of the signature. thank you for your contributions. here is us doing our part. enjoy!
to whiteness. Searingly bright. While at MIT, my genius brother learned p his laboratory perfectly clean and white, so it starkly contrasts the rest parent's basement. I can’t remember what happened last night... only ess. We must have stayed up late doing cool experiments. ng upstairs, I smell our neighbor’s spaghetti. She always makes us some my mom can’t cook. hetti for breakfast?” I wonder. “That’s odd.” en I get upstairs, our grandfather clock shows midnight, not morning. other sees me and drops his spaghetti. It clatters messily on the floor. of complete shock and horror dominates his usually placid face. have I done?” he whispers. He must have done a prank and gone too far. Did he shave my head? my face? I look at a mirror across the hall and see nothing but my normal uh. other continues to study me, from a distance, with rapid and terrified
…” his voice shakes. “I didn’t think it would actually work.” frustrated. “What are you talking about?” other shudders and swallows slowly. “Don’t you remember? You fell off cony at the big party two nights ago.” t remember that.” nt of everyone,” he finishes. gned seriousness impresses me, but I’m not falling for it. s a stupid prank,” I reply. “I’m getting some spaghetti.” notice the clutter filling our kitchen: prepared meals, balloons, pictures … everywhere. This is beyond the scope of any prank my brother had ulled.
“No. Everyone watched you die. Paramedics carried you off in a body bag.” I stand back. This is too much to be a prank. Now I notice that my childhood scars are missing. Skin fresh and pink like a baby. I realize. “Well. Looks like you brought me back from the dead.” I mutter. “I guess everyone’s gonna be happy to see me.” “No. No… No.” he swallows again and shakes his head gravely. “You are not you. You are downstairs. “What?” “I made you in my lab and transferred my brother’s memories to your brain. You are a clone.” My head spins. “No one will treat you normally. You will only cause people more pain.” This is a nightmare. Why did he do this? I would have rather stayed dead... He opens a drawer and lifts a gun. “Woah, WOAH!” I exclaim and approach him. “We can make this work! “No, we can’t.” He cocks the gun. “Bro, you can’t kill me,” I hug him and plead through tears. “I’m your brother. I love you.” “I’m doing this because I love my real brother” Instincts kick in. I grab his gun. BANG The next day, my genius brother wakes up to bright whiteness with fresh, pink skin. He can’t remember what happened the night before.
MILLIANS '24
I watched you as you drove down my narrowly paved street like d every Saturday morning. You didn’t technically have to drive n fact, it would have been more convenient for you to walk the ocks, but you made your excuses. I knew you did it to impress her. You started talking about the om your science class the way I wanted you to talk about me. You e everything you noticed about her, everything you knew about d I listened, pretending I wasn’t being crushed, suffocating
You climbed out of your car, your tall figure somehow taller today, u made your way onto the pavement. I watched as your silveryes averted to the townhouse next door, all the while trying very, ard to convince myself that I’m the only reason you come over re. Why would I be? The girl from your science class lives in that ouse right next door. Holding my breath, I waited for you to turn right up to my porch, few moments later, I heard your footsteps heading towards my You jumped onto my bed, squashing me with your body, and I ed, the thought of her immediately slipping out of my mind. The was, you and I had been best friends since we were both crawling, mewhere along the way, you started to look different, feel nt. Something changed, and I knew it only changed for me.
scattered on the floor. We sat next to each other on my bed, consumed in our own world, and I watched you. As you talked, as you smiled, as you rolled your eyes. I watched as you crossed your arms whenever you got tired or annoyed or bored, I watched your fingers run through your dark brown, almost black, hair. I watched you play with the detailing on my bed cover, and I watched your hands as you did so because they were truly so beautiful. I had your whole life, your whole existence, memorized, and you had no idea. I was screaming your name, and my head was burning. I wanted to tell you. I needed to tell you because you deserved to know. If I were you, I would want to know, too. But instead, my throat clammed up along with my burning head, and it was as though I was being forced underwater, my breath slipping away, slowly, slowly… “Lana?” Hearing my name brought me back to our reality, and I looked up. Yes, I knew that I could never tell you that the girl from your science class, the girl you truly loved, would never feel the way I felt about you. That in this vast universe full of endless possibilities and infinite chances she would never love you the way I do.
ted student of Lovett's al arts program. This twopage is dedicated to ing off some of Maier's s.
A scratch made deep upon my wrist The rough red river holds me down I tried to breathe and make a fist But why then swim if you could drown?
A shattered lightbulb on the floor A bottle filled with ‘happy pills’ A cup filled with a little more the party does not give me thrills
A piggy bank of my lost dreams The sweatshirt that I wore that night Like walking on a high, thin beam I was a star who fell from light
It’s the first time without a doubt I know I need to seek help out
'23
Lovett's major talents–so talented that we dedicated these two whole pages to her.
I don’t like granddaddy’s flags. When the sun shines sideways and the its the porch in that certain way in the descending afternoon, the flags ght up in the light and make a strange kind of people-like movement. n never tell who’s on his porch, besides the Stars and Stripes. So far, else has been. Still, I always fear that somebody wants me again, and is the somebody.
I’m an only child, if you don’t count my brother. He’s old. I don’t know how old he is because it changes all the time, but he’s aged enough ere’s no hope for reconciliation. He’s never been to granddaddy’s because he doesn’t have the same addy, which was always sad to me. I’d cry as I left for my spring ns because he wouldn’t come with me. He’d just shake his head in the ight of our daddy’s house and say “your granddaddy ain’t anybody to
At granddaddy’s house, I’m an only child, so I’m awful bored. There’s a wing, but I can’t sit out there for long or else the mosquitos will get ey don’t get my brother like they get me. He’s immune. He’s immune he mosquitoes because he’s dealt with them before. Me, I have to shoo way and scurry inside from the solid light beyond the porch.
things that my brother got to feel when they happened for the first time. My daddy’s midlife crisis, my mother’s shame, and the halving of my brother’s firstborn privileges. When it happened to me, and my spring at granddaddy’s became my summer, I didn’t have any right to anything. It wasn’t interesting anymore. My story became the second in succession between the first and the undecided last of my father’s recurring sins. “You can’t cry,” my brother casually scolded me. “You should have known. He did it to me first.” Daddy’s all we share, my brother and me. Our lives were separate for a while, until he stopped listening to his momma and forgave our daddy. He never did come to my granddaddy’s house, but he stopped feeling so angry toward my granddaddy, and my momma. He traded his loneliness for his love for me, and he could almost be my brother. That’s why I get so scared when the flags muddle the light that comes to grandaddy’s porch. I fear daddy’s gotten tired of his second better family and decides he wants his first better again (that’s me). You see, I haven’t got the right to start forgiving him because my brother already started and stopped. Now my brother just talks about daddy as a man. I better adopt the same antidote against reconciliation or else I might feel merciful when the people-like movement becomes old Andy standing on granddaddy’s porch.
Olivia Aiken '24
ast Building, Room 406. Ms. Willard’s U.S. Myth and Reality. Hopefully, dy knows what she’s doing. I know a thing or two about American History.
ssroom seems fine. But she looks young, so I’ll take a seat in front in case eds a little assistance.
ng, class. Before we begin, I’d like to introduce the 6 essential questions of : who, what, when, where, why, and how. Why do we ask these questions? o we need to know who, what…”
boring. Just tell us the facts. There’s no point in this nonsense.
, she’s done. I couldn’t take another minute.
u Wednesday, class. Please write a paragraph on the period you’re most to study!”
et behind that.
War II,” I proudly state when Ms. Willard inquires about my intended he seems impressed.
read your paragraph; it was… detailed.”
ation: I’m the best writer in the class.
ve extra learning opportunities for that particular area if you’re interested,
to WWII vets AND show up my classmates? “Count me in!” She smiles, charmed by my enthusiasm. “Wonderful. Stay after class for further information.” …….. Throughout class, I ignore her blabber and consider who this WWII speaker will be. I bet he’s an important veteran. The blackboard becomes blurry as my mind races from the anticipation of meeting him. How can I think about class when there’s a hero waiting for me? Rustling papers and backpack zippers roar around me, but I remain focused. Soon, it’s just me, the teacher, and images of generals flashing through my brain. “Alright, let’s go.” She appears in front of my desk, breaking my daydream and staring down with an eerily cold look in her eyes. Odd, but nothing that’ll stop me from getting the experience I deserve. I rush to pack my things and head out the door, my pace quickening as new questions pop into my head. Ms. Willard directs me through a door I’ve never seen before. “Where is he?” She hasn’t told me anything about the guy, yet expects me to follow her every order.
ctricity leaves my body just as quickly as it entered. The stomping of boots the earth as fireworks explode in the distance. I stumble to my feet, finally ng my sight and balance. Fireworks?
o, soldiers, drop to the ground all around me.
s this? tell, but I know I’m in danger.
am I? s like pictures I’ve seen. I can’t place them.
m I here? know.
this happen? know!
nt me here?
r.
am I?
Xander Williams, Charlie Coker '22
By: Morgan Whittle
the time comes for me to rest my head, m find reason to close my eyes. ost, a nap doth energy embed. e, it serves only to agonize.
rchance manage to even doze creature come to collect its fare shape, with eyes the color of a rose not Charon- instead a ghastly mare.
e I lie wrapped in bedsheets of night. h for ways that I can get some rest n. Time never seems to be finite. ess compels my thoughts into distress.
g no help in simply counting sheep, for once, I could just go to sleep.
On Monday, I noticed the green. It began in my hands, an earthy hue that ran along the my palm, snaking its way into my fingertips. I could feel the hum of something under . d away this new uncertainty and pulled forward old problems, their edges smoothed y eroding focus. With my daily routine, the thought of my greenness faded as I d two main issues: money and work. I taught children piano lessons, but while my ompleted the tedious melodies, my heart played in the symphony uptown. Beating to ert’s rhythm, my heart imagined itself on stage, in front of a crowd of watchful ears of sticky fingers. My head knew better than to indulge these fantasies, and yet I wanted
attempted to ignore the growing sensations under my skin, by Thursday, green ridges ad up my arms. Flowers had bloomed in my head, their petals tickling my skull. poked from my ribs and restrained my breathing. With all the time I spent inside, I owsy from the lack of sun. owing Monday, I visited the doctor. When she entered the examination room, she took k at me and immediately knew. ve the vines,” she stated, hastily scribbling down the diagnosis. nes?” s fairly common during this season. Easy enough to fix with plenty of rest, hydration, ught– can get tricky without proper treatment.” o you mean, ‘thought?’” I asked incredulously. tor replied after a beat or two, “Thinking about who you’re meant to be and actually ng it.” She handed me a prescription and sent me on my way. of the vines kept me inside all week, save for the moments I spent on the sunny bench my apartment. While I tried to find an ounce of meaning in my monotonous life, the
work, eager for the distraction. I could feel the vines growing, sprouting, filling up my insides, but strangely enough, their consistency began to comfort me. Wrapped up around my heart, the vines trapped it firmly in my chest, away from the foolishness of the symphony hall. I found a bit of peace in the constriction. No longer straddling the world between my hopes and my reality, the vines strapped me to earth. And so, I let them flourish, take hold of me, and choke my outlandish aspirations out of existence. I tolerated their discomfort, letting them tap out the keys whose sounds no longer reached my green ears. In a few months, I awoke to find my legs replaced with roots, my arms stemmed with leaves, and my chest dotted with wild flowers. I couldn’t move. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. I wasn’t sure how to.
oo good to be mped with the rest.
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fresh meat:
YOU TO MS. WALTER!
-enberghs26 43 s30, 40, 31, 41, 5342 r-erson45 23 anJillian)49 7, 28 Christine)nkow- 14 13, 35, 3 - 53 d-111, 45 r-r-14, 6 20, 21, 32, 4,53 52 din- 8, 9 45 ns- 15 on- 23, 27 las- 34
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