GOLDEN GIRL

Christina Tanase ’25

Her golden skin burnt and red. Sand and salt stuck between her teeth and toes. Her hair tangled in endless knots but she doesn’t care To brush them out.

She is beautiful But she doesn’t know that yet

So the moon whispers it to her in her sleep and she Dreams of the stars. But she does not realize those stars are within her And not simply the vastness that the moon settles in.

Her golden skin and tangled hair and her frail body in its Entirety is not enough to be contained into a single star But a whole galaxy.

Her lips curl into a soft grin and she thinks, How beautiful are they!

The stars that glitter relentlessly and dance in the night sky.

Take them, The moon says. They are yours to keep.

And so she collects the stars in her pockets and fills Them until they are bound by a single strand. They shine through the cloth and she glows radiantly.

I am shining! She exclaims, joy painted across her face. How beautiful am I!

And she dances in the night sky.

NUMBER ONE-NINETY-EIGHT

Rachel Aronson ’27

Her name was Greta, but Mr. Green Boots called her #198—the number printed on her orange leg tag. She lived—with others—in a blue smidgeon of a house, planted right in the middle of a circular grass patch; the baby blue paint was peeling—and since the wood hut hadn’t been cleaned in over two months, the smell wafting by was strong enough to curdle milk. Across from the house lay a tin water trough that was nailed to the ground. It was fall, so leaves the colors of crimson and gold piled high under naked trees while weedy undergrowth lined the nearby fence. The thin, metal wires were the only boundary between her home and the forbidden Unknown. Greta knew not to touch the fence or she’d get burned and disappear like Little Buddy had. But Little Buddy had never been the sharpest tool in the shed anyways. Every now and then, Greta would see Mr. Green Boots scoop up one of her friends and vanish into the distant shed out back. Mr. Green Boots always came out, but her friends never did.

Mr. Green Boots was a kind fellow; he gave out tiny handfuls of seed and would often pet Greta. He had funny little chin whiskers too—purposeful, Greta learned, since she knew not everyone had face hairs—and always wore his big green rubber boots.

Winter was coming, so Mr. Green Boots made sure to feed Greta lots. More than the other chickens, in fact. During last year’s winter, Ruthie had been Mr. Green Boots’ favorite. Then Ruthie left the farm for a better, more comfortable life as a pet because she was getting older and couldn’t produce as many eggs.

Greta was a plump, feathery little hen. She grew up loved and surrounded by friends; they were constantly changing, renewing, cycling—like a revolving door. Mr. Green Boots would use Greta’s eggs—she would lay smooth, perfect little eggs, and he would reach his hand inside the coop and steal them away. It was a game— to be the one Mr. Green Boots picked the most eggs from. In fact, Greta was his best egg layer yet, at least, until recently.

Her eggs were no longer as big, nor shiny, and tiny fractures began to form on the rough shells.

One chilly day, near the side of the coop, Greta was scratching for seeds in the dirt when she spotted a hole in the wired fence.

The hole in question was roughly the size of a large chicken and was hidden by the yellowing weeds. Funny. Greta knew of past escape attempts made by Edith, the crazy old hen, but she knew Edith had never seen real progress before Mr. Green Boots had removed her from the coop. Greta hadn’t seen Edith in a while.

Greta peered past the hole, into the Unknown. What was it like there? It was a boring life in the coop, day after day, constantly: eat, sleep, repeat. Maybe Edith was onto something—something new, something exciting, something that would distract from the mind-numbing, repetitive cycle Greta found herself looped in. Maybe the Unknown could be different.

Greta inched towards the gap, tentative and antsy. She poked her head through the opening, her body following soon after. Her stomach churned, and her heartbeat rose—the unsteady pounding made it hard to think properly. No one saw Greta as she quietly slipped out of the fenced enclosure, careful not to step on any brittle leaves.

Greta bobbled on into the forest—step after step— and into the vast Unknown.

The Unknown was not like how the elder chickens told it. There were no bloody monsters tucked away in dark caves, no piercing screams, no nothing. It was a regular forest. Regular trees and regular birds and regular rocks. And yet,

Greta felt uneasy as she traipsed through, deeper and deeper into the woods. Dusk was coming—and a slow darkness enveloped the forest, suffocating and weighted like molasses.

A warm, yellow light poked through the trees, casting stark shadows on the ground. Greta perked up.

A house—wait, no. A shed.

Mr. Green Boots’ shed.

Greta waddled towards the buttery light and hopped on a crate near the illuminated window. She peered in and saw. . . Bodies.

Dead chickens hung by their iron-clad ankles, eyes rolled back and skin plucked bare. Greta scrambled back from the window, mind racing. Mr. Green Boots did this. He killed them. Her friends. Twisted their sweet, innocent feathery necks and strung them out like clothes on laundry day.

No wonder someone went missing every season. No wonder Edith tried to escape—she knew, somehow.

Greta stumbled at the edge of the wooden box, flapping her wings to regain balance. She steeled her nerves as she looked back through the window.

Mr. Green Boots’ back was turned to Greta as she watched. He was cleaning, unbothered by the corpses hanging on his walls—in fact, he was whistling cheerily as he washed his bloodied knives.

Greta knew that she could never return to the coop, lest this be her fate. Butchered and eaten.

She hopped from her perch and fled into the forest.

It was dark in the woods. And silent. Unnervingly so.

Greta found a small nook under a gnarled tree and curled up in a ball, trying to lose the day’s horrific events in a numb sleep. When she woke, sunlight poured through the tree’s branches, illuminating the leaves scattered on the ground, and the forest no longer felt as ominous and scary as it did before. But winter was coming, and if she was to live there—in the woods—finding food and water came first.

Greta wandered between the trees and rocks for what felt like hours. She found a small pool of water, but it was only enough to last a couple weeks at best. And when Greta found food, it was too hard to eat—as she was no longer being hand fed and cared for by Mr. Green Boots.

Weeks later, starving and thirsty, Greta was a mere husk of the self she had been when she first set out into the Unknown. Hunger pains were a new constant, only disappearing in cold sleep—but even then she dreamed of food.

Greta wondered, what if, what if, she had stayed in the coop?

Dead, sure, but content—with a belly full of seeds and sweet water, surrounded by friends.

Friends. . . Ruthie, Edith, even Little Buddy, and so many more. . . .

If only. . . .

Greta lay down. . . and didn’t get back up.

Winter came by—with its harsh snow and bitter cold—blanketing the forest in fluffy white.

Snow crunched as Mr. Green Boots hiked to the frozen pond in the woods, ice bucket in hand, when he tripped on something solid.

He looked down. Saw an orange leg tag numbered #198.

Mr. Green Boots crouched in the snow, his gloved hands carefully digging around the frozen lump.

“Oh. That’s where you went, #198.”

He got up and dusted off his hands, shrugging.

Mr. Green Boots continued on his trek to the icy lake, eager for water to boil for his chicken noodle soup.

By early spring, the snow melted and trees replaced their fallen leaves. Young flowers poked their budding heads through soft, wispy grass and reached for the sun.

Greta’s body defrosted and was eaten by a fox.

Third Man Syndrome

Jakob Kleiman ’24

Antarctic scientists, polar explorers and free climbers all know Him

But none better than I

Weirdly enough, they only see Him in darkness and despair

They see Him when lost in blizzards or scaling glaciers with broken legs

They see Him in the space between life and death

For them, He led the way to shelter And talked them through impossible climbs

For others, they find Him at a golden dome in Canaan Or at the foot of Sinai

In a bush that was engulfed in flames, but never burnt

They saw Him in the black plumes of smoke from Sodom or Gomorrah

They saw Him in the portable tents of congregation

For them, He is the King of the universe

And chose them as His people

For others, He walked out of the flames that spread West Or in the minds of Versailles

They saw Him frown in showers speckled across Poland and France

They saw Him collect the dirty abandoned shoes, weeping for what did burn

For them, He was their cause of death

And their savior

For me, He isn’t any type of king

Not even a person like I

I see Him in the bread I break and the wine I spill

I see Him in pink sunsets and in wry smiles

For me, He is the blessings that surround me everyday

And I will always listen for His voice, my Third Man.