Roars and Whispers Volume XXVI 2021 by Roars and Whispers Literary Magazine

epilogue

timeless sycamore

prologue

fractured stars

Satin flats tread where muddied Converse once stood under the mighty sycamore of my childhood wonderland. Its web of branches seizes the silver-lined sky and clings onto simplicity as it sails across the sea of clouds.

At eight, she was an explorer, charting the backyard on cobblestones in her mother’s garden. The grass stretched all the way to Middle Earth, and the autumn-stained treetops brushed the bottom of Neverland. She’d shatter the glassy surface of the creek with her size-six Converse and reach her hands into the silky cold, pulling up handfuls of stained quartz: treasure.

I rest my suitcase beneath the tree and kneel on the dewy ground. My dainty fingers burrow into the soil, bringing joy as the dirt catches under my nails. The desire to preserve my innocent spirit urges me to continue digging. Suddenly my tired hands strike an old stained shoebox, and a smile softens my flushed cheeks. I grasp the cover and slowly separate it from the case, finding keepsakes from my youth blanketed with dust.

Time turned the leaves orange then green again, and at twelve, she was still exploring. The creek bore witness to her firsts: a kiss on the rocky shore where rounded glass glittered beneath them like fractured stars. She read her first college acceptance letter as the setting sun shimmered across the water.

A stuffed lamb sits underneath the lid: the cream-colored stitches hardly hold its button eyes. Stillness surrounds me, and I imagine silent nights with skipping sheep and dreams evolved. The gold lettering of a crimson ribbon catches my attention. A metallic, reflective font reads “Second Place.” Scraped knees sting, and soccer balls roll, as kids chase them toward their goals.

Tension suspends these memories atop the rippling surface. The brook tumbles over rocks and between tree roots, following the girl as she chases the years ahead, collecting moments she carelessly leaves behind until one day she decides to visit the glimmering shores again.

I place the box back in the earth and fill the hole, replacing the dirt and my solemn sadness with the bittersweet comfort of the unknown. With my bag in hand, I turn from the sycamore. The future summons, and I accept the invitation.

- Maggie Christopher ’21

- Carson Knapp ’23

Job No.: 019319

Page No.

School Name: Providence HS Lit Mag

Page No.

Job No.: 019319

School Name: Providence HS Lit Mag

ID CC 2020 Windows

ID CC 2020 Windows TCID:PP

TCID:PP

ROARS WHISPERS Providence High School Volume 26 $20.00 per issue roarsandwhispersphs.com @roarsandwhispers 1800 Pineville-Matthews Road Charlotte, NC 28270 Phone: 980-343-5390 Fax: 980-343-3956 Printer: Jostens 2020 Awards CSPA — Gold Medal Ranking and Crown Finalist NSPA — All-American Ranking NCSMA — All-North Carolina and Tar Heel Award 2011 NSPA Hall of Fame Inductee 2018, 2017, 2010 CSPA Gold Crown Winner 2020, 2016, 2015, 2014 CSPA Silver Crown Winner 2018, 2017, 2016, 2014, 2007 NSPA Pacemaker Winner 2013, 2011, 2010 Pacemaker Finalist Cover art: Smile, Claire Shi ’22 oil

policy letter from

the editors Dear Reader, Welcome to the twenty-sixth edition of Roars and Whispers. The fact that you are reading this magazine at all feels like nothing short of a miracle. We resolve to remember the struggles of this year: the pandemic, political unrest and virtual learning. Spending the year in quarantine offered artists, writers and our staff the opportunity to examine the past with fresh perspectives that inform our understanding of the world and ourselves. This year’s theme, reflection, captures our collective state of mind during the pandemic. The front cover opens the conversation with a representation of the pandemic, the defining event of our generation, an event

that planted a common seed in each of us. We nurtured this seed in our own ways, and this publication exhibits this variety in our styles and points of view. The prologue and epilogue illustrate one journey inspired by this new perspective: a woman whose adventure into maturity leaves her homesick for the youth from her past. As a publication with the mission of showcasing the artistic voices of Providence High School, we wouldn’t be able to live up to that standard if we let this year stop us. The world doesn’t stop for anything, so we can’t stop either. With that said, it is with a deep sense of pride that we present you with this one-of-a-kind issue Sincerely, The Editors

2 Roars & Whispers

Roars and Whispers is published by the literary-arts magazine class at Providence Senior High School. Poetry, prose and artwork are submitted by members of the student body. Each written submission is judged anonymously by every member of the staff. The magazine publishes the prose and poetry selections that receive the highest scores and the artwork that

best enhances the written content. It is an open forum for all students; the ideas presented in this magazine do not reflect those of the Providence Senior High School faculty. However, as a school publication, Roars and Whispers reserves the right to deny publication to those submissions that are deemed inappropriate for a high school audience.

All members of the staff share the responsibility for design, so we do not specifically attribute any spread to any individual staff member. Roars and Whispers is the poetic voice of Providence Senior High School. Whether through the strength of our roars or the softness of our whispers, we will be heard

font family for titles is Bergamo. Hurme Geometric Sans 3 in the weights of Bold, Thin and Hairline are used for the magazine title. The magazine was created on Adobe InDesign through Jostens Monarch. All graphic editing was done using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop through Jostens

Monarch on Hewlett-Packard and personal staff computers. In compliance with federal law, CharlotteMecklenburg Schools administers all educational programs, employment activities and admissions without discrimination against any person on the basis of gender, race, color, religion, national origin, age or disability

Ansley Hignight ’22, Social Coordinator Aiden Kaplan ’21, Managing Editor Carson Knapp ’23, Staff Jonathan Obele ’23, Staff Elizabeth Park ’22, Business Editor

Ella Rasmussen ’21, Design Editor Emma Washburn ’22, Publications Liaison Lisa Zhang ’22, Art Editor

colophon Roars and Whispers 2021 was printed by Jostens of Clarksville, Tennessee, on #100 paper with a circulation of 800. Body text is Bergamo 10. Credit fonts are Arial 8, Arial Bold Italic 8 and Arial Italic 8. The standard sans serif font families for titles are Avenir LT and Avenir Next LT. The standard serif

staff Diya Bhatt ’22, Publicity Editor Amanda Chen ’23, Staff Maggie Christopher ’21, Copy Editor Ruby Davis ’23, Staff Caroline Halso ’23, Staff Audrey Henderson ’23, Staff

Marva Hutchinson, Adviser

Letter from the Editors 3

policy letter from

2 Roars & Whispers

Ansley Hignight ’22, Social Coordinator Aiden Kaplan ’21, Managing Editor Carson Knapp ’23, Staff Jonathan Obele ’23, Staff Elizabeth Park ’22, Business Editor

Ella Rasmussen ’21, Design Editor Emma Washburn ’22, Publications Liaison Lisa Zhang ’22, Art Editor

staff Diya Bhatt ’22, Publicity Editor Amanda Chen ’23, Staff Maggie Christopher ’21, Copy Editor Ruby Davis ’23, Staff Caroline Halso ’23, Staff Audrey Henderson ’23, Staff

Marva Hutchinson, Adviser

Letter from the Editors 3

table of writing 09 11 12 15 17 18 21 22 24 26 29 30 32 4 Roars & Whispers

Irons Julia Sands ’21, poetry A Quiet Taste Raechel Wu ’23, fiction Peter Pan Maeve Beck ’22, personal narrative Spectre Emma Washburn ’22, poetry Funeral for a Mole Raechel Wu ’23, fiction Fluorescent Malfunctions Emma Washburn ’22, fiction The Dandelion Leah Powell ’23, poetry Me, Myself and My Cotton Candy Skies Elizabeth Park ’22, personal narrative Baby Blue Diya Bhatt ’22, poetry Quixotic Maggie Christopher ’21, personal narrative Dungeon Master’s Duty Aiden Kaplan ’21, personal narrative PhilosoTea Diplomacy Sarai Deese ’21, personal narrative My House is Haunted Ella Rasmussen ’21, poetry

34 39 41 42 47 49 50 57 58 61 63 64 68 70

JoJo’s Bizarre Regret Marcos Martinez ’23, personal narrative Chasing Butterflies Lisa Zhang ’22, personal narrative Mary Maeve Beck ’22, poetry The Endless Staircase Ruby Davis ’23, fiction Violet Crime Kira Britt ’22, poetry Caprice Raechel Wu ’23, fiction Hemingway Emma Washburn ’22, fiction In Bloom Maggie Christopher ’21, poetry Far From Worthless Trinity Clay ’21, personal narrative Backwards Progress Meghan Wheeler ’21, personal narrative One Peculiar Power of Coyotes Ella Rasmussen ’21, poetry A Very Scary Sorry Elizabeth Park ’22, nonfiction War Widow Diya Bhatt ’22, fiction Getting Uppity Ella Rasmussen ’21, poetry

Table of Contents 5

table of writing 09 11 12 15 17 18 21 22 24 26 29 30 32 4 Roars & Whispers

34 39 41 42 47 49 50 57 58 61 63 64 68 70

Table of Contents 5

contents continued

art 08 10 13 14 16 19 20 22 25 27 28 31 33

6 Roars & Whispers

Joyous Wave Hanna Akerblom ’22, acrylic Harmony Lisa Zhang ’22, acrylic Encourage Growth Morgan Sanders ’21, acrylic Mitosis Claire Shi ’22, watercolor Home Lisa Zhang ’22, acrylic Chanterelles Raechel Wu ’23, watercolor May Lena Song ’22, photography North Carolina Lighthouses Andrew Tuz ’22, watercolor Color Moods Liv Knight ’23, colored pencil Masked Pain Morgan Sanders ’21, acrylic Final Embrace Trinity Clay ’21, acrylic Porcelain Lisa Zhang ’22, watercolor Santa Paws Aditi Dumpala ’22, acrylic

34 38 40 43 46 48 51 56 59 60 62 65 69 71

Enthusiasm Ella Rasmussen ’21, digital La Mariposa Amy Zhang ’23, ink and watercolor Seiganto-ji Temple Andrew Tuz ’22, oil The Looking Glass Liv Knight ’23, colored pencil Injustice Morgan Sanders ’21, acrylic Synthesia Jonathan Obele ’23, digital As She Flows Linnea Elisabeth Bornkast Meier ’21, acrylic Sanctuary Lisa Zhang ’22, watercolor Mr. Watermelon Sugar Hannah Ealey ’22, graphite Winter Sun Aditi Dumpala ’22, acrylic Underbrush Emma Washburn ’22, photography Giver Jonathan Obele ’23, digital Portrait in Gouache Trinity Clay ’21, gouache Mont St. Michel Anna Wong ’21, oil

Table of Contents 7

contents continued

art 08 10 13 14 16 19 20 22 25 27 28 31 33

6 Roars & Whispers

34 38 40 43 46 48 51 56 59 60 62 65 69 71

Table of Contents 7

IRONS Scalloped waves brush against her painted palms, stained with sea salt and scars from the tapered rudder of The Calypso. Her father’s laughter rings clear through the wind. He catches the clouds in his sails with a youthful puff of sea water and ribbons of cashmere light. The hands of her childhood pull at the mast while he turns the jib, sailing to the splintered boards and rusted anchors of home. The tide pushes her into the present. The Calypso sits idly, puddles of moonlight illuminating the cracked glass of her father’s compass, pointing her North without the calloused hands of its captain. He told her to follow its crimson arrow, back to the warm sands of home, back to childhood and his warm embrace. She yanks the jib towards the calm of irons. Without him, she no longer understands the directions enclosed in unpolished silver. The spindled rope and sun-bleached sails try to trap the breeze, snapping and folding in an eternal dance. But the comforting winds are unreachable in irons, capturing The Calypso in a pocket of indifference. As the tall mast sways with the water’s wake, she traces water droplets into maps and ponders sailing into the west or east. The compass weighs in her hand, reflecting the indigo expanse above. She sees her father’s hands traced into a sky dusted with stars and lets the constellations guide her. - Julia Sands ’21

J o y o u s W av e, H anna A ke rb l om acrylic

8 Roars & Whispers

’22

Poetry 9

J o y o u s W av e, H anna A ke rb l om acrylic

8 Roars & Whispers

’22

Poetry 9

a quiet taste Raechel Wu ’23

ot water droplets jumped on her wrist. She steadied her grasp on the little kettle as she continued to pour. She tried to remember what to do next, but her memory eluded her; she had heated the teaware, but what now? She had seen her grandfather perform the tea ceremony dozens of times, but she had never paid much attention to the exact steps. Every Saturday, her grandfather always insisted that their entire family sit down and have breakfast together. Her mother and grandmother would wake up early in order to make a gallery of traditional dishes, such as cong you bing or cha ji dan. Her parents would be hastily setting the table, and her grandfather would be preparing for the tea ceremony when she came downstairs. Taking the kettle off the stove, her grandfather would bathe the cerulean teaware in steaming water. “The teapot and teacups have to be hot,” he would say. “Or else the taste won’t be the same.” Then he would diligently measure out the dried tea leaves, taking the liberty to enjoy the aromatic scent. “You have to wash the leaves first,” he would insist, gently streaming water from the kettle onto the tea leaves. “It rinses out the impurities in the leaves. Only after you’ve washed them is the true flavor unlocked.” He would allow the leaves to steep before finally pouring the tea into the ceramic cups. With a cloth, he would carefully set the piping hot teacups beside everyone’s plates at the table.

She fondly remembered her grandfather glaring at her as she cracked open a Diet Coke. “You know,” he would say, “anyone can appreciate fizzy sodas, but tea has a quiet taste. It might not be the sweetest thing or the most flavorful, but its aroma is healing.” She would shrug, not really appreciating the mild taste of tea, sipping on her Coke as she snarfed down the breakfast her mother had prepared. The packaging containing the tea crinkled as she gently unwrapped the dried tea. She brought the shriveled leaves to her nose, trying to recreate the appreciation her grandfather had for the scent of the tea. The tea leaves slowly began to rehydrate and unfurl as she poured warm water onto them. “The water cannot be too hot,” her grandfather would say, “Or else it will destroy the nuance in the taste.” The little teacups clinked in protest as she set them onto the tray. The light amber tea spouted from the ornate teapot, arching slightly upward, reaching for the sky before falling down into the cups. Carefully cradling the tea tray, she slipped into the living room, wondering why on earth she didn’t wait to pour the tea in the living room. Her parents and grandmother were already huddled around the laptop and looked up eagerly as she arrived. “You’re just in time,” her grandmother smiled at her. She saw her grandfather’s grin grow wide on the glowing screen

of the laptop. His normally tan face was pale and the lines on his face seemed deeper than usual, but his smile still lit up his eyes. “I made some tea,” she said shyly, holding up the platter as if it were an offering. “I know you’re not here to taste it, but I hope it’s not too bad.” Her grandfather adjusted his nose cannula before he spoke. “Any tea that’s made with care is good tea,” he smiled, in good spirits despite his surroundings. His lungs rattled as he violently coughed. She cringed at the painful sound. Although he seemed out of breath, he continued. “And besides, this hospital tea is terrible. Any fool can throw leaves in water and call it tea. True tea-making is an art.” Her grandfather looked at her expectedly. “Well,” he rasped, “The artist must try their own art, right?” She nodded solemnly, lifting the cup to her lips. The sunny warmth from the cup seeped into her fingertips. The tea swirled around her mouth; its bitterness soon gave way to its sweet aroma. Her parents and grandmother did the same, gently sipping the warm tea. Her dad looked at her approvingly. “It’s almost as good as yours,” he jokingly told her grandfather, who gave a harsh laugh in response. “When you come back, I’ll have to make some for you.” she said. Her grandfather smiled tightly, coughing and clearing his throat before speaking. “I’d like that very much ”

H ar m o ny , L i sa Z h ang ’22 acrylic

10 Roars & Whispers

Fiction 11

a quiet taste Raechel Wu ’23

H ar m o ny , L i sa Z h ang ’22 acrylic

10 Roars & Whispers

Fiction 11

PETER PAN MAEVE BECK ’22

On my sixth birthday, I pranced around the foyer in my mom’s size-six high heels that clacked against the hardwood floor with every strut. Even when I tumbled and the rigid shoes scratched my already-scabbed knees, I pulled myself back up, tugging on the sofa’s armrests. I pumped my chest forward, sporting my mother’s D-cup bra, confident that soon after this day, I would stand as tall as she does, a posh, proper woman. Six was a big birthday, after all. After today I wouldn’t have to lie about being six anymore, I could just say I was. She found me in the front living room, sitting cross-legged and investigating my damages. I anxiously sucked my thumb and waited to be scolded, but she wasn’t angry that I had rummaged through her closet. Instead, she smiled, lifted me up out of the shoes and pulled me toward her chest. My legs wrapped around her waist, and my head rested on her shoulder. She told me, as

she did every birthday, “No more getting bigger after this.” She squeezed me tighter, inverting the hollow bra cups to meet my body. I had grown to resent this phrase, and I started lying again, saying I was seven anyway. My mom only says that because she thinks I’m a baby, I thought. In the daytime, I would grab the car keys, sneak out the front door and sprint across the lawn until I reached our black minivan. I would lock myself in the driver’s seat, a formidable young adult, and dream of the day that my legs would grow long enough to reach the pedals. I would admire the car’s puzzling array of buttons and check my reflection: the side mirror, the rearview, the shiny Honda logo on the steering wheel. In those moments, I was a fashionista teenager on my way home from the mall with my sisters, hauling countless shopping bags filled with expensive purchases. I was listening to the radio and tapping my platform shoe along with the beat. In the nighttime, though I was safely tucked beneath my baby-pink covers, I dreamt that after I stepped into the car to play, I suddenly became stranded in a sea of honking horns and standstill traffic. Cars terrorized me as they crowded my car. Each revving engine

sank my stomach. The buttons mocked my helpless, tiny fingers. It’s not like I could really see, though. My watering eyes blurred the road into a spiraling bulge. I was reduced to my little legs cowering in the seat. I finally woke up, tangled in polka-dot sheets, sweat and tears running toward my ears, and tiptoed into my mom’s room. I curled next to her in the big master bed, careful not to wake her up, and wished that she would have appeared in the dream and taken the wheel from me. On my sixteenth birthday, I’m months away from a driver’s license. I’m months away from spontaneous road trips, months away from going out to restaurants on my own, months away from driving myself to school. I trace the worn Honda logo on my steering wheel with slight aversion; I can’t see my reflection anymore, but I can still hear the ghosts of warped car horns just beyond this windshield. My now size-six feet feel unnatural against the gas pedal, as if I’m still breaking the rules, as if they should still dangle off the seat. I learned how to drive despite my childhood nightmares, so I should be excited to conquer various highways when I take myself to the mall or the movie theater. But I think my legs might still be a little too short E nc o u r ag e G r o w t h , Morgan Sanders ’21 acrylic

12 Roars & Whispers

Personal Narrative 13

PETER PAN MAEVE BECK ’22

12 Roars & Whispers

Personal Narrative 13

The leaves fall like rain, in sheets. I take a pair of scissors from my drawer and snip two asymmetric holes in the dusty white cloth sprinkled with amber sweat. Draping it over my desk chair, I say hello. It doesn’t answer, but I don’t really expect it to. I haunt my email inbox and poltergeist my classes, text through video calls, rake up missed Canvas assignments to sit lonely atop the dried grass in my yard. Maybe if I was nothing but a remnant, a memory of another time, I could lie beside friends. I’m left with ghost towns of group chats. I stutter away at my keyboard keys with the same ferocity as the dead. Graveyards surround me, empty of bodies. I light lanterns with September skylines until my eyes cloud to nimbostratus. When I’m away from my desk, I draw my curtains and hibernate. I rustle in a cave of comforters. My stomach grumbles. I cling to the feeling of empty, the pain of dead branches peeled bare. Calendar pages stab me until I bleed absences. I need medication. Cardboard Amazon packages dissolve on my tongue, coaxing my wounds to close temporarily. I trip over the weekend, fall six feet under into another Zoom class. The Grim Reaper whispers through drained marrow that purgatory falls away to heaven. I still can’t help but feel that it’s overcast. Mit o sis, C l ai re Sh i ’22 w at e rco lo r

14 Roars & Whispers

- Emma Washburn ’22

Poetry 15

14 Roars & Whispers

- Emma Washburn ’22

Poetry 15

uneral OR A MOLE

he yelped as the cat proudly dropped the limp body of the mole onto the doormat; its tiny legs were splayed from its dark, round body. It couldn’t have been any larger than a small tangerine. The cat purred gently, bumping against the girl’s legs, sounding quite proud of himself. “Oh you’re a bad cat,” she scolded him. The cat meowed in protest. “What is it?” her mother called from the kitchen. “The cat’s murdered a little mole,” she replied. “Well, good for him,” her mother said. “Mom!” “Moles aren’t good for anything but digging up the garden. They’re pests. And what good is a cat if it can’t catch a mouse?” She looked at the lifeless body that lay on the ground. “It was only a baby.” “It’s just a mole. Get over it.” her mother said harshly. “Toss it into the woods—or throw it into the garbage— but don’t touch it. It might be diseased.” She pushed aside the cat, who was demanding attention, as she gently scooped up the mole. It weighed almost nothing, and its fur was velvety against her palm. Her mother popped her head out of the kitchen. “I just told you not to touch it.” she

Raechel Wu ’23

chided. “Oh, whatever. Just wash your hands later. Now get rid of it.” She slowly rose to her feet, still cradling the mole’s lifeless body. She walked past the garden and to the corner of her yard. There a few pine trees stood casting gentle shade over the sparse patches of dirt. She knelt on the cold earth and seized a spade, her short, thin fingers curling around the handle. As she dug a shallow grave for the creature, she felt that she had to say something. She remembered that, at her sister’s funeral, the family had gathered around to say a few words in memory of her. She couldn’t quite remember exactly what they said, but nevertheless she began her impromptu speech. Clearing her throat, she started, “Sorry you had to die like that. I’m sure it was scary. Maybe you are just a pest. I think it was still unfair for that to happen to you.” She felt a little silly, speaking to the dead body of the mole who, even when alive, could not understand what she was saying. “I think you deserve a little grave instead of being thrown in the trash. I think that’d be much better.” She carved out the damp earth with the sharp spade. “And moles like to dig and be in the earth, right? So I think you’d like this a lot more. This is a nice quiet little spot.”

She gently placed the mole into the hole she had dug. The body rolled over, coming to rest on its back. Specks of dirt stuck to its dark fur, creating a painting of the dark night sky in the ground. “Goodbye mole,” she said sorrowfully. Then she began to shovel dirt back over the cold body of the mole. After she had finished refilling the hole, she gave it a few firm taps to level the earth. She slowly stood up, brushed the dirt off of her pants, and headed back to the house. On the back porch, the cat waited for her, finished with his breakfast and diligently washing his face. As she approached, he jumped up to greet her, attempting to locate where his mole had gone. She sat down, offering her empty palms to the cat. “Sorry, it’s gone now.” She stroked his head as he bumped against her, violently purring. She suddenly felt overwhelmed with grief and pity for the little mole. As she thought of it resting in its shallow grave, she was reminded of a funeral she had blocked from her memory, locking it at the very back of her brain. The cat, sensing something was wrong, rubbed his furry head against her face. He twitched his ears irritably as his forehead came away wet with tears. “I miss her,” she told him, blinking hard. “I really do ”

H o m e, L i sa Z h ang ’22 acrylic

16 Roars & Whispers

Fiction 17

uneral OR A MOLE Raechel Wu ’23

H o m e, L i sa Z h ang ’22 acrylic

16 Roars & Whispers

Fiction 17

FLUORESCENT

emma washburn ’22

saw a glitch today. The teachers don’t like it when we talk about glitches. Their smiles get wide. Wider than a smile should be, stretched out and pulled like a rubber band. They tell us we’re being silly, and I don’t blame them. Whenever we try and explain, our words twist and distort like broken keyboards until we just shut up. And then it’d be quiet if it weren’t for the constant buzzing of the fluorescent lights, hovering above us like gods and burning away the darkness until there are no words left. So I didn’t tell anyone about it. That way I won’t forget. I saw it in the cafeteria this morning. I was sitting and waiting for my friends when I saw a table cut into the wall, flashing above the ground to shake in the air for one second, two seconds, gone. Nobody said anything, but nobody talks in the mornings anymore. My friends just seem to appear and stand near me until the bell rings. But it’s always been this way, I think. I can’t remember anything that would suggest otherwise. In first period, the kid who sits next to me tells me he saw one. He says that there was a girl in the hallway walking, that her eyes went wide as a camera lens before she flashed blue then green then gone. I ask him what her name was, and he says it was Julia. I scratch it out in all capitals on my arm, then pull my jacket sleeve down. I don’t tell him about what I saw. Our biology teacher turns toward us

18 Roars & Whispers

with flashlight eyes and threatens us with lunch detention. She tilts her head to the side, and the lights get a little brighter. “No talking.” I can’t remember what we were saying anyway. I scratch my arm. It feels weird. Second period is boring too. I think we’ve been learning about Mesopotamia since the beginning of time. I could recite the ancient kings like sheep to fall asleep. I don’t remember what my bedroom looks like, only the white brick walls that trap me on all sides, laughing at me when I try to remember anything beyond this malevolent building. Something happened this morning, but I can’t remember what it was. It must not have been that important. In astronomy we study the constellations. My favorite is the Big Dipper. It’s a classic. No one could forget the Big Dipper. I couldn’t forget the Big Dipper. But the other blank pages in my textbook tell me otherwise, pages that hurt to look at for too long, and I wonder if the Big Dipper wasn’t always a classic and that we’ve forgotten the real classics, and it’s what’s left. I ask my teacher, but he doesn’t talk anymore. His face looks pixelated, blurred, incorrect. Like the empty pages, it hurts to look at for too long, and if I think too hard about his old face the lights get so bright I can’t see and my head feels like it’s imploding into itself like a supernova. My friends toss potato chips into each other’s mouths during lunch. We used to sit outside, but the doors are all locked,

and the glass has turned white, so we sit up against the windows and wait for the bell to ring. I watch potato chips fly through the air and land on the ground as I try to picture what it looks like out there, but I can’t formulate anything in my mind. I scratch my arm again and pull up my sleeve. Who’s Julia? I mouth her name to myself and my head begins to hurt a bit. I pull my sleeve back down. I wait for the bell to ring. I wait for the final bell to ring. I wait for the final bell of the day to ring. I blink. It’s morning in the cafeteria. There are no tables in the cafeteria. I scratch my arm and wait for the bell to ring for first period. The rest of the cafeteria sits in silence with me. We stare up at the loudspeaker and let the lights carve theology into our eyes. I sit alone in first period. There is no one next to me. My biology teacher threatens me with lunch detention, her head at a tilt, but I don’t know why. I wasn’t talking. My arm feels like it’s burning more than the fluorescent lights. I sit in the very back, but I feel eyes on me, watching everything I do. I see the whiteboard flash blue and disappear, and no one says anything. I stare forward and try to think about the blank spot on the wall, but no thoughts form. My head hurts. I sleep during second period. The darkness behind my eyelids feels wrong; it settles a black hole in my stomach that spits pictures out before me. I see tables and constellations and beds and a girl I

can’t recognize until the bell drones like a baby crying, and I jerk awake. My arm feels like acid was dumped on it, burning away my flesh, but I am too tired to scream. I don’t have a third period. I sit in an empty classroom surrounded by textbooks with empty pages, and I close my eyes because the lights are so bright they hurt. I roll my sleeve up and “Julia” is etched into my arm, burned into my flesh, skin peeled off to form the five nonsensical letters. “Who is Julia?” The bell drones over me, drowning me in bright light. I watch potato chips fall out of thin air during lunch. I am surrounded on all sides by whiteness. The bell drones constantly now, one note making it impossible to formulate any thoughts. I close my eyes, and there is no darkness, the same light, and I wonder if humans can live without the night, if constellations can exist without the dark, if textbooks can be read without black ink draped along the pages. I think about what sleep tastes like, if Mesopotamian kings could scream, if cafeteria tables pixelate before they die. I would cry if I knew what any of that meant, and soon all the words are gone, and I can’t remember what I was processing. I feel something touch my shoulder. The Big Dipper threatens black sharpies with supernovas on potato chips, and I am gone like the dark, and there is only fluorescence

C h ant er el l es, R aech w at e rco lo r

el W u ’23

Fiction 19

FLUORESCENT

emma washburn ’22

18 Roars & Whispers

C h ant er el l es, R aech w at e rco lo r

el W u ’23

Fiction 19

dandelion the

A maiden swaying on a hill, looking up at empty skies with joyful chorus for the spring shining out from beauty’s eyes. Her soul was strung with silver; her heart was wrought of gold. Her song, as sweet as summer, rode upon the breeze’s fold. Glowing smile to match the sun with sorrow in her past, far behind her vibrant flame, though beauty seldom lasts. Upon the eve of winter’s breath, memory returns to her. Gray and sad her fire burns, soft and fine as rabbit’s fur. Her flaming crown floats into smoke escaping winter’s scathing gaze. Her children call from beyond the hill, their blooms not yet ablaze. There they rise in golden halos, lamenting true to their fair mother: the maiden swaying on the hill with heart of gold and soul of silver. - Leah Powell ’23 May , L ena Song ’22 p h o t o g rap h y

20 Roars & Whispers

Poetry 21

dandelion the

20 Roars & Whispers

Poetry 21

ME, MYSELF AND MY COTTON CANDY SKIES ELIZABETH PARK ’22

ot even five minutes into the drive, panic strikes. In my front view, a row of mailboxes taunts me, and a neighborhood sign dares me to hit it from behind. Once I realize I’m gonna have to move one way or another, I put the car in reverse, remembering the sweet crunch of metal the last time I stepped behind the wheel and sent my grandfather’s cherished vintage Mercedes-Benz flying into the neighbor’s mailbox. Stomping on the brakes, I paused a millisecond before accelerating once more, cramming a rusted metal mailbox into the back of the beloved family car. Since the age of seven, there were signs marking my future of unfortunate driving. The first sign came when I played Mario Kart, I was consistently left

spinning in dizzy circles at the starting line. If I managed to get going, even more casualties ensued. Not everyone can manage to drown Princess Peach’s perfect pink kart in the sandy beaches of Cheep Cheep Lagoon before even making it around the track once, but I sure did. I failed at every driving game, car simulation and go-kart race—if it involves a wheeled motor vehicle, I’ve most likely crashed it. So to no one’s surprise, I held no excitement to get behind the wheel of any sort of automatic death contraption, nor did I feel the need to. When my older brother got his license, he became my unpaid chauffeur, not completely a voluntary job on his part. But as a rite of passage, I began driving. Given my track record with all things automotive, my mom gracefully bowed out of teaching me

to drive, leaving the great mess to my dad. Jerking and swerving through the roads, I regretted all the times I ridiculed my brother’s wheel work. Through all the panicked lane switches and four-way stops, the thing that got me behind the

“JERKING AND SWERVING THROUGH THE ROADS, I REGRETTED ALL THE TIMES I RIDICULED MY BROTHER’S WHEEL WORK.” wheel was never the road ahead of me but the scenery above. My dad came home from work, and we crawled out of the garage at sundown. As I accelerated, the sky warped and created murals of puffed up colors. Maybe my distraction caused a

couple of honks and my dad’s death grip on the door handle. Yet I could only find comfort in the warming depth of the sky over the speeding hunks of metal that dotted the canvas before me. As I decided whether to pass the mailboxes or drive in reverse, two very possible disasters, my rear view mirror displayed something breathtaking: not a car speeding toward me, though that would definitely take my breath away, but a faded baby blue sky with swirling puffs of powder pink clouds, just like cotton candy. I don’t remember what road I turned onto that day, but the cotton candy clouds pushed me to continue. I found comfort in the swirling skies of pink and blue, as if those sugar-coated skies were specially spun for me, made-to-order for my comfort

N o r t h C ar o l ina L ig h th o u ses, A ndrew T u z ’22 w at e rco lo r

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ME, MYSELF AND MY COTTON CANDY SKIES ELIZABETH PARK ’22

N o r t h C ar o l ina L ig h th o u ses, A ndrew T u z ’22 w at e rco lo r

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BABY blue It’s been three years since we found the little house on the corner of Wellesley and Hawthorne, my new paradise, and hers. Every morning of our twenties was spent scraping mold off the ceiling until we had a bucket’s worth of the stuff. We couldn’t get over how funny she looked covered in it. I painted the walls baby blue, a bad choice, probably, but she left before she could tell me not to. Now the sunlight makes them look gray. I’m fighting tears when I look at them for the last time. I had dreams for those walls, but after her I realized I forgot what it felt like to know someone else did too. Mom tells me I was too rough; the house needed a woman’s touch. She doesn’t know how long I wanted the same thing. The house is still sleeping when I leave. Its silence interrupts the rock and roll belching from the car stereo, so I get out of there as fast as I can. I try not to miss the garden, but I find myself doodling the roses she planted, and then forgot about, back in May. I couldn’t bring myself to take care of them. It’s been a year since I gave up on the little house, two years since she did. The dreams, the fantasies, really, of breathing portraits and real faces in the kitchen disappeared with her. I guess I left my blue-gray paradise before I could watch it fade away. - Diya Bhatt ’22

C o l o r Mo o ds, L i v K ni gh t ’23 co lo re d p e n cil

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Poetry 25

C o l o r Mo o ds, L i v K ni gh t ’23 co lo re d p e n cil

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Poetry 25

Quixotic

MAGGIE CHRISTOPHER ’21

onday’s theme song is the cappuccino machine’s quiet bubbling and the excited ticking of the toaster. The avocado toast you enjoy on the back porch promises that you will find inspiration in the silky morning air. The cotton candy clouds agree; maybe you’ll pick up painting again or read a book for fun. The rising sun reminds you that you are a writer, sipping Puerto Rican dark roast behind a collection of short stories. You read Charles Dickens and Jane Austen through glasses that reflect the purple sunlight like morning dew on daffodils. Your painted fingernails make a satisfying clink against the coffee cup as you bring it to your lips and inhale the warm hazelnut aroma before you take a sip. The soft foam sweetly slides down your tongue, carrying the coffee into your stomach, where it warms your body. Today you will explore your curiosity. Tuesday wakes you with strawberries and pineapple. You drink your coffee

black today; it feels warmer against your lips. You slept through the sunrise, so you sip your coffee in bed. The comforter pulls your legs deeper into its folds, and you fall back into your pillow. You roll over and melt into the bedspread. Maybe you won’t write today. Maybe the dark clouds outside are stifling your mind, or maybe the sticky air is slowing your creative flow. You don’t want the rain to wash away your ideas. You close your eyes and decide to dream today. Wednesday morning tastes like Fruity Pebbles and almond milk. The coffee is cold, so you pour it into a glass with ice and pretend it’s from Chick-fil-a. It doesn’t taste the same, but you try to pretend. The birds’ screeching outside and the sugar and the clock’s anxious ticking and the sound of the news on upstairs makes it hard to think. You try to do your homework, but your phone buzzes. You abandon your computer for your bed again; you can finish your work tomorrow. Thursday: It doesn’t matter. The

governor closed schools for the rest of the year. There’s no point in opening your computer today. Your head feels like TV static and glue. You logged into PowerSchool; nothing’s changed. Thoughts stick together and clot in the parts of your brain that remind you to eat and shower and text your dad. You lay in bed, collecting sweat underneath the sheets. Friday is hungry. The feeling of stomach acid eating away at organs is enough motivation to slither out of bed and bring back a bag of Funyuns. The sound of chewing is your only connection to reality. Without it you may fall into the creases in your pillow like the crumbs that roll off your cheek. The weight of your chest pulls you deeper into the comforter, and time disappears. You hope you will metamorphosize back into Monday. Saturday and Sunday blur together and disappear into the alarm clock on your nightstand; time doesn’t exist here Masked Pain, Morgan Sanders ’21 acrylic

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Quixotic

MAGGIE CHRISTOPHER ’21

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DUNGEON MASTER’S DUTY Aiden Kaplan ’21

he orphanage entrance frames the charred remains of the village of Creepwood as it roasts softly. As the heroes turn away from the town, they face their final challenge: the gnoll band leader. “He cackles in a quiet, raspy tone which slowly escalates to a booming howl as he raises his blood-crusted cleaver to rest on his shoulder,” I say, making eye contact with each of my friends around my dining room table. I reveal a sinister smile from behind my Dungeon Master’s screen, relishing the reactions of both fear and defiance. The heroes launch themselves at the gnoll. His decayed canine head grins with perverse glee at their earnestness. Rylee rolls a fifteen, allowing the prince to crack the beast across the face with his flail. Sam’s ranger follows him, letting fly two arrows at the creature, but the dice do not fall in his favor, leaving the arrows lodged in the wall behind the monster. Sam is reassured by others that it was just one attack and that he’ll get the next one. Max’s warrior attempts to recover the fight by flinging his magic spear while screaming the magic word, “HONEYSUCKLE!”, transforming it into an arc of lightning, sending the gnoll reeling and launching a wave of high fives around the table. As they laugh about the ease of this fight, Elena rolls for her rogue to get

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F inal E m b r ac e, T ri ni t y C l ay ’21 acrylic

a sneak attack on the gnoll. Her two swords sink into his ribs, but she isn’t stealth enough, and the gnoll splatters the rogue against the wall with the flat of his blade. Panic spreads through the group. I feel the worry creeping into me as well. I see on my paper how outclassed they are. The story can’t end here. We’ve been meeting every weekend for the past six months, and this isn’t the final fight. To kill them here would be like letting Shelob eat Sam and Frodo on their way to Mount Doom or letting the basilisk kill Harry in the Hogwarts sewers. I can’t let the players become complacent either, so I have to make their fight a challenge. I don’t control everything; the dice decide who lives and dies. I set up the story; the dice determine the outcome. I narrate, barely able to maintain my composure as the gnoll takes his turn, leaping from hero to hero until only Sam’s ranger is standing. I know he’s far from the strongest in the group, and the gnoll will eviscerate him if I don’t act now. I have to think fast. My brain is on fire, speeding through the internal compendium of rules for a way to help as Sam begins his attack: The ranger nocks an arrow, aims straight at the beast’s head and misses. A stunned silence fills the dining room. Desperate eyes turn to me for any sign of hope. I flip through my notes,

pretending to look for an answer. I hope they don’t notice the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Finally I take a deep breath and decide that the dreams of heroes are worth far more than anything the die randomly determines. Surrounded by a silence alien to our games, I narrate what they have lost. Elena’s rogue will never bring honor to her guild or challenge her childhood rival. Max’s warrior will never discover the origin of his brother’s debilitating powers. Rylee’s prince will never reclaim his rightful place on his kingdom’s throne and free his people from subjugation. Sam’s ranger will never again see his wife and newly adopted daughter. Tears fill the eyes of the players as their failure sinks in. But I know I can’t end it there. “As you remember your missions, you realize that you have too much to lose to be taken down by some beast, and with the memory of your goals and your loved ones, you each find the strength to fight.” Each of them merely exchange understanding nods. “And Sam,” I continue, “as the memory of your promise to Enna and Caroline surfaces in your mind, you realize that it can’t be over. No, you won’t let it be over. Make another attack roll.” He smiles and picks up the die, confidently tossing it onto the table as we all look on in suspense: a fifteen, just enough to hit

Personal Narrative 29

DUNGEON MASTER’S DUTY Aiden Kaplan ’21

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F inal E m b r ac e, T ri ni t y C l ay ’21 acrylic

Personal Narrative 29

philosotea diplomacy sarai deese ’21

’m four. Dressed to impress in a pink ruffled dress and a rainbow flower crown, my auburn curls bouncing gently at my shoulders. The antique doorbell echoes through the cavernous entryway into the house we share with my grandparents. I sneak across the ocean blue carpet. I am a diplomat. We rarely get visitors, but these guests come like clockwork: 10 a.m. on Thursday mornings. My mom motions to get set up for tea. Diligently, I grab Earl Grey and English breakfast bags, set the kettle and watch as Mom moistens her port and sanitizes the kitchen table, which at any other time would be cluttered with bills and house drafts. Now it’s more reflective than the window beside it. Smells like spoiled oranges. Becky and Lillian, representatives from another world, enter trailing IV poles and pumps like anchors behind them. My eyes and lips scrunch up, focused on faces. My grandmother and mom’s lips curl upward into a polite smile. Now it is time for a four-hour tea party, interrupted occasionally by taking vitals and false finishes of infusion machines. Raising my pinky, sipping from a piping hot porcelain teacup. Listening as they discuss medications, aches and pains and the fifty-fifty chance my brother could have the same illness. Blue pens chart symptoms on clipboards. Pink markers draw sailboats

on whiteboards. This is my introduction to case studies and Mendelian genetics. I’m twelve. I step foot onto a college campus for the first time, backpack weighed down by biology books and suture kits. Instantly I am at home. For what feels like the first time in my life, I meet people who are genuinely curious about the world around them. As my dad drives towards my hometown over a thousand miles away, I listen to Hamilton and hum, tapping rhythmically on the

“

I am here to learn about the cell, entirely unprepared to argue Western Philosophy.

”

wooden desk. I look over to see a group of heads peeking into my doorway. “Hey, Sarai. My name is Ingrid, and these are some of my pals from Dissent. Would you like to get lunch?” Enthusiastically, I grab my day bag. As we snatch mugs of lemon citrus tea and head down the spiral staircase into the basement with orange and red circular booths, my new friends start arguing with each other. Arguing? Aren’t they friends? At most, we’ve all been here for two hours.

This argument is unlike any that I’d ever experienced: Ingrid passionately shouting about how Aristotle says knowledge comes from experience, while Sage and Foster retaliate with Socratic teachings that knowledge is innate, and the mind is separable from the body after death. Apparently this started because Ingrid said babies are basically parasites. Listen, I am here to learn about the cell, entirely unprepared to argue Western philosophy. But I am intrigued. They want to know my thoughts. My thoughts? Well, I contribute the only way I know how. I mumble something incoherent, sitting cross-legged on the floor clutching my generic ceramic cup, about how since babies steal nutrients from their mothers, biologically they are parasites. Ingrid passes her arm around my shoulders and says, “Look at this child. Gaining knowledge from experience.” I feel out of place, yet oddly connected. My knowledge does not match theirs, but my perspective adds interesting angles. That first summer they teach me Greeks and groupthink. Next summer I will be prepared. I will listen to fewer musicals and more philosophy podcasts. I will start keeping up with the news—following blue, red and green. Chemistry is a background. I will learn about rhetoric and philosophy.

We will meet twice a day, every day, for three weeks each year. We call our little club PhilosoTEA. Each time around a dozen of us will gather around the same orange couch, sharing laughs, stories and tea. I’ll learn that we argue, not fight. I’m fourteen. It’s 2 p.m. I spent the early morning leading a hospital event at the museum; had a workout and an archery competition. I clumsily remove curls from my messy bun and trade jet black sneakers for heels. I squint my eyes at the passenger seat mirror and mash cakey foundation and rosy blush onto my cheeks. I plop a sleeve of my finest homemade Trader Joe’s macarons into a canvas tote bag and rush to my friend’s house. When I arrive, we start setting up her kitchen. Today is our once-a-month tea party. I take out the antique tea set and dainty platters. I dress the table in the finest table cloth of all, the one with the pearly lace skirt. I line engraved silverware like soldiers for eight settings. All of our friends come dressed up in button-downs or dresses. We put our hodgepodge of snacks on the table, the Cheetos Puffs delicately placed next to the tea sandwiches, the cans of Redbull next to the chai lattes. For the next six hours, we pretend to be put together. We converse about school and theatre and Science Olympiad. The conga lines in biology

and the girl who tumbled down the east stairwell. Gradually, the conversation shifts to climate change and financial stress and the upcoming election. It’s serious. We’re serious. Once again, I am clutching my tea and talking about things I don’t understand. Eventually the sky settles into a deep sea-blue sanded with stars. Our conversations are less serious now. We lay on picnic blankets, resting our heads against one another’s chests, playing cards, blowing bubbles. I pipe in with fun facts about bubble’s phospholipid bilayers and get jokingly booed. I grin. I am welcome here. I’m sixteen. It’s 8 p.m., and I’m exhausted. Once again I have overscheduled myself: museum work in the morning, archery in the afternoon, theatre at night. No breaks. On my way to the show, I pick up a sealed cup of oolong with boba bubbles, a milk cap and an extra shot of caffeine. I turn on the lighting board, do a channel check of all the lights and make sure the rest of my crew is on the way. I pop on a philosophy podcast and jot my thoughts on a yellow Post-It next to notes about macromolecules. These will be popular in our PhilosoTEA chat. I loosely shake my tea, swirl clinking ice and enjoy the quiet before the audience pours in. I am satisfied. I am complete Po r c el ain, L i sa Z h ang ’22 w at e rco lo r

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philosotea diplomacy sarai deese ’21

“

I am here to learn about the cell, entirely unprepared to argue Western Philosophy.

”

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Personal Narrative 31

my house is

Ten was a thrill. HBO played Raiders of the Lost Ark on Sundays, and snow days were liquid and godlike. I could never remember when we’d crated the Christmas decorations, as if ghost hands murmured through the tinsel and ushered it away in secret— only that one yellow morning, I would blink the static out of my eyes, and the living room would be bare. Hollyless. Even if snowdrifts reclaimed the walls around me, I still would lay curled in front of Indiana Jones in the cradle of our leather couch. January pooled under the drying socks on the radiator and dribbled out of the rickety washing machine like the waning days of bitten windows and bare trees tracked onto the flecked carpet. We soaked our coats making sleds on the black ice. Undaunted, we constructed angels and snowmen in short sleeves. Now I crate away the holly, dry the coats, and shake the ghosts of wet snow out of the house. Gray slush blurs the roofs and driveways. For the first time, when I crunch onto the brick porch, I shiver. - Ella Rasmussen ’21

S ant a Paw s, A di t i D u m p al a ’22 acrylic

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Poetry 33

my house is

S ant a Paw s, A di t i D u m p al a ’22 acrylic

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Poetry 33

JOJO’S BIZARRE REGRET Marcos Martinez ’23

“Usa ese dinero para comida.” My mother’s voice echoed through my head. The exchange was fresh in my mind, reminding me to be wise and save my money for lunch when I was out with my friends that day. I met her rather reasonable request with an act of defiance, responding to her as if she had somehow attempted to demean me. “That’s a given, Mom,” I replied. “I’m almost a high school freshman. You don’t need to remind me to use my money for food.” I was miffed. I was fourteen years old. Fourteen. And everyone knows that fourteen years old is the absolute peak of emotional and mental maturity, and high school freshmen have sage-like levels of wisdom. I would be fine. Just fine. I stepped out of my mother’s car in front of the mall. A downpour drenched everything in its vicinity that wasn’t protected by the indoors. Like a mighty shield, my umbrella kept me dry from the hundreds of cold droplets that

would have otherwise stabbed through my clothing. I stood on the curb, preparing to walk away from my mother’s vehicle, when she spoke with a voice more prominent than the downpour, “You remember what I said, verdad?” she asked. “Si, si,” I muttered hastily, turning my feet around toward the entrance of the mall. “Use the money for lunch. I get it.” I heard a faint “I love you” as I neared the entrance. I shouted it back of course, though the pitter-patter of the rain drowned my words. I rushed into the safety of the cool, calm conditions inside the mall, which immediately made me feel safe. But I felt patronized. She was still treating me like a child. It stung. I sighed. It didn’t really matter now. I heard someone call my name from near the entrance, and I felt relieved. It was Patrick, the first of my friends to get there. “Marcos, dude!” he called. “Patrick, my guy!” A few hours passed while my friends and I traversed a majority of the mall. There seemed to be no end to the walking: entering stores that seemed interesting on the outside, then leaving because there was nothing to look at

inside. Occasionally one of my friends would buy a thing or two. I, of course, was saving my money—my money was for lunch, and I didn’t plan on making any irresponsible decisions. But otherwise it was walking nonstop. Just constant walking. I enjoyed chitchat with my friends, but my body can barely handle doing five push-ups. This much walking was getting to me. As we approached the food court, Patrick was telling a story that captivated the attention of my friends. His words, however, faded into the back of my mind as my stomach began to rumble, and the smells of the food court attracted my attention instead. I remembered the words of my mother: “Use this money for lunch.” I planned to ask the group if we could stop for lunch after Patrick finished telling his story. I was right, I thought to myself. I don’t need Mom to tell me that I need to save my money. I know it’s common sense. In my head I felt that I had won the argument. I was sick and tired of being treated like a child. I was in high school, after all, old enough to not have to be constantly reminded of how to save my money. Patrick finished his story, and I opened my mouth, prepared to ask if we could stop to eat. Before the words could leave my mouth, though, a voice

interrupted my thought process. “Ooh, wait, look at that store!” Alex’s voice. Always so enthusiastic. Of course going to one more store couldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t take more than a minute or two. Then I’d ask to go get lunch. “Aww, that’s cute,” I’d said as I watched some of the things they admired as they poked around the store. They did look pretty cool. However, I simply followed my friends around, not saying a word. While they wasted money, I kept

“I put it on, and for a moment, felt honor, joy, satisfaction, happiness, hubris, excitement, pride...” my money in my pocket. My money wasn’t to be wasted on gadgets or toys or plushies or art pieces and whatnot. I knew exactly what my money was fo— “Is that a JoJo’s lanyard?” Alex shouted. “JoJo’s what now?” “Yeah, Marcos,” he said, excitedly. “Come on, look here!” Alex pointed at a stand, and sure enough, the lanyard hung from its hook, tantalizing me with its endless

intrigue and ineffable glory. The lanyard was designed off a popular Japanese animated television show that we were all into—JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure. It was, quite literally, my life for the entirety of eighth grade. Cute pictures of iconic characters like Joseph Joestar, Jotaro Kujo, Dio Brando, Jean Pierre Polnareff, Mohammed Avdol—one could go on. To put it simply, these flamboyant characters covered the lanyard, scattered across a JoJo’s themed background. I was in love with it. But it was more complex than simply admiring its design. I remembered how Crestdale Middle School had mandated lanyard usage along with your school identification card. One could only assume that the high school I would be attending in a few weeks, Providence High School, would have similarly strict rules. Wearing this would allow me to express myself. Despite the incredibly strict rules on school identification cards, I could still stand out from the rest of the crowd rather than have no individuality, with the added bonus of showing off my nerdy personality. I was enamored by the beauty of the lanyard. My thoughts of hunger went away as my hand reached for it. “I thought you were saving your money for food,” Alex said.

E nt h u siasm , E l l a R asm u ssen ’21 d ig it al

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Personal Narrative 35

JOJO’S BIZARRE REGRET Marcos Martinez ’23

E nt h u siasm , E l l a R asm u ssen ’21 d ig it al

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Personal Narrative 35

JOJO’S BIZARRE REGRET Continued

“Nah,” I replied, no longer thinking rationally at all. “Screw the food.” I looked the cashier in the eye, slammed all of the money that I had onto the counter, and smiled. “Ma’am, may I please buy this?” The next thing I knew, the lanyard was in my hands. I put it on and, for a moment, felt honor, joy, satisfaction, happiness, hubris, excitement, pride... …and then I realized what I had done about two minutes later when we left the store. “Are you sure you don’t want to eat?” Alex set a tray of mochi ice cream on the table, motioning for me to take one. Despite the smile, his furrowed brow told me that he was worried about me. I shook my head. “It’s fine. I’m not really hungry.” “You sure?” Alex asked. “I mean, I really don’t even like this stuff that much. And you wasted all that money on your lanyard there. I don’t really want you to go hungry.” I looked around me and saw that all of my other friends were eating something from Bojangles, our favorite fast food restaurant. And the mochi ice cream was tempting. I sighed as my stomach started to hurt from the lack of food. My mother was right. I didn’t listen to her, and now I was

36 Roars & Whispers

paying the price. I didn’t really want to admit I was wrong, though. “I’m sure,” I said after a few moments of contemplation. Accepting the offer would mean that I accepted the fact that I made a mistake, and I refused to admit that I was wrong. “Suit yourself.” Alex shoved two pieces of mochi ice cream into his mouth. I watched as all of my other friends, just as exhausted as I was, gulped down their seasoned fries and chicken wings. I was on my phone trying to hide my jealousy, when Patrick tapped my shoulder. His concern was the same as Alex’s. “Dude, are you sure you’re not hungry? If you want, I can give you some of my fries.” “Very sure, my guy.” I was too modest to accept. I didn’t want the purchase to appear as irresponsible as it actually was. Patrick shrugged his shoulders and went back to finishing his fries. I let out another sigh as I watched the lanyard dangle around my neck. Upon getting home, I hung the lanyard up on my nightstand. “On the first day of high school,” I told myself, “I’ll be sure to wear this.” I grabbed an ice cream sandwich from the freezer and fell onto my bed.

Geez. I really was being a stuck-up brat, I told myself. I really did act all high and mighty for nothing. Maybe I did have more to learn. Perhaps I was a bit too young. Perhaps I still did have the mindset of a small middle schooler. As embarrassed as I was to admit it, I had been unwise. The first day of school was in about two weeks. Quite anxiety-inducing. One can only imagine how anxietyinducing it must have actually been, though, when I walked into school and saw that not a single person had a lanyard on but me. Shockingly, Providence High School did not rule over its students like Crestdale, which acted as a supreme dictator over the denizens of his country. Wearing lanyards with your name tag was not mandated. Nowhere did it say lanyards were even recommended to be worn at all. And so I stuck out like a sore thumb with my dumb lanyard on my neck. For the first few days, I felt embarrassed to have ever worn it. However, as I became accustomed to Providence’s social setting, I realized that it was far less judgmental of uniqueness than other institutions. Most people didn’t really care. And I did not starve that day for me to wear that lanyard thrice

and to then never wear it ever again while it pathetically gathered dust in my room. So I donned the lanyard. Every single day. Most of my friends at least knew what JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure was, and at the end of the day, they were really the only people I interacted with. Whatever embarrassment I felt didn’t matter when it was just my friends. Whenever I wore it, I thought of that day. Of how I had immaturely acted. Of how I bore the mindset of a middle school child and not quite one of someone who really is mature. Most of my friends were upperclassmen who also attended Crestdale. And so I listened intently when my friend said, “Dude, you kinda act like a middle schooler.” Shocked, I said, “Really?” “Kinda,” she replied. She grinned as if her comment was meant to be humorous. “No offense, man. But you kinda do. It’s all in your mannerisms.” “Nah. No way. What makes you say that?” “Well, for one, you wear a lanyard to school.” She pointed at the pretty JoJo’s lanyard that I had worn for about a month and a half at that point. “That’s a really Crestdale kid thing to do. And the lanyard has pictures of JoJo’s characters

on it.” She paused to take a bite off a cracker. “Like, come on. That’s just making it obvious.” I was well aware of the joke she was making. I found myself genuinely chuckling at her comment. Yet to me, the lanyard was a reminder of those days. I wore it solely out of habit at this point. And, of course, it was also a reminder of my middle-school-level idiocy. Of thinking my mother was patronizing me by offering her kind advice when I ended up going back on my word and pulling a rather idiotic move. How could

“And so, I stuck out, like a sore thumb, with my dumb lanyard on my neck.” I ever move on, mature and improve from my idiotic actions if I constantly reminded myself of them? By October my interest in the series was fading away. Yet I smiled whenever I thought of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure. The lanyard was a nice reminder of how obsessed I was in my middle school days. I left it in my nightstand without a second thought. Many months passed. In the middle of a pandemic, my family elected to move houses. The day at the mall was just a distant memory. It was certainly depressing to have

to do so much work in the middle of such gloomy times, especially with school beginning in a few days. Seeing my room get emptier and emptier was a depressing sight. I wasn’t enthusiastic about moving. Box after box, memory after memory. I hadn’t been to the mall in what felt like years, and I hadn’t seen my friends in an equal amount of time. One by one, I placed my possessions into boxes, preparing for the move. I didn’t put much thought into the stacking of different books, journals and objects until I found the lanyard. It just sat there covered in dust. A remnant of a time where the world was not taken aback by a global pandemic. A remnant of the times with my friends. Of growing up. I really missed them, and I also missed how we had all bonded over an overly dramatic Japanese television show. The lanyard reminded me of how much I had changed. Thinking about the lanyard, the day at the mall, my friends, how mad I was at myself at the time for wasting my lunch money on a dumb lanyard, my once grand love for JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, realizing my mother was being rational, and the fear that I’d never mature from my middle school self… I just couldn’t help but smile

Personal Narrative 37

JOJO’S BIZARRE REGRET Continued

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Personal Narrative 37

chasing

butterflies Lisa Zhang ’22

Once, I chased a butterfly to the edge of a frozen field. I followed behind as it fluttered past snow-powdered boughs, wondering how its paper-thin wings could withstand the icy numbness of the Colorado winter. Behind my house was a patch of woods, and behind that was a meadow, usually verdant and sprinkled with blue columbine but graying with winter frost at this time of year. Farther out was a lake, already starting to thaw at the center but still frozen at the perimeters. The wintry chill had not yet departed, but the sun-soaked skies were slowly dissolving the remnants of the last snowstorm. Icicles longer than my fingers hung from the eaves and bare branches of the Gambel oaks in my yard. I spotted the butterfly one morning by the edge of the woods. It was a mourning cloak, a striking maroon with royal blue spots like rhinestones and ochre edges like lace trim. Against a backdrop washed with silver, it was something fresh, something I had never seen before in my few short years on this earth. It was partly the way the sunlight shone on its iridescent edges and partly just the instinctive curiosity of a child

that drew me toward it, the type of curiosity that burgeons from the safe and familiar and compels you to reach out and seek elucidation. From the comfort of this crystalline landscape sprung an inquisitive mind, flourishing under the surveying gaze of timehonored centerpieces: lofty pines and imposing firs, conifers of immortality, holding steadfast to the same soil year after year. I trailed behind the mourning cloak intently, hoping to catch up and get a closer look at the anomaly. Though it floated freely beyond the range of my outstretched hand, I still pursued, clinging on with a childlike determination that could never be extinguished. At last it disappeared into the shadows beyond the field, and I found myself by the edge of the pearly lake. My curiosity had taken me far, and from the distance I heard the sound of my mother calling, her voice pulling me back like a rubber band. It was time to head home, but that didn’t mean leaving behind a perceptive mind and an appetite for inquiry. My tendency for self-initiated exploration has never ceased. Each day I find myself still chasing novelty, still chasing butterflies

L a Mar ip o sa, A m y Z h ang ’23 in k an d w at e rco lo r

38 Roars & Whispers

Personal Narrative 39

chasing

butterflies Lisa Zhang ’22

L a Mar ip o sa, A m y Z h ang ’23 in k an d w at e rco lo r

38 Roars & Whispers

Personal Narrative 39

mary The annual release of summer allows me to prance across my street without lugging my backpack for study sessions. I make the left-hand turn into her cul-de-sac, second house on the left. Back at my house, she collapses onto my L-shaped sofa and shouts lyrics to this summer’s number one hit. Her words soar over the stagnant TV drama that we flicked on to pass the time. I’d rather hear her clamorous singing than a cheesy soap script anyway. Once the moon lifts itself into the sky and gleams through my big bay windows, we slide on our broken-in, suede Birkenstocks and begin our regular stroll. The familiar pear-tree-lined street fosters our usual ninety-eight steps. Our flashlights pierce the dark humid air, revealing busy mosquitoes and idle pollen where Aquarius and Big Dipper light our sidewalk path. As we round the bend, her steps slow, one for every second. The air between us thickens as we meet her garage door. I grasp her hands, squeezing them twice before she steps inside. As she waves from her bedroom window, air retreats from my lungs with a hope that these evenings have no ending as they had no beginning. - Maeve Beck ’22

40 Roars & Whispers

S eig ant o - j i T em p l e, A ndrew T u z ’22 o il

Poetry 41

40 Roars & Whispers

S eig ant o - j i T em p l e, A ndrew T u z ’22 o il

Poetry 41

ack when the sky was blue and petals fell from the trees like snow flurries, the neighborhood children would run and scream as a pack of wolves. Felicity Abott stayed inside, alone with her grandmother and an old sheepdog that nipped at her ankles. The first time I saw her, I was eight. After moving in, I was quickly introduced to all the kids in the neighborhood. We collected bottle caps back then. I held my Target bag full of caps and saw her. She had her flame red hair in a bun and her arm around the sheepdog, which was barely shorter than her. She stared at me for a moment, with mossy graygreen eyes, and then ran back inside. One of the boys, Jack, put his hand on my shoulder. “There’s no use talking to that girl. She never comes outside,” he said. Then his voice melted to a whisper. “Some people say she’s a witch. That’s why she lives with her gramma and never leaves her house.” My eyes widened. “A witch?” “Witch! Witch! Witch! Witch!” He kept chanting, and some of the other kids joined in. We were all huddled around her brick house with ivy crawling up the sides, screaming and chanting. I tried to keep my mouth shut, but the word got caught in my throat as it swirled around like a violent storm. The next time I saw her, a month or so had passed. She lived right next door to me, so if I squinted hard enough, I could see her through the fence separating our yards. I was hiding a bag of bottle caps behind an oak tree when I caught a glimpse of her. Her hair was down, and she was prodding around the overgrown weeds and vines with a stick

THE ENDLESS

STAIRCASE RUBY DAVIS ’23

42 Roars & Whispers

covered in turquoise lichen. I stood on my tip toes, soggy sneaker sliding around on the grass. “Felicity,” I whispered. She turned her head, and her eyes widened like she’d seen a ghost. “Please don’t run away. Please.” She bit her lip and inched toward the fence. Her fingers coiled tightly over her stick, bits of lichen crumbling off. I could barely see her legs through all the bramble. “You promise you won’t make fun of me?” I nodded and smiled. “Promise.” “What do you want?” she asked. “Can I ask you a question?” “Okay.” She stepped up onto the fence, her face only inches from mine. She had a button nose covered in fawn brown freckles. Her lips curled into a pale pink Cupid’s bow. “Are you really a witch? Like all the boys say you are?” She shrugged her shoulders and tapped the stick against the fence. “Depends on how I’m feeling.” “What do you mean?” I picked off some of the wood from the fence. “Sometimes I’m a witch. Sometimes I’m an astronaut or a scientist or an artist or a fireman. It depends on how I’m feeling.” I blinked and looked down at my feet. “Can I ask you another question?” She nodded. “How come you never come outside?” “I do. I’m outside right now. I just don’t like all those other kids. They aren’t very nice.” She sucked in her breath a little. A smile grew on her face, forming deep dimples. “You seem alright, though.” We made it a habit to climb up the fence. All the neighborhood kids slowly drifted away from me, but I never drifted

from Felicity. Every afternoon, just as the sun began to set and the horizon began to fade into an orange flame, we’d lean over the fence and talk. Sometimes fifteen minutes, sometimes hours. One evening, when we were fourteen, she smiled and said, “Can I show you something?” “Of course,” I said. “Hop the fence.” She jumped down and adjusted her floral dress. I swung my leg over to the top so I was sitting. Then I jumped. The bramble scraped against my legs, and Felicity held her hand out for me. We ran up the porch stairs and through her screen door. Her house was dark and smelled of sage. The walls were painted with fairytale-esque flowers and brilliant purples. The floor creaked with every step. In the kitchen, a room with wide open windows and lavender tiles, stood Felicity’s grandmother. I had never seen her before. She had scraggly white hairs that stuck out all around her head as if they had been brushed with static. She had on a yellow dress and leather sandals and the same green-gray eyes as Felicity. Her face was round and kind. “Who’s this?” she asked. Her grandmother looked me up and down, as if inspecting me. She made a “hmph” sound and turned her back on us. “You know the consequences all too well, Felicity.” “I know, Gramma.” She squeezed my hand and started to walk. She led me into the hallway, where the lights were on and houseplants hung from the ceiling. Felicity curled her free hand around a wooden door at the end of the hall and opened it. A staircase led down into a

land of pitch dark. “Please tell me we’re not going down those,” I said. Felicity grinned and let go of my hand. “I can go first.” Felicity clambered down the stairs. Each time her foot landed, a wicked creak erupted from the step. She kept walking until I couldn’t even see her, not her shining auburn hair nor the flowers on her dress. “Are you coming?” asked her disembodied voice. I sighed. “Yes?” Her harmonious laugh echoed from the hall. I could listen to her laugh for hours. I followed it, tracing my hand against the rough stone walls. I couldn’t hear her walking anymore, but I still kept going. I squinted my eyes and saw the slight outline of her

T h e L o o king G l ass, L i v K ni gh t ’23 co lo re d p e n cil

Fiction 43

THE ENDLESS

STAIRCASE RUBY DAVIS ’23

42 Roars & Whispers

T h e L o o king G l ass, L i v K ni gh t ’23 co lo re d p e n cil

Fiction 43

THE ENDLESS

STAIRCASE continued

44 Roars & Whispers

arm. My fingers curled around hers. “We’re almost there,” she said, holding onto my hand tightly. “Do you just have an endless staircase in your house?” I asked with a laugh. “Maybe,” she said. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I could hear the smile in her voice. I’m not sure how long we walked, but somewhere, around halfway down the stairs, the hall dimly lit up. After a while I was able to see the lines on Felicity’s face and the grain of the wood. At the bottom of the stairs, there was a door with bright white light shining through all of the edges. “Are you ready?” Felicity asked. “Am I ever?” She laughed at that. “You have to remember, you can’t tell anyone about this. It’s dangerous for people to know.” “Then why are you bringing me?” “Because I trust you.” She held her pinky out to me. “Swear on it.” I wrapped my pinky around hers. “I swear.” She turned the doorknob with her free hand. Outside was a pure lavender sky, no ground to hold anything back, just what looked like a platform of stones and flowers floating in midair. Stars twinkled in the periwinkle air. “How—” “Just follow me,” she said with a laugh. She grabbed my other hand and pulled me out of the hall and into the

open sky. “Where are we?” “Does it matter?” She let go of my hands and ran, cartwheeling down the path. “Maybe we’re nowhere,” she screamed. The “nowhere” echoed through the nothingness. I started to run after her, my body feeling empty as if I were nothing, lighter than air. My smile felt bigger than it ever had before. I eventually caught up to her. “What do you want to be?” Felicity asked. “What do you mean?” “You can be anything. It’s infinite.” She smiled, dimples seeming to glow in the light. “Watch.” Her shoulder blades stretched out into the sky. Thick white feathers erupted from her back. She flapped her newfound wings, not caring about the tears in her dress. “How is that even possible?” I asked. My eyes were wide and sparkling in awe. “How do you decide what’s possible?” she asked with a smile. “People tell you?” “I guess,” I said, looking down at my feet. “Just try. You can be whatever you want. There are no rules here.” I thought really hard. I shut my eyes like they do in the movies, but nothing happened. Felicity put her arms on my shoulders, her wings casting a shadow

over both of our faces. “Don’t think about it. Just be.” I inhaled, my chest swelling. My hands twitched at my side. I felt light again, like not even gravity could hold me down. I’ll never know for sure, but I’m almost certain that I turned into the sea. I couldn’t hear or see anything at all, but I could feel the sand beneath my feet. Seashells whisked through my arms and legs. Waves crashed against my feet and inside of my stomach. I could feel the fish swim with every current. I felt much older. Like I’d seen everything pass me by. Generations of people sit on my shore. Millions of birds and animals make homes in the sands. I was only the ocean for a moment. Or what felt like a moment. Felicity stood ahead of me in awe. “That was amazing,” she cried. “You’re a natural. It usually takes a while for anyone to forget what they’ve learned outside.” “How many people have you brought down here?” I asked. “Not many. Sometimes Gramma brings people, but she usually tells them it’s some sort of simulated experience or something. She makes good money off of it.” “That’s crazy,” I said. “How often do you come down here?” “Almost everyday,” she said. I concentrated for a few seconds and stretched my fingers out until they were

as long as my legs. Felicity laughed at that. She kept messing around too, turning her head into a dog’s or growing flowers out of the bottom of her feet. “We should start heading back soon,” I said. “My mom is probably looking for me.” Felicity stuck her bottom lip out and sighed. “Yeah…Can you come back tomorrow? It gets lonely by myself.” “Of course,” I said. We ran back to the door and up the stairs. They felt shorter going up them. A changing staircase didn’t seem that strange in comparison to the rest of what

“ HOW DO YOU

DECIDE WHAT’S POSSIBLE? ”

I’d seen. At the top of the stairs, I hugged Felicity and walked back home. My mother was standing on the front porch. She had crossed arms and stone cold eyes. “Where exactly were you?” she snapped. “I was over at Felicity’s,” I said. “Who?” “The girl next door. Felicity.” I pointed to the house to the left. “With the red hair.” “Very funny.” She glared at me and pointed to the door. “If you’re planning to keep messing around, you can go to

your room.” “I wasn’t—” “You know very well no one lives there.” “But—” “Now!” she screamed. I decided it would be better not to argue. I slumped my back and sighed. I quickly slid past my mother and into the house. My bedroom door was open already. I looked out the window at the big oak tree. A tiny slip of paper was taped to my window. It was folded in half. I opened it quickly. I’m sorry this is so quick. I know it’s only been a few minutes for you. I had to leave as fast as I could. I left something for you in the oak tree. When I see you again, Felicity I opened my window and crawled outside. The house was only one story, but my ankles still burned when I hit the ground. I ran to the oak tree as fast as I could. Hanging on one of the branches was a plastic Target bag. I pulled it off and looked inside. There must have been a hundred bottle caps and one pearly white feather sitting on top. I pulled the feather out. Holding it, I could hear Felicity’s laugh and see her red hair and feel her fingers. I haven’t seen her since. Every once and a while, I drive by the old house, just to see if she’s there. I think maybe, just maybe, this time she will be

Fiction 45

THE ENDLESS

STAIRCASE continued

44 Roars & Whispers

“ HOW DO YOU

DECIDE WHAT’S POSSIBLE? ”

Fiction 45

VIOLET

RIME

Our seeds grew from dark earth, a world unknowing of the sun’s embrace a few feet above. Roots held firm; stems pushed upward out of curiosity alone until our faces shone clear in the first light of spring. But bugs and birds are so quick to devour anything soft and new and defenseless against the scorching droughts and maggot blights looming beyond the haven of the nursery. All the survivors hardened off before long, sprouting poison spines to chase away the hurt of bleeding leaves and terminal scars. Pushing, crowding, the weaklings failed to reach the light and withered in the shadows of their peers. The tallest were morbidly aware of this; they were no less helpless. Darwin demanded they grow taller still. We aren’t felons yet; no fruit hangs heavy on our branches. We are young and green, guilty only of a violet crime. - Kira Britt ’22

46 Roars & Whispers

I nj u st ic e, Morgan Sanders ’21 acrylic

Poetry 47

VIOLET

RIME

46 Roars & Whispers

I nj u st ic e, Morgan Sanders ’21 acrylic

Poetry 47

Caprice

RAECHEL WU ’23

he violin case was starting to grow heavy in Julian’s hand. The rhythmic pounding of his feet on the stairs echoed throughout the stairwell. The flickering fluorescent lights cast dark shadows over him, making the steep, cramped staircase seem even smaller. Pausing at the doorway to the tenth floor, he worked to control his wheezing breath. Julian caught sight of his reflection in the small window that overlooked the busy parking lot. He raked a shaking hand through his disheveled blonde hair in an attempt to force the wayward strands into place. “If you can look impressive,” his father used to say to him before auditions, “you can sound impressive.” Julian pushed open the heavy door. The white of the brightly lit hallway released another wave of nausea in his stomach. Tightening his grip on the case, he walked down the hall, scanning the room numbers until he got to room 1024. He took a deep breath and knocked. “Come in,” came a man’s voice. The metal handle was cold against his sweaty palms as he swung open the door. The man was sitting in a chair at the far end of the white room. His once-brown hair was graying, and his neatly trimmed

beard framed an aged face deeply etched with wrinkles. His clear blue eyes were fixed on Julian. “Hello,” he said simply. “H-hello.” Julian stuttered. There was an awkward silence. “I’ve, um, come to play a piece for you today. I hope you enjoy it.” The man only nodded. Julian fumbled open the latches on the black case and undid the straps that held the bow in place. With trembling fingers, he tightened and rosined his bow. He gently raised the instrument from where it rested in the velvet-lined case and slipped on the shoulder rest. Lifting the violin to his chin, he methodically tuned the strings. All the while, the man watched intently, silently, eagle-like. And then he began to play. The boy drew the bow across the strings, letting the first raspy notes fade into the gentle melody of the piece. He closed his eyes in concentration. Slide up the fingerboard, put pressure on the double stops, vibrato on the half note, let the sound melt away—he heard his father’s voice coaching him in his head as he played. His final chord cut through the air and reverberated throughout the room, lingering even after Julian lowered the

violin from his shoulder. The man, who had sat transfixed through the performance, suddenly stood up. “That was quite impressive,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Was that Korsakov?” “No sir,” Julian corrected timidly. “It was Paganini. One of his caprices.” Once upon a time, the man would have recognized the piece instantly. “That was very impressive,” the man repeated. He then went quiet. Julian began to pack up his instrument. He had barely placed the bow back in its place when the man abruptly spoke. “I like your shirt.” “Thank you, sir.” He waited for the man to say more. “I used to tell my students before their auditions that if you can look impressive, you can sound impressive,” the man said. “You’ve done both, er—” “Julian.” “Julian. You’ve done both, Julian,” he said with a small smile. “I enjoyed that.” “Thank you.” The man then sat staring at his feet, the smile lingering on his face. Silently, Julian slipped out. As he gently closed the hospital door, he wondered if maybe his father would remember him tomorrow. Just maybe

S y nt h esia, Jo nat h an O b el e ’23 d ig it al

48 Roars & Whispers

Fiction 49

Caprice

RAECHEL WU ’23

S y nt h esia, Jo nat h an O b el e ’23 d ig it al

48 Roars & Whispers

Fiction 49

Emma Washburn ’22

he little girl watched as the old man scraped barnacles off the bottom of his house, the small white shells dropping like fallen stars into the water, dancing just below the floor. The ocean was inches away from soaking the worn hardwood barely visible behind the man. She frowned, her eyebrows pressed together as she tried to make sense of how a house could be built in the middle of the ocean. But she had rowed to this nowhere herself on a plastic toy boat, so she assumed that the world must be a very interesting place if one just cares to look around. She decided to get a bit closer. “Hello,” she yelled, waving a hand up in the air. The sleeve of the jacket she’d stolen from her mother fell down her arm and bunched up around her shoulder. The old man looked up from what he was doing, raising a hand so he could block the sun from his view. “Oh, hello there! What brings you here?” The little girl rowed closer. “I’m exploring the ocean! I’m a sailor.” “Ah, the ocean! An interesting place. This right here,” the man said, patting the side of his home with a wrinkled hand, “is prime real estate for an oceanlover.” She nodded. She didn’t know what prime real estate was but assumed he knew what he was talking about. Old

people are wise. “How’d you build it so it was in the water?” the little girl asked. “Ah, I didn’t build it. But come inside. I haven’t had a guest in years!” The little girl knew that strangers were dangerous, but the old man seemed familiar, and she’d never seen such a strange house before. She rowed closer, stepped up out of the plastic tub and stumbled through the open door. The old man was bustling about in the kitchen straight ahead, and two other doors

“

The little girl furrowed her brows. She’d never heard of choosing a name for yourself before.

”

flanked her sides. She pulled her boat out of the water and set it inside since there was no dock to tie it to. Sitting down on her heels, she ran a finger along the scratched red plastic. The manufacturer’s name had long since worn off. “Would you like English breakfast or chamomile?” the old man called. The little girl stood up quickly, walking toward the right to face the kitchen. If she turned left, she would face the small dining room table and a window that opened to the outside. A teapot sat

on the stove, and the old man held two different metal containers of tea. “Chamomile,” the little girl said, mouth set firmly but eyes darting around the room. Almost every surface in the entire house was covered with stacks upon stacks of leather-bound books. “Take a seat; take a seat! The tea will be done in no time.” The little girl tapped her heels together, sitting atop five different novels so she could see over the worn tabletop. Sipping his cup delicately, the old man took a deep breath as steam rose out to fill the thousand wrinkles that marred his skin. The little girl didn’t touch hers. She didn’t care for tea, but she supposed it was rude to deny a gift. “What’s your name?” she asked, drumming her hands over the table. “I don’t know. I haven’t quite thought of one yet. You can call me grandfather, if you’d like.” The little girl furrowed her brows. She’d never heard of choosing a name for yourself before. “Grandfather,” she repeated, “like the clock.” The old man’s mouth was hidden behind the chipped ivory of his drink, but the wrinkles that curled up around his eyes sunk deeper than bowing waves, his eyes sparkling like sunlight glinting A s S h e F l o w s, L i nnea E l i sab et h B ornka st Mei er ’21 acrylic

50 Roars & Whispers

Fiction 51

Emma Washburn ’22

The little girl furrowed her brows. She’d never heard of choosing a name for yourself before. flanked her sides. She pulled her boat out of the water and set it inside since there was no dock to tie it to. Sitting down on her heels, she ran a finger along the scratched red plastic. The manufacturer’s name had long since worn off. “Would you like English breakfast or chamomile?” the old man called. The little girl stood up quickly, walking toward the right to face the kitchen. If she turned left, she would face the small dining room table and a window that opened to the outside. A teapot sat

50 Roars & Whispers

Fiction 51

continued off the sea. “Precisely.” The little girl smiled back. “Well, my name is—” The old man stood up suddenly, hand outstretched and fingers splayed while his teacup rattled on the table, startling her into silence. “Stop!” he said, “A name is a precious thing! It’s best not to give it away so carelessly.” Static pricked at the little girl’s eyes. “Sorry.” The old man sat back down, shaking his head. He turned left to face the open window. “There’s no need to apologize for something you didn’t know.” He tapped the side of his cup. “You learn, and then you move on. Now, I must show you something. Follow me.” The old man rose again, his bare feet soundlessly carrying him back to the front of the house. He turned to the door on his right. The little girl leaned to the side, trying to peek out from behind him. The man turned the rusted knob and swung the door open. The little girl gasped. Harsh sunlight streamed into the house, illuminating a few feet into the darkness behind the door. Stairs stood silently

52 Roars & Whispers

under murky ocean water. “My basement,” the old man lamented. “It’s sunk under.” The little girl fidgeted with her jacket sleeves as she stared in disbelief at the water lapping slightly below the floor she was standing on. A little fish swam up into the light before darting back down. The old man closed the door. “I’m afraid my whole house is sinking.” Biting her lip, the little girl contemplated his problem. “Can you move?” “I’ve lived here forever. I’m afraid I can’t.” The old man sighed. “And I doubt I’d fit in your boat,” he added. The little girl laughed. The old man laughed, too. “Now, what time is it?” he said, turning back toward the kitchen. He squinted out at the sun dipping lower in the horizon. “Don’t you have a clock?” “No, I don’t need one. That way the only person who can decide the time is me.” The old man squinted his eyes. “I’m afraid it’s time for you to go, child.” She frowned. “But, you can come back tomorrow,” he said, turning around to smile down at her. “And every day after that. You can

read my books, or help me patch up the walls to keep the ocean at bay, or talk with me over tea. I always listen.” The little girl held out her hand to shake his, which she’d heard happens when two grown-ups make a deal. And she did feel grown-up. She had sailed across the ocean and discovered something new. The old man shook her hand. He had a very good handshake, she decided. “Head toward the sun, and you’ll be home before you know it.” He clasped his hands together and smiled down at her. “See you tomorrow.” The next day, the water hadn’t risen, but a few holes had popped up in the floor of the house. The little girl helped the old man patch them as he read Treasure Island aloud. She liked it because she wanted to find treasure too. In the following week, the little girl helped the old man clean all the barnacles off the sides of his house while reading Where the Red Fern Grows. She cried at the end, and her tears dripped down into the ocean to mix with the seawater. She told the old man she was sure that the ocean had come from the tears of angels. The old man nodded and said he always thought the ocean was made when God cried after making the world, so moved

by the majesty of the creation. Holding a yardstick taken from her house, the little girl found that the ocean had risen a quarter inch since the first day she’d arrived. Within the first month, the water had gone up an inch and a half above the floor of the house. The old man read the little girl Mr. Popper’s Penguins, Pippi Longstocking, The Wizard of Oz and The Swiss Family Robinson. The little girl learned that she liked English breakfast

She told the old man she was sure that the ocean had come from the tears of angels. tea if she added a spoonful of sugar to it. Six months later, the water was at her ankles. The little girl liked that she could kick it around and splash her friend. The old man didn’t seem worried about it. She helped him put all the books on top of the dining room table, so many that the stacks almost touched the ceiling. They’d read so many she’d lost count, but her favorites were Matilda and The Story of Doctor Dolittle. She wanted to go on adventures. A year later, the water had risen to her

shins. As soon as the boat rocked against the doorway of the house, she’d spill everything that had happened to her that day, and he would listen. The little girl felt like most adults didn’t really listen. Whenever she told her mom or dad about her friend in the sea, they would smile in a way that meant they thought she was lying. But the old man never gave her that smile when she told him about how she fought a sea serpent on her way there or discovered aliens in her backyard. He’d tell her to describe them, to give him detail upon detail of what they looked like or how the battle had gone blow-by-blow. But he’d always call her “child” or “my dear.” She wanted him to know her name. He always said it wasn’t time yet and would stare at the ocean with jaw set and eyes narrowed, his grip on his teacup a little tighter than before. Three years passed in total. The day she arrived at his house crying, the water was up to her mid-thigh. The old man gave her tissues as they sat atop the table, the books pushed to the side or stacked on the kitchen counters to make room. Some kids at the little girl’s school had told her that the tooth fairy wasn’t real, and she shouldn’t be so excited over losing a tooth. The little girl rushed home

Fiction 53

52 Roars & Whispers

“

She told the old man she was sure that the ocean had come from the tears of angels.

”

tea if she added a spoonful of sugar to it. Six months later, the water was at her ankles. The little girl liked that she could kick it around and splash her friend. The old man didn’t seem worried about it. She helped him put all the books on top of the dining room table, so many that the stacks almost touched the ceiling. They’d read so many she’d lost count, but her favorites were Matilda and The Story of Doctor Dolittle. She wanted to go on adventures. A year later, the water had risen to her

Fiction 53

continued crying only for her mom to confirm her fears. “It’s not fair,” she wailed, “Why would they lie to me? Why would they make it up if it’s not real? When they knew a day like today would happen?” The old man squeezed her tight, as if the water below them was trying to wash her out of the house. “It’s nice to start out believing that the world has magic before you drift away with mundanity. That way, you can always find it again, if you want to look.” In the following months, the water level grew higher and higher. The boat was beginning to get too small, its plastic tub sinking deeper and deeper in the water each day the little girl climbed into it. Before long, she was helping the old man transport books to his roof, barely big enough for the two. She was ten now, but nobody remembered her birthday but him. He gave her the water-damaged copy of Treasure Island they’d read so long ago, but she could hardly make out the words on the cover through her tears. The old man made her promise she’d never stop searching for treasure and magic. She nodded, but stared down into the ocean as she did, the rise and fall of the waves synonymous with the sobs that

54 Roars & Whispers

rattled her lungs. Another month passed. The roof got smaller and smaller, until the old man was stuck atop the chimney and the little girl had to stay in her shrinking boat. He could only hold onto one book now, clutched in the withered hands that used to hold tea cups filled with sugar. On the last day, he smiled at her as she rowed. His eyes welled with phantom tears as he saw how cramped she was in her boat and how far in the water the vessel now sank.

“

It’s nice to start out believing that the world has magic before you drift away with mundanity.

”

“What book do you have?” the little girl asked. The old man handed it to her. Remarkably, it was untouched by the greedy waves. The little girl ran her hand along the spine, cracked and worn with age. “The Old Man and the Sea,” she said. “What’s it about?” The old man took his book back from her, staring down from his perch. “It’s about an old man, the boy who cares for him, and the great marlin he wishes to

catch.” The little girl was used to the wise ways and mystery of her old friend. “So I’m the helper boy, and you’re the old man, but what’s the marlin?” The old man nodded, scraping his fingertips alongside his last book. “I suppose it’s how we must part: our names.” He tapped his heel against the chimney. “It’s time. You may tell me your name now, but then you can never return.” The little girl took a deep breath, a sigh that spoke more words than the book the old man held in his callouses. She had known the day was approaching. But she did not want it to be today. She wanted to stay afloat for a bit longer. She remembered Treasure Island and The Wizard of Oz, and she recalled the taste of English breakfast with a spoonful of sugar and the stories of serpents and monsters she’d recounted to him with such an air of truth she’d almost convinced herself. And she could count the number of holes she’d patched in walls and the way the man’s voice cracked after reading too long without something to drink. She closed her eyes and dipped her hand below the waves and knew it was time. Carefully, she grabbed hold of the

stones jutting out of the chimney, leaned close to the old man and whispered her name into his ear. She sunk back into her boat and closed her eyes, feeling the water rock her back and forth like a baby in a cradle. “What a lovely name,” the old man smiled. “May I have it as well?” The little girl nodded, eyes still closed. “You’ve found a name then. And you won’t be able to forget me too.” The old man’s laugh rang through the air, ragged as sails on an ancient ship. “I’ll never forget you. But you’ll forget me.” The little girl’s eyes snapped open, chapped lips parting, prepared to reject the old man’s words. But when she took in the view of the ocean, she found she was only twenty feet from the shore near her house. The old man and the chimney were nowhere to be found, and her boat was scraping the sand at the bottom of the ocean floor. It was quiet. The little girl raised a hand in the air, her sleeve staying up at her wrist, waving an invisible goodbye to him and the house where she spent her childhood. Then she let herself fall out of the boat, waves cascading over her until she, like the house, was one with the sea

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It’s nice to start out believing that the world has magic before you drift away with mundanity. “What book do you have?” the little girl asked. The old man handed it to her. Remarkably, it was untouched by the greedy waves. The little girl ran her hand along the spine, cracked and worn with age. “The Old Man and the Sea,” she said. “What’s it about?” The old man took his book back from her, staring down from his perch. “It’s about an old man, the boy who cares for him, and the great marlin he wishes to

Fiction 55

inbloom I unfold across your ribcage and sink into the warmth that covers my skin. Your lilting heartbeat soothes me, and I sink deeper into your chest; the omnipresent hum of forever offers security to you and me, here. You run your fingers across me, and warmth blooms throughout my chest; vines twirl through my ribcage. The garden covers the wilderness stretching across me. Here I am safe to contemplate forever. I breathe whispers into your chest, and they bud across the vines that decorate your ribcage. Warmth percolates across my skin. Your forever promises spill across the covers, assuring me of my permanence here, assuring you of your adoration for me. You twist velvet fingers through mine; the caress melts me and launches synaptic pulses that reverberate through my chest. I plant morning glories that climb up your ribcage and ground covers to keep you warm. I plant perennials to remind you: forever begins with us, here. Your Appalachian eyes beam at me. Flecks of mica create glittering covers across your irises. They assure me that forever is a million years away from here, but hope for it continues to blossom inside your chest; I trace those years into your ribcage. I lay my cheek against your sternum, and I hear your ribcage shudder inside your chest. Morgan Wallen’s sultry voice sings “Cover me Up” through the iphone speakers and settles around me, warming my skin; I will stay here and cling to forever. - Maggie Christopher ’21

S anc t u ar y , L i sa Z h ang ’22 w at e rco lo r

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Poetry 57

S anc t u ar y , L i sa Z h ang ’22 w at e rco lo r

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Poetry 57

FAR FROM

WORTHLESS TRINITY CLAY ’21

don’t remember the exact date of the interaction or how long it took. In fact there is no particular reason why it’s remained with me all these years, but it went like this: It was a cold autumn morning. I walked into science, a class I enjoyed more for the subject matter than for the people. A kid whose name I’ve since forgotten approached me, asking for help on his math homework that was due next period. Before I could respond with a yes, a no, or a “I’m not that great at math,” my friend cut me off with “You’d get way better help from me.” My world dimmed. Unfortunately she was right. Math was never my strongest subject. There was nothing I could bend or change the color of, nothing to re-frame or turn into my own. For me it was always an uphill battle because I couldn’t do what I was best at. I couldn’t design. While in previous years I shined in academics, routinely bringing home A’s in every class, as I grew older I realized that I wasn’t the genius my parents convinced me I was. Like many first graders, I aspired to be an astronaut (specifically the first Black woman on Mars), but as I grew older I realized that I preferred to admire the stars than to float among them. At the age of fourteen, after only months in the school I would attend

for the foreseeable future, I was already pegged as the art kid, probably because I carried a sketchbook and always handed back my worksheets covered in doodles. However it wasn’t a label I chose for myself; I wanted my skill level to go beyond drawing. I wanted to become the smart kid my parents wanted me to be, the kid who never had to go in for tutoring or ask for help. Unfortunately my core classes never brought me the joy that realizing a concept did. My true passions lay in more creative areas, but everyone told me they had less value.

“Why are confusion, dread and boredom the expectation?” While art could be beautiful, it did nothing to make the world a better place. As I grew older and more cognizant of my surroundings, I became increasingly aware of small things that irked me. Why is the print on medicine labels so small, even if that medicine is for the elderly or small children? Doesn’t that make it harder for people to take care of themselves? Why does my school feel like a concrete box with no windows? And why is the DMV a nightmare of plaster and gray? Doesn’t everyone deserve to work in a place where they feel like they can breathe?

Doesn’t everyone deserve to admire something beautiful every day? Why are confusion, dread and boredom the expectation? As my journey through high school continued, I began to understand that just as a strained relationship could be rekindled with good communication, a broken, inconvenient system could be healed with good design. By the time I was sixteen, I experimented with architecture. A beautiful area or building heals the deep traumas of history and creates a dialogue with the surrounding community and ecosystem. I learned that graphic design goes beyond simple and clean logos, that it communicates a concept that can’t be described with words, that it sets a precedent with silent power. Art is far from worthless, far from a simple, pretty, ineffectual thing. Art is a conversation, how to communicate with each other beyond what words can begin to say. Art is what we live in, what makes us happy. Art is an interaction with your surroundings, a love letter, a way to heal and fix and make things more gentle. In realizing this, I recovered self-worth I didn’t realize I had lost; art isn’t worthless, and my passion was never a waste of time. Art makes the world a better place, and with my talent, that’s exactly what I intend to do Mr . W at er m el o n S u g ar , H annah E al ey ’22 g rap h it e

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Personal Narrative 59

FAR FROM

WORTHLESS TRINITY CLAY ’21

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Personal Narrative 59

bac kwards progress Meghan Wheeler ’21

My secret is to arrive at the competition two hours before my assigned time. That way I can claim the best practice room and warm up to my heart’s content. There’s no time to be nervous when I’m in front of a piano. Every second is meticulously planned to produce the desired results—a superior of course. Competitive piano is nothing more than strategy. There’s no time for the frivolous semantics of expression or inspiration; it’s about accuracy, technique, and making a good impression on the judge. There’s no art to it anymore, but I don’t care. The feeling after I win, knowing that I have accomplished perfection, is all I need. Therefore, after nearly a decade of fine-tuning, my preparation is practically formulaic. If everything goes according to plan, it’s a process that always works. Until the day it doesn’t. I’m clutching my right hand desperately, staring at stark white bone as red blood spatters on the pavement. A half-carved jacko’-lantern sits beside me with a kitchen knife sticking out at an angle. Instead of screaming, I feel oddly numb, as if I’m not really in the moment; but inside my head, I hear: You’ve ruined everything. Twelve hours later, I wake up in a hospital bed, groggy and disoriented. I reach to brush my hair out of my eyes, but my hand is immobilized in a cocoon

of gauze and bandages. My mother gently tells me: “You cut a tendon in your hand, but the doctors were able to reattach it! You’ll be as good as new in six months.” The months creep by in an endless march of monotony. The fingers that once flew across the keys now can barely struggle into a fist, and despite sticking diligently to my physical therapy schedule, I barely make any progress. On the last day I get a certificate of completion. There’s no gold seal, no calligraphy, but I still hang it next to

clutching my right hand “I’m desperately, staring at stark white bone as red blood spatters on the pavement.

”

the rows of competition plaques. It’s an accomplishment, whether I’m proud of it or not. Unlike an athlete practicing again after an injury, there are no guidelines for a recovering pianist. I don’t know what to expect as I sit down at my instrument for the first time since Halloween. Even though my surgeon said to take it easy, I start with one of the pieces I’d been preparing before the accident. It’s a relatively simple piece, and it’s not like I’m trying to play it to tempo, but as if the past nine years of

practice never existed, I struggle. My hand looks like a bear paw upon the keys; my once graceful fingers have been replaced with stiff, hooked talons. I’m so far away from perfection that I barely see any point in trying. I slam the lid down and try my very hardest not to look in its direction. Three weeks later I’m ready to try again. This time I sit down with no sheet music on the stand, no expectations for myself, and no dreams of perfection. I simply rest my hands on the keys and let the notes play themselves. The chords I play are clumsy, awkwardly solid and incongruous, but also unscripted, spontaneous and free. I smile as I figure out a chord sequence that sounds like backwards progress: a minor triad into a major seventh. It’s no Chopin, but it’s something entirely unexpected: me. Writing music that sounds like myself intrigues me, so I continue exploring chords and experimenting with the sounds of my soul. Eventually I move beyond chords and accidentals into the realm of lyrics. My words start the same way: clumsy and awkward, yet solely my own. Even though I can’t play the complicated, impressive waltzes and sonatas of my competition days, there’s something more satisfying to be found in self-expression. I’m imperfect, and my songs express my reality. They are truly, authentically, me

W int er S u n, A di t i D u m p al a ’22 acrylic

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Personal Narrative 61

bac kwards progress Meghan Wheeler ’21

clutching my right hand “I’m desperately, staring at stark white bone as red blood spatters on the pavement.

”

W int er S u n, A di t i D u m p al a ’22 acrylic

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Personal Narrative 61

coyotes

ONE PECULIAR POWER OF

Once, we went camping in Yosemite. Under the mealy breadcrumbs of stars, the wind sent the polyester skin of our tent agape, and the valley hugged the woods for warmth. A jabbering flash of beige and its coconspirator rattled me awake outside. A distant hand, mine, unfurled from the tent, followed by my nine-year-old moon face cresting the frayed edge. I caught fragments of the pair, obscured between pines and in darting flashes through the liquid dark. Trotting. Fur rippling in harvest-colored waves off of retriever-sized coyotes. Choosing to preserve them as they were, I zipped the tent closed before they could start hunting. At dawn, before a fire, a pack of instant oatmeal and a racket, I poked around the campsite for rocky crevices— any respectable property where a coyote mother could keep house. By the lake, I found a den. Inside, dark outlines slept in piles with paws stretched over spent bones and gentle snouts in lowercase shapes as they snored. Among them I found nothing incriminating. No familiar jaws or suspiciously long femurs to rouse suspicions of traitors. No human graves. Hundreds have vanished in national parks without leaving their bodies behind. How indefinitely coyotes could prolong human ambiguity by disposing of the evidence. - Ella Rasmussen ’21 U nder b r u sh , E m m a W ash b u rn ’22 p h o t o g rap h y

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Poetry 63

coyotes

ONE PECULIAR POWER OF

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Poetry 63

A VERY SCARY

SORRY Elizabeth Park ’22

have a confession to make: I’m kind of a chicken. I know I don’t look it, but on the inside, I’m as jumpy as a longtailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. That’s southern for scaredy-cat. Unfortunately my so-called friends think my freak-outs are so funny that they’ve started tricking me into watching scary movies. Basically they annoy me and give me revenge ideas all at the same time. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, somebody’s getting pig blood dumped on them at prom. (Thanks, Carrie!) The scariest ones are the stories about evil dolls. Chucky? More like yucky. Annabelle? More like what the H-E-double-hockey-sticks. And don’t get me started on Toy Story. Toys that come alive and make plans while you’re gone? Umm, Toy Story is a horror movie, people! But the more of these films I endure, the more I’ve noticed a common theme. Whether it’s a haunted house full of angry ghosts, a videotape possessed by an angry ghost, or a bunch of angry ghosts trapped inside a Ouija board, the carnage usually ceases once someone offers a sincere apology. To the angry ghosts, that is. Otherwise, it’s like, “No apology? You die.” And while our offscreen apologies might be a little less gruesome, this relationship between rage and remorse is reflected in real life. We are hooked on hearing and saying “I’m

sorry.” Whether it’s a politician saying sorry for an impulsive tweet or the “Whoops, sorry” you hear from a friend who forced you to watch Halloween, our apologies are so fast and frequent, they’re no longer heartfelt or honest. In fact, according to The Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, we are simultaneously living in the age of apology and the age of outrage. Yet researchers argue that there is “an ironic downside” to our incessant apologies: the more we demand them, the more devalued and insincere they become. So today, let’s put an end to the sorry state of apologies. First we’ll face the horrors of the apologies we give, then the ghastly ones we receive, finally clearing the skeletons out of our own closets with some solutions. Because there’s nothing scarier than a bad apology. Public apologies show up in U.S. history as early as 1697, when Samuel Sewall traveled to Boston to apologize for his role in the Salem witch trials. But in the digital age they’ve become a cultural phenomenon. Unfortunately, the more prevalent public apologies become, the more their insincerity bleeds into our personal lives. According to The Chicago Tribune of January 2018, when public figures apologize, they’re motivated by the same thing as criminals who apologize in court. It’s about controlling the damage, not confessing to it. Take

G iv er , Jo nat h an O b el e ’23 d ig it al

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A VERY SCARY

SORRY Elizabeth Park ’22

G iv er , Jo nat h an O b el e ’23 d ig it al

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A VERY SCARY

SORRY CONTINUED

actress, writer and one-woman apology machine Lena Dunham. Since her rise to fame in 2013, Dunham has publicly apologized at least fifteen times for a dizzying array of bad decisions and offensive comments. Her apologies come so frequently, there’s even a parody Twitter account full of them. Some of my favorites are: “Lena Dunham apologizes for designing Ben Affleck’s Back Tattoo,” “Lena Dunham apologizes for ghostwriting Logan Paul’s Apology,” and “Lena Dunham apologizes to Dr. Phil for listing ‘Brazilian Jiu Jitsu’ as her favorite ‘fusion cuisine.’” But the implications of these jokes aren’t so funny. When we see public apologies as nothing more than a PR strategy, our personal remorse becomes just as artificial. As a result, our apologies ring hollow even when they are most needed. In 1969 the NYPD raided Stonewall Inn, a popular gay club in Greenwich Village. Police beat some patrons with nightsticks, threatened others with guns, and tear gassed protestors. Yet for fifty years, the NYPD refused to apologize. On June 6, 2019, NYPD Commissioner James P. O’Neill issued an official apology, stating, “The actions taken by the NYPD were wrong—plain and simple.” But if it really was this plain and simple, what took them so long to say it? Some found closure in O’Neill’s

66 Roars & Whispers

admission, but others saw it as an empty gesture, a distraction from the ways police still target LGBT people in 2019. While confronting the darkest chapters of our past is a crucial step toward progress, it’s meaningless if we can’t prevent the same horrors in the future. Of all the vengeful horror movie ghosts I’ve seen, the scariest one had to be that creepy girl from The Ring. Even after everyone in the movie does their best to right the wrongs done to her, she just keeps on killing. And honestly, our response to apologies isn’t so different, aside from the killing part. Essentially, the further we stray from sincere apologies, the less likely we are to accept the ones we get. And no one knows this better than the Roman Catholic Church. Since The Boston Globe’s 2002 investigation into the history of sexual abuse, the Catholic Church has been trying—and failing— to effectively apologize. In fact, even though the abuse was made public nearly two decades ago, Church leaders didn’t even attempt an official discussion of the problem until this year. As a Catholic, I love going to Sunday mass and singing ancient hymns, and trust me when I say: Catholic Christmas is a literal rager. But as a Catholic born in 2003, I’ve seen the disparity between the Church’s words and actions my entire life. Apologies are

meaningless without action. And this is true for our personal apologies as well. My family immigrated to the U.S. when I was two, and they devoted everything they had to creating an awesome life for my brother and me. My dad traded his career as an Olympic cross-country skier for a business that would support our family. I had everything I needed, and then some. But still I returned their kindness with complaints. I constantly compared our lives to my friends’, and my dad always apologized. To this day, he apologizes for not being able to give me everything I want, for not providing me with all the fun I deserve, for not being the best dad possible. It took me far too long to realize that when I complained, I was rejecting his apologies, apologies he never even owed me in the first place. I responded to his remorse with reproach. Staying stuck in a cycle of shame ruins relationships, but apologies can help us get out. The only solution for regret is repair. Near the end of The Blair Witch Project, after all her friends are dead or missing, the protagonist, Heather, turns the camera on herself to apologize. She says, “I’m so, so sorry for everything that’s happened. Because...it’s my fault. I insisted on everything...and this is where we’ve ended up.” Even though

I hate this movie, and Heather and the Blair Witch and the friend who made me watch it, I’ll admit her apology wasn’t totally hideous. So let’s summon the courage to face our own ghosts. The first step toward sincerity is to reduce the superficial apologies and make room for more meaningful ones. We speak in apologetic words and tones all the time, even when we don’t realize it. But we can flip the script. Next time you’re late to meet a friend, instead of apologizing say, “Thank you for waiting for me.”

“

It’s about controlling the damage, not confessing to it.

”

When you want to say sorry for talking a friend’s ear off, try, “Thank you for listening” instead. And when it comes to the written—or typed—word, have I got an app for you! Well it’s actually a Google Chrome plug-in you can install called Just Not Sorry. Created by Tami Reiss, Just Not Sorry scans anything you type for apologetic words and phrases, from the classic “I’m sorry” to things like “I’m no expert,” “Does that make sense?” and “I’m not sure.” Even if you don’t want to erase all of it, just becoming aware of

how often we apologize is a crucial step toward change. And when it’s our turn to offer a heartfelt, honest apology, we need to do it right. According to a study published in The Journal of Negotiation and Conflict Management, a true apology has six key elements: an expression of regret, an explanation of what went wrong, an acknowledgement of responsibility, a declaration of repentance, an offer of repair, and a request for forgiveness. For examples of public apologies, both good and bad, check out sorrywatch.com, a website that provides daily updates and analysis of apologies from public figures. The more we learn, and the closer we listen, the easier it will be to repair our relationships, trust our own instincts, and say goodbye to the mistakes that haunt us. Sure I might be a little bit of a scream queen, but I do know that life is a little less scary when we’re a little less sorry. It’s human to mess up, but it’s also human to fess up and make up for our mistakes. The ghosts of our missteps will only follow us around if we let them. But now we can find our way out of even the darkest, scariest places because a true apology will turn on the light. Maybe scary movies will never be my cup of tea, but that’s nothing to be sorry about

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A VERY SCARY

SORRY CONTINUED

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“

It’s about controlling the damage, not confessing to it.

”

Nonfiction 67

WAR WIDOW diya bhatt ’22

“A

llahu Akbar,” she says to the war-torn land that bore witness to her first breath and her mother’s plow. The clay nudging her toes holds only tendrils of memories; the rest were ripped up with the grass long ago. Even from here, her daughter’s whimpers against her breast are hushed by the gunshots in the distance. The men with machine guns believe her almost too easily when she tells them her cramps are back, so she smiles for them until she’s halfway to the market and she can’t see their disgusting smirks. Her heart cracks for the roguish boys she sucked mangoes with, now stationed next to those men and burdened with rifles on their backs. She wonders if they think it’s worse to drown in innocent blood or to be the one bleeding. She knows no sanctuary waits for her, but the child in her arms leaves her no choice. Her womanhood is the

perfect camouflage. No one notices the cooing bundle pressed against her chest. No one questions the frail footsteps sneaking past the fallen-in shack where the hospital once stood. She silently squeezes the passports smuggled into her hijab, reminding herself of how close she is. She will get out. She will get out… The men who ruined her city said her shouts were too quiet, her hands too small, her heart too heavy to be brave, but the steel knives folded into her shirt weren’t visible then. She runs until she reaches the muddied truck and pulls her daughter in. She winces at the other sunken eyes that look so similar to her own, pale against the blackness. A rare, turmeric-laced breeze almost makes her turn and reach out to the wasteland behind her. All that’s left is dried dirt and the occasional scream, begging her for a final farewell, but she summons the rest of her fight and doesn’t look back

Po r t r ait in G o u ac h e, T ri ni t y C l ay ’21 g o u ach e

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Fiction 69

WAR WIDOW diya bhatt ’22

“A

Po r t r ait in G o u ac h e, T ri ni t y C l ay ’21 g o u ach e

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Fiction 69

gettingUPPITY When I was little, I haunted the Great American West the same way I haunted my brother’s first pickup: power-hungry and ready to track mud wherever I wasn’t supposed to. I sized up the countryside with my sneakers on his dashboard. If I squinted and closed one eye, I could trap an unsuspecting stop sign between my two sausage fingers. Main Street through the laundromat fit in my palm. As long as I didn’t get caught, I stalked my house same as I lorded over the rest of the dirt. Peeled back the stick-on wood paneling to carve my name, left baseball-sized handprints in the pulp of the siding. I wanted that porch to know it was mine, and it did; it bowed down and sagged under my bare feet. The Stock and Freeze was the first thing I didn’t want to own. Back then I just had a feeling about the place. The smell of doom, like rotten milk or a kid halfway to becoming his father, hung on the walls. But Dad clapped his hand on my shoulder and told me that it would be mine one day. “Even the cream soda machine?” “Even the cream soda machine.” And that was enough to distract me from the rest. A neon-adjacent box that coughed whenever I chucked my allowance into it.

When I talked to the townies at checkout, they were just the same. They owned their two-bit fences, their bleached folding chairs, their lawns full of weeds and the guts of old washing machines. On their breath, I could smell the dip and the sweat of their daddy and their daddy’s daddy working those acres. They guarded their land with shoulders low, braced, curses preemptively unholstered, ready to chase me off the grass. Those yards were theirs, and the store would be mine. Even the cream soda machine, I guess. Defending a scraggly strip of convenience store trapped between two patches of dirt isn’t my style. I’ve started harvesting late slips and citations until they spell the impending death of my managerial career, but I think my spirit is trapped here. Last Tuesday I told Dad that a poltergeist scattered expired salami all over the tile—not me. Eyes still on last week’s newspaper, he just tacked another yellow slip onto my open palm. I left my uniform on the register last night. Hopefully Dad understands that I’m just getting rid of his ghost problem. - Ella Rasmussen ’21

By the time I’d outgrown my kid-sized bike, old enough to absorb the other towns packed into neat, educated rows on the T.V., I saw the building—really saw it. Rusty. Diseased stucco. If a building could have mange, the Stock and Freeze did. Still, it was Dad’s, and he would’ve baptized his firstborn in there if Mom had let him.

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Mo nt S t . Mic h el , A nna W ong ’21 o il

Poetry 71

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Mo nt S t . Mic h el , A nna W ong ’21 o il

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sincerest

thanks

patrons Nancy Connolley Sophie Connolley The Kaplan Family The Park Family The Zhang Family

contributors The Rasmussen Family Ling Zhu

friends Ann Aldridge Lin Bai Charlotte Beck Rob Connolley Ellie Cotton Mr. and Mrs. Brian C. Henderson Mr. Kenneth Henderson Stephanie Osmond The Swaim Family Bhavana Veeravalli Abigail Welch Indicates former staff member

Though this has been a difficult year to connect with contributors, we are beyond thankful for the continued support from both our past and current patrons. We are especially grateful to those who donated despite these challenging circumstances. Roars and Whispers has served as the voice of Providence Senior High School students for twenty-six years. Each year, and this one especially, produces talented writers, artists and photographers, and we could not have

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persisted through this year’s hardships without the support of our school community. We thank the students whose verbal and artistic prowess defines the magazine. We also thank Dr. Harrill and our school administration; Mrs. Leighton and Ms. Simpson who inspire beautiful artwork; Mrs. Lazo who guides us through the financial labyrinth; Alison Klopp for her invaluable counsel and Jostens for providing the medium for our expression. Most importantly, we would like

to thank Ms. Marva Hutchinson who brings the publication together. Without her unwavering support, counsel, guidance and dry wit, the magazine (and we as individuals) would not reach and surpass the level of award-winning excellence our community has come to expect. Though this issue of Roars and Whispers has ended, we know our voices will continue to resonate. Our publication is kept alive by your readership and support, and we are grateful

epilogue

timeless sycamore

prologue

fractured stars

- Maggie Christopher ’21

- Carson Knapp ’23

Job No.: 019319

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School Name: Providence HS Lit Mag

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Job No.: 019319

School Name: Providence HS Lit Mag

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