ANOTEFROM THEEDITORS
TheSignatureMagazineaimstohighlightartintheupper school community, featuring excellence in drawing, painting, printmaking, photography, ceramics, music, performance, and writing.Webelievethatthevisual,performing,andliteraryarts are very important to celebrate, as they allow us to share our perspectives, foster connections, and express ourselves. We wanttoextendaspecialthankyoutoMrs.Walter,oursponsor, andtothereaderformakingourpublicationpossible.
-TheLovettSignatureStaff,
NayaSaigal
HannahHerrera
HellaNorgaard
FreyaNorgaard
MaddyDemenkow
TalenFrett
MatthewRobinson
NicholasHolland
PageFougerousse
ShannonCollins
ChloeMajor
Theremainsof forgottendreams
Byallison
The people always knew to avoid the dark. A corpse is in the town square. Bones clean of skin, muscle, and sinew rest upon blood-caked earth. No life remains in the hollows of its eyes, no humanity is left in its cold, euphoric grin. They avoid the dark becausethedarkconsumes;it’sapredator.Itclingstotheblacktheyignorewithintheir ownsoulsandmeldswithit,amplifiesit,untilnothingremains.
Wealwaysknewtoavoidthedark.Asthesunabandonsus,leavingonlythedying skyandburntremainsoftheearth,theyallreturnhome.Theyhideawayinanasylumof lightandwarmth,protectedfromthemonstrousnight.Theyhuddletogethertokeepthe silenceoutandshuttheireyestomakethenightpassquickly.
Wealwaysknewtoavoidthedark,butIamdrawntoitsdanger.Isettleinthetown square,neckcranedtowardsthesky,asthenightfloodstheairandsmotherstheground in cold heaviness. I draw close to its emptiness, something so lacking in the chaos of day.Eventheanimalsknowtohide,sosilencearrivesswiftlyassunset.Itglidesfromthe towntotheforestandsettlesacrossalloftheshadow.Itsuffocatesthehomesandthe leavesandthegroundwithitspresence.Iwatchtheskydecay.Isensethegroundshift, andIawaittheterrifyingmelodyofnight.
We always knew to avoid the dark, but I can’t seem to understand why. Wondrous stars adorn the dripping blackness. They flicker and dance, performing for only me. I can’thelpbutfallbackwardtolookabove.Myheadthudsagainstthedirt,andmyeyes fix on the darkened sky.The black wraps itself around me in a warm embrace, and the silencesweetlysings.Alullabythatbeckonsmybreathtoafadingmemory.
Wealwaysknewtoavoidthedark.Theghostsspeaktome.Theymurmurourevery wantcastaside,everyhopeneverrealized,andeverydreamforgottenuponwaking.Their familiarfacesswirlinfrontofmyown.Facesoftheforgotten,thefabricated,thedead. The ghosts show me the lives of people who never were. They scream everything that hasneverbeen.
Wealwaysknewtoavoidthedark.Ican’tclosemyeyes.I’msurroundedbyablanket ofblissastheweightofeverythingwashesaway.Mywretched,confiningskinmeltsinto theground.Thenightfreesmefromthecagesofbloodandtissue.Thesilenceswallows my flesh and burns my lungs. They release the air they know will be their last, but euphoria fills me anyway. A grin carves itself into my dying bones. I dissolve into the hiddenbeautyofnight,soIcanfinallybeonewiththeshadows.
MAYA HAWKINS
Something Rotten
THRELKELD JULIA SOPHIE GIARDINO
KATEWOOD
GRAYSENSTRATTON
EVerythingbuthere
BYvaleriaBenitez
“Laptops,iPhones,coins,everythinginthebins!”theTSAagentshouted.Williamhad fortwohoursbeenstandinginthesecuritylineattheMiamiairport,wonderingifheshould havelistenedtohismomandplayedlacrosseinthestate. No,thisiswhatIwanttodo. He shovedhisAirPodsin,drowningoutthethoughtsandmemoriesclawingatthebackofhis mind.Thesilence.Theemptyapartment.Theguilt.
Hismotherhadalwaysbeenfragile,especiallyafterhisdadleft.Shehadbuiltherlife around William. When he accepted the lacrosse scholarship back in April she was devastated.Theyhadahugeargument,andshestormedout,drivingintotherain.Later,he gotaphonecallabouttheaccident,butWilliamfelthewastoblame.
Theflightstretchedendlessly.Theairwasstale,thelightstoobright,andthevoices aroundhimwereadullhum.Finn,snoringbesidehim,hadclaimedthearmrest.Acrossthe aisle, Davis was knocked out, completely unbothered. William envied that kind of peace fromhisnewteammates.
Fifteenhoursin,somethingshifted.Theusualseatbeltclicks,thedrinkcartrattling,all gone. Just silence. He frowned and looked around as the other passengers sat eerily still. He was about to head to the restroom when the intercom crackled. “Thank you for flying Delta Airlines. Enjoy your stay in Denver.” That wasn’t right. They weren’t supposed to land yet. Then the plane jerked downward. His stomach lurched and no one screamed. He quicklygrabbedtheheadrestinfrontofhim,butthedescentwastoosmooth.Throughthe window, there was no airport, no runway, just an endless white void. And then, as if reality hadblinked,acityunfoldedbeforehim.
Neon lights flickered and the air smelled like hot pretzels. The buildings were too clean,thefacesblurred,shiftinglikeanunfinishedpainting.
Thenasoftvoiceanddistant“William?”Heturned.Hismotherstoodonthesidewalk, herhairdamp,herclothesthesameblacksweaterandpantsshe’dbeenwearingthatnight. Notsmiling.Notangry.Justwatching.Ahonkcutthroughthesilence.“William!Watchout!” A car barreled toward him. He turned, heart hammering, just as a hand yanked out his airpods “William! What are you doing?” Davis's voice. The Miami airport snapped back aroundhim.TheTSAline.Binsathisfeet.
Davis frowned. “Dude, are you okay?” William blinked, his mind still spinning. The noiseoftheairportcrashedin.Heforcedanod.“Yeah…I’mfine.”Butashesteppedforward, hecaughtsomethingoutofthecornerofhiseye.Awoman.Herclothesdripping,asifshe hadjustbeenoutinastorm.Butwithasecondglance,itwasjustanotherwomanwaitingin the security line. Dry as can be. This trip was supposed to be an escape. But how do you escapesomethingthatlivesinsideyou?
MARY CAMP NEWTON
DAVISCRONAN
COVINGTON
BAUMANN
MADDYDEMENKOW
HANNAHHERRERA
MADDYDEMENKOW
BY SAM GARROWAY
THESOULOF THESEA TURTLE
Splash.Wavescrashuponthesandybeach.Eachsaltcrystallingersuponeachlittle grainofsand.Somewavesarecolossalandarchlikeacanyon,whileothersareonlystrong enough to touch a person’s toes.The beauty of the sea can be enjoyed by all, as just the soundofwaterandthesongsofwhalesbringpeacetoanymind.Inthisenormousocean, one sea turtle swims as fast as her heart allows. She narrowly avoids the dangers of the seaandlives near a glorious coral reef.This reef is home to thousands of species, all living together in harmony. As she grows, her shell becomes stronger, and her survival instincts improve. She uses the sea’s great currentstopropelthroughthemurkydepthsand glide through the shallow shores. Today, her shell has been worn down for 50 years and her flippers slowly begin to lose the strength they once had. Many shark teeth are nailed into the cracksandcrevicesofherbackside,eachtelling astoryofbraveryandsurvival.
As a young turtle, she preyed upon many jellyfish and crabs, but now in her older years, sheconsumesthestickyalgaescatteredaround thewaves.
Althoughsheabandonedheromnivorousways,ourturtlewondershowthosefollowing in her flippers could possibly survive, with millions of plastic bags lurking throughout the ocean’s depths. Back in her day, the sea was mostly a glorious blue, with only occasionaltrashfloatingthroughoutthecurrents.Now,trashplaguesmanycreatures' homes.Thebeautifulbluewaterhasbeenreplacedwithadirtybrowngoothatusurps theocean’sjewels.
Ourturtle,nearingtheendofherlifecycle,swimsallthewaybacktothestunning shore where she was born. She has had this memory her entire life, not forgetting a singledetail.Asshebeginstodockonthecoast,theunrelentingwavescrashontoher weakbody.Sheslowlyscootsthroughthesand,comingcloserandclosertohome.
Butshedoesn’tfindtheplaceshehadrecalledfromherchildhood.
Instead, concrete surrounds the prehistoric beach, as thousands of little
commerciallightsblindtheturtle’sview. Shestridesback andforthup thebeach, but thereiszerotraceofevenagrainofsand.
Herhomewasgone. Hercallingwasgone. Hernestwasgone.
Asthecommerciallightsbegintodim,herflippersslowlyre-enterthesea,andour
SARAH TURNER
CARLISLE STONE
ALLISON CAIN
365BEES
BYAMELIADARDEN
ThreehundredandsixtyfivebeesdiedeveryyearbythehandsofShaunaStone.
Shauna had been invisible for most of her life. Thinner than any stick and about as interesting, Shaunasimplycouldnotcompetewithhermanylivelysisters;Shauna,herparentsthought,didn’tneed “parenting,”andwaseasily,andoften,forgotten.Whencallingoutattendance,herteacherswouldoften pondertothemselves,“Idon’tthinkthere’saShaunaonmyroster-theremustbeamistake.”Therewas no difference between not having Shauna in photos and accidentally editing her out entirely- both of whichherfriendsoftendid.
Butoneday,ShaunaStonehaddecidedthatshe’dhadenough.Shewouldbe noticed,regardless ofthecost.
Shaunacouldnotdomuchaboutherbody,indistinguishablefromacardboardcutoutofherself, nor the aggressive splattering of freckles that served as unwanted camouflage. But as she glared at herreflectioninthemirror,sherealizedthattherewas,infact,somethingshecouldchange:thesizeof herlips.
ToShauna’simmenseshockandgreatdistress,whensheaskedherparentsifshecouldgetlip fillers, and after they remembered that they had a daughter named Shauna- besides the ten they alreadyhad-theytoldherno.
ButjustbeforeShaunafellintocompletedespair,sherememberedthatherdadwasahobbyist beekeeper.
Andsobeganhermorningritualofbeemurder.
Shauna’s mornings started normally. She brushed her teeth, stubbed her toe, glared at her reflection,andgotdressed.Prancedintothebackyardand,withthehelpofherdad’sbeekeepingsuit and her custom bee-grabbing tongs, gleefully skipped to her father’s hives and… took a bee.The bee, much like Shauna, was someone whose absence wouldn’t be noticed. Despite desperately struggling atfirst,thebeewouldeventuallyacceptitsfate.Itsfatewould,ofcourse,betodiewhenitsstingerwas forcibly plunged into Shauna’s lips by Shauna herself. “There is no gain without pain,” Shauna told herself every morning as her lips blistered and bulged. After taking a few painkillers, she would look intothemirrorandthinktoherself,“Yes!I’mstunning.ThisiswhoIwanttobe.”
Oneday,Shaunawentouttofindherselfanothervictim.Itwaspictureday,soShaunawantedher lipsasswollenaspossible;assuch,sheneededthebiggestbeetherewas.Afterdestroyingmuchof the hive, she eventually caught a colossal, practically regal bee. As she watched her lips balloon, the bee having fled, Shauna didn’t notice that her lips moved on their own accord, like ripples in a pond Sheonlycaredthattheywere really big.
Three days later, at lunch, Shauna felt a… bubbling… sensation. She screamed, a horrible, earwrenchingsound;asherlipsripped,dozensofbloodthirstylarvaeeruptingandpouringfromhermouth likeawaterfall.
Intheend,Shaunagotwhatshewanted-shewascertainlynoticed.
Anna FOW
Thesalon
AsStellasatinthewaitingroomforthethirdtimethismonth,shesippedherlatte, deciding which magazine she would look at to give herself some entertainment. She shuffledthroughthestackofmagazinesandsuddenlystopped,mesmerizedbythebright blonde color of the beautiful girl’s hair on the front cover of one of the many magazines. Herstylistsuddenlyappeared,lettingherknowitwastimeforhercoloringappointment.As shedrowsilystumbledthroughthecoldsalon,shelookedthroughthewindowdownabout 300 feet at Central Park. It looked so different from all the way up here. She missed the summer,strollingthroughtheparkwithhergoldenbrownhairmatchingthecolorofhertan, laughingwithherfriends.Andthenastheleavesfell,walkingthesamesidewalk,sobbing to them when her husband John left her for her identical twin sister, Lucy. The only difference between them was that Lucy had been a natural blonde and Stella was a brunette.Shesnappedoutofitandsatinthechairwhileherstylistgrabbedtheblondedye. Shelookedinthemirror,tuggingatthewrinklesthathadstartedtoformatthecornersof hereyes;thislastyearhadcausedquiteabitofstress.Hereyesthenfellonherdamaged, bleach-blonde hair. She tilted her head towards the mirror so that she could see how her rootshadgrownsomuchinjustafewdays.
“Backagainalready?”herstylistasked.
Startled,Stellagaveherahalfheartedsmile.Shejustsighedandaskedifshecould dothesamecoloragaintocoverupherroots.Aftertheappointment,Stellagotinhercar and drove to the flower store near her home, satisfied with her hair. She went inside and grabbed a bouquet of white roses, her favorite flower. Driving home, she tried to make it looklikeshehadbeencrying,puttingsomemakeuparoundhereyesandmixingitwithfake tears.
Whenshegothome,Johnwaswaitingforherwithahug.“Happybirthday,”hesaid andfollowedupwith,“I’msorry,Iknowthisisaharddayforyougiven…”
“Let’sgovisither,Iboughtsomeflowers,”Stellasaid,tiltingherheaddownasa“tear” felldownhercheek.
As they drove up to the cemetery, Stella had a moment of regret. But then she rememberedwhyshedidit,theblondecolorofhairdyeonherhands,andtheswiftnessof theshoveltoLucy’shead.ShegazedattherootsonthetreenexttoLucy’sgraveandthen thought about the roots of her hair, the little bottles of dye being the one thing keeping people from learning she wasn’t who she pretended to be. Stella and John reached the grave,andsheplacedtheflowersdown.Thetombstoneread:“1996-2024StellaWilliams.”
BYkatewood
JOSIEWILSON
THECLOCKMAKER'SREGRET
BYmichaeldarville
Edwin Vance lived in a tiny shop on the edge of town, where time was his only companion. For decades, he built and repaired clocks, each one a product of patience, precision, and passion. He talked little to anyone but the customers whose timepieces wereinneedofrepair,andeventheywereaddressedgrudgingly.
But on one evening, hunched over his candlelit workbench, he’d built a clock that was unlikeanyother.Itsbrasscasingwasfine,itshandsridiculouslythin.Itwasmeanttobe amundanepocketwatch,butthesecondhandwasreversedwhenhewounditup.
Initially,Edwinsuspecteditwasamechanicalmalfunction,soherepositionedthegears andcheckedthespringsbutwithnosuccess.Angered,heputtheclockaside.
Thefollowingmorning,hereachedforhisteaandnoticedtheclockticking, inhisheart,Edwinhadnotyetconcludedthetruth behindtheissueinhisnewclock. smoothlywithoutchallenge.Withconfusionandangerrising
On impulse, he picked up the strange little clock and woundthekey.
The hands ran backward, and in an instant, the cup was back in his hand, the tea untipped, the floor clean. Edwinsatfrozen.
He began to experiment. If helostatool,heturnedthe clock, and it materialized in the place he had put it down.Theclockcould rewind time—but only by an hour.
Andthentheforgettingbegan.
Itstartedwithsmallthings:abookhewassurehehadreadbutnowcouldn'trecall.The nameofashopkeeperhehadchattedwithforyears.Andthentheblanksstartedtoopen up. One day, he found himself in front of the marketplace, unsure of what had brought himthere.
Themoreheusedtheclock,themoreofhispastunraveled.Andstill,hecouldn'tresist.
Oneevening,therewasacalamitousaccidentinfrontofhisshop.Acarriageoverturned, andaboywascrushedunderthedebris.Hismotherscreamed,herhandssmearedwith hisblood.
Withouthesitation,Edwinwentintohisshopandrewoundtheclock.
An hour was rewound. The carriage never overturned. The lad passed by his shop, laughing,nevertorealizethedeathhehadjustescaped.
Edwinfeltasenseofrelief.
Thenhefrowned.Heknewhehadsavedsomeone—buthecouldnotrememberwho.He could not remember the crash itself. Only a residue of grief remained, a shadow of somethinglost.
Withthepassingofweeks,Edwinforgotincreasingly.Heforgothisfirstclock.Heforgot thefaceofhismother.
Hesatthereonenightaloneinhisshop,staringattheclockthathadgivensomuchand takensomuchmore.Hewounditupforthelasttime.
Anerrorsomewherehadbeenerased.Amistakenstepwascorrected.
And in the quiet shop on the town's edge, the clocks ticked on—except Edwin Vance heardthemnomore.
HAPPINESSWAS
BYMARCUSSHIH
Inaholealongahillsatasnake,itsskinandfurfruitfullyredandgreen;itsyellowssurpassed thesunanditsdustygoldswerebeyondcompare.Itsangandpaintedwonderful,maddening art.Peopleandmonstersalikegatheredrounditsburrowasittoldtalesthatstretchedacross thestars,asmeaningfulastheywerenonsensical.Acommunityformed,filledwithcreatures vibrant,kindandterrible,allbuiltaroundthebustlingcavernofthesnake.Storiesandhouses, delightfully crooked and bent out of shape, stretched down the hill into the endless plains of imagination.
In the grasses open and free lurked a cat who they said was the enemy of everything good. They said it had hunched shoulders tipped with spines taller than two men. They said it had miserablepurpleandbluestripesalongitsskin,itsskinleatheryandwrinkledoveritsuneven tendonsandbones.Theysaidithaditsfangsandskullmeldedasonehorridmaw,builttokill andconquer.Theysaiditprowledthedreamsofmonstersandmenandatetheold,thesad, the sick. They said it smelled of nightmares and disease and sounded of silent death. They said it gave them fear and terror and nothing good, for they said it was the enemy of everythingtheydesired.
Yet the village grew further with men and monsters. Their houses collided and their minds clashed, arguments and fighting filled the air, but so did their laughter and joy. Marvelous madnessfilledtheairasdancingandstorieswerethrownaboutasregularlyascuttingwords andfists.Itwasalivewiththeterribleandthegreat.Thecatstillateandthesnakestillsang.
Yetthepeoplesoongrewtiredoftheirnightmaresandtheirmisery,andsotheythrewoffthe shackles placed onto them by the cat.They set upon their monster at night and killed it with comfort.Asitwasleftbeatenandburned,itsterriblepurplesandbluesfadedwithitsmisery andnightmares.Butitwasnotenough,fortheirfiresburnedinthechangingwinds,andtheir eyessetuponthenextenemies.Thepeopleexpelledtheirmonstrousneighborsanddisposed of the terrible, but in doing so, abandoned the amazing.Their buildings, once monstrous and wonderfully twisting spires and spears, were now square and gray. Those nights once filled with the crashing of voices, the laughter and pain of humans and monsters alike, now sat silentanddreadfullystill.Alifelessworlddidn’tmakemadnesstobepaintedorstoriestotell, andsothesnakeretreatedbackuptoitsburrow,oldandsadandill.
CHORUS LESSONS &CAROLS
ORCHESTRA ORCHTOBERFEST BAND SPOOKTACULAR
HAUNTEDHOLIDAY
BYRYANGALBRAITH
Mymotherboundeddownthehall,nearlyknockingmeoverwithatubofred,blazingornaments.Thewhole house was filled with bells, balls, tinsel, and trinkets, but she continued to haul boxes of decorations down from the attic. I followed my mother to the living room – which was brimming with festivities.The tree stood tall and glitteringandpyramidsofpresentswerescatteredacrossthefloor.
Shequicklystartedshovelingmoregarnishontothebuckingbranches.Whethercleaningordecoratingor senselessly organizing, her hands remained in a perpetual flurry while her shoulders slumped with the weight of theworld.Atfirst,myfatherandItriedpersuadinghertotakeabreak,butwequicklyrealizeditwaspointless.
“Peopledealwithgriefindifferentways,”hetoldmeonenight,eatingtakeoutforthefourthtimethatweek. I nodded. Instead of cleaning, my father remained submerged in his work until it drowned out the pain. Some nights as I wandered downstairs, unable to sleep, I could see his office light bleeding out from under the door. I desperatelywishedschoolwouldstartagain,givingmesomethingtoworkon,too.Mostdays,Ifoundmyselfjust floatingfromroomtoroom.
MyeyesscrapedacrosstheroomInowfoundmyselfin.Despitethegrand,brilliantdisplay,itwasnothing buthollow.Weusedtostrugglefittingthestockingsonthemantle,allfoursockscrowdingandoverlappingeach other, but there was plenty of space for three to hang. A bizarre collage of holiday and condolence cards lay scattered across the coffee table. The inescapable shadow of loss hung in the air, oozing from every surface. Outside the frosted windows, snow continued to fall. A heavy blanket already rested across the ground, only growingthickerandthicker.AsIwatchedflakessinkintotheearth,Ithoughtofherburiedbeneaththatsnow. Icouldn’tcomprehendit.
Myfatheremergedfromhisoffice,blanklyshufflingintothelivingroom.Exhaustionwastheonlythingleft connecting the three of us, dripping from every step. He stopped when he saw my mother, clouded eyes locking witheachotherascarolsfloatedthroughtheair.Theydidn’tspeak,butamillionwordspassedoverthem.
Silent night, holy night.
Gently,myfathermovedtowardsmymotherandtookherhand.Theyembracedandbeganslowlyswaying togethertothemelancholicrhythm.Theloomingweightwasn’tlifted,buttheirshouldersnowsharedit.Ifeltmy weight get lighter, too. I realized it was the first time we had truly shared a room since the funeral. When the dance ends, our routine will resume. My mother will continue cleaning, my father will retreat to his office, and I will be left sitting alone again. But, for that moment, as the winter wonderland grew outside, our family took the first,tentativestepstowardsfeelingbetter.
Notwhole,butbetter.
Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.
KATE WOOD
AUDREY WEISS
ThelastoftheFultonians
bynicholasHolland
Justlikethat,Acewastheonlyone.ThelastlivingFultonianstrandedinthelandofBuckhaven. Ithadbeen5yearssincethegreatconversionhappened.5yearsagothefirstconflictcameto passinFultonia.Envy.Ithadbeenprophesiedbeforethattherewouldcomesuchadaywhere all of the lands would be consumed by the 7 internal conflicts. However, Ace never imagined thatthedemiseofhisownnationwouldbeatthehandsofBuckhavians.
Fultoniawasoneofthe7greatnations.Itsterritorywasthelargestamongallofthenationsas it stretched from the northernmost mountains in the east to the deserts in the center of the continent. To the south of Fultonia was the second largest nation, Buckhaven, and the rest of the nations; Douglasia, Dectura, Marretania, Monresia, and Fayetia, were scattered across the restofthecontinent,noneposingathreattoFultonia.
Buckhaven,however,hadalwayslookedtothenorthwithhungryeyes.
Notforland.Notforwealth.
Forjoy.
TheFultonianswerepeopleoflaughterandsong.Wherefestivalslastedfordaysandwherethe very essence of its culture stemmed from meaning and connection. They found fulfillment in the simplest of things; the morning sun illuminating plains of flowers, the winds carrying the scents of the rivers, the mountains so naturally painted in their various shades of red.To be a Fultonianwastobeatpeace.Tobewhole.
The Buckhavians couldn’t understand it. They built their nation on ambition. On a belief that more was never enough. Despite this, no matter what they acquired, or how high their cities rose,theycouldneverfilltheirinternalvoid.
Andsotheyenvied.
NotFultonia’sland.Notitsriches. Itsjoy.
So they came as apprentices, as students.The elders spoke of unity and learning the ways of Fultonianhappiness.AndtheFultonians,intheirboundlessbenevolence,acceptedthem.
Acewastheonlyonewhosawthetruth.
Itstartedwithsmallthings.ThequestioningofthevalueofFultoniantraditions.Thesuggestion thathardwork,notjoyshouldbethemeasureoftrueworth.Newphilosophiesthatlingered,the whispersofambitionoverharmony.
TheFultonianslistened.Andslowly,theychanged.
Their values started to morph into those of the Buckhavians.They started to work longer.They startedtolaughless.Theirfestivalsgrewshorter.Theirsongsgrewquieter.
Soon,theypursuedwealthinsteadofwisdom.Powerinsteadofpeace.
Untileventuallytheydidn’tseethemselvesasFultoniansatall.
By the time the great conversion was complete, Fultonia was gone. Not conquered by war, but erasedbyenvy.Itspeople,nowBuckhaviansinspirit.
OnlyAceremained. Hehadlosteverything.Hisnation.Hispeople. Buttheprophecywasnotyetcomplete.
BecauseiftheSevenInternalConflictswouldtrulyrulethisland
ThenBuckhaven’shungerwouldneverbesatisfied.
Carlislestone
FREYANORGAARD
The Es pe
by Anne Bost
“Goodnighteveryone,”theweary-faced,butkind-heartedmuseumattendantcalledouttothe empty,sprawlingpropertyassheflickedthelightsoff.
Theresounding trumph and clink ofthefrontentranceasitwasshutandlockedforthenight echoedagainstthesoullesswallsandtheartthathungonitwithalltheforceofastorm-stirredwave crestingoveritself.Darknessengulfedthespaceandallthetracesofbustlinglifethatinhabitedthe exhibitduringthedaypeteredoutlikethelastdropsofrainslowlyslippingoffatree’scuppedleaves. But as shadows crept across canvases, the breath of life whispered like a gentle wind into each brushstroke,andenlightenmenteruptedfromeachframe.
Somewhere on the main floor, the fantastical notes of a lute resumed, harmonizing with a breezeasitbillowedgentlythroughlushtreesthatseemedtoreachfortheheightsofOlympus.Cups of the finest wine and bowls of fruit, ripe and freshly plucked from the vine, flowed with cheerful chatterassensualtoucheswereexchangedinsecret.
As festivities roared in the distance, a woman a few halls down stood listless in the quiet mundanity of her room, capable only of overhearing the merriment she was subject to never experienceforherself.Thebluefur-trimmedcoatshewasbundledin,luxuriousasitwas,didlittleto warmthebitteracheinherheart.Thefewraysofearlymorninglightthattrickledthroughherwindow seemed to taunt her as they cast a luminous glow on the bronze balance dangling between her thumbandpointerfinger.Thelightreflectedontoherstringsofpearlsthatglitteredlikegoldinthe sun.Theylookedmoreakintoabeautifulnoosethanjewelry.Amournfulsighleftherpartedlips,and hereyesliftedtomeettheheavygazeofthepaintingbehindheragain.
“It’snotjudgmentdayyet,”shedecided,resolvewrappingitselfaroundherheart.
Shedangledovertheraisedblackedgethattrappedhernolongerandcreptquietlyoutofher frame.Eachstepexposedhernosetoanewsmell,herhandstoanewsensation.Littlebylittle,she drewclosertowhatherhearthadbeenyearningforandbeforesheknewitshestoodinfrontofthe loomingPortraitofaLady.
The lady’s black dress was plenty elegant but paled in comparison to the beauty of the soft smileimprintedonherpeachy-skinnedface.Herhair,carefullycurledattheedges,glintedinthelight likespungold.Thebitteracheinthewoman’shearteased,replacedbyasteadfastadoration.
Thewomansaidnothing,optingtoignoretherampantthumpofherheart,andinsteadsimply outstretchedherhandinasilentinvitation.Thelady’ssunlitsmilebrightenedinreturn.Shefoldedher hand over the woman’s open palm, intertwining their fingers and cautiously stepping out of her prison.
Emory Black
PrEDATOR
BYNAYASAIGAL
"Ew!Getthatoutofhere!Go!”
The dark gray tabby trotted away, dropping the rodent on the porch. Cleo seemed proud of her accomplishment, with a satisfied look in her narrow, slit-like pupils. She looked back at the mangled creaturethathadtwosharppuncturesinitsstomach,givingasoftmeowtoherownerasiftosignal thatthisgenerousgiftwasallforher.
Eva wiped the blood from Cleo’s fur. “Why would you do this? Do I need to give you a curfew, Missy?”
Afteranightinterruptedbysharpcracksofthunder,EvaawoketoCleostandingbyherpillow.She rubbed her head on Eva’s and emitted a sound only comparable to a revving motorcycle. Her eyes dilated,leavingonlyafaintcircleofamber.
Eva opened the metal tin, leaving out a delicious meal of odorous tuna, and she rushed out the doortomakeitintimeforfirstperiod.Shefoughttokeephereyesopenthroughcalculus,struggled to comprehend Shakespeare, stuffed down a slice of pepperoni pizza, and almost threw it all up dragging a scalpel through the body of a squid. Last night’s present was Eva’s first encounter with anythingdead,andherbiologylabconfirmedherhatredforthematter.
All she wanted was to take a nap and play with her cat, but Eva arrived to an empty home. Her momwasoutonarunandherdadwasatwork,butshedidn’tunderstandwhereCleowent.
“Cleo!Mommy’shome!”
Noresponse.
Tired, cold, and catless, Eva went to her bed, only to find a chunk of white fur on the blanket. She lifted the covers, and to her horror, saw what appeared to be the severed appendage of a rabbit.The smalltearsintheskinleakedoutadarkliquidontothesheets.Shegrabbedapapertowelandthrew outthemutilatedpaw,proceedingtowashherhandsforatotaloffifteenminutes.
Evathoughtabouthowshewouldexplainthestorytohermotherasshetriedtofallasleeponthe couch.
She awoke to a dark sky. Grabbing a snack from the kitchen, she spotted a trail of prints coming fromthecatdoor.
“Mom?HaveyouseenCleo?”
Afterafewminutesofsilence,sheheardameowcomingfromthelivingroom.
“Missy!Wherehaveyoubeen?”
Eva heard Cleo’s purring as she walked up to her, her pupils barely visible. She noticed her mouth was open, with something shiny poking out. Eva couldn’t quite make out the object, but as the tabby inchedcloser,shesawthepieceofsparklingmetalwasattachedtosomethingelse.
The digit wore a beautiful silver ring and was adorned with red polish that perfectly matched the driedbloodontheotherendofthefinger.
Eva recognized the piece of jewelry as the emerald cut diamond that her mother would never be seenwithout.
ALI WAINWRIGHT
SAMJOHNSON
DALEYBOWMAN
ANNAFOW
KATE WOOD
DANCE
CHOREO BY GIGI GITELSON AND AUDREY MIA PELLITERO
NAYASAIGAL
"WHOEVERDIDTHELAYOUTAND DESIGNTHISYEARDIDSOWELL"
-NAYASAIGAL
"BESTSIGNATUREYET!"
-MADDYDEMENKOW
"MYFAVORITESIGNATURE LEADERSEVER"
-MRS.WALTER
