The Spire 2024

THE SPIRE

2024 Literary Magazine

The Spire isTheGovernor’s Academy student literary magazine. Students submit their short stories and poetry to student editors who then decide which entries will be published. The Spire has been a voice for student literary creativity since1966.

Winners of the Murphy Mercer Short Story and Poetry Contest are also included in The Spire. The A. MacDonald Murphy Short Story and Thomas McClary Mercer Poetry Contest was created more than two decades ago to honor the work of the twoEnglishmasters, whose combined service to the Academytotaledmorethan65years, and to encouragestudents’pursuitof creative writing. Students submit entries which are read and voted upon by the English Department. First prize winners in each category

receive a book prize and their works appear in the annual publications of TheSpireeachspring.

StudentEditors: FionaXu‘24

ElinaZhang‘24

VictoriaLiu‘24

AdrianChen‘25

KrynFortune‘25

KhanhVu‘25

EnglishDepartment

FacultyAdvisor: TomRobertsonP’16,‘19,‘24

CoverImage: Homebound AndyJiang‘24

Specialthankstofacultyandstaffin thedepartmentsofEnglish, Arts, andCommunications.

A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST

2024 First Place

The Night Market, 9:30pm, 19/08/17

Miffy Wang ‘24

IPrologue

Beneath the August moon's silver gaze, this dragon’s neon scales flicker and dance, casting a scarlet glow upon the canvas of my skin. Nearby, mothers and daughters, their hands interlocked, journeythroughthis dragon's serpentine streets. Beneath this creature's vast underbelly, grandfathers fashion simple white tanks and damp cotton towels which drape lazily over their neck. This creature’s fiery breath echoes the vendors’ calls, their goods swathed in flimsyplasticawaitingitsnextmaster.

Lured by the lights and the whiff of sizzling spices, I step forward like prey into the mouth of this dragon.

IIJadeBracelet

The clinkerofelectricityhums as the golden bulbs dangle like scattered starsabovetheseaofjade.At this stand, each green-worn bead and crystal bangle merge with the wave, crashing into a kaleidoscope that spills forth a soft, green glimmer. The seller, a guardian of these small wonders, voyage through the seawithcare—his scarlet glass cloth rubbing against the gentleness of the jade with deceptive vigor yet tenderness.Hishands,skilled in the language of touch and trade, dance across the crests and troughs of thisverdantlandscape.

I remember that years ago, mother had bought ajadebracelet.She said once it was her guardian angel. More valuable than gold, the chill of the mossy band became a cast of her skin. I was given one too, less vibrant in color but as translucent as a murky pool. Yet, the band shackled upon my wrist called for freedom. In a struggle to release its icy grasp, it fractured,

splinteringlikeabrittleleaftothecruel kiss of frost. The remaining droplets my mother swaddled in a silky red fabric ascended to theutmostcornerof our living space, a barren shelf where little light hit and critters hid. There in its silent vigil, the jade continues to protectme,asmothersays.

IIIPalmReader

"Come pretty girl, open your palms,"shecommands.

As I extend my hands, her touch is unexpectedly icy. Her fingers, cold and precise, glide over the lines and contours of my hands, almost ticklish.

She shakes her head in frustration, "You have messy lines. Hard to read." The furrows upon her forehead become more pronounced as shesquintstodeciphermypalm.

"Look here," she points to my life line. "Strong, bold, steady. This is good," she declares, a rare note of approval in her voice. Her finger dances to another line. "Your heart is

complicated. Too many jumps, you see. Two or three marriages." Nowher finger mimics a winding pattern, "You have good wealth but it's wavy," she whispersasiftoholdasecret.

Abruptly, she grabs my hand, gesturing for me to lay it flat. She clinically plucks at the tips of my fingers. “Not balanced, stressful career but a lucky soul.” Finally, she releases my hand. With that, she turns to rearrange her trinkets spreadacrossthe foldaway stand. I am left alone staring at the crinkles, the folds of extra skin, thatcarvemyfuture.

IVFishBalls

A line always exists along Temple street. Children dart into the queueoneafteranother, pulsatingwith disputes over who claimed their spot first. The insta girls stand poised,their eyes glued to glowing screens where a menu is already pulled up from Yelp, already strategizing their orders. Behind me, a man, still cloaked in his work suit, battles the constricting

noose of his tie to catch a whiff of the perfumeescapingfromthestand.

The geometry of the placeisa shapeshifter; wooden folding tables spill into the heart of the streets, its floorplan shifting with the crowd’s pulsing hunger. The chairs too are never the same— each a different color; pinks, greens, grays,somefaded by the sun's relentless kiss, others as vibrant as the neon signs that dance above. The plates and bowls,however, are always the same— their plasticky green surfaces bearing the century-old battles against the washing machine, yetemergingvictoriouseverytime.

It’sfinallymyturn.AsIsquint at the small Chinese characters that hang overhead, I mistakenly request 'fish balls' instead of 'fish circles,' as the locals say. The chef, nonetheless, takes my order, ushering me away for thenextcustomer.

VFishBowl

I feel bad for Goldfish. As if god hasn’t punished them enough for their utter lack of memory, they are

jailed in these bazaars. Rows upon rows of plastic bags, eachhanginglike a tiny, transparent cell. These bags, swollen with water, are their solitary confines, so taut and so fragile that a mere brush seems to set off an explosion, releasing their golden captives into the equally cold world. Above them, the harsh fluorescent lights stand unblinking and ever-watchful.

The onlookers too, like guards, come to gaze. Each goldfish, a shimmering inmate in its liquid cell, is scrutinized for its worth. For the fortunate few, a price tag of three dollars might just be their ticket to freedom, oratleastatransfertoamore spacious facility. For the others, their fate is less kind. They are destined to draw their final, gasping breath in this claustrophobic quarter— their last moment witnessed by an ever-changingcrowdofspectators.

VIFruitStand

Rambutan|$16for1lbs

Mangosteen|$20for3

PurpleDragonFruit|$20for3

TaiwanMandarin|$20for2

ThaiMango|$10

FilipinoStarfruit|$12for2

JapaneseGreenMuscatGrapes|$200

NewZealandYellowKiwi|$12for4

USAStrawberry|$35

USABingCherry|$401lbs

USAAvocado|$20

VIIKaraokeLadies

The lady, her back slightly curved like a long drawn bow, glides into the rink tracked by the soft spotlight of the streetlamp. As her freckled fingers encircle the tape-wrapped handle of the microphone, she offers a humble bow andbegins.

Her husky yet smooth voice unfurls into the night. It morphs into a lulling river, with rich currents transportingthememoriesnestledinits folds. Even with an occasional crackle of the makeshift PA system, her melody enchants the crowd. My own eyes driftshut,mybodyswayinglikea reed in a gentle breeze.I'mtransported

on the wings of her song todayswhen 'Beyond' filled the open-air bars and the radio waves. I can smell the salty air mingling with the laughter of schoolgirls who swoon overtheband’s pastelvinyl.

Her melody drifts into a longingpause.Myeyessnapopen.The amphitheater of faces jolts in an eruption of yells and claps that pierce thechillnight.

The microphone, passed from hand to hand, becomes a wand bestowing fame on thosebraveenough toseizeit.Next,ayoungboy,hishaira tousled crown of black curls, steps up withacommandingstride.Ilisten.

“I found a love, for me Darling, just dive right in and follow my lead…”

VIIIIloveHK

The air is thick with the industrious scent of dyes, underpinned by a plasticky undertone. Where once the red robes swayed like a sea of crimson, now stand rows of starkly

modern "I Love HK" t-shirts. Each shirtmarked:MadeinChina.

As I sift through the rack, my fingers brush against an eclectic carnival of prints— ablackACDCtee, a Miami sports team jersey,andevena Mickey Mouse shirt sized forchildren. Amidstthisriotofcolor,ascarletpiece coyly tucked into the corner beckons me. Gently, I unravel the "I Love NYC" shirt, its bolddeclarationslicing through the tapestry of traditional quilts.

The vendor’s voice, laced with an unmistakably Chinese accent, interrupts. "10 dollars, you take?" she asks, her hands already cocooning the shirt into the red, flimsy bag. With a nod,thetransactionissealed.

Bag in hand, I step back into the market’s pulsing rhyme, now bathed in a cool sheet of neon rain. I am a traveler once again, ready to journey home.

Silent Shadows AndyJiang‘24

A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST

2024 Runner Up

Ideal Gas Law

Adrian Chen ‘25

1.Temperature

You just can’t with Boston weather.

On Tuesday you remembered to check the weather forecast because you forgot to turn out the lights the night before because you slept at 1 am after finishing the dozen-pack brownie because you got stuck on the 17th writing project you’ve started over the past week and you ran out of ideas once again and youstartedquestioning yourselfasawriter.

So you woke up at 4:47 am with the lights on which you probably would have expected because you know light satiates your sleep. It is efficient as you feel this sense of clarity at 4 am in the morning justlike any average human. In fact you began to wonder if your body did that while you were sugar-high because it knew

you do have an 8 am class to go to. Thehumanbodyreallyiswonderful.

But 4:47 am was still pretty early and you habitually reached for your phone and began checking your notifications. Then you also saw the weather saying that the temperature was 12 degrees lower today. You probably thought that would be somewhat important for deciding what you should wear. But you then indulgedyourselfinInstagramreelsfor twohours.

Before you knew it was 7 am and the fatigue surged butyoudohave a class to go to. So you brushed your teeth and spent 20 minutes deciding if you should wear the black pants orthe navy-but-basically-looks-like-black pants. Then as you were about to go out you suddenly remembered the weather app telling you that today would be 12 degrees colder. You then

grabbed the coat and headed out. But as you walked out of your dorm you thought that the temperature was only around freezing and maybe it wasn’t worth it to carry the coat around just for thepotentialinconvenience.Soyou took a sharp turn and went back to yourroomtodropyourcoat.

It is now3:59pmandwinding the howling is just enough to refrigerate you in 5 minutes but also completely avoidable if you brought yourcoat.

So maybe it is not the Boston weather’s fault. It is really your fault afterall.

suddenly fuels my urge to smash my innerturnable.

The worst hasn’t come yet. They usually end with a mindfulness exercise, 80% of the time being box breathing. The theater lights dim and soft marimba music starts playing in the backgroundforthethirdtimeinthe past semester. The heavy sound of humans releasingtheirmetabolicwaste mixed with garlic and onion particles dominates the senses, which defeats the purpose of the whole exercise entirely.

2.Pressure

Did Sisyphus ever try box breathing?

Ialwaysthinkofmentalhealth convocations as an impractical waste of time. Their format resembles a broken record. Most often they are uninspiring. Occasionally it gets too personal when the speaker tries too hard to establish aconnection,thenthe record scratches and shrieks and

Except I don’t even get to experience that as I am up in the tech booth. And one thing about the tech booth is that those lights are hot. The fact that my entire closet is builtoffof black and navy clothes does not exactly help either. ButItrymybestto cooperate.

In.One,two,three,four. Hold.One,two,three,four. Out.One,two,three,four. By the end of one repetition I could feel the curvature of my damp

sweater tightened around my lungs. At the end of each exhale the lack of air only dramatizestensionandaddstothe uneasiness. It doesn’t reallywork.And even if it does work and I am just doing it wrong, I would rather just breathe during my sleep than sitting in a room of 400 sleep-deprived teenagers.

But inmomentsofdesperation

I had to try. When the acid in my stomach rises and the heartbeat in my chest gets so loud, I become a lake. The undulation threatens to disturb the prismatic surface that conceals my scorchinginnards.Ihadtotry.

In.Hold.Out. Theaircirculates.

In.Hold.Out. Itleavesnothing.

In.Hold.Out. Ittakesnothing.

Irunbeforethetsunamihits.

Sisyphus is still pushing the stupidfuckingrockin2023A.D.

Does he get so put on edge that his acid surfs up the pharynx and

his cardiac muscles beats upthechest? Does he feel like life is meaningless because he constantly repeats an involuntary task that never gets done? Does he ever stop for toolongtothink how futile his life is that the boulder resets and makes his already repetitive life evenmorerepetitive?Doesheever have it so enough he just wants to let the boulder drop and smash himselfso everythingendsatonce?

Maybe box breathing would work on him. For three reasons: Physicality. Lack of clothing. Desperation.

Who knows? One man’s meat isanotherman’spoison.

Sisyphus stops halfway as he justhadhis10000thshinsplint.Ithurts a bit more than usual that he needs to take a rest this time. The price for an anniversary. Just like something bad always used to happen on his birthday whenhelived.

He wrings his sweaty and outgrown hair and tosses itintotheair.

It frays and sprinkles the sweat onto the dirt. Oddly enough the sweat trail formsfourparallellines.

Sisyphus has been there for long enough to know this is some sort oforaclefromtheGodsandtoolongto have hope for it, but the fact his mind even went there is a problem. As he carefully studiesthefourparalleltrails, flicking around the wet sandstone, a voicebefalls:

“Breathe.In.Hold.Out.”

The voice is strange. It is different from the mighty resounding voice from theGods.Itremindshimof his own voice in his childhood filled with royal lectures. He retreats to the groundinshock.

“Breathe.In.Hold.Out.”

The voice repeats, with a bit more agitation. Sisyphus is terrified. He doesn’t know what is behind the voice and hardly dares to challenge it. Perhaps he should try to please the almightypower.

There isprobablyacorrelation between the four sweat marks and the

voice. He can’t figure out what, but time is running out. So he recognizes the number “four” from the oracle and followshisinstincts:

In.One,two,three,four. Hold.One,two,three,four. Out.One,two,three,four.

He keeps up therepetitionand doesn’tstopuntiltheominouspresence dissipates.

He goes back to pushing the boulder for four days straight and hasn’t dared to stop. Even the crow who flies by regularly to take the tally got scared and has never come back since. TheGodsalsogotscaredsothey added another 100 pounds to the rock justtomakehimgoslower.

You might ask what is the moralofthestory?

Box breathing is fucking useless.

3.Moles

It starts with something small. A blind spot. A ball of mist meandering about the space. It doesn’t

bother unless you decide to put yourselfinthevicinity.

The first replication is the problem. The crucial marker whenone becomes two is the beginning toward an uncontainable encroachment. The mist splits and condenses on an increment. Itisnotyetdetrimental.But the enlarging blind spot, its fickle unpredictability,isenoughofaconcern forsome.Thisiswherechoicematters.

Q1.Whatwillyoudo?

A.Leavetheroom.

B.Wait.

The division continues. 2 becomes 4 becomes 8 becomes 16. You observe as the mist veils a tall corner of the room. You notice something unusual in the mist. A mutation. An extra dense and tangled area that diffuses a strange crimson aura. A variation of your existing problem that branches out as the secondsareticking.

Q2.Whatwillyoudo?

A.Leavetheroom.

B.Wait. It happens quicker than you think. The corner of mist floods the entire room in less than a minute. You can see the irregularlyshapedstructure expanding its nastiness into every crevice, under the furniture and up the walls. The crimson aura alsoclaimsits presence and births even more balls of variations in a mixed shade of filthy technicolor. The mist keeps growing. You step back at its impending grandeur until your back touches the wall. The arching darkness is a breath awayfromconsumingyou.

Q3.Whatwillyoudo?

A.Embraceit.

B.Embraceit. You cannot escape. The route to the door has already beenconcealed by the mist. You can only choose to accept it. You know this is bad. You

knew from the first choice you made when you decided to stay. But it is oddly exciting. A voyeurism of self as you are put into the cage of air A resolution so you can indulge the self-destruction instead of addressing it.

Youtakeadeepbreath.

The mist enters.Itflowsdown your windpipe andspreadsitswayinto your tissues. You feel a slight sense of release. But it does not stop there. The mist pours in through your opened valve and stretches and inflates and expands. The slight relief becomes ravenous discomfort. You are choking on air. The immense pressure forces tears out of your eye socket.Youdon’t knowifthatisaphysiologicalresponse or a spontaneous outburst. The air keeps coming in andthereisnowayto stop it. It forces into your vessels that even the atomic radius between your substancefeelsastangibleasever.

But it’s not over yet. The variation of anger, loss, disgust, sadness enters. You feel the air blade

piercing your lungs and stomach as they contract from the pain. They converge and launch a siege. Surge after surge.Youstarttoregretthis.You regret stepping into the pain for a greedy temporary relief. You regret putting yourself in any bit of self-deceiving pleasure is anaddiction. You regret yourveryexistencebecause that is where the problem stems from. You regret living. You hateliving.You hate yourself. You have always hated yourself.

The mist settles. The number of substancesmergesintothecontainer of flesh but leaves you broken.Theair is fragile, but youfeelmorefragilityin yourself.Thesilenceisloud,especially when people can hearyourcriesonthe othersideofthewall.Itrises.Itfalls.It repeats.

Thenightislong.

Tomorrowisanotherday.

Daniel in the Lion’s Den II MatveiAmchislavskiy‘25

A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST

Late Night Thought (深夜思)

Fiona

Xu ‘24

I.TheQuestion

“So,whereareyoufrom?”

The Fragrant Harbor, I think, the City of Rams and Flowers, the Rain City, the City of Glass.

“I go to boarding school near Boston,”Isay.

Maples leaves, I think, two-toned lotuses, deep red sandalwood, stone elephants named Moonlight, Moonstone, and Moonbeam.

II.ThePandemic

There is a poem almost every Chinese child knows called 静夜思,or Quiet Night Thought. If you ask me once, I'll tell you it means: Moonlight before the bed / could be mistaken for frost on the ground; / I raise my head to gaze at the bright moon, / lowering itIthinkofHome.

2024 Runner Up

But if you ask me twice, I'll tell you it means that the poet, the imperial scholar who left home as part of his filial duty to the Emperor, with only themoontoeasehissolitude,also livedhisownquarantine.

And if you ask me a third time, I’ll tell you it means staring out my dorm room window on late nights during those two long years of pandemic, wondering if the people I left back home ever found themselves spellbound by the same silvery siren's call and think of me. As Imovedfrom place to place, each city afleetingstop in my wandering journey, the Moon above wasaconstantcompanioninmy solitary travels, a celestial anchor in my ever-changing world,areminderof where I’ve been, where I’ve yet to go, andwhereIlongtoreturn.

We like to think of the Moon as eternal, that Her devotion to us, our

planet, has no end. Truly, it seems so divine,forwhatelseotherthandivinity could explain its unchanging omnipresence, untouched by even the greatest of our calamities, that guides the lost ones throughout time and space?

III.TheReturn

When we lived in Vancouver, we rarely crossed The Bridge that led into the heart of downtown. The lack of dividers between the three lanes of high speed vehicles made her anxious, my mom would tell me and my sister Della. Personally, I thought what she truly feared were the two massive stone lions sitting at the end of the bridge, fromwhichitgotitsname:The Lions Gate Bridge. That was just fine with four-year-old me, for the mountain-backed ocean-facing West Vancouver had everything a child could possibly want. Mine was a picturesque childhood complete with a gorgeous publiclibrary,dandelionsand daisies lining the sidewalks, real

playgrounds filled with wood chips, anddailyeveningsstrollsonthebeach.

When we wentback,itwason this other side of The Bridge that the romanticized hometown of my childhood took on a grim hue. Instead of stumbling upon sweet wild blackberry bushes like I did in summers past, I found myself steps away from stumbling over sleeping bodies on the streets, drenched in the stench of cheap weed. I was dumbstruck. I felt betrayed. This was nottheArcadiaofmymemories.

Later, I would find out from Della that Vancouver has somewhat of acrisis.Namely,ahomelesspopulation of over four thousand. A large percentage of them live in the city’s Chinatown, for when the systems fail and a city needs to hide all its “unseemly” people and things, it’s easiest to put them in the historically immigrant dense areas, where the inhabitants lack the privilege to even considersaying,“notinmybackyard.”

All of a sudden, I hadbecome thepeopleofOmelas,afterthey’dbeen brought to see the child, now faced with the choice to walk away from a flawed utopia. The place I had so adoringly called Home was notwhatI, in my childhood naivete, believed it to be, yet Icouldnotfinditwithinmyself to abandon it. This juxtaposition of past innocence with present awareness left me in a state of stupefied melancholy.

Vancouver, as it truly stands with all its beauty andflaws,hasgiven me a more mature perspective. It taught me that Home is not merely a placeofcomfortandnostalgia,butalso a reality that challenges us to understand and empathize with the broader spectrum of the human experience–– it is both sides of The Bridge and itisthetwostonelionsthat separate them, timeless and gloriousin theiromniscience.

The first things one notices about this city are its flashing lights. Especially if one is to take an Uber from JFK to her sister’s apartment in Chelsea on a rainy weekend evening when the streets reflect every last headlight and LED sign, creating a tapestry of colors against the backdrop ofthenightsky.

The second thing one notices, but not until she decidestotakeawalk around the next day, is the rush. At first, it’s terrifying.Peopledasharound with their white coattails on fire, bumping into herleftandright;sudden wafts of something putrid and fetid coming from green puddles on the curbs assault her nose in random bursts; and the fleeting whistles and catcalls settle like deep chills in her bones, refusing to be chased out by even the warmth the passage of time provides.

IV.TheBigCity

Now, years later, she has learned intimately the gridlike roads, the Moon’s reflection in the slick on the sidewalks, the incessant blaring

horns, the proper way to dart through the rush of moving bodies, the stench of staleweedanddecayinthesubways that run like veins through the heart of a metropolis so alive it throbs with vitality.

But is that enough to call it hers? Has she yet to step over that invisiblethresholdintoHome?

As he spoke, his voice trembled,barelyrisingabovethedinof the city.Eachwordseemedtocarrythe weight of his world,andforamoment, the bustling metropolis around us felt eerilydistant.

“Miss,sparesomechange?” Anageoldplay.

“I’msorry,Idon’thaveanyon me.”

V.TheMan

The day I met him, we were both in states of Homelessness,though his violently corporeal and mine less so. The sun was fading, giving way to the Moon's pale glow as it began to rise, casting long shadows on the tightly packed skyscrapers and cars. A heated argument about my future with my mother had left me indefinitely stranded on the city streets without a keytogetbackintotheapartment.

I saw him half a block away, bruises and black eye camouflaging him into the splotchy multicolored cityscape. Oh,Ithought.

Players all too familiar with thescene.

“Please, miss… These guys over there, they beat me up… I just needanewshirt…”

The same tale of desperation ononeside,deceitontheother.

The coins in my tightly clutched tote bag suddenly seemed to be made out ofpureuranium,dragging medown,straighttotheEarth’score. We looked at each other. A silentunderstandingpassed.

“I’msorry,”Iwhispered. He nodded once and looked away.

As I walked away, his form haunted me— its afterimage burning itselfdeepintomyretina.

Eventually, I would go home and fixate over trivial things. My mother would go backhomeattheend of the summer and we would part on diplomatic terms. I would return to school and stress over definite integrals, pinch the rolls of my body between two fingers, cry about broken friendships in the middle of the night, laugh from the adrenaline of sports matches. I would shove him deep into the folds of my brain to be hidden and forgotten like an oldalbumintheattic. Yet, he crawls his way out, and every now and then I catch glimpses of him in the edges and corners. The tie-dye shirt I made at Art Night would suddenly appear a grimy yellow, stained with splotches of dark brown-red and the man lying on the side of the Chinatown street would havehisashyhair.

Then I would blink, or remember that I was inBostonandnot New York, andhewouldbegone.Like a stuck melody, or clouds covering the Moon, or the change in my wallet, he follows me. In the midst of the city’s unforgiving pace, we were both searching forsomethingtoanchorus,a placetobelong.

But for now we walk, astray andadrift.

VI.TheNews

The Bad: Scientists have found that the Moon is moving away from the Earth at a rate of 3.8 cm per year, or the rate at which fingernails grow.

The Good: The Sun will become a red giant and engulf us all before the Moon fully escapes the Earth’sgravitationalforce.

View of Rome from St. Peter’s Basilica DonXing‘24

THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST

2024 First Place

Ode to Songs

Juliana Lucero ‘26

Worldfullofnoisebecomes silent, steady, still, likeacalmoceanof peace, afterastorm. Agentlesoothingaidfor loss, anempatheticfriendfor loneliness, arushofmotivationfor laziness, areminderof love. Awaveofwords tangledin, echos,rings,boomsandclacks, carryingmessages, offamiliarvoicesandbeliefs ofunknownvoiceswhofeelliketheycannotspeak, awaytomovenationswithrhymes awaytomoveheartswithbeats arhythmthatlullssoulstopeace.

VictoriaLiu‘24

THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST

2024 Runner Up

Under the 9 Haitang Trees

Cecilia Li ‘24

Thespringsnowfalls, thelittlesquareatthebackofmyhousewhere 9Haitangtreesstandguard.Theircrownsarewhite, adornedbypetalsthatdescendtowhiten theheadsofmygrandparentswho, everyday,standintheshadetowatchmeweave inandoutbetweenthetrunks.

Haitangtreesarepoetsinrobeswho brushthroughlifewiththeirhugesleevesbut writesadversesabouttheirdistanthomeland; theyareyounggirlswithsilkydarkhairandwhitedresses whostareintothedistanceinsearch oflostlove.

Forme,the9Haitangsbranchesshelterchildhoodcheeriness,andI secretlynamedthemafterthe9membersofmyfamily: shusen,suju,hongmei,dianhai,yaming,degang,jingming,jinghan, andmyself.

UndertheHaitangtrees,mymomandIfoldourwishesforourfamily intopapercrayonsthathangfromthelowbranches thataddjarringsplashesoforange,red,andpurple intotheseaofwhitepetals.

UndertheHaitangtrees,mygrandpawrappedmeinatowelafterI fellintoapond.Hedivesintopullmeup, hestandstherewithdropletsstillhangingontothestrandsofhishair andwetclotheslikecliffsdrippingfalls,buthisdarkeyestwinkleatme behindheavysmilelinesashegentlyberates myyouthandinnocence.

UndertheHaitangtrees,Igrabmygrandma’ssleevetobegfor anotherhand-knittedsweater,whichshelaterdrapedonme likeawarmhugonthefirstsnow undertheHaitangtrees.

IneversawanotherHaitangin thecityofBeijing,orintheruralmountainsoftheU.S. Thespringsnowbecameablurrymemorydrownedoutby thesuffocatingrealityoflosingShusenandDianhaitocancer andmyfarewellcouldn’treachacrossthevastocean.Theyearscarved harshfoldsontoHongmei’sfaceandthelossofDianhaistretched hersmileintoagrimace.Jingmingstartedanewfamilyinanewcityandhad anewbabyboy,Lefan.Lefanadmiresme,asksfor mychildhoodstories,andIfillhimwitheveryjoyfuldetailexcepttheones undertheHaitangs.

The9treesstillstandinthesamebackyard, theirsnowyblanketsdrapedinprotectionover anewfamily.

AndIcryundertheloomingbluesky,missingtheshelterof myHaitangtrees.

THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST

2024 Runner Up

My Mother Loves the Beach

Julia Fanikos ‘26

myMotherlovesthebeach infact,sheravesaboutit

shedoesnotlovethesandasittracksintoourhouse orhowthewaterissocoldthatitbitesatyourfeet,eveninlateJuly orwhenourcheeksandshouldershavefadedintoalightredbytheendoftheday nevertheless,shelovesthebeach ofcourse,therearemanyotherthingstolove, myMotherlovesoursummerhousewiththehydrangeasthatgrowoutsidethe frontporch

andshelovesthesummerbreezesthat“cooloffeventhehottestdays” butit’sthebeachthatsherecalls, whenweareallhuddledaroundthefireinthedepthsofJanuary assnowpeltsthewindowsandwesipteafromourpaintedmugs, theliquidstilltoohottotaste

shetellsstoriesnotofoursummerhousewiththebloominghydrangeas, orofthebreezesthatcomenorthoffthewater instead,shespeaksofthewateritself howtheskyreflectsontotheoceaninthecolorsofburningflames shetellsstoriesofthewarmsand,stilltoohottowalkcomfortablyon Andshedescribesthewavesthatcreatewhitebubblyfoamastheycrashbeneath ourfeet andofcourse,therearemanyotherthingstolove, butmyMotherlovesthebeach sothatiswhatweallloveaswell

The Infinite Possibilities of Finite Time

Erin Crisafi ‘23

Thetickoftheturnsignalalwaysrelaxedmeonnights whenIwascurledupinthebackseatcominghome,beside mysister,silentandprobablyasleep.Itwaspastourbedtime.

I’mawakeasweracetobeattheyellowlightbeforeitchanges tored,aswekeepgoinganywaybuthome,awayandaround insteadoftoward.Weexploreeverythingwecan,takingevery Turnwesee,surroundedbythelimitlessfeelingoftimelessness andcaughtinthispeacefulmoment,hoursfromourbedtime everythingandnothinglikeweimaginedinyoungdarkness.

Nowwesitinthefrontseat,onthesamesides,butshedrives andIsitinthepassengerseat.Nowsheistheonewhoticksthe Turnsignal.IcurlmylegsupintheseatthatIusedtostareat.

Mysistertalksinlowtonesaboutthemelancholy. Ourtalksbonduscloserthananyothertimethat Icanrememberwithoutthehazeoftoddlerhood.

Wetalkaboutwhatisonourmind,eachnightinthecar,but Mysisterhasbeenstuckontheimminentandreminiscent Retrospectivethatsheknewwascomingatherfast,like Twocarspassingalongsideeachotherinthenight,different andidentical,samemakeandmodelbutchangedbytime ticking,Idon’tthinkshehadspokentomeaboutanythingother thanthisanticipatoryfondnessinweeks,itwastheonlythingthat occupiedhermindasshefelttheturnloomingcloser,because

Theclockwasticking,nottensely Butsurely,constantly,endlessly Tickingawaytheseconds,minutes, hours,days,weeks,months Thatwouldfinishheryear.

Andshedidn’twantittoend,thislastmomentofyouth,because thereweresomanythingsshewantedtodo,somanypeopleshe wantedtospendtimewith.Sheconsideredendlesspossibilities fortheticksshehadleft,beforeherhatflewaboveherandshe turnedbackhome,andawayonadifferentdriveinanewseat.

Nowthefirstday,firstweek,firstmonthhaveallpast,it’sgoingtoo fastandI’mstoppingateachlight,prayingitstaysred.Thereare InfinitepossibilitiesforthetimeIhaveleft,soI’mdrivingasslow asIcango,dreadingeverytickticktickoftheturnsignalbecause

Theclockisticking,nottensely Butsurely,constantly,endlessly Tickingawaytheseconds,minutes, hours,days,weeks,months Thatwillfinishmyyear.

Andwhenit'sover,Iwanttocatchmybejeweledgradcap, runandfindher,andgoforonedrivebeforethenextturn.

DisparityofWomenhood AbyJoyner‘24

Comforter

Cat Johnson ‘26

My chest heaved as I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to slow my heart rate, slow my breathing. I stood with myspine pressed againstthewallofmyroom. Three soft knocks sounded against my door and my eyes snapped open atthesound.Ipressedmyhandsinto mythighs.

“Cat,” my mom called into my room. “Can I come in?” Her wordswereshaky.

A beat of silence passed. I swallowed, then took asmallbreath.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. It seemedliketherightthingtosay.

“C’mere,” she said gently, patting the spot on the bed next to her. I walked over to her and hesitated when my knees hit the wood ofthebedframe.Iletmygaze flick up to meet hers just long enough to see the pity. I sat myself on the bed, intentionally leaving a space between us, far enough that her body heat wouldn’t reach me. Sitting upright, I kept my eyes trained on my fingers as they traced over the swirly designs on the comforter. My vision blurred; my hand seemed tobefartherawaythan Iknewittobe.Iblinkedhard,asshe let out a breath,somewherebetween a laughandasigh.Pullingmecloser

“Yeah,” I croaked. I watched as the handle turned and the door was pushed open. My mom walked over to my bed andsatdownontheedge. She looked down at her hands, clamped together in her lap. I kept my eyes on her interlocking fingers. I heard her mouth open, then after a beat, close. She sighed, looking up at me, before swingingherlegsonto the bed.Onceshesettled,shelooked up at me again, trying to meet my eyes as I looked at the walloverher shoulder.

to her, shewrappedonehandaround my shoulders, tugging me towards her until I was reclined on the bed with my head resting on her shoulder.

I could feel flames licking up my legs where they were touching hers.Staticwastakingover my fingers. For a while, I remained absolutely still, breathing as little as possible as I waited for the next inevitable step.AlarmseizedmeasI realizedthatIdidnotknowwhatshe wanted me to do. She did not seem to be giving me any of the usable signals that I was used to– she was just letting me lie there. I thought maybethiswasatrickofsomesort.

“This always used to make me feel better when I was little.” I was jolted back to my room by her voice.Thebedcreakedbeneathusas she shifted her weight a little to drape her otherarmacrossmyupper body, her hand landing on my shoulder. She meant it as a comforting, protective embrace– I

knew that– but Istillcouldnotseem to let myself melt into it the way I knew I should have been able todo. Fighting to remain present, I squeezed my hands into fists, using the sharpness of my nails digging intomypalmstogroundme.

“Cat,” she said softly into my hair. “Are you okay? Is this okay?”

I exhaled, relieved to be given a simple yes or no question. This was somethingIknewIcouldgetright.

“Yeah,” I said. “This is… I’mfine.”

“You used to get all wound up like this sometimes, especially when you were really little. Your brothers too,” shebegan,andwhenI did not reply, she took that to mean it was all right for her to continue speaking. “You used to get these nightmares and we would cuddle together until you fell back asleep.”

Remaining silent, I triedtoforcemy thoughts into those of comfort and warmth, pushing my mind towards

memories of falling back asleep in my mother’s arms. I opened one hand and stared into my palm, four red crescents were etched into my skin. I turned my hand over and ran my fingers lightly back and forth

over the comforter. She smiled into my hair, and I could feel her breathing slow. Squeezing my eyes shut, Ishiftedmyfocustothesteady rise and fall of her chestandtriedto dothesame.

Reflections of a Broken World ElizaGibbs‘24

Hamlet, Prince of Byfield

Kiernan Werchniak ‘24

Lo!Themerethoughtofhimisenoughtofillmewithdread. HehasarrivedafterIlookedatVeracross,theGhost OfmyFather’sexpectations.“oooohhhHamlet,youaredisappointing mebyprocrastinatingandwastingyourtime.” HethengrumblesmonotonouslythatmyGreatExpectations copy has no creases on the binding. These words pound at my ears like artilleryshells.

The shrapnel cuts and burns at my soul. Addressing it is too hard, so I returntomyshell.

Picking out the pieces also requires… introspection. Themerethoughtis dreadful.

YetIharbornoresentmenttowardsmyfatherforhisoldexpectations

A man as great as him; a swordsman with his words and a sorcererwith numbers.TheGhost ought to haunt me. He toiled, he sacrificed, he loves. He has every right tobedisappointed.

To compare him and I istocomparemeandHercules!DoItrystudying? Ihavethetime...

Totryornottotry?Thatisthequestion.Todisappoint oneselfbybeingasstubbornasabirdwhoremainsinhisshell

sleeping or to act knowing that all victors lose, they just continue no matterhowmuchtime it takes. To avenge the Ghost’s disappointment or to melt in a puddle of fearanddread?

No,Icannotbeidle.Icannotbetheworstoflifeanddeath,alivingghost of failed dreams.Amanwhoknowsthat,ifhejuststudied,hecouldmeet expectations.

AGH,Whatthehell?!Whyeventrytohavehighexpectations?! Whytryyourbestifsaidbestismediocrityanddisappointment?!

Ineverything!Forcryingoutloud,evenOpheliahasghosted me.WhyamIaccursed?!F-ingFortinbrascangetAsonassignmentsthat arebuteggshells tohim,whileIamboundtobefilledwithnothingbutdread for all my work! I study and forwhat?Gradesofsqualorinexchangefor squanderingmytime?

Ispenthoursstudyingforthattest.Thatis,usingallofthattime attemptingtofindthebestmannerofstudying.Oh,whatdidIexpect?

To study, to take action, would be to stab at the heart of my obstinate dread towards everything. I am worse than everyone at everything. A mere disappointment.

There is a twisted comfort in this apathy. To try is to acknowledgethatI ambutashell of what I could be. But to be in this impious rut is to accept myself and rejecttheghost.

ButhowcanIrejecttheghostwhilestilllettingtheghost hauntme?Isthereamorecolossalmisuseoftime tositthereandpondertheghost,howIamashell of a man and envy others’ achievements? No, I must take action,notfor others’expectations

But for myself. I cannot be rotten towards myself, and label myself a disappointment.

IfIcandothis,thereistobeactiontaken,butwithoutthedread.

Thoughthetoiltakestimeitdoesnotdisappoint. Itisabletobreakthroughtheghostandtheshell, Italleviatesthisdreadandbringsreliefbeyondmyexpectations.

JakeShin‘25

Innocent Prisoner

My Faith

Sahiba Mohammady ’24

Ohmydear,frommyrootsIstray, Inthisnewplace,beliefhasfrayed. Oncesurroundedbyfaithsodeep, NowI'mwheredoubtsandshadowscreep.

Trappedinaworld,coldandbleak, Amongthosewhoneithertrustnorseek TheworthIhold,thestrengthI'veshown, Intheireyes,it'sallunknown.

DearGod,guidemetothatcherishedspace, Wherebeliefiswarm,afamiliarembrace.

Wheretruthismine,andliesarenone, WhereIamme,thetrustedone.

Ilongforthemewhoknewnofear, Whoseconfidencerang,crystalclear. Tobethatsoul,oncemorecomplete, Braveandjoyful,notfacingdefeat. Rememberthesparkthatoncewasme? Sureandbold,asIusedtobe.

Iyearntoreturn,tofindmyway, Tobethatperson,comewhatmay.

Inthefaceoffailure,Ifoundmystride, Happyingrowth,withnothingtohide. Takemeback,letmebefree, Totheconfident,content,trustme.

Caracella DonXing‘24