arises, and I speak farewell to the season before. Freshman year was like the Fall, A breezy, swift change that yielded bittersweetness. New faces in a new place, the challenge to acclimate in an unfamiliar space, But feelings of adventure and curiosity overlapped, And I was more than happy with my decision to stay. Like the charming warmth of a cold breath of air, My initial doubt was uplifted, And dissolved by the blissful beauty of the school. I was captivated by the Fall pigments, Reassured by forthcoming eventfulness and hearty friendships, The year was candidly refreshing, a quiet beautiful to my beginning. With the earlier comings of darkness and icy cold, It was evident that winter’s weariness had been cast. The dry, contagious air suffocates all life into hibernation, Only a few amenities rendering warmth and consolation from Winter’s sharp rage. But how Winter raged my sophomore year. Like the unanticipated shift from Fall’s rich attractiveness to Winter’s dreary chill, That Winter bestowed my year with an unforeseen length and treachery. Numb to the barren temperatures and number still to the cold of others, I felt alone, I felt irrelevant, I felt lost. I was as vulnerable as the bare and fading trees, Low and feeble, Quivering in isolation with only a mere few to call home. Fall’s once-overwhelming warmth and captivating nature had ceased into unimportance, Overcome by the murmur of faintly familiar voices, The endless sleet of wet snow and raw emotion, Whereupon I stumbled on towards junior year, a lone wolf, Me, myself, and I. A survival dependent on instincts, ambition, and perseverance. I was blindsided by the mistrustfulness of a shared journey, where high school togetherness molded into severance. The forgery, detachment, and ingenuity of others granted adversity like no other, 50

A life lesson, A personal discovery, A self-respect like no other. These wiry winter days were long and daunting, But Spring’s close coming and elevating glow, Surfaced a third-year bloom. The onset of Springs’ fresh fragrance of sweet floral aromas, the damp gardens of Mother Earth, The silky warmth of the sun’s glare, the mesmerization of cloudless blue, The chirping of finches, the rustle of racing squirrels, the vivacious buzzing of all beings, Spring harvested new possibilities. Like a flower, I blossomed as a junior and In all realms of my life. I was the figure I had wanted to be, the one I foresaw myself to be. In full bloom, I protruded proudly over my development, Manifesting into an ideal, fertile, and confident character. But unlike in winter’s remoteness, I was accompanied by others. The wit and dedication of teachers, The attentiveness and loyalty of coaches, The support and reassurance of family, The sympathy and integrity of friends. More meaningful interactions amplified my success, Helping me to vanquish the strains of perplexing hardships and pernicious weeds. The short-lived spree of bright Spring flew by. The blinding sun had arisen, and Summer neared. Blind and swollen, Caught in a blaze, This was not like any Summer before. The sickening stench of dripping sweat, The relentless sting of heat on the naked neck. With parched throats, sour tongues, and fatigued bodies, We witnessed a drought like no other. The promises of summer were attractive, But ours was unanticipated. I dreamt about our Summer, I longed to be a senior, I stand solemnly in utter dismay of what should have been the height of it all. Yet my last chapter fabricated wishfulness in other ways, And I now ache for times beyond this season. Exhausted by tragedy and worldly wounds, I manifest progression. While Summer beds many nevers and mishaps, It commemorates a history so vivid, I cannot ignore. I adapted to the intensity of dancing flares, lively and bold. I am proud of my growth, towering above my falls. Grateful and blessed with a near-future in sight, I watch time fly till I vow my goodbye. 51

A Bright Red Suitcase Unzipped — A List Poem to Home Susie Xu

When the time comes, Flip the silver chain necklace with slant words— “Return to TPS.” A bright red suitcase unzipped Carries a black cozy coat and wool hat; Enameled pottery teapot, filled with Green tea from West Lake, Pu’er from Yunnan; Don’t forget, a little pamphlet lined with Ancient poetry from the Song Dynasty, With its lyrical rhyme and soft, misty imagery; A small piece of yellowing family photo. It was a fond recollection, Not letting go of my original color; The nostalgia lingered in each sip of hot tea Yellow lamp reflected as a fluid texture in an enameled cup Then I drank on the shivering silver moon. Within my last name, brown eyes, and dark hair, A token of a culture so deep it could not be torn away, Every rhyme of poetry I wrote, Each note of folk songs I chanted; And the memory of a small crowded flat, Dry west wind echoing in the empty streets, A taste of grandma’s handmade hot noodle and the warmth of mama’s lap, A place I called Home. Right before the closed door between me and Home Grandma yells my name, and bitter tears come As she places five golden pumpkin buns fill with baked walnut Into my bright red suitcase, Two pairs of chestnut eyes meet in the air, A thousand words into one farewell: “Eat well. Stay warm.”

Narrative | Gloria Liu

Ritual Residues | Gloria Liu

THE PENNINGTON SCHOOL 112 West Delaware Avenue Pennington, New Jersey 08534

HONOR. VIRTUE. HUMILITY.