Literary Magazine 2021 by Norfolk Academy

Rings, Strings, & Other Things Spring 2021

Staff Editor-in-Chief

Faculty Advisor

Caitlin Johnson ’21

Charlotte Zito ’99

Junior Editor

Art Advisor

Sarah Jacobs ’22

Betsey DiJulio

Coffee House Chair

Printer

Kristen Tan ’22

Professonal Printing Center

Staff Alexandra Kerr ’21 Barr Gill ’21 Ella Deans ’21 Emma Howerton ’21 Jackson Weis ’21 Millie Van Slyke ’22 Katelyn Guess ’22 Sacha Konikoff ’22 Nyla Gordon ’23 Libby Pierce ’23

Cover Art Jackson Weis ’21

Editor’s Letter Although restricted by COVID-19, Norfolk Academy’s literary magazine staff has worked hard to overcome the year’s limitations. The restrictions imposed by COVID have frustrated us all, but they have also pushed us to adapt. The year’s uncertainty has brought forward innovation—ways to jump over obstacles in order to reach our goals. Sometimes, this requires an outlet for our emotions; the frustration in our lives yields both dedication to our ideals and inspiration from the emotion that follows as exemplified in the 40th edition of Rings, Strings, & Other Things. As you flip through the pages of this edition, indulge in the writers’ and artists’ creativity and thrive on the passion surrounding it. Thank you to everyone who has submitted poetry, short stories, personal essays, artwork, and photography, for the magazine would not exist without you—your imagination, expression, and desire to share with the world. Whenever you contribute to publications like this, your experiences enlighten those around you. Your work deserves to be cherished for years to come. I would also like to thank the Lit Mag staff, who encourages others to submit and who selects submissions to be published, as well as Ms. DiJulio, who inspires students to create art, who photographs wonderful student artwork, and who has served as our art advisor for the past year. Finally, thank you to Mrs. Zito, our faculty sponsor, who encourages us to write, to express ourselves, and to grow. Thank you for being an awesome mentor, and thank you for the guidance you have given us throughout our time in the Upper School. As a final note, I would like to dedicate this edition to Norfolk Academy and all of its students. Cherish your school years. These years will become fond memories for you, as they are filled with humor, creativity, teamwork, and true friends. When you face an obstacle, hurdle over it and challenge yourself. Chase your dreams; chase them until you seize them, and thank the friends you make along the way. Thank your mentors, too. Those who come before us shape us into who we are today, and it is up to us to shape those who come afterward. If something is of value to you—a memory, a person, anything—write it down. Someone will encounter it later, and it will call to mind something extraordinary, all because of you. -Caitlin Johnson ’21

Table of Contents Joy I’ve Fallen in Love One Thousand Times — Ella Deans ’21 Silver Ballerinas Flying through the Sky — Lilly Savin ’22 Joy in Hindsight — Christopher Asuncion ’21 I Only See Your Face through Monochrome queSADilla — Blake Brown ’21 Joyous Peace — Lydia Sweeney ’21 Alleviation — Kai Wang ’22 Pilgrimage of the Satyr — Jessica Parker ’21 The Reflected — Libby Pierce ’23 Sea of White

8 11 14 15 16 19 20 22 25 26

Stories to Chill Dreams Beyond the Sea — Trey Custodio ’22 The Attack The Ascent of Faddeus: Prologue — Co-written by Owen Johnson ’23 and Taran Jeevan ’23 Doll — Clement Lee ’22 Lost — Rachel Thetford ’22 The Blue Jay Ceremony — Caitlin Johnson ’21 The Corruption of Spring — Kristen Tan ’22 Technology Invades Recycle! Where is it? — Clement Lee ’22 Paroxysm Tell the Reaper “I’m Sorry” — Kenneth Whitehurst ’22 The Girl in the Lake — Megan Smith ’23 February of 1959 — Katelyn Guess ’22 When Spirits Play Cards — Toria Kauffman ’22

28 33 34 36 39 40 44 47 48 50 54 56 58 60 62

Burning Love I Hear a Laugh Where You Oft Dwelled Before — Toria Kauffman ’22 Unpeeled — Kristen Tan ’22 I Only Love Myself When I’m Sleeping Old Friend, New Love — Nyla Gordon ’23 Maybe A Best Friend — Eliana Jin ’26 I Didn’t Mean to Tell You I Love You — Alexandra Kerr ’21 Worth the Wait Figs of Life You of Sparta, You of Troy — Kristen Tan ’22 Blue Coat, Green Eyes The Reality of Long Distance Mirror Image — Millie Van Slyke ’22 We Gather Around the Flames to Keep Warm — Sarah Jacobs ’22

66 67 69 70 74 75 76 81 82 83 84 86 88

Justice The Stand — Micah Baum ’23 An Everlasting State of Division — Andrew Trinder ’22 Poems Inspired by The Undefeated — Submitted by Middle School Writers The Ones — Kassidy Sanders ’26 Unamerican — Ella Deans ’21 In the Making — Sarah Glassman ’25 To Sit is to Stand — Julia Wainger ’23 A German Night — Keon Tavakoli ’21 Stand for This. — Vivi Deans ’26 I Pledge Allegiance to the Flag — Areen Syed ’24 Another Refusing to be Controlled — Milla Avery ’26

90 92 94 97 98 100 101 102 104 106 110 114

Our Growth The Adventures That Made Me, ME — Grace Robertson ’26 Where Adaline’s From — Adaline Scott ’26 Where Fritz’s From — Fritz Whitfield ’26 From the Words of my Mother — Caitlin Johnson ’21 To Sacrifice — Andrew Trinder ’22 Backyard Sale for Handmaid Jackets Monowi, Nebraska Today: Messages of Hope — Zahir Griffith ’24 To the Edge — Blake Brown ’21 Mommy, Can Boys Cry, Too? I Pity Pity — Blake Brown ’21 Haikus on a Pandemic The Perfect Balance — Bella Cardon ’22 Breathe. Focus. You Got This. — Rhea Khanna ’24 The Blink of an Eye — Matthew Wetmore ’21 From Caterpillar to Butterfly — Lilly Savin ’22

118 120 121 124 126 127 127 131 132 134 135 136 138 139 141 142

Joy

I’ve Fallen in Love One Thousand Times I’ve fallen in love one thousand times with moments: Towering pine trees reduced to strands of Grass in the garden of the Earth; Orange-beaming sunsets coloring the sky, Crayons of the cosmos, Painted over by the mysterious darkness of night, Stars dancing to the universal song of unending possibilities, A symphony of crickets harmonizing, too. Running atop innumerable grains of sand, Collision course with the ocean and a one-stop shop For sisterhood with the stranger sitting next to me; The cashier boy at the grocery store Who held the door for me and smiled, Like I was the prettiest bare-faced girl donning sweatpants That he had ever seen; My sun-kissed freckled face as I dance in the wind, Ferocity full speed ahead, swaying on the bow of my ship, Arms spread wide to wave at passersby, and Head tilted backwards, with nothing but laughter and smiles and Freedom ringing out from within me, into the universe. I meet lifelong friends in the marketplace, and I ask them: How many times have you fallen in love? -Ella Deans

Art by Layla Mersel ’21

Art by Walter Frazer ’23

Silver Ballerinas Flying through the Sky As the Western sky carries the sun across the depths of the evening And the moon, shedding light upon the darkness from Dusk to dawn, Begins to climb high in the East, The stars start as a hardly glistening and glowing glimmer In the heavens, Like a twinkle in the eye of a child with a new idea, And rise up into the endless abyss of the cosmos, And All of our secrets, All of our joys, All of our sorrows; Illustrate an accumulation of all the time in the world: A limitless book of answers and questions. To gaze up into the infinite sky above us Confesses a connection like no other. Shooting stars dancing among the planets like silver ballerinas Flying through the sky, Each one bringing new hopes, thoughts, and dreams As it passes by. The lucid light lessening the darkness of the night Offers a luminous new possibility: A fresh start, paving the way for dreams -Lilly Savin

Photo by Taran Jeevan ’23

Joy in Hindsight

What is joy? Joy was the jubilant aspirations of being born anew Joy was the faint whiffs of springtime in the next room Was it still there? Joy was the mellow warmth of home comforts Joy was the affectionate time with faces of friends and family Joy was the mesmerizing glimmer of “the end is near” Joy was the jittery feeling of sweet release Joy was the jittery feeling of sweet nothing Joy was the appreciated feeling of sweet return Joy was the spry celebration of normalcy Joy was the ostentatious continuation of traditions delayed Joy was the national making of history Joy was the divine sight of cold breaths of relief Remember? -Christopher Asuncion

I Only See Your Face through Monochrome Your visage some forgotten to me, I have waited long for you to come home. I remember you playing on the foam. Little boys catching many of beach fleas, I only see your face through monochrome. Life was simple back then, my garden gnome. By the beach, we used to drink that iced tea, I have waited long for you to come home. There was no more sand when we went to Rome. That was when we said goodbye to the sea. I only see your face through monochrome. There you were diagnosed with a damned syndromed, My negligent past, I paid a great fee, I have waited long for you to come home. Now, you are under a synthetic dome. When you appear, I will jump with glee, I only see your face through monochrome. I have waited long for you to come home.

queSADilla The ideal dinner starts with a generous serving of cheese, Then a handful more, if you please. Accompanied by chicken and lettuce and sour cream. My, oh my, what a heavenly dream! The first bite and the satisfying cheese pull Are sure to never be dull. Compared to its crispy, hard exterior, All other foods are hands down inferior. Moe’s, Chipotle, La Herradura, and even Taco Bell Carry this delectable menu item and its aromatic smell. Ever since I was a wee boy, Its unparalleled flavor has continued to bring me joy. Voraciously, I flip the toasted tortilla around And hunger for the soft, sizzling sound. Gratitude is the only thing I exude, Whenever I demolish my favorite food. -Blake Brown

Art by Zoe Cross ’21

Joyous Peace One trip up North I remember Rolling down the road My friend by my side A silence between us As she snoozed and I saw A blue sky that blanketed Swaths of dense green trees Within a steep river valley That sliced the Earth in two Peppered with dusty, gray rocks I stared out the window My eyes blindly seeing The colors–blurs and smudges Greens, blues, grays, goldens A pallet of earthy colors Closing my tired eyes Music rang in my ears I listened in a daze As hallucinations and shadows Distorted my darkened vision Resting. Listening. Smiling. My dozing mind Enjoyed this moment Of joyous peace. -Lydia Sweeney

Alleviation How much better it is to not be going to your birthday party Conversing with schoolmates and playing with others. How much better it is to stay within my own home In its comforts and simplicity. In my home, there are no bouncy houses, no Obligated gift-giving, no games meant to Coax out the seconds out of the day, No continuous rounds of tag before pizza, No egregious blows to the piñata. Why become inundated with the desires of others, With no freedom to complete my own wants. Why provide meritless comments for your ego to feast on, “Oh you’ve grown so much taller!” (You have not.) And the cake is a mere imitation of food, It tastes like spongy ammonium, The smell itself invigorates a sense of worthlessness That rattles throughout my entire body. Instead I will be enjoying delectable homemade food, Not hazardous biochemicals from Chernobyl. I will not be watching the show put on by the local magician. I will be watching my favorite show, on air every Weekend at noon. It is enough to kick back And relax on the sofa with thoughts of celebration, Not for your birthday, But celebrating my free will. -Kai Wang

Art by Millie Van Slyke ’22

Pilgrimage of the Satyr Hidden deep within a cave in the Cadini di Misurina mountain range, there grows an ancient olive tree, home to the Italian elder mountain spirits. As long as the Elder Tree remains alive, the elders protect the mortal magical creatures of the mountains from the ignorant human world. The magical beings peacefully coexist in 3 tribes: the Forest Tribe, the Valley Tribe, and the Peaks Tribe. Each tribe consists of beasts of all kinds, and they share the benefits of their regions with the other tribes while governing their lands. Each year, the tribes take turns sending one member out to make sure the Elder Tree is safe and to tend to its needs for the year. At the end of each year, the tribute will trade off their role with the next creature who arrives the following year. This is how the creatures of the Cadini di Misurina mountains have successfully lived in harmony for centuries. ****** Finn had grown up in the Forest Tribe his entire life, spending his days chasing, dancing, and playing music with nymphs and other satyrs like himself. He always took for granted his life — how soft the tall grass and wildflowers felt as they brushed against his legs, the comforting smell of pine sap clinging to every nook and cranny, and the crisp, sparkling river teeming with life that flowed through the middle of the valley. He never once stopped to think about the elders who kept his mountains safe, so of course, once he came of age, he was chosen for the pilgrimage when the time came so that he would learn to appreciate what he had. The 30-day trip was a treacherous one — he would have to climb to the tallest peak in the Cadini di Misurina mountain range, then balance his way across a tightrope-like bridge suspended by the traveler’s faith in the elders to protect them, and finally a 15,000-foot descent into the heart of the mountain, where he will find the Elder Tree and trade places with the tribute from the year before.

So he packed his bags, said his goodbyes, and left the protected land to venture into the wilderness. The first day passed without much trouble, besides the Old Grumpy Boar by the river bank who kept giving Finn dirty looks. When the sun finally set, Finn set up camp in a forest glade, lit a small campfire to stay warm, and ate his dinner while watching the pixies flit through the tree branches above his head, praying that they wouldn’t decide to bombard him with acorns in one of their usual mischievous stunts. The next day, he got up, ate his breakfast, and went on his way. He kept up this pattern for 9 days without any trouble, but on the 10th day, right when he reached the tightrope bridge, he ran into the Tricky Fox. The Tricky Fox asked him, “Do you really think that little rope can hold you up? You’ll fall right off! Why don’t you let me carry you? I’m much more graceful on my feet than you.” However, Finn knew better than to trust the fox, and he politely declined him. “No thank you,” he said, “I’ll take my chances with the elders. I trust they will guide my feet.” And so they did. He made his way safely across the rope thanks to his faith in the elders. When he made it to the other side, he took a moment to look around and appreciate the land below. The mountains were endless, with jagged toothlike peaks, with streaks of snow contouring their sides, showing just how unfathomably large they were. The green, rolling wave of trees looked like a soft blanket from so high up that Finn couldn’t help imagining running his hands across the top as if they were little blades of grass. “My goodness,” he remarked, “I never truly realized how magnificent this world is!” Once he was done taking in the view, he continued on his journey. Once again, he repeated the cycle of hiking all day, setting up camp at night, and continuing in the morning as he had before, except this time he did so on the highest ridges of the mountains instead of in the forest. This part of the journey took him 10 more days. On the 20th day of his journey, he reached the mouth of the abyss he needed to climb down in order to reach the tree. This

descent took him the remaining 10 days of the journey. He saw sights he had never seen before. He saw little creatures that would glow when all the light had left, thousands of luminous mushrooms, vines, and algae growing on the rocks, and an uncountable number of precious crystals he had only heard of from campfire stories. He desperately wanted to take some of each of these incredible things but remembered that doing so would anger the elders, so he stayed his hand and kept climbing down into the darkness. Finally, on the 30th day of his pilgrimage, Finn reached the tree. It was a glorious sight to behold, with its trunk towering as high as a mountain, its branches thick and long enough for entire tribes to live on. The Elder Tree could have been its own world, for all Finn could tell. In addition to its grand size, the Elder Tree cast a soft, comforting golden glow throughout the cavern, making it seem as though the sun was warmly shining down into the heart of the mountain. Finn talked to the previous tribute, a spritely young centaur, traded his supplies with hers and wished her luck on her journey back home. After she said goodbye to the tree, Finn sat down in front of the tree and fell into a deep meditation, where he communicated with the elders. All was well. -Jessica Parker

The Reflected I wake up and smile with the innocence of a newborn. I’m happy to have another day. I’m excited to go out and play. I laugh because there’s nothing to be sad about. Glancing in the mirror and knowing I am unique without doubt. No need to look for too long, though. In front of the glass mt mom and dad move to and fro. Years later I stare in the mirror. My eyes are an endless abyss of imperfection and I can’t seem to find a single element that isn’t flawed. I want anything else, but not this mirror. If that’s my reflection, by some means distort it. Nowhere in this mirror can I find a redeeming factor, So I shatter the glass, though it did nothing wrong. It reported tragedies, but it never lied. Now still as these shards of truth offer themselves to me, I can’t find anything to be happy about. -Libby Pierce

Sea of White Each flake, Different from the rest, No two are the same, Each as white as a fresh sheet of paper, Falling faster than a car speeding down the interstate. The freshly fallen snow weighs heavy on the pine trees, As the cardinals peck at the unknown substance, The sap turns it brown, Unique flakes continue to fall, And the powder sets on the slopes. My blue skis scrape the powder, The white snow spraying out from the sides, The long lift takes me to the top of the mountain, I’m the only one on the peaceful and quiet slope, Each falling flake drowning in a sea of white.

Stories to Chill

Dreams Beyond the Sea A thousand lives across this bloody sea, This sea that bores the myth of all I’ve lost, At last it shall return my life to me, Or will I fail again and pay the cost? Oh sea so brightly stained with dreamers’ blood, For what did I give up my life to you? I search my mind in which resides a flood, But nothing else can answer me anew. Beyond I see the land amid the waves. How long have you been leading me astray? I swear to you I shall escape those caves! Those caves that I stay trapped within today! This sea which guards the answers that I seek, Leaves much to be obtained beyond its reach. But why must I relinquish all I own for naught but straits of water colored red? In all my time I pray that I have grown. I pray that this is not where I’ll be dead. O, sun please be my guiding light today. O, guide me to the edge of this vast sea. I am so sick of feeling naught but gray! Unlock my heart and set my feelings free! To live or die is not in my control, But I have dreams that shall not fade away! In life or death I will once more be whole. I understand the price that I may pay. I’ve learned it matters not where I end up. I’ll find my soul once more when I wake up. -Trey Custodio

Art by Charlie Russell ’22

Photo by Keon Tavakoli ’21

Art by Bella Burr ’23

The Attack I felt as if the oxygen, had been sucked out of the room, replaced with poison, by some monster or other, and that I was next to go, my chest inevitably shattered, my ribs had been ripped apart, seams undone, unraveling, to reveal a forgotten trail, of bread crumbs, I struggled to breathe, tears spilled out as if I were made of them, tears that searched, for a revelation to absorbs them, while blinding my view, in a flash of vertigo, my ethereal blood curdled, bubbled with passion, from my dead weight head, to featherweight toes, the room sent me spinning, again and again, til no discernable details, of the silhouette, could be picked apart.

The Ascent of Faddeus: Prologue Rear Admiral Bowell sat at his desk in his luxurious office deep in the Admiralty. The heavy padded-oak door opened.

“Colonel Lyon” he said, without looking up.

up.

“Please, sir, I prefer Faddeus.” That got the admiral to look

“You never did fit in here. One isn’t called by that. Everyone else here learns right quickly. You never did.” “You’re right. Instead, I went out and did what no one else in this navy does. Action.”

The admiral stiffened. “You don’t know your place.”

“What’s the point in place if all it does foster incompetence?”

“That’s enough, Lyon!” The already irate admiral seized upon a glint. “What are you wearing on your wrist?”

“It’s a Breitling Superocean.”

“That’s not the sort of thing we wear here. It’s not British enough.” The admiral handed over a different watch.

“This is an Omega Seamaster. It’s Swiss-made! Not British.”

“That’s enough. Now put it on and take off that German piece before I get the guards to drag you out. I’ve been eyeing the call button since you came in.” He looked longingly at the red button next to his Navy-issued Beretta pistol. Outside, the guards heard a shot ring out. For what felt like a minute there was no direction, but finally the call signal lit up. They burst into a body pooling blood in front of Rear Admiral Bowell’s desk. “He was insolent” was all the explanation they’d get.

The guards began to drag the body out, knowing there’d be hell to pay for this.

“Wait. Let me see his watch.”

The guards gingerly unclasped the Breitling and handed it to the rear admiral. He chuckled. “I can almost see what that bugger was on about. It looks good.” Faddeus admired the look of the watch on the rear admiral uniform. “Carry on with the job, then,” he remembered, after a moment. The guards continued to drag out the body. They couldn’t hear Faddeus murmur sardonically: “what a sorry way for a rear admiral to go.” He really liked his watch with those stripes. -Owen Johnson and Taran Jeevan

Doll The doll forgot to smile happy today. It looked the sick world through the sly window. It saw people — women wearing bandeaux. Putting cigars in ashtrays, men smoke gay. A woman who begs her husband to stay. One blind tourist asking people info, a dumb bimbo, Berating a widow. Not cloth, the doll was molded of clay. Shattering day by day, it saw no end, Hoping the expectation every year. The doll wished for vast heaven to ascend. Its state allowed not from shedding a tear. It knew, looking out, of no such amend — Could make the doll disappear. -Clement Lee

Art by Jack Tignor ’22

Photo by Kristen Tan ’22

Lost Terrifying and desolate, The dark sea shows no exit, Place of refuge, Or even hope. There is a lost tree, Broken off from the land, Floating in the never-ending ocean. Lacking his home, The only thing he has ever known. Filled with dread and fear, Knowing his life will never be the same, And he will forever be alone, All while knowing what he’s missing out on. The poor tree can’t help but blame himself, If only his roots went deeper, Or his connection to the land wasn’t old and weak, Or he had just held on a little harder. If only! Now he must live his last few days missing the only thing that Made him who he was. Knowing he could be nestled up on the land, If only he had avoided his few mistakes. Instead, he must become familiar with the crashing waves, Breaking on him every second, And taking a piece of him with each hit. -Rachel Thetford

The Blue Jay Ceremony A pirate ceremony befalls Jay Olden Cay, where a red-eyed raider summons spirits of wicked days. Spellbook in hand, arm scarred by brand, Bluebird awaits on the bank of the land. Red eyes bleeding from a previous beating, his blood flows cold from dynasties of old. A loon cries out at the dawn of day, inkly waxing into the pirate bay. Its scrag snaps loose from the meaningful song the fishermen croon to signal the spawn. The water slithers from the legless anura, with glittering tongues and a weeping aura, creeping to the altar scattering flora. In the fermented cove, beneath a black-gilded dove, waits a gold-mouthed priest and a bride of ivory teeth.

Bluebird’s bride wears a white-feathered coat, as lackeys free her from the roots grasping her throat. Bluebird grips on a blight, wicked whip, while dread silences the bride on his cold and tattered hip. Her salted, burning eyes fume over a blackened lip with icepick fire and a spell to inflict. The glowing sea has a primeval tale that welcomes sorrow without fail. The bluebird-bride, reduced to a groan, sinks a fingertip down to bone. The Leviathan rises to unveil her anger and bash the immoral crew, with holy intentions, creating a clangor Bluebird never knew. The bird bride pricks a devilish sore upon Bluebird’s gold-leafed chest, leaving his body on the black shore with imposed, eternal rest. Forsaking past irreverent oath, trudging through the tar-like growth, forgetting the forceful, unholy verse, choosing better over worse. -Caitlin Johnson

Art by Liam Michaels ’21

The Corruption of Spring The rain has fallen! And it has laid out all through our garden, apologies for drought: Poppies and roses and scarlet begonias, petals as red as the blood in our veins for all to enjoy, for all to enjoy these petals as red as the blood in our veins. The rain has fallen! And so out we lay all ‘round our garden our houses of clay: Mud from the earth, mixed in clear weather, sun-dried beside tomatoes we grew for all to enjoy, for all to enjoy, these sun-dried tomatoes we grew. But a hungrier man forged a tall bowl in bronze and gathered the rain for his own. This hungrier man forged sets of shears in steel and cut off the head of a rose. He fenced in the garden and drew up a deed He severed these flowers and sharpened his greed, Traded petals for stems and stems for petals, and suddenly we all did too, trading petals for stems and stems for petals and hungrier yet we all grew. The rain has fallen; we’d laid out our pails all through our gardens, collecting its wails.

Our eyes are all locked on the stems we have severed, leaves as green as our envious skin, for us to collect, for us to collect, these leaves as green as our envious skin. -Kristen Tan

Art by Claire Vu ’22

Art by Rebecca Schill ’23

Technology Invades There is grime underneath my fingernails That has stayed there for a week. Rain falling against the windowpane Pitter-pattering its way inside my dreams. My nightmares being chaotic images The otherworldliness that I perceive Only when looking up at the stars. In my dreams I count the stars one by one Expanding through the night, dancing In my Earthly perception. Mud clings thickly to the soles of my feet, My roots entrenched in the soil. I am a flower, growing, growing, growing. Growth, undone by the radiation of an electric shock Waterboarded and hung out to dry In the sunlight until tomorrow. What do you do when the sun isn’t watching?

Recycle! Plants help us survive, thriving off the inhalations of oceans of fresh air atop storming waters, covered by garbage bags scattered across sea-foam, soda-can waves, marked-up manatees idling by, damaged by disrespect known only by political polarization. Feel the motion of the wind blowing through the turbines as it brushes your child’s baby hairs, plastic straw cast aside bright-eyed with the promise of a reusable straw, a tumbleweed of trash casting a shadow on the neon curbside sign, shining “Recycle!” Inhale conservation, exhale short-sightedness. The close-mindedness of business magnates, resisting to realize that you won’t make money off of a deteriorated Earth, degraded by the extraction of every resource, a drained essence of a planet leaves dreary inheritance for the grandchildren. Is this how you repay your mother? People won’t breathe, not just for the kneeling on their necks, but for the boot of toxic air bashing in their throats. As you abandon any sense of adequacy atop your throne of gasoline poured into the Gulf of Mexico, will you remember that? Resist being resentful of reminiscence when you realize that your reflection is as green with greed as the nature that you try to weed out.

Inhale conversation, cheap talk, and promises. Exhale the crippling deforestation of international treasures — the Amazon’s immeasurable wealth. Did you forget to measure it? You might have invested, when the market was promising before collapsing under the pressure of competition, its worth stifled when stacked aside the growing piles of cash miles high in your office. Too bad you buried the cure for cancer under the bodies of undiscovered animals and indigenous peoples. People. Aren’t we? My not-so-idle mind cannot ignore prefers to spell “endangered” as “in-danger.” I always was a straight shooter. Guilt is a glorious thing. Only, who is in danger now? You may be a gentleman, but you are not a gentle man.

Where is it? Unfulfilled desire, unrealized dreams, The questions lingering deeply in him. Towards inferno or heaven, he waited. Drabness in the walls, fading from the seams. ‘I promise, sir, I have kept a clean slate.’ … ‘Many come to me, asking for salvation. But they do not know their sinful evils. By greed, marriage between sick agnation, They care not to resolve their upheavals.’ ‘People with their avarice and their lust. Humanity — a pain I created.’ A silence ensued for the remainder. He begged but realized it was helpless. Speaking to nothing, he quickly faded — Fading into a sea of nothingness. Hear the flying birds fly in unison See the graceful wings flutter, a union. -Clement Lee

Photo by Keon Tavakoli ’21

Art by Caitlin Johnson ’21

Paroxysm: A Sudden Outburst of Emotion When he stared In the reflection, The picture gleamed Back. Distorted, Frightening imagery, Mismatched puzzle Pieces jumbled together, Ice cream Flavors that should Not be mixed, A deck of Cards with no Spades. Something always Wrong — Missing, Reaching, Leaning, Hoping, Gleaning — As if anything Would ever Change. As if This feeling in his chest Of a deep, Dark, oozing Sewage plant Would ever Go away. Go away He says to himself, With the type Of unsolicited Hatred usually Directed at the World, this time Directed at the mirror.

He is his own Punching bag, His own Disappointing lover, His own Shoulder to cry On because Why risk a Shoulder not Being there? Yes, he is by himself, His greatest treasure — The virtue of self Sufficiency — printed On his chest like A shiny Gold Star. Brighter than the sun he Shines, chest Puffed outward, Arms flexed, Head cocked Backwards, Chin up to the sky and with Tears Glistening In the Glimmering light Of his tragically beautiful eyes. His picture gleams Back, when He Stares At his Reflection. A little more distorted, And a little more ashamed.

Tell the Reaper “I’m Sorry” When the rain pours I feel the pain more, wish it would wash it all away I can feel the water coming up over my head Lord forgive me I can’t handle regrets I can’t breathe you can see it in my eyes There’s ghosts all around me they keep me up at night For a moment I’ll feel so alive The next I’ll crash and burn in spite We call it life but in the end we’re all just dust in the grave Trapped in my head but I pre-tend that everything’s great Only a few years that I’ll be here but I’m wasting every day It’s sounding bleak, guess that’s just the way it is I can’t fall asleep, so I’ll lay here and I’ll face it now Dug a few feet ‘fore I backed out and I broke down but it doesn’t really make me proud. Shoulda Woulda Coulda when I lay in bed It’s been stressful from the get-go It’s just me, myself, and my ego Friends in my head wanting me dead Let it be known, I’m better alone Skip the details, I’ll prevail Do it on my own with no coattails I’m coming undone, guess that’s just the way it is Funny how the mind can wander Memories I’m not so fond of like to come and gossip Funny how the mind can really throw us off the Trail-ing, while my faith varies While the weight carried And the pain glaring Are a little bit scary

Time goes by. I’ll be alright. I drown my mind. I’ll be alright. I close my eyes. I’m not alone inside. -Kenneth Whitehurst

Photo by Jasy Nelson ’21

The Girl in the Lake Mist enveloped the placid lake, shrouding it as if to hide the secrets it could never tell. The early morning sun pierced through the dense wood, casting dulled reflections across the foggy surface of the still water. All was quiet but the songs of birds, professing their romance to the world, songs of which rivaled the quiet croaks of frogs. Everything was peaceful. Everything was right. The crunch of footsteps against the dying fall leaves echoed throughout the forest, breaking the serene silence. A young woman emerged from the forest and was met with the cold snap of the wind. She clung tightly to the thick, flannel jacket that hungrily swallowed her small frame. Pausing at the lake, she caught sight of her reflection, slightly concealed by the fog. She stared curiously at the girl with the warm eyes staring back at her. Suddenly, a look flickered in the eyes of the girl in the reflection, a small smile crept on her lips. She felt the girl in the reflection knew something she didn’t. In a moment it was gone. Dismissing it, she attributed it to her tired eyes. The young woman left, walking to her small cottage on the other side, the thought of the girl in the lake haunting her mind. She couldn’t tell if what she thought she saw was a look of fear, almost a cry for help or a warning, or maybe it was something far more sinister. She started walking faster, disturbed by the thoughts running through her head. Letting out a foggy breath, she caught sight of the smoke pouring out of her chimney, and took in its alluring scent. She was at home. She was safe. She closed the heavy door behind her, a small boom breaking the silence of the forest once again. She let out another breath, one of relief. Something didn’t feel right, but now she was home and safe. She took off her dense jacket, placing it on the coat rack standing in the entryway. She hesitated to look in the mirror by the door, plagued by the fear that she might see the disturbing reflection again, but at last, gave in to her curiosity. She was relieved to find her normal self staring back at her, and began to turn away. But as she was turning, she caught sight of the unnerving reflection again. This time the girl looked as if she was reaching out to her, either seeking help or seeking destruction. “Clara…,” something whispered hoarsely. The girl, Clara, turned immediately to the sound of her name, knocking over a glass of water as she did so.

Clara grimaced at the mess before her, glass shards scattered over the entrance floor. She stared at the glass and the water that flooded the wood floor, her reflection staring at her again. “Clara,” said the voice again, this time much clearer. Horrified, Clara found the source of the voice, her own reflection calling out to her. “Come closer Clara, I need your help,” choked the voice, as if it was struggling to speak. This sent Clara running. As she tried to escape, she stepped on the glass, its shards piercing through her foot. She burst through the door, forgetting her coat. Clara shivered as she ran as fast as she could, there was nothing else she could do. She winced as she felt the shards of glass cutting deeper and deeper. The pain soon became unbearable, and she limped over to the lake. She heard the voice cry out again, this time with more artificial innocence, “Clara please,” it choked, “help me!” Clara gathered her courage, stumbling on her words a bit, “w..what do you want” she cried, her voice trembling. “I want you, Clara!” the voice screamed. Before Clara could respond, she started to taste iron. Blood began to bubble from her mouth, and Clara began to choke, scarlet streaks running down her shirt. Defeated, Clara realized that was why the voice was struggling to speak. She tried to speak but couldn’t, and started stumbling, getting closer to the lake. In her dance with death, Clara tripped and fell into the water, sending waves across the once placid surface. In a moment, all was calm again. The birds were singing, and the frogs were croaking. Everything was peaceful. Everything was right. The mist enveloped the lake once again, hiding in its veil another secret it couldn’t tell. -Megan Smith

February of 1959 Inspired by Mark Andrew’s photo of a guide from Walk Japan Fourth night on the mount. Five young campers scatter around. Five early deaths. Three in the unforgiving river. Two on the solid stone. Freshly dead, frozen and cold. Five trails of footsteps, under six inches of snow. Internally wounded, externally fine. A medical mystery, but nothing benign. The sad story of this eerie expedition unfortunately bears some truth with some small change and additions. The sad, sad story of Igor Dyatlov, his group never made it out of the mission. Dyatlov Pass of Feb. ‘59, the place in the Ural, where nine hikers died. All of the campers, inadequately dressed, cut out of their tents, ran, and breathed their last breaths. Four found in a creek, more in the snow, ‘most nobody knows the true, twisted tale of their mysterious deaths, how they died, miles and miles away, back in the past. It is known, however, that a mystery simply cannot last. -Katelyn Guess

Art by Sophie Watson ’21

When Spirits Play Cards When spirits play cards, bet on our lives, to pass the time until the purge of all things impure, and we are pawns to move on their board, then let’s play along. Let’s blaze like fire, burning bright and wild, a lovely danger no one fears before an inferno. Let’s light their way and then burn it down. Let’s grow like a rose, enchanting and proud, a beloved’s bauble with punishing thorns striking beneath. Let’s mask love with pricks and pain with beauty. Let’s strike like lightning, darting across the sky, a glamour in the dark that makes the earth smolder and smoke. Let’s black out the world and form a rainbow.

When daemons below sweetly beckon and guardians above drag us away, Let’s float on the tide, drifting to one and then floating away. -Toria Kauffman

Art by Emily Vazquez ’21

Burning Love

I Hear a Laugh Where You Oft Dwelled Before I hear a laugh where you oft dwelled before, Far above, perched like a dove in the trees, Oh, with each new year, still I miss you so. An enchanting call, like a siren’s glow, Still calls to me, wailing and crying, please, I hear a laugh where you oft dwelled before, The banshees who cried once before follow, How their lovely dresses flow with the breeze, Oh, with each new year, still I miss you so. I always come where we hung long ago, Your shadow floating high above the leaves, I hear a laugh where you oft dwelled before, Your shape darts before me as rivers flow, Flying straight for me ‘till it turns and flees, Oh, with each new year, still I miss you so. One day soon we shall reunite below And no longer will your shade come to tease. I hear a laugh where you oft dwelled before. Oh, with each new year, still I miss you so. -Toria Kauffman

Unpeeled You picked a ripe tangerine, peeled back its thick and bruise-wrapped skin, held its pieces — oh, how loosely they held together now — in your satin hand. Fresh, raw, new-born fruit, plucked from its home, ripped from its armor, and wholly sweet, wholly tart, as slice after slice broke open against your tongue and your breath became perfume. -Kristen Tan

Art by Caitlin Johnson ’21

Art by Brogan Land ’22

I Only Love Myself When I’m Sleeping I only love myself when I’m sleeping, And not the obligatory sleep that I subject myself to On the weekdays. Real sleep, not inhibited by anxiety and math tests, But sleep where nightmares are worse than reality. And dreams are never-ending. I only love my eyes when they’re crying. And not the cry of sadness that I ever so often experience From anxiety. Real cries, where weeping is not looked upon as weakness, But strength; where the shape is unbeknownst to a stranger Because of the glossy veneer. I only love my hands when they’re writing. As to cover up my palms from ridicule and derision And people who can’t hide their expressions Of disgust For the girl with the contagious hand disease. I only love my smile when it’s covered. By a thin piece of cloth; where people can’t see The crooked teeth beneath my Chapped cracked lips. I only love myself when I’m sleeping, Because I can control other people’s Perceptions of me. Because nothing is real. Because loving yourself is easy when Nobody is watching.

Old Friend, New Love I’m here Sitting under stars we stuck to your ceiling Picking at the rug you’ve had your whole life I know these rooms almost better than my own Cuz I’ve been here right by your side I’ll stand in your bathroom And I’ll use your hand soap Daydreaming of when we were young enough That it didn’t matter if we shared a bath Young enough to love rubber ducks and pirate ships Young enough to not care what love is I’ll dance in your kitchen Because I’m comfy here I can finally grab a snack from the pantry myself We all know it took me years I always help your sister wash dishes After dinners of pasta and your mom’s bad jokes Because I’ve been around For years And years And months And days And minutes And moments And I won’t go away I’ve always thought you’d tire of me But you still ask me to stay Stay beside you or stay the night? I can’t tell. But I remember when we got old enough to not care about Futons or sleeping bags And I’d just crawl into bed behind you But we were still too young to touch So we’d sleep feet to head And giggle at nothing And talk until we both fell asleep I see your room in my dreams

I know you see my face in yours I know how you feel about autumn and storms Because I’ve been around For years And years And months And days And minutes And the moments That make me wanna stay I love you in a way I don’t know how I need you in a way I can’t explain You’re a part of me in every way I feel at home in your house and at peace in your space And even though I know you like the back of my hand and The front of face I can’t tell if you feel the same -Nyla Gordon

Art by Quinn Carroll ’23

Maybe A Best Friend More than a friend? Maybe more than a friend. His caring and fun personality His sparklingly clear eyes melting my heart He was always very special to me But never in this complicated way I had not realized it until now My heart now beats wildly inside my chest But do I dare complicate this friendship? - Eliana Jin

Art by Jennifer Yuan ’23

I Didn’t Mean to Tell You I Love You I didn’t mean to tell you I love you At the park bench on that cold winter day. Your breath visible And your voice wavering. You said it back. And I believed you. I didn’t mean to continue falling After you picked me up the first time And took me to my prom. Your dad’s 1979 convertible And the antenna of the handheld radio Sat next to my handbag. I didn’t mean to say yes When you asked me the first time to marry you, But I said yes and no five different times, Each time having to explain to my father That you had changed And were ready to love me. I didn’t intend for fifteen years of my life To be spent loved so shallow. An ongoing cycle of infidelity followed by forgiveness. I didn’t intend to raise a child on my own, A girl, her eyes brown like yours But independent, because she has to be. I didn’t mean to tell you I love you, But if I hadn’t, I would never have met her. -Alexandra Kerr

Worth the Wait Three years later, “Long time no see.” I know you must think me a traitor, But that’s not who I aspired to be. You open the door to my car, “Hello.” I can see you’re as hesitant as the last time I left you, I left you with a scar. You are immensely reminiscent of the old me I used to know. Love at first sight is cliche — An idea best saved for fairytales. I’d never let a boy leave me in disarray. No boy can make me a train off the rails. Love is a word and nothing more, A mirage in the scorching desert of life. I admit feelings are hard to ignore, But love is like a shiny knife — If not handled cautiously, you will get hurt. But love doesn’t have to be detrimental, It doesn’t have to be one-sided. It doesn’t need to leave hearts fragmental. I now know I was misguided. Love is not just a word to me, It is an immense feeling whose description is hard to keep brief. Life is like walking on the soft, summery sand parallelling the sea, Each time the waves of love hit my ankles, I feel a cooling sense of relief.

Love with you is the comfort of my favorite pink sweater, The joy I feel when I go for a run in my favorite weather. Our love is being able to listen to sad songs without crying, It’s all about laughing at past mistakes and smiling. Love is the warmness of the white sherpa blanket you gave me On a cold winter morning, It’s the sense of freedom you feel when standing outside While warm rain is pouring. If only I knew back then, The path we would be on now, I would have loved to see my face When I told my old self we reconnected somehow.

Photo by Clement Lee ’22

Photo by Taran Jeevan ’23

Art by Lydia Sweeney ’21

Figs of Life Love arrives as a fig falls from a tree. Give happiness, give me something to build, As the pollen feeds the honeybee, Love is a work forged by a Roman guild. When sorrow comes, think not of the past. Think what comes next — a life of gaiety. Think not of the symbols painted on masts Instead — think of life in serenity. The thoughts of your laughter help cure my doubts. The tears from your eyes cure my cold soul. But I will not know of your whereabouts. This love will become a scar from a mole.

Art by Kristin Houston ’23

You of Sparta, You of Troy Beauty, had you lived then, Aphrodite would have promised you to Paris, and Menelaus would have kept his bride, and Achilles would have kept his rage, and Odysseus would have kept all his tricks in Ithaca. The Fates would have bowed to you, my dear, and of you, Muses ten would have sung. Aphrodite would have promised you to Paris, and Priam would have kept his dignity, and Aeneas would have kept his fatherland, and Hector would have kept his helmet aflash. The walls of high Rome would not have risen, and the high walls of Troy would stand instead. Homer and Virgil would be left without their tales of journey, of war, of deities and strife, but surely, oh Beauty, had you lived then, they would need only for tales of you. -Kristen Tan

Blue Coat, Green Eyes “The coat you wear, Blue in color, buttoned to the top, Caught my wandering eyes.” “Your wandering eyes, Green and searching for all that is lost, Drew me to your side.” “Buttoned so high, Wrapped around you like a warm blanket, Protecting you from the chills of the January air.” “Your eyes, Deep green like a field of grass in the spring, Reflecting a fire-like warmth.” “So I ask, With my wandering eyes, Will we meet again?” “The answer, Depends on my coat, Will your wandering eyes catch it again?”

The Reality of Long Distance

I love you. You mean the world to me. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Ditto, I love you. I think we can both agree That one argument isn’t a big deal; we can push through. You’re not allowed to go out tonight, I’m worried you won’t be prudent. I love you. Ok, I understand, I just don’t want this to turn into a fight. But you know I’m always careful and have been a good student? I love you. I’m going to a party with friends. Don’t wait up. Love you. Did you make amends? Is the girl who likes you going to show up? I love you. Hello?

You talk to too many boys, I’m the only friend you need. Am I not enough? They’re nothing to me but noise, You know I’ll do anything for us to succeed. You are my one and only and I love you, please don’t get in a huff. We’re breaking up. You don’t make me happy. You’re holding me back. This is a lot of unheard of buildup, I understand and, not to sound sappy, Is there anything I can do to fix this crack?

Now I know, You are comfort, routine, familiar, and all of the above With you, I was unable to grow. But you are not love.

You’re difficult to love, No one will ever love you like me. Yeah ok, we’ll see

Photo by Clement Lee ’22

Mirror Image My life begins and ends with you. I awaken the second your eyes meet mine Our irises bleeding into one another without a care And for just a second we are one and the same, Our lives blurring into brown smudges that seem to stain my glass Like fingerprints. You lean in closer and I hold my breath — I imagine that if you fell right now you would never stop Hurtling infinitely towards me (Never reaching but always hoping) Our fingers millimeters away from setting the whole world on fire. But of course this is just a dream, For slowly your form begins to peel away Like cellophane off the back of the Disintegrating refrigerator magnet That sits in your back pocket right now. And as you walk away I grow smaller and smaller with your reflection, Reduced to nothing but a mirror image And a wasted dream. -Millie Van Slyke

Art by Lindsay Kay ’21

We Gather Around the Flames to Keep Warm How effortlessly you wander through life, Flinging out easy laughter Like candy to a crowd of children all cheering your name. How earnestly you press warm smiles into the Shaking hands of the derelict, Embracing brothers and sisters you’ve never known before. How enchantingly bright the room becomes when you stroll in, Humming an unknown tune, Eyes closed as if no one was listening. You don’t even realize that we’re all listening. How envious we are of the brilliance you exude, Too bright to look in the eye, But too addicting to look away. We clamber to your side for the chance to hear you say our names. How frustrating it is to know that we will never Be able to set you aside, That we would be foolish to do so. A person so radiant, so riveting, That we find ourselves upsettingly grateful to have met you. How strange it must be to be you, Completely unaware that you hold this gift in your palms, That you were bestowed a fire unfit for mortal hands. How you haven’t burned up yet is a mystery to us all. -Sarah Jacobs

Justice

The Stand I remember when I stood by While the world sank under the weight of the heavy hearts of the rejected and neglected While the world shrank from itself, horrified at its reflection While the world dripped with the blood of the innocent While the world seethed with hatred and harm, Gasping and grieving, deafness and death threats I remember when I stood by Watching humans kill and humanity die Watching people oppressed for heritage, a pride, a skin tone, An unalterable fact Watching society desperately trying to free itself from its own bonds Only to repair them and replace them again I remember when I stood by Everything I saw bottled up inside me Churning, rushing, raging But on the outside, the image of placidity I remember when I stood by Confused, frustrated, enraged Yet inactive A broken wind-up toy, wound up, but immobile I remember when I stood by Before I burst. My emotions expanded too rapidly for the bottle to hold And they surged forth Pumping through my mind And into my actions. I remember when I stood alongside While the world looked for guidance While the world truly needed everyone While the world cried out for help I remember when I stood alongside Raising those who thought they had lost Reviving those who fainted from the pressure Resurrecting those who suffocated from a lack of love I remember when I stood alongside Indebted to those who came before me To the ones at my side And most of all, to the ones to come after

I remember when I stood alongside Finding those allied in advocacy United under the universal truth That nobody need wait a single moment Before starting to improve the world I remember when I stood alongside And together, we achieved what the world had cried out for We helped to heal it, to restore it, To save it. We remember when we stood together Striding forward Looking always to the future of peace We remember when we stood together Always remembering the pain which was before us For that we will Never Forget We remember when we stood together For the world, we linked arms For the world, we joined hands For the world, we marched over the bridge The bridge to equality, and to harmony, and to truth We remember when we stood together And we are ready to pass on the torch of truth, of justice, Of hope There is still more to be done But we have made a difference, our voices have been heard, Our truth has been told And the world is a better place The world is fuller, richer, stronger The world is more beautiful, more joyous, more together The world is more us -Micah Baum

An Everlasting State of Division Division, inequality, and futility. To blindly take a side of darkness. An opinion that obscures morality, Whilst opening a mirror to argumentative madness. Left or right, neither solidify democracy, However, both sides develop great hypocrisy. Politics breed hatred and corruption. Scandals and accusations overcome righteousness. Nevertheless, the imperfect candidate will lead With a lopsided relation. All we can do is move forward with faithfulness. Over and over and over, a chaotic uproar stirs political animosity, Animosity that is turned into ferocity. I’ve never known which side to take, for both sides will lead to burning friendships. Politics is like hearing children argue over who is wrong, For they don’t care for who is right. -Andrew Trinder

“Lebron James” by Susanna Guzik ’24

Poems Inspired by The Undefeated The unforgettable. The ones who made history And resonated with humanity For centuries to come. The unforgettable. The ones who scored the goal To win the game And receive the trophy. The unforgettable. The ones who protested Against the injustice Many still face today. The The The The

unforgettable. Martin Luther Kings. Wilma Rudolphs. Rosa Parkses.

The ones who stood up And fought for what was right. The ones who fought for justice Because everyone matters. The ones who made a difference To ensure that everyone is treated equally And no person is discriminated against Because of something they cannot control. These are the unforgettable. -Hannah Stredler

Poems Inspired by The Undefeated I stand on the shoulders of my family Those who won or lost Those who were determined or gave up. The good and the bad Happy and sad Imperfectly combined To make me. Some outgoing, committed Members of their communities Working to better lives With unparalleled drives. I am the same Trying to reclaim For others the power That is rightfully theirs. Doing my part And using my heart To create A more equitable world.

“Black Lives Matter” by Anna Pang ’26

The Ones Inspired by The Undefeated The ones who were once silenced by the whips of oppression Who walked on streets of unjust and bloodshed Decide to forge their own sword of courage and shield of patience Preparing to bring justice and peace upon the once-shattered land For the future of mankind along with freedom from the cuffs of Gray clouds and suffering The ones of the pen decorate an empty wall with their Feelings and thoughts The ones of the influence speak out to the public, Filled with compassion and empathy The ones of the paper connect their spirit Towards a letter for elected officials The ones of the voice march with those alike for a better tomorrow The ones of the speech gather confidence To speak out for justice and are willing to Listen to others The ones of today fight for the ones of tomorrow The one’s motive is the desire for change For change is not only wanted, but desperately needed Change required perseverance, bravery, and knowledge Change, however, comes in different forms, Because change is a part of life from a Butterfly to someone’s mindset For the ones of change are the ones of truth These are the ones, who forged their own armor, Their own weapon, their own paths, And a hope for what lies ahead is better than the past -Kassidy Sanders

Unamerican Inspired by The Undefeated once thought to be unbreakable, untouchable, unshakeable, lies with broken pieces scattered on the floor, citizens unknowing of the future, fists clenched in the air and ready to stand unrelenting in the face of unending possibility. our past was unquestionably understated, played down so as not to seem unmanageable, the depth of the damage of our present situation underestimated, fraught with unasked questions about the unrecognized beauty of black bodies, our progression to a better world a freight train full speed ahead, destination bound to the unstoppable. we implore politicians to remember that just because change looks unconventional doesn’t mean that it is not exactly the dosage the doctor prescribed to a nation unrecognizable by the unjustifiable treatment of those men, women, and children our forefathers preached were created equal, but when asked about the “all” acted as though they missed the message on america’s answering machine. we stand today in the midst of a movement of monumental proportions, ceasing to settle for the unsatisfactory poison of unacknowledged prejudice, obstructing perpetrators of hatred from running free, uncalled out, unaccounted for, unshackled unlike those slaves whom our forefathers imprisoned, forcing uneducation upon them, making economic underdevelopment inevitable, Jim Crow uncompromising in his evil to devalue and degrade. why do you think white homes earn one hundred thousand more per year? the systemic devil of prejudice lies at the core of our system. our system.

we stand today no longer accepting the belief that just because our failures are uncomfortable means that they should go unaddressed. we rise today, maintaining that with unmatched devotion, our nation’s hearts, bodies, and minds — yes, created, but treated with equality long overdue — might someday join together, unfractured in the commitment to understand our unhealed past, aching wound in the arm of a nation needing amputation. today, we rise, eyes forward towards the untapped potential for positive change, the promise of a future where parents and teachers, neighbors and preachers wouldn’t dare shy away from speaking of the unspeakable, police wouldn’t kneel on necks making the air unbreathable, and children’s love would at last be allowed to exist unobstructed by the toxin pervading the air of yesterday’s america. we will dive headfirst into this pool of uncertainty, certain of our intentions of saving a drowning america, so that the progress of our once broken nation may one day be remembered as unforgettable. that is, if we rise. -Ella Deans

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In the Making Inspired by The Undefeated This is for those who strive to be the greatest they can be. This is for those who struggle and work till the break of dawn. This is for those who help others before themselves — No matter the conditions. This is for the people trying to find out who they are. This is for people, everyone, all kinds. But ultimately this is for YOU. You...one who is the future of this imperfect world. You...the one who will help until there is no one left to help. You...the promise. -Sarah Glassman

“Dunk on Inequality” by Leo Jones ’26

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To Sit is to Stand

To take a stand By taking a knee. To breathe for the ones Who are suffocated. To scream for those Who are silenced. By the bigots. The racists. We are all blind. Blinded not by the sun, But rather by the fear Of having to take responsibility for systemic prejudice Fear? Who are we to be fearful?! How lucky we are to be able to walk the streets in Peace! Yet we are still so terrified. Terrified of the truth. “I can’t breathe!” “I can’t breathe!” “Please don’t let me die” So we stand by taking a knee. We stand for those who stood before us, For those who stood before them, And for those who one day will stand on the grounds of Our nation cheering, “with liberty and justice for all!” -Julia Wainger

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A German Night There is knowledge to be gained from an ignorant mind, Faith to be found in a tormented soul. When the world around Comes crashing down How can one survive the cold? There he lay amidst a nameless mass, the dead and the dying alike. Unable to turn from the whip of the wind, the bodies became buried by snow. The sky was consumed by countless clouds, covering the world in a darkened shroud There he pondered the state of his soul, and concluded it was lost long ago. He no longer thought of his family, his father. He simply pondered if the end of the war drew near. Surrounded by grey, there was no light, He could not tell if it was day or night. As he gazed through the grey, a figure appeared. “Who are you,” asked Wiesel through labored breath. The figure replied, “I am the humble Death.” The two were silent for a while, apart some distance. The cold carried on with impassioned indifference. “If my time has come, I am ready, we can leave.” Death smiled, then chuckled, then laughed, then said, “Poor creature, no, you are not yet dead. I was sent to save your soul.” “Why you?” asked Wiesel, as the snow seeped through his skin. “Because I am from the cold.” “How could God have let this happen? It is my faith that has marked me, that has caused all of this, and still, He watches as they slaughter the innocent. I have sat in this snow, endured this Winter, Why should I not embrace the cold, become harsh and bitter?”

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“The seasons will change, Winter will soon conclude. If you choose to remain in the cold, you will be consumed. You must accept the past, endure the present, and embrace the future. The cold will pass, if you let it, if not it will consume you sooner. Next year, winter will come again, and offer you a blank slate. Do with it what you intend, but know you control your hate.” With that Death faded into the grey, and Wiesel felt a little more warm. For he knew that it would soon be day, and he was overcome with calm. -Keon Tavakoli

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Stand for This. For Black Lives Matter. For they were killed and whipped and raped and robbed. And known bondage longer than they’ve known freedom. And left with nothing. For in the eyes of the powerful ones they were worth nothing to begin with. For never “Backing the Blue,” For when George Floyd was dying he looked up and saw “Protect and Serve.” Painted on the side of a white Ford Explorer. And it meant nothing. For it never did. For Defunding the Police. For the officer who looked just beyond the barrel of his gun, To see a black man on his knees before him, grieving for his own life. With his tears in his eyes and his hands behind his head, And bullets in his chest seconds later. For the officer who felt nothing. And for the one beside him who did nothing to stop it. For Prison reform. For the little black boy named George, Who was sent to the electric chair. And for his family who was left with nothing but a memory. A memory of their fourteen-year-old baby boy. Who was taken from them long before it was his time. For George Stinney Junior. And the time when he did nothing. For Black Lives Matter. Because people haven’t acted like it since 1526. -Vivi Deans

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“Jesse Owens” by Simone Nied ’25

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I Pledge Allegiance to the Flag Of the country that stole my ancestor’s lives That country that continuously denies My opinion. The country that took away my voice The country that told me I didn’t have a choice That I wasn’t enough. The shackles my ancestors wore Left marks on my hands The houses klansmen burned Scarred my skin The nooses around my brothers’ necks Took all my air I can’t breathe. The winds of injustice are suffocating me I drink the same water Why not from the same fountain? I eat the same food Why not at the same table? I walk on the same earth Why not on the same side of the road? All these people telling me: Separate but equal But what I really see is you compromising black people. What have I done? Why does my color define who I am? Why was I dealt the lesser hand? What happened to my rights? Eighteen years of war. For what? We fought against taxation without representation Well, this is discrimination with justification We live in a nation built on segregation. Hughes said: I, too, sing But clearly that message didn’t ring How many years do I have to keep fighting? For you My country

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To realize that my voice sounds the same as those white men up in the Capitol All these rules they make are doing more hurting than healing Treating our feelings like they’re some plaything Don’t you remember? My brothers have helped you win wars My ma did your chores My people swept your floors For what? I’ll tell you How much it hurts to tell your child “Always listen to what the white people say” And even then there’s no guarantee we’ll live another day Whether it’s getting shot Or being told you’re a criminal When you’re not It kills us. But I still have faith For this is the nation of the strong and the great I’ll be your guide Show you what life’s like on the other side I’ll sing for you: Amazing grace How sweet the sound Of all the promises you made me Bravery is rewarded with liberty But all my men still aren’t free I know you’re lost, my country I know you’re blind But I see I see. -Areen Syed

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Photo by Olivia Danielson ’21

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Another 2012 I was eight I saw the news Twenty six people murdered Twenty of them, not two years younger than me Fallen victim to gun violence

Lock the doors. Turn off the lights. Stay silent. Sit by the wall… Not near the door. It’s just a drill. 2014 I was ten I heard the news A teenager was murdered He had a toy gun, no different from me Fallen victim to police brutality Stay silent. Know your rights. Remain calm. Don’t talk back… Be compliant. It’s just a warning. 2018 I was thirteen I watched the news They were murdered These students, they were barely older than me Another school shooting

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The bell rings. My mom hugs me tight. “I love you.” Did anyone tell them that Before they heard The shots ring? 2020 I was fifteen I read the news He was murdered Just because he had skin darker than mine Another violation of human rights “I can’t breathe.” But they didn’t listen. “Hands up, don’t shoot.” The protests start, The fight for equality, Hoping to put an end to this brutality. I remember it all. All the innocent lives taken too soon. How it became normalized. How everyone became desensitized. In the aftermath of one event, There was shortly “another.”

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Art by Bella Burr ’23

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Refusing to be Controlled Grew up as a girl with a plan Made sure to say what she believed Always struggling to believe that she belongs In a world built for a man A change was made when her goal was achieved Never trying to start trouble Hiding all her pain As anger inside began to bubble, She decided to make a change A lawyer fighting in the courts Then a judge sitting on her bench Learning to not use her fisted force Making the right decisions whenever she’s on the fence Changing the way people see women No longer toys to be played To keep advancing even when people say she shouldn’t Helping those who felt betrayed Working hard for a world where everyone belongs Bringing everyone to a better place Where pain never has to be prolonged No matter someone’s sexual orientation or race From single words of encouragement To family that always has her back Allowing her to be flourishing There to help her through life’s hardest tasks Teachers who taught her never to quit Playing sports teaching her to be tough Parents who taught her never to throw a fit Growing in times that were rough

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For people who led the way To prove we are all equal Lots of thanks she will have to say For teaching her not to be feeble And learn from her mistakes To never forget what she believes is right To never give in to her rage To always further her ongoing fight No matter the challenges she is to face Even if she is a girl Always remembering that she has a place That even she belongs in this world If she does what she wants This is the future shall hold Never listening to the taunts Refusing to be controlled -Milla Avery

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Art by Caitlin Johnson ’21

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Our Growth

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The Adventures That Made Me, ME I’m from playing dolls at grandma’s house with cousins Going to Uncle Matt’s beach house And playing hide and seek Scaring the adults, thinking we were lost, When we were just under the table I from reading Goodnight Moon Blowing hugs and kisses Holding big baby while falling asleep Chasing Mae through those long dark hallways Our voices bouncing off the walls Moving from Susquehanna road to Reynolds Dr Having people over and parties Listening to my dad and his friends laugh While trying to sleep in peace Watering the flowers and blackberries before eating dinner Splashing in the puddles And riding our bikes I’m from having a new baby brother And playing with him in his playpen I’m from going to Uncle Tim’s for Thanksgiving Riding horse and walking to the pond Eating as many desserts as possible I’m from driving to school with my dad every morning After school, rushing to finish homework Putting on my kneepads and walking to volleyball practice Coming home and sleeping on the bunk beds with Mae Playing games into the night Hoping not to get caught -Grace Robertson

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Art by Olivia Mize ’23

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Where Adaline’s From I am Brusters, and their green dino cookie. I am from colonial fairs and village days, from neverending snowball fights. I am from the fort in the azalea bushes, such bright and cheery flowers. I am from those long hikes in the woods, from the taste of smoky s’mores in my mouth. I am from long road trips and biking on the crooked path, from floating around the point and back in our tubes. I am from zucchinis in Grandma’s backyard, from the very first moment I pet The Bulldog, to hanging out on the fields at football games. I am from the highs and lows of soccer, which I remember oh too well. I’m from my purple silk and flannel softee, from the comfort it brought me. I am from the nighttime stories, Gerald the Donkey always wishing for freedom, from the furry friends I spend my days with. I’m from doggie mischief and snuggles, rawhide and carrot treats. I’m from floppy ears and waggy tails and cold, wet noses. I’m from my “Party Playlist,” the beat and inspiration move me. I’m from confidence and creativity, kindness and bravery. I’m from the risk and thrill of adventure. I am from Virginia, my home, sweet home. -Adaline Scott

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Where Fritz’s From I am from basketball, From a game that can be played during recess, I am from a ball that you can dribble and throw up into the air. (Orange, circle, it tastes slimy.) I am from a pin, The African Savanna Who’s hot weather I don’t like As if I became the desert myself. I’m from a chair, From Pete and David I’m from the portrait of a king And the carpenters, From Lord Willing I’ll talk to you tomorrow! I’m from I can show you better than I can tell you With a black jet sky And twelve years I can finally rest on a soft sheet of paper. I’m from King’s Avenue and Promenade East, Fried chicken legs and Ginger Ale From the tornado that hit my house To the big oak tree, The way that hawk’s eye looked at me that cold night. Under my couch was money Jingling every time someone sat down, A ton of shiny coins To remind me of all the stuff I could have bought. I am from time gone by — Picked just in the nick of time — I was picked by the right family chosen to be. -Fritz Whitfield

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Art by David Denson ’23

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From the Words of my Mother Our background eventually finds us, even if we do not deliberately search for it. As a young child, I liked to look through the drawers in my house for buried treasure — for colored pens, bendy straws, crayons, secret diaries, and more — for anything that would pique my curiosity. Oftentimes, I would settle on the silver bombilla in the kitchen cabinet. I would fiddle with it for a while before putting the strange object away, wondering, “What are the holes for? Can I use it as a spoon?”. I never understood what it was until high school — sitting at my desk, thinking about lunch, and listening to my Spanish teacher lecture about Hispanic culture. While I was not interested in the conversation beforehand, my attention suddenly spiked when the teacher brought up maté, a South American caffeinated drink, consumed through a typically silver-colored, unique straw. What really caught my attention, though, was that the straw was a bombilla. My mother never told me about her life in Argentina until I asked her why we had a bombilla. Looking at the projected bombilla picture at the front of the classroom, I realized there was more to my family history than I was aware of. My curiosity took hold, and I began my search for more buried treasure, finding them in more drawers, boxes, and high shelves, which I finally grew tall enough to reach. I discovered that my background hides in silver things: in books by Borges and in recordings of Carlos Gardel, who sang tangos. Many years ago, my mother’s family chose to keep these things throughout their travels from country to country in search of a better life. As I began to question my mother about these objects, bits of my background emerged. After I could not find any more of these objects, I realized just how few of them we had. I realized that many of them must have been left behind. So, I no longer ask my mother about these objects. Instead, I ask her about her life: “What was it like growing up?”, “Why did you leave?”, “What did you leave behind?” and most importantly, “Are you happy now?”. In my mother’s words, through her memories, and with the traces of her decisions and choices, my background is defined. She tells me about a beautiful city, carpeted with cobblestone streets and purple Jacaranda flowers.

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She tells me about the ten thousand people who disappeared. She tells me about her yearning for the calmness of childhood, before the fear and anxiety that ensued, which drove her family away and resulted in migration and a search for security in better lands. Even though she tells me so little, I know that because she survived difficult situations, reinvented herself, and found happiness, I can do the same. From the words of my mother, who taught me almost anything is possible, “Your background appears and becomes much more than objects or stories; it becomes the backbone of your life.” -Caitlin Johnson

Photo by Keon Tavakoli ’21

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To Sacrifice A grandmaster sacrifices ordinarily. However, the pieces he sacrifices come with a reward. Transcendental thoughts arrive at sacrifice. Sacrifices can never be ignored. The many moves, openings, and defenses come at great risk, But some things are always sacrificed. To win, you must also lose in various ways. For a game won without any sacrifices would be paradise. Sacrifices inevitably define everyone’s fate. To have the courage to sacrifice, or even to be that sacrifice. To move a step back in order to proceed. You must sacrifice, or you’ll inescapably fail. -Andrew Trinder

Art by Eliza Blythe ’22

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Backyard Sale for Handmaid Jackets Trench coat, weathered and war-torn, Crushing anonymity somehow Wandered its way into your arms, Zipper hanging at the midsection Donning the most brilliant shade of magenta ever seen. Button yourself up slowly and feel the Embrace of years passed by, When worlds revolved around Game boards and tag-you’re-it Instead of the sun; Flowers blooming in weeds merited Inexplicable wonder; Breaking your mother’s back On the crack of the sidewalk Presented your most pressing concern. Pressing into your side now, this jacket shields You, nylon and cotton armor Disguising a damaged interior Under fabric-softened material and lint. Bronze metal buttons dig into your neck, Claw at your throat, Devil digging its way down under to some unknown, The underbelly of the beast, Another side of the fabric, perhaps. Disguise the pain and look happy. You have been drowning in a sea of blues, greys, reds and blacks, Trying your best to keep coming back to Earth And everyone only stared at the magenta on your sleeve. How does that make you feel? Put the coat on And be grateful that you have anything to wear at all. And do me a favor, Try not to stain the jacket.

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Monowi, Nebraska i’ve grown out of my favorite shirt. like losing an old friend to time’s wear, but saving it’s remnants for good measure. the broken marriage between unrealistic expectation and seasonal depression. it’s hard to feel healthy: when my number fluctuates constantly. how something once thin can stretch how something that once fit can shrink in the wash. it’s difficult to take proper care of something so menial as our bodies when we make friendship with food that will turn to animosity and reason will elude. welcome to monowi. population of 1. a microcosm of my psyche, a hellish abyss of perpetual worry. i am my own therapist, doctor, mayor, law enforcement. there’s nothing to do here, but catastrophize. i’m growing out of my town. like a weed; infiltrating nature’s purity; monopolizing it’s land, although i make no profit. but like my favorite shirt, something keeps me here. i will never grow out of this “phase” of loving who I love, but the way I love. to love someone without having to prove it. so i hide myself in Rapunzel’s tower, refusing to open my locks. afraid that if i become beautiful, someone would love me. so i freeze over the parts of myself that could ever give off that impression caring less and less about things like my body. food oscillating between Lover and Enemy. words that i used to capitalize now lower case i’ve grown out of myself And i can’t help but wonder if i’ll ever find her again

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Art by Emily Vazquez ’21

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Today: Messages of Hope Today won’t be the last time you cry But it won’t be the last time you smile, either. Today won’t be the last time you get beat up But it won’t be the last time you fight, either. Today won’t be the last time you fail But it won’t be the last time you succeed, either. Today, be the change you want to see in the world. Today, take full advantage of your day. -Zahir Griffith

Art by Annalee Marling ’23

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To the Edge Goal: 20 push-ups. Arms sore. Legs sore. Doesn’t matter. Think about strength. Why not go for 22. 25. Even stronger. I could go for more — why not till failure. Goal: 1520 on the SAT. 1490. Study harder. Be enough. 1520. Think about Duke. Why not go for 1560. 1570. Even smarter. I could go for more — why not till 1600. Goal: Eat 1500 calories a day. Gerber Puffs. Snack skipping. Hunger. Belly fat. Meal skipping. Think about skinny. Why not go for 1200. 800. Even healthier. I could go for less — why not till just water. Improvement demands suffering? Penance for not being good enough? Due to a lack of confidence, Do we push ourselves to the max? To the limit. To the point of no return, where we are blind, Numbing ourselves into forgetting our promised just one more is a lie. Or rather, are we too confident that we just aren’t good enough? Addicted to bettering ourselves?

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How much more time will we waste, Trying to be enough, do enough, Before realizing that we cannot go any further or farther, Farther or further. Unrealistic has become the norm. We have accomplished too much. Sacrificed too much. Bore too much. For frivolous fixes. We have driven too much. Pushed too much. Gone too much. To the edge. -Blake Brown

Art by Gia Patel ’23

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Mommy, Can Boys Cry, Too? Tough boy, Cool boy, I-can-never-lose boy. Strong boy, Real-good boy, Puff-my-chest-out-like-I-should boy. Handsome boy, Masculine boy, I-don’t-ask-anyone-for-help boy. Loud boy, Proud boy, No-I-never-frown boy, You-can’t-bring-me-down boy, Flaunt-my-girls-around-the-town boy, I’m-the-king-look-at-my-crown boy, Oh-I’m-so-renowned boy, My-voice-makes-a-deep-sound boy, I-weigh-this-many-pounds boy. Why are you so tightly wound, boy? Are your feelings being drowned, boy? Take a seat and look around, boy. It’s okay to be yourself. If you’re not careful, They’ll turn you Into just another clown, boy.

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I Pity Pity Pity has been confused. Misused and abused. At every loss or rejection, Does the listener’s pithy “I’m sorry” really offer correction? Perhaps, we merely prolong the sufferer’s wallowing, For more disconsolate pangs just end up following. Instead, ought we discover alternative ways to make amends, If we are to believe the means verily justify the ends? I have been that pathetic recipient of pity And, alas, report no improvements on feeling shitty. Superiority saturates the user’s speech, And contrived excuses they endeavor to preach. Maybe, true solace scurries alongside uplift. When one seeks to repair the irreparable rift. But does positivity negate negativity? Well, does activity pacify passivity? Who knows? But of course, it cannot hurt to give it a go. -Blake Brown

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Haikus on a Pandemic A.K.A. Joy is also Bittersweet I: Introduction Papier-mâché toy, Pirouette on the dance floor. Heart still unbroken. Hot bath soothes my back Aching body, aching world, Mind numbing to pain. My fallible heart Achilles heel gives me strength, Suffering can mean beauty. II: Struggle Social connection Inbred, gives meaning to Dreary days suffered Mask protects, face hides, Solace in what they don’t see. I want to open. Dichotomy hurts. I want safety, they want out. Where to go from here? Strings of a pandemic Tying my hands into knots. I wish for freedom.

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III: Resilience In all of darkness A single match can be seen For infinite miles. In all of sadness A single being defies odds, Stronger than they think. My reflection smiles. Celebrate the small wins, Even tiny ones. Even in darkness, Especially in darkness, There can be great light. A smile that’s hidden Beneath an N95 Beats no smile at all.

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The Perfect Balance Walking on the top of the world, The air so thin, and so clear, You can scream for miles and miles, Yet not a single soul will hear, Birds don’t even fly this high, As the winter storm clouds drift below, You will not be affected, Because you are far from terminal, Plenty of thoughts storm your mind, Whilst a small rope determines your fate, You look to the left and see your failure, You look to your right, and then look straight, You realize you can only move forward, There is no turning back on this path, If you show any sign of defeat, Then how will you surpass? A slight misjudgment could leave you trembling, Rather in this case or not, Learning from your past mistakes, Shouldn’t make you want to stop, As the smell of dust thickens, Your eyes become quite small, The wind pierces through your torso, You lose your balance, but don’t fall, Now, you have reached the end of the rope, Believing there is nothing for you to do, You see, this is where you’re wrong, There is much more to pursue, Life is not about what you achieve, But more so how you reach it, If you conceive yourself and every step you take, You will accomplish more when you believe it. -Bella Cardon

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Breathe. Focus. You Got This. This has been my mantra since the beginning. When I feel that I am losing control, shaking as if I am going to break; I breathe. In through the nose; out through my mouth. Focus. I focus on the task at hand. I got this. I calm myself and let my mind Wander, as if floating on large, puffy clouds. B

Everything happens for a reason. Figure this reason out, and move on to the next task. You got this. -Rhea Khanna

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Art by Claire Vu ’22

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The Blink of an Eye One flap of the lid can change it all, Our future sitting before us, sublime Liquified when reopened is our eye. Naive we walk through this day that is not our own. Through the night we cautious stroll, but through the day, With positive a parabola across our face we walk Unaware of the fickle nature of the light. Buildings ablaze, fragmented glass of our mechanical steeds Send ablaze and fragmented the souls of those Who, infatuated, watch us Walk through the night and the day. As copper, steel, and lead From a chamber is shed Life past and present, All that has been created, All that will be created, All of the Love Passion Glory Either achieved or untapped, is gone. Bestowed with this perspective How will thou walk through the day and the night? Comparing and contrasting? Invincible and immune? Living in the future? Or simply, One Blink At a time. -Matthew Wetmore

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From Caterpillar to Butterfly A caterpillar squirming across a delicate leaf Pauses to take in the vastness of the obscure garden Like a small girl: Engulfed in the overwhelming expanse of growing older, Eager to explore everything that her future has to offer, Envisioning everything that she could be, And everything that she is not yet; But never focusing on what she is right now. Her mind sinks deeper into the reality of transformation While she observes two drops of rain as they chase each other Across the small plant, Falling onto the leaf,

Dripping down the stalk

And seeping into the soil.

She breaks free from her pent-up cocoon Like a magnificent wave crashing upon the sand and Overflowing with potential. And at the same time, is like a cloud full of rain pouring itself out Onto the Earth, Offering life to every being below. She flies across acres of rolling hills, Feels the liberating rush of wind passing through her delicate wings. Painted bright orange and midnight black, They carry her anywhere, everywhere, Back to her life before she knew what she could be, Before she broke past her boundaries and decided that She was never looking back. -Lilly Savin

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Art by Caitlin Johnson ’21

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