Pawprint 2018 by Vermont Academy

PAW Print: Poetry. Art. Writing. 2018

PAW Print 2018 Volume 5. Issue 1 Vermont Academy Literary Magazine Vermont Academy 10 Long Walk. Saxtons River. Vermont Advisor: Joanne Fuller Editors: Jeremy Fleming Sam Kendrick Zoee Blossom Jake Tuckner Maggie Hodgson Sarah Robinson Cover photo: Darwin Holcombe Title Page art: Letitia Milevskiy

Printing by Minuteman Press, Brattleboro, VT

Table of Contents Ode to the 17 by Kate Gorman ‘18 ................................................ 5 The Knocking by Will Svensson ‘18 ............................................ 6 Cafe 7 by Miranda Fuller ‘19 ......................................................... 9 Four Years Gazing by Sarah Robinson ‘20 ................................. 10 The World by Kate Gorman ‘18 ................................................. 12 Treasured Winter by Emma Ostiguy ‘20 .................................... 13 Ordinary Family by Kate Gorman ‘18 ....................................... 14 Flower Bones by Addie Doherty ’19 ........................................... 15 The Namaqua Chameleon by Miranda Fuller ‘19 ..................... 16 In My Dream by Miao “Jerry” Lin ‘20 ........................................ 22 Mother of Ruth - A play by Addie Doherty ‘18 ......................... 23 Wild Child by Maggie Hodgson ‘21 ........................................... 27 excerpt from Path of Totality a play by Miranda Fuller ’19 ..... 28 Loner by Ethan Hart ‘18 ............................................................... 30 As Grief Grows by Devin Goldstein ‘19 .................................... 43 Rushing by Jake Tuckner ‘19 ..................................................... 45 Retrospect by Lance Zhang ‘18 .................................................... 46 In a Lifetime by Caitlyn McDermott ‘18 .................................... 50 Left and Right by Frank Jiang ‘18 ............................................... 51 Miracles of St. Anthony by Caitlyn McDermott ‘18 ................. 53 Rules by JJ Tribuna ‘21 ................................................................ 57 3

Choosing the “X-stream” by Ava Hill ‘18 .................................. 58 Suddenly... Everything Mattered by Will Persina ‘18 ............... 60 Bubbling Blueberry Pie by Alexandra Paluszek ‘20 ................ 61 An Awful Morning by Ruihan “Candy” Li ‘21 ........................ 63 I Believe by Kate Gorman ‘18 ..................................................... 64 I Don’t Know What to Write About ........................................... 66 The Miracle Bean by JiWoo Lee ‘ 18 ........................................... 67 Procrastination by Harry Early ‘21 .............................................. 69 You by Caitlyn McDermott ‘19 ................................................... 70 Sugar Daddy by Colette Vynerib ‘19 .......................................... 72

Danny Ye ‘21 4

ODE TO THE 17 BY KATE GORMAN ‘18 Parkland, Florida February 2018 We are the same, you and I  We wake up at what feels like  The crack of dawn  Crawl out of bed and look forward to Crawling right back in 8 hours later But today  You didn’t. You went to school  Like I do every week  But today,  You didn’t get to hear the final bell Because you were taken from us All 17 beautiful souls Gone. The gunshots rang, every students nightmare The countless drills  Code reds, practice hiding Staying silent and out of sight  Never really prepared any of us  The bullets shook our world  And now your souls are packaged and sent home You felt scared, alone, hopeless  But now you are in a safe comfort knowing You’re away from the world that gets darker More Twisted, with evil stuck in its core 5

You are in the arms of angels,  Far away from the horrors  Looking from above as we argue  Making things even worse Now it’s my turn  To feel scared and hopeless as millions of us Wake up at the crack of dawn  Crawl out of bed  And go to school *

THE KNOCKING BY WILL SVENSSON ‘18 Those who think Vermont Academy is quiet have not been in its woods. Those who think Vermont’s woods are quiet have not been in those same woods during the winter. Only one noise breaks the eerie, yet beautiful silence. The howls of the winter warlock. Few have encountered the winter warlock, but many have heard of his tales. Said to control the very weather, he comes at dusk riding on a wintry gale. For those on the Nordic team, his legend is very real. Simon was skiing alone one especially cold Nordic practice. This was the practice where no matter how many layers you had on, and how fast you skied, a cold remained deep in the bones. Noses dripped perpetually, and eyelashes froze over. He wasn’t sure what loop this was, coach had left them skiing for hours. Simon had lost all connections to the real world, he hadn’t seen a soul in over three loops. He knew practice in theory should be ending soon, the sun was beginning to set, it would swiftly be altogether snuffed out by the greedy trees which ate its light far before it reached the ground. 6

Despite the pains of boredom and exhaustion, he skied on slowly, choosing to appreciate the beauty of the woods. Paths carved through halls of conifer trees, decorated in the greens and white of the vague holiday season. While the lightest of flurries began to tickle the tree crowns, rabbit tracks still crisscrossed between the silent tiptoes of past deer. Even these were now ushered out by the fervent whispers of the oncoming storm, each paw and hoofprint retracing its steps till they disappeared altogether. Had Simon been able to think properly, had he been a little warmer, he may have remembered the winter warlock always came with a fresh snowstorm. Just when one prayed the winter season was over, it returned even more vigorously, punctuated by his echoed laughter. Simon was exhausted and cold though and did not remember. Even when a light hum began in the distance, his thoughts only slightly wandered towards the warlock. Over the past minute the noise had grown from a din to something far harsher and Simonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind was far from simply wandering towards the warlock. It had practically tripped over the very idea of him, his windblown hair and wild eyes. Simon tried to ski on faster and faster, but he knew there was no outskiing the winter warlock. Just when Simon grew most weary and his technique slipped the furthest, the warlock would appear and eat him, or possibly worse, critique his technique. Simon would be punished worse than Sisyphus, sent up and down the same hill until he skied it right. Hopefully, he thought, he might be turned into a decent stew instead. Still Simon preferred neither option, and he skied on faster quite unsettled. Simon knew he was reaching the base of the steepest hill when he first heard the laughter. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t jocular, nor even maniacal. This was a laugh of the insane. Not heartless, but mindless. Each burst of laughter rang out, icicles shattering on a frozen floor. Simon was truly terrified now, he knew it was over but losing hope could 7

not stop the body from attempting survival. Sheer adrenaline sent him skiing as fast he could towards the hill, hoping, praying, he would make it up before he entered the warlock’s sights- A snowmobile goes whizzing by, ice trailing behind like a comet’s tail. The white rider flew up the hill, turning to face Simon at the hill’s zenith. Like a snowy owl his eyes had locked onto his prey, Simon knew there was no hope for him now. Still, he had to ski up the hill all the same, drawn towards his soon demise. Tucking his head down, Simon powered up the hill, bounding from ski to ski, hoping to use all his strength now. There was no point in leaving anything for after the hill, for he assumed he would be dead. Simon had reached the top of the hill, he thought he might even be allowed to ski by for the briefest of moments. But the warlock barked out his name, halting his progress. Simon stood frozen by fear and frigidity, eventually turning to look the warlock in the eye. Simon was unsure which he thought would most likely follow, death or repetition, but he certainly did not foresee the actual answer. The Winter Warlock stood up from his metallic mount, cloaked in an icy mist. He called out Simon once more. Then he boomed out “Fantastic!” Filling the air with his Russian melody. Simon had escaped unscathed, no, even praised! He finished the loop and slowed down, stopping in front of Chivers. As he took off his boots, Coach returned, no longer in his wintry persona. He told Simon once more he had done a great job and headed to his office. Simon walked home, reveling in his freedom. It wasn’t until a missing check in email that night did Simon learn John had not returned from practice, found frozen to death along the ski jump’s summit.

CAFE 7 BY MIRANDA FULLER ‘19 There’s a coffee shop downtown run by a tabby cat with a kind and reassuring face. The coffee shop is called Cafe 7 and I go there every Tuesday morning to write poems. I sit in the left window and have a cup of coffee, two sugars and a little cream. I get the morning paper but only ever read the biggest headline. Then I shield myself as I watch the other patrons of the little establishment. A pigeon comes to eat the scone crumbs at the outside tables, and a sleek brown mouse eats the ones inside. I watch the mouse make her rounds and bet if the tabby cat with the kind and reassuring face will spot her and chase her out. Sometimes there is a man who comes in and buys a coffee, black, and a lemon square. He used to say the lemon square was for his girlfriend, then he wasn’t around for a while, and when he came back he said it was for his wife. Today he buys no lemon square. Sometimes a pack of dogs comes by to harass the tabby cat. Usually they stay outside and bark through the windows. Once they came insides and each ordered coffees, only to dump them on the floor and leave howling. The Tabby cat did not hiss and howl back, instead he watched them leave, and then tenderly began cleaning up the mess. I offered to help, and made a crude remark about dogs in this town. The Tabby cat shook his head and said “I don’t know their past. I’ll pass no judgment as long as they do me no harm.” I decided to keep my mouth shut, but the Tabby cats words inspired me and when we finished cleaning I wrote my poem and left.

FOUR YEARS GAZING BY SARAH ROBINSON ‘20 It takes four years for the light from the closest star to reach earth.  So really when we tilt our heads and let our hair fall back we are gazing into the past.  We see where stars had been aligned four years ago, when you brother was born or four years or when the pond in the back was at its most full. The sky is flooded with star like the sidewalk of new york is with its flow of people. Each bumping into each others shoulders, In sonder, realizing that everyone else was somewhere four years ago.. I think the best thing about stars is that even through the rhythm of the rain when you can't bring yourself to lift your head from the ground, or when the fog of night is thick, we can still count at the stars on being right above us, and know they they will be in alignment like soldiers protecting our universe. Like a distant heaven we can all agree on, because no matter where you are on this blue marble we all can agree that the stars are there, even in the light of day, And four years from now you can go out and stand on your porch, kicking snow of the railing to rest your arms upon, and watching your breath you can turn your nose to the sky and see where the stars where today, even if just for a moment, because in that moment you and a billion other people saw the same view, and confirmed the stars were there.

Patrick Ogden ‘19 11

THE WORLD BY KATE GORMAN ‘18 He said he was an artist, a tortured, only expresses himself through his work kind of artist. She didn’t usually hang with this crowd. Since she was always working and focused on paying rent and making sure her sister gets to wherever she needs to be she never had time to listen to babbling about the meaning of a few strokes on a piece of paper. However, he had been coming into the coffee shop more and more and he seemed interested enough, so what could the harm be? She opened up to him, ranting about her life and what’s constantly on her mind, and her worries. He was a good listener. He stayed until her shift ended and told her he needed her, for a piece of work he was working on. She followed him, over the bridge into Brooklyn and into his small studio apartment. When she woke up this morning she didn’t expect to be painted, but here she was. His brush strokes were soft, gentle and articulated. She couldn’t see him but she could tell he was focused, dedicated and passionate. When he was finished, he showed her the product. All across her own shoulders and upper back was a beautiful scene. Forests of yellow and golden brown. A huge wave swallowing a boat, showing the ocean and all of its destruction. A peaceful snowy mountain, a desert littered with pyramids, a busy bustling city all beautifully conveyed across her own body. She was speechless, and asked how he thought of doing this. “I had the idea for a while now,” he responded with a small smile creeping across his face. “What better canvas to use than someone who feels as if they have the weight of the world on their shoulders?”

TREASURED WINTER BY EMMA OSTIGUY ‘20 The winter season is the time of year to get together The rivers are transformed into frozen water Frozen enough to glide against the ice with mother and others Glancing through the glass window, I grin to father His glasses sits upon his nose, wearing a Christmas sweater He smiles back to his one and only daughter He later accompanies us on the icy river Changed into his uniform, pretending to be a hockey player Neighbors can hear sounds of loud laughter But it didn’t matter We made hot chocolate with our famous snack: cheese and crackers But father would always request a fresh cold beer out of the cooler We then snuggle, wishing for this moment to last forever But at midnight, my bed calls me over My quick little feet covered by my favorite pair of slippers Climbs up on to my father’s shoulders And I whisper, Goodnight father

Zoee Blossom ‘19 13

ORDINARY FAMILY BY KATE GORMAN ‘18 The Mashes seemed like an ordinary family. Two sweet parents, a spunky spur and a few rumbling and rolling tots. Mr. and Mrs. Mash have a hard time keeping their oldest son under control, its like all of the spuddin he’s getting baked all the time! The tots are ridiculous. Yelling and screaming, tottering all over the place. It’s hard to stay mad at them at that of an young age, and Mrs. Mash is always “blessing her lucky starches” for the gift of her children. Everything went to hell as soon as the French foreign exchange student showed up. It was like all the mayhem that was somehow tolerable before has become completely out of control! The Mashes spent all their time trying to please Sir Fry, but that left no time for the youngsters! They began to rebel, especially the spunky spud. He was bringing home a different chip every night, skipping school, and he was more baked than ever! The tots acted out in school, leaving a trail of crumbs everywhere they went and speaking back to anyone who tried to discipline them. Sweet Mr. and Mrs. Mash had no other choice but to send the French Sir. Fry back to France, and spend time with their own children. They were stressed, but they loved their children so much. I’m sure life would be easier if they weren’t a family of potatoes anyways.

Zoee Blossom ‘19 14

FLOWER BONES BY ADDIE DOHERTY ’19 What will you say when I have gone away?  When flowers grow between my toes and ears, Head on my hollow chest, “please stay” you’ll say, Stare into my lifeless eyes, love; no tears,  For I shed none and thou shan’t as well beloved,  I am happy to be more than just me,  But I see, you weep like a mourning dove,  Don’t you see? I am earth and life to be,  I am worms and dirt that grow your tulips,  I’m the trees our future daughter will climb, So say goodbye love, and kiss my blue lips, Cause my soul will live to the end of time,  And even though my heart no longer wails,  Even in my death love always prevails.

Miranda Lu ‘19

THE NAMAQUA CHAMELEON BY MIRANDA FULLER ‘19 “There are no trees for hundreds of miles, and yet these are undoubtedly chameleon footprints. This female namaqua chameleon is searching for a mate.” -David Attenborough, Life, 2009. The sun beats down on the red sand creating a fiery landscape not unlike what I imagine Hell to be. I am alone. My shoulders grind under my sandpaper skin which peels in patches hanging like feathers on my back and arms. As the horizon begins to glow red and darkness sweeps across the sky with a wake of stars, I throw down my satchel and begin setting up camp. I stake the canopy and crawl inside, the edges are shredded with old stake holes and the heavy canvas has been bleached so thin it ripples if I blow at it. I struggle to assemble my stove. I try to laugh, even after two months I still can't quite figure it out. I eventually get a steady flame and take out the almost-empty can of beans from my satchel, along with my canteen. I shake the leather strap and the water inside splashes quietly. I wish I had started rationing earlier in the journey. I unroll my sleeping mat and lay down counting the stars through the thin canopy. The constellations form shyly, almost indistinguishable in the sparkling sky. The salty smell of beans fills the shelter and I eat, mindlessly spooning the half-portion into my mouth. The moisture in the beans is enough to satisfy my thirst for the night, but in the morning I will need to drink. I open the canteen and hold the oil lamp above the lip. The water waves from the depths of the canteen and I push the cork back in. I miss apples. Sweet, crisp, watery apples. The taste lingers on my tongue before turning sour as my mouth dries. I tuck the empty can of beans into my satchel and lay back down on the mat. With the sun gone the temperature begins to drop quickly, seeping back into the sand. I roll over and place my hands in the 16

soft red grains, absorbing the last traces of heat into my fingers and palms. A tiny black beetle scuttles by. It pauses to look at me, its shiny helmet reflecting the lamp light. I clap my hands over it. The beetle scrambles around, its tiny feet frantically tickling my palms and burrowing its head between my fingers. It wriggles free and darts off into the night, flinging red sand back at me as it runs. Following its path, I spot a faint yellow light just before the horizon. I throw myself to my feet and start running. it's not until I am halfway there that my mind catches up with me and my chest suddenly collapses with anxiety. My muscles tense and though the desert is beginning to feel cold, sweat beads on my temples and in my palms. I want to slow down but before I have time to act on my anxieties I have arrived. I think for a moment I have walked back into my own camp, here too is a sleeping mat, a small metal stove, and an oil lamp all sheltered by a small canopy. The inhabitant stands a few feet from the canopy, waiting for me. We stare at each other for a moment, both of us unabashedly letting our disappointment manifest. “Sorry,” We both say. “I thought you were,” We quickly continue. She turns away, her skin is blistered in huge patches too. “Wait,” I say. She glances back, her eyes shimmer in deep sockets and her lips have crusted over with dead skin. “Could I stay for a while? I’ve been traveling a long time.” Her glassy eyes look me over and she turns back to her hovel. “Is that a yes?” I ask, stepping towards the shelter. “There are no friends out here. It’s every woman for herself.” She says before settling onto her mat. I am about to turn and walk back to my own shelter, but my mouth has a sudden dry spell and I can hardly speak. “Any water to spare?” I beg. She scowls at me and turns out her lamp. 17

I begin the walk back to my shelter, my shoulders sunken and my lungs wheezing. Sand grinds against my ankles inside my boots. I haven’t brought my lamp so I pause halfway back to look at the stars again. I pray, I haven’t prayed since the beginning of the journey. The cool sand cushions my knees and I place my hands against my protruding hip bones, framing my stomach. The prayer is broken and awkward, words are forgotten, mumbled, and stumbled over. I asked Him for forgiveness and apologized for having abandoned his guidance. I continue the walk back feeling nothing, and I begin to wonder if His power comes from belief and if maybe this journey is counterproductive to His cause. I try to remember believing; the first days, when the light of the city was still in view at night, I would pray before I went to sleep and when I woke up. Sometimes I did not need to, I felt God’s presence so strongly in my heart. But after two weeks I started to doubt, and at first I prayed more, and then I prayed less. And less, and less, and less, until I almost forgot about God and His involvement in my journey. Now I suppose I am doubting the journey itself, I was told I was doing God’s work and would come back blessed. I do not feel blessed, the desert does not feel blessed, that other woman did not feel blessed. I turned off my lamp and lay motionless on my mat. I wake up to the sun half risen and the other woman’s shelter already gone. I pack up and begin another day of wandering mindlessly towards my doubt and fear. I will have to turn around soon, or I won't make it back before running out water. I laugh to keep from crying; even if I don’t believe, I’d rather die than return empty handed. I stop to shake some sand out of my boots and apply a thin layer of burn cream. It stings my raw pink flesh, but it's soothing to the dry, peeling skin. I can not tell if it's working anymore, the sun burns my skin faster than it can be healed, and my clothes hand off me in sun bleached 18

rags, hardly providing any more protection. As I rest I examine my feet; the heel and ball are hard as rocks, and the sole is black with a mixture of sweat and dust. I take a pair of nail clippers out of my pocket and try to trim my toenails, but the clippers are no match. The top lever snaps like plastic in my hand. “Fuck.” I throw the broken pieces into the sand, disrupting a small black scorpion. It raises its claws and stinger at me and waits expectantly. I watch it, neither of us moving. The sun glares through the thin bandana I have hanging over the back of my neck, I can feel my skin tightening as it burns. Finally the scorpion skitters back into the sands. I yank my shoe on and leave the broken nail clippers. Maybe some other woman will find them and make some use out of them. I trek on, taking conservative sips from my canteen every time I must stop. The sun is directly above me, turning the sand into a fiery mirror all around me. I keep my eyes turned down and lean into every step to keep from losing my pace. My mind wanders from the desert, back over the red sands, following my faint path all the way to the city’s edge. I go into the city and see swarms of people rushing from one place to the next, keeping their eyes straight ahead or down at their feet. My knees begin to cramp just thinking about moving so quickly. I see the buildings stretching far into the sky above, casting cool shadows across the loud streets. I can hear the impatient car horns, the agitated pedestrians, the husbands, wives, children. I see my mother in the kitchen, she is humming Nami Nami and swaying to the rhythm as she drops fat rolls of dough into a pot of boiling oil to make Balah el Sham. My tongue swipes over my splintered lips and I stumble. Snapped back to the scorching desert I look down at my feet and see a small tuft of grass. The blades shiver on a gentle, hot breeze and another black beetle scurries out, but before it can run off I stomp my foot on it. I crouch and slip my fingers under my boot, find the squirming beetle and bring it to 19

my face. It looks like a large black pebble smoothed by years of running water. “I may have to come back for you if I run out of beans.” I tell the beetle as I release it. I watch it dart away and disappear into the heat waves. I stand up and look to my horizon, a shadow dances among the heatwaves at the peak of the next dune. I shade my eyes and look again and see a figure running towards me. A man. I am suddenly paralyzed, and my heart pounds wildly against my ribs. A cold tingling sensation overwhelms me and I can no longer feel the heat of the sun. He arrives in front of me, grabs my shoulders, and throws me into the sand. I barely have time to see him before he turns me over but I catch a glimpse of his face. He is badly burned too, and smeared with dirt. His clothes have been bleached thin as well; he has a scrap of fabric to cover his neck but he has made it from a sleeve of his shirt and that arm is blistered raw and festering. He holds my face down in the sand and begins clawing at my pants, tearing them off in strips, just enough to get what he needs. What we both need. He’s back on his feet before I have time to register the situation. I roll back over and stare up at him. He’s still breathing heavily, and I’m not sure if that’s from running to catch me or actual fertilization. He holds out his callused hand but I am still trying to make sense of it all. He waits for a second, just long enough for me to lift my hand but I am too slow and he bolts back into the heat waves. I sit up and I watch his dancing shadow disappear over the edge of the dune. Then I cry. I throw myself back into the sand and scream loudly enough for every wandering soul in the desert to hear, long enough for my throat to feel torn open. I taste blood in my teeth as I tear into the sand in fistfuls and scream into my clenched fists. I scream with hot salty tears plastering my cheeks and neck until the sun sets and the stars fill the sky. Once the sand could no longer give me 20

warmth I set up my camp again. As I do, my last traces of hope and expectation vanish into thin air. Nothing could have prepared me, I suppose that is why no one told me. Or maybe it's the kind of thing I will block out once it's over and, like my mother, I will forget. I applied more burn cream and lay on my back with my bandana draped over my eyes. I try to remember his face, in case I had ever seen him back in the city. A beard, long stubble. Blue eyes, no, green. And dark hair, almost black. No one. His face disappears into the night. I sit up and open my satchel, staring at the four remaining cans. With tight rations I could make it back, maybe. And they say to eat more as you come back, if you are a woman. I close the satchel and lay back down, the stars are fewer by the light of the moon. A thin crescent hangs in the north, her pale blue light seeps through the canopy and washes over me, as if to comfort me. I turn off the oil lamp and lay down again, this time on my stomach. When I have settled I am face to face with a small black scorpion. I can see my reflection in his six beady black eyes. His claws and stinger are lifted elegantly, he reminds me of a dancer poised and ready, waiting for the music to start. My mind wanders back to the kitchen in the city where my mother is looking out the window at the expansive desert just out of her reach. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s humming again, I close my eyes and hum along.

IN MY DREAM BY MIAO “JERRY” LIN ‘20 All my friends are working together. With bright sunshine and sweet clouds. They work in the heaven. All my friends look like angels,  with the clearest hearts in the world They will bring you the sweetest dream. All my friends are dressing silks  that the colors are like snow on the peak of the mountain, holy and pure. All my friends are dancing together with crystal dresses on. They dance like queen of swans.  With huge wings that can hide the darkness within your soul. All my friends are living in my heart,  They guide me to see the brightest star on the sky, All my friends are in my dream.

Zoee Blossom ‘19

MOTHER OF RUTH - A PLAY BY ADDIE DOHERTY ‘18 Scene 1 Home They are sitting at home in the parlor. Ruth is lounging on the satin red couch with a fan in one hand and in the other a cigarette. Eileen is sitting at a table reading a book. There is a large oak cabinet. In the cabinet, is crystal glasses with a scotch bottle half full and some books. Eileen: Mother of Ruth. Kind of traditional, but really is just that way for image. Wears long dresses and corset. Hair is always up and neat. Is concerned for her daughter’s future and image. Doesn’t understand humor. Occasionally likes to wear pants if no one around, but usually has to have a few drinks in her. Ruth: She is the definition of a flapper. She hates corsets and wear her hair short. Loves to go out and party. Her favorite type of music is jazz. She’s very bubbly and a little too loud. Loves to gossip. Eileen:(Long Pause. Sets book down) I just don’t understand, what’s the importance of makeup again? Ruth: Mother, I don’t think you’ll ever get it. I’ve tried to explain it to you at least a thousand times by now. (jokingly)Just give up trying, you’re too far gone. No one can save you now! Eileen: Could you just please explain it to me again. I may be getting old, but I can still at least try to understand the youth... Ruth: Okay, okay, so the reason why I wear makeup and this is just my personal preference, but I think of it as a mask to hide myself. To be mysterious. Plus the color red on my lips makes my eyes pop. 23

Eileen: What’s the point of hiding your face? The whole idea is just so childish. Ruth, you’re almost 21 and playing these games won’t get you a husband that will support you. And at your age, you should have a man to support you by now. I want to have grandchildren at some point in my life. Ruth: Mother, I just don’t see the point of settling down just yet. There is just so much I have to do before. I am at the prime of my youth for god’s sake! (Ruth jumps up) I want to dance! (starts dancing and prancing around the room) (Puts hand to side of mouth) I want to drink! Be scandalous!? (lifts dress slightly up to show her knee) Eileen: Oh my! (Puts hands over mouth) Ruth: This is a new age. This is the time to be a woman. Mom, you know Hazel? Eileen: Yes? Ruth: Well she can drive! Can you imagine? She can go anywhere she imagines. (flings arms out and does spins and lands on the couch. Looking up at the ceiling in a dream like state) Traveling with the wind in her hair, the sun kissing her skin, looking up to the sky and watching the clouds! The landscape! Just zoom on by. Isn’t that just wonderful? Eileen: I’ve never seen the point of driving. It’s too dangerous, especially this day and age. Ruth: Well (sits up) I would like to learn how to drive sometime... (looks to the ground bashfully) Eileen: Women with dignity don’t drive. Driving is just so... so... uncouth. I won’t have any daughter of mine, driving all over the 24

place, getting her hair all messy. Think of how dangerous it is! And what would what your future husband think of you driving everywhere. Driving is a threat to you and everyone in a mile radius. You don’t want to scare the men away. I mean it’s bad enough you dress the way you do. And your short hair... No man wants to marry another man. Ruth: Mother, I just don’t understand-  Eileen: (interrupts) What is there to understand? Ruth: I... I just... Never mind... (looks at the ground again and there’s a moment of silence). Oh I forgot to tell you, I’m going out again tonight. Eileen: Again? Another speakeasy I’m guessing. Listening to that god awful primitive music. I don’t want you going out if you plan on participating in that poor excuse of a good time. Especially if there is drinking. Who is gonna take care you if there’s a intoxicated manRuth: Oh, don’t worry, I can take care of myself. Plus a little party never hurt nobody. Eileen: Well you heard what happened to Mary’s daughter... Ruth: Mom! You know that no one could control what happened to that poor girl. We all know that Mary had enough money to fix the problem. One simple visit and everything would have been solved. Eileen: Mary has virtue and she wants her daughter to have some too! Something you seem to lack. And you know well that it’s against God’s will to perform such sinful deeds. To take away a 25

life like that... that’s just not right. Ruth: Look how far her mother’s “virtue” has gotten her. She’s stuck at home now with a dead end marriage. She’s so unhappy. I heard from Leroy, (Eileen gives a bewildered look) you know my friend who works at the drugstore? (Eileen shakes her head) well anyways he told me that she constantly stops by to fill a prescription for her “back problems” . He sees her wandering the store weekly. Poor soul, looks tired and not completely there, like she’s a ghost of her former self... or at least that's what Leroy tells me. I really don’t know for myself. Eileen: This Leroy, do you like him? Ruth: No! We just occasionally talk... And this is what you’re worried about? Mom, that poor girl’s life is ruined forever! Eileen: It’s none of my business what goes on in another person’s home. What matters to me, is that you get a proper husband who can support you. Ruth: Enough of this mother. It’s impossible to talk to you. All you seem to want to talk about is marriage. It’s truly suffocating. I need to go out get some air and live a little. I’ll be back later tonight. Ruth rushes out so her mother couldn’t object. Eileen goes back to her book. Gets irritated and sets her book down with frustration and sighs. She looks at the cabinet. She looks away and shakes her head.

WILD CHILD BY MAGGIE HODGSON â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 Wild is what I am, raised by the kings No man compares to the fierceness I bring I am a lion, king of the jungle Cross paths with me and prepare for trouble No man compares to the fierceness I bring I belong in nature as a lion child Cross paths with me and prepare for trouble My brothers and sisters are symbols of strength I belong in nature as a lion child My features are human but beneath I am wild My brothers and sisters are symbols of strength Ordinary humans envy my courage My features are human but beneath I am wild Wild is what I am, raised by the kings Ordinary humans envy my courage A lion I am, king of the jungle

EXCERPT FROM

PATH OF TOTALITY A PLAY BY MIRANDA FULLER ’19

Jamie: Oh my god. Russ: What? Jamie: Look at this article. Jamie shows Russ their phone. Russ chuckles. Jamie: That’s absurd. That can’t be possible. Ugh, all this ridiculous fake news filling our minds instead of actual important issues. It makes me sick. Russ: What’s so unbelievable about it? It seems probable to me. Jamie: Goats don’t climb trees. They can’t, it’s not possible. Russ: Just like how horses can’t swim? Jamie: Do not bring that up. It just doesn’t make sense. They have hooves, how can they get any traction? How can they hold onto the branches? It just doesn’t make any sense. Fake news. Fake news. Russ: You’ll get upset by just about anything, won’t you? Jamie: I’m not upset. I’m annoyed that the Times has an article about goats in trees, ‘TV’s hottest hit show’, and how angry everyone in America is but not one that focuses on exposing scandals of our corrupt leader or the horrors instigated by high caliber oil corporations. It’s infuriating. Russ: You sound pretty upset to me. 28

Jamie: There is a difference between ranting and passion. I’m passionate about these things, they’re important to me. Russ: Then what’s the difference between your political passion and my scientific one? Why is it no big deal for you to go on and on about goats in trees and misrepresentation in Disney but it’s absolutely ridiculous that I might offer some interesting facts? Jamie: Offer interesting facts? You’re lecturing me. I feel like I’m back in high school. Russ: If you’re so bored just do what you did in high school and at least pretend to be paying attention. I sometimes have no idea who or what you’re talking about but at least I try. Jamie: And I don’t? What am I doing right now? Russ: You’re on your phone! Scrolling through photos of people you don’t know or care about but are somehow still more compelling than me.

Gary Huang ‘20 29

LONER BY ETHAN HART ‘18 What did I do wrong?  Everything is fine one day and gone the next  I hate being alone  Crazy how my world changes with just one text. I just want real trusting friends  Not some fair weather fakes  But this is how it always seems to end Wondering how much more of this I can take. They’re just some fair weather fakes  Just explain, was it something I said?  Don’t know how much more of this I can take  Damn, this might be cheesy but maybe I’m better off dead. Where did I go wrong?  Just explain, was it something I said?  Wishing I didn’t have to be alone  Damn, this might be cheesy but maybe I’m better off dead.

Sarah Robinson ‘20 30

Ryan Qiu ‘18

Lee Isaacs ‘21 32

Zoee Blossom ‘19 33

Darwin Holcombe ‘20

Zoee Blossom ‘19

Patrick Ogden ‘19

Zoee Blossom ‘19

Darwin Holcombe ‘20

Zoee Blossom ‘19

Jake Curtis ‘19

Sarah Robinson ‘20

Zoee Blossom ‘19

Zoee Blossom ‘19 42

AS GRIEF GROWS BY DEVIN GOLDSTEIN â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 Yitgadal v'yitkadash shmeh rabba. We forever recite words to help the souls of those lost but they are just tools for our grief. Prayer is all I have, the hope that in death somehow my prayers reach you in heaven. I hope heaven exists because you deserve to be there. Denial. I never questioned why you called me when you never had before. Hearing your voice was the best thing that had happened in a long time. I focused on your voice, the fact that you called. Not what you called about. After we hung up I called my best friend, it couldn't be true if she didn't know also. You must have told her too. You hadn't, she cried and said she would confirm with others. Make sure it wasn't a joke. But why would you risk everything to call me, to tell me such a horrible lie? I went out to lunch with my mother's father, I didn't tell anyone my surrogate father had died. He couldn't be dead yet. When I said my nighttime prayers I whispered the words of a mourning child for their parent. He was gone and there was no one else to pray. Anger. It was still spring break and every day I rode my bike along the Greenway trying to outrun the tears that waited for me at home. The frostbitten wind was eventually no match for the overwhelming grief but it froze my heart for a little while. I yelled at my family because they weren't your family. They weren't the people who had cared for me when I was alone in a strange place and you loved me for no reason other than me. They can't understand how much I love you. But I didn't get to go to your funeral, I didn't get to pray at your grave and place a pebble to keep your soul safe. I don't get to grieve as a child would because no amount of love can make me yours. I am angriest of all that I am not yours. Angry that I did not get to be with you, did not get to see you. You didn't get to see me become 43

who I want to be. I know that you would be proud of me working for what I believe in. You believed in me and that gave me the strength to help create positive change, even when it is scary. Giving me a chance showed me that everyone deserves to be loved. I can't be angry with you that you're gone because you were there when I needed you the most. I still need you, want you, but the memory of your love carries me through. Bargaining. I have prayed every night to keep my faith strong because without faith I lose purpose. But maybe now, I also pray to keep you with me. When I pray for you and your family, when I pray for the love I was given, some of the emptiness is gone for a while. Maybe I pray because you were not Jewish and there is no one else to do so and maybe I pray because I am selfish. I am selfish in keeping your death and the prayers I heap upon your soul only for me. I have not talked to your family since you have died. I have been selfish, only praying for well being, but not working towards it. You have left a hole within me that cannot be filled with empty words of prayer. But sometimes, when I smell the rose you gave me and feel your favorite tie around me, I can pretend that you are still here. So I continue to pray every night, and I sleep with your tie under my pillow, next to my prayer book. And maybe I used to pray because that's what Jews do before bed. But now I pray because I want your soul to hear me and I want the universe's powers to keep those I love safe because if I can't bargain for your life, I can try to do it for all others I love. I haven't accepted that you are gone because you will live forever in the memory of all you loved and all who loved you. I haven't accepted that you won't see me succeed and I won't have you to make proud. But I can make the memory of you proud, I can make the family you left behind proud. You loved me, your family loved me and took me in when you had no obligation. You helped create positive change within me and I will keep 44

working to make myself better, to make the world better. The love you aren't able to give anymore I can give to the world, your acts are still meaningful because they drive me to do better. I accept the love that you gave me and that I deserve it. I accept the family that you provided me with and will work hard to keep it. But I don't accept that you're gone. You had to leave this world for reasons unknown to me and when I accept that I worry that I will stop caring. I do not know why you were taken but I know that I do not have to accept it but I have to live with it. Maybe when I don't accept that you are gone, it makes it so I never accept that things are happening to us all and instead I work to make things happen. So I accept that you are in my life differently now but I can't actually believe you are not here. I may always be stuck in depression, always sad when you are not there. But I am working to make my life better, find things to smile about, ways to help others smile. I will want to cry every time I remember that you are gone, but I smile too because I am able to remember when you were there. Zikhronah livrakha. RUSHING  BY JAKE TUCKNER ‘19 Deep Down  The river flows  Scars on my skin grow larger Sadness progresses  This is not me

This is not anyone  I feel alive when you flow Whether the blood in my veins Or water down a rusty drain You always seem to find me 45

RETROSPECT BY LANCE ZHANG ‘18 I stand next to a window, and glance at the world. The windows, situated on the wall facing the street, provide me observation of the entire street. The sky, dripping liquid from above, bestows its products to whatever below is receiving, filling the space in the world regardless of those needing or not. Not a lot of people are on the street today. Nonetheless, if one is found on foot, it is certain that they carry protective gears against the moist of the endowments of the sky. Could the rain possibly be a gift from nature? I had always asked myself. It had always tended to bring more trouble than good. The sun has become a rarity, a precious natural resource sought after like diamonds or rubies years ago. My mother had owned a diamond ring, but was taken away by men rushing into our apartment when I was a child. I remembered my mother would take me out the buildings and districts flooded with people and show me around desks filed into smooth texture, displaying bottles and bottles of oddities I have never seen. She would carefully choose bottles of liquids, translucent, thick, and fragrant. “Perfumes,” that was what they called them. I remember that my mother would chat with her friends, laughing and teasing and discussing about “fashion” or “art” or “literature,”gibberish that I had never heard of. Who were they? Those uniformed people dressed in green? I ponder. A van, painted black and tinted black, rushes down the street, and stops right by the neighborhood. Uniformed men welled out of the back of the van, in unison order, they organized themselves into phalanxes. On their faces grave and determined, the focus of their eyes faced upwards, searching deep into the boundary of the sky; their hands stuck close to the sides of their legs, with fingers straightened with power. They awaited order. Those men, they looked exactly like them. They are them!

I remembered, hiding behind my mother’s firm legs, covered with silk stockings. She wore a pink skirt adorned with chessboard patterned red color, juxtaposing the white wool sweater, intricately knitted in patterns of undulating rows of fabric. My eyes expanding to the limits the muscles could endure, and fixed on my father; My lips attached to each other as if they were adhered with glue, I basked in fear. I could never forget. These people, dressed in green, searched and searched and searched, breached into every room, smashed open every single wardrobe, and shoveled out every piece of clothes. My father was chained, looking down, his head hardly supported, drooped like those flags by every street on windless days. they pushed him to the ground and hung a wooden slab around his neck with words carved so profoundly into its material, that the words had sunk into the wooden texture, creating dark spaces in between the silhouette of the words, sucking in light. On it says words I had forgotten, but shouted by the intruders angrily as they pointed fingers and smashed books and jewels on the ground, and called them “witchcraft of the old world”. “Public Enemy” That was what it said. Who would accuse any innocent stranger a “Public Enemy?” It must had been my father’s fault. Therefore my father was, blatantly enough, guilty of something I didn’t and shouldn’t know of. Why on earth would I want to know the reason? I, myself, have no intention to be a “Public Enemy!” My father was taken away, and I had never seen my father ever again. I glance at the world again. And there they go, rushing into a building across the street. Its dull emerald color paint peeling of the frames, the windows are left ajar, letting in some of the dusty modern air. Its glass, though clear, is dotted with speckles of unidentified stain, perhaps a grotesque combination of industrial dust and 47

droppings of sparrows throughout the years. The sky, stripped away of its colors, and cladded with haze and debris from all sorts of human production, looks as if it is petrified, no longer glistening the invigorating beams of the sun, but confiding it among the labyrinth of clouds and dust. Drops of rain, or rather unknown mixture of translucent liquid, fall from all the way above. Pedestrians fear of the moisture tarnishing their decorative fabrics rely on various countermeasures, some holding up umbrellas, while others cloaking themselves with waterproof overcoats, as if under the protective shields of rainproof gadgets safety can be achieved. The street, though narrow and ruptured due to years of negligence, has never been congested by traffic. In fact, the entire neighborhood has remained the same for several years. Now someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house in about to get turned upside down. I laughed in my mind. In the blocks of buildings next to the neighborhood, teenagers aged sixteen or seventeen formed into marching phalanxes steadily stride out of the buildings, in incredible concordance, onto the open field in the middle. It is the quotidian exercise. In front of them the speakers burst out music with a deep, intoxicating masculine voice counting the beats. The teenagers, dressed in standardized army green clothing, wave their arms and dance in harmonized co-ordinance with the aid of muscle memory and press the comfort of seeing unison movement into the minds of their viewers as if they were bewitched and controlled like puppets. I look down at my sneakers, leather, white, new, and felt a bit guilty for excluding myself from my fellows, as if I were a person unaffiliated, strange...... as if I were an alien, though speaking the same language and culture. It has all been my familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fault. 48

I am different. I will not let my country down. I will not let the great leader down. I breathe deep, exhaling all of the impurity, inhaling the fresh odor of industrial air. “A journey of a thousand miles starts at the tip of the toes.” This is what the radio always says. My dreams are to be realized, my father’s sins are to be redeemed. I slowly start to descend down the stairs from the apartment, dressed in green. Off to work I go.

Jai Hunter ‘21

IN A LIFETIME BY CAITLYN MCDERMOTT ‘18 My favorite thing about human nature is this. The human heart beats 3,363,840,000 times in a lifetime. It spends its whole life working, from the moment it’s fully formed in the womb to the moment it stops forever. It continues relentlessly, squeezing blood through the body day after day, month after month, year after year. It beats every day, all day, and never gets a moment to rest. It never gets a breather, or a pep talk, or a sub-out. It beats, and beats, and beats, until it stops. But here is where human nature comes into play. Because we don’t accept the heart stopping as death. No. We push on the flesh above the sternum over and over, depressing it in order to force the heart to move. We pump our hearts manually, to the beat of staying alive, until there is either no chance of restarting it or the heart is beating again. We shock our hearts with electricity, we shoot them with adrenaline, we keep them going. Because this is my favorite part about human nature: we do not give up. Not when it seems rational to do so, 50

not when all hope is lost. We will find a way to do the impossible, then simply keep on going while our hearts keep beating: 3,363,840,000 beats in a lifetime *

LEFT AND RIGHT BY FRANK JIANG ‘18 “You must be very smart.” Whenever I use my left hand to write something, people have always make such remark to me. Because using left hand as the writing hand is not common in China, I have getting used to people overreact to my left-handedness. What surprised people the most, however, is knowing that my parents did not force me to change my writing hand when I was younger, just like many other parents would do to their children. In response, I always give them a friendly smile, but keeping my experience with using right hand to myself. During the summer break in 2008, my parents was determined to change my writing hand. I could not remember their specific arguments, but they offered me the explanation that writing with left hand is inherently wrong and it must be fixed. Unsure of whether they were serious, I joked that I should just start using right hand as if my left hand does not exist. “Nobody uses their left hand to write Chinese, period. Starting tomorrow night, you need to practice these calligraphy guide sheets using your right hand.” Being naive and curious at that time, I ignored their pedantic tone but agreed to write with my right hand— simply because I wanted to try it. The next day, I found myself learning how to grip my pencil firmly with my right hand. I started to practice straight lines and strokes of various Chinese characters. With their 51

ambitious goal to change my writing hand in one summer, my parents were frustrated with my slow progress on strokes and let me write characters straight away instead. Spending my summer to learn how to write was not what I expected, but I still found ways to have fun initially. I imagined each character as a distinct cartoon with different combinations. When I wrote the Chinese character for "water", I just drew a hook in the middle with a greater than and less than sign on each side. After discovering creative ways to write, I was frustrated to acknowledge that I could only apply similar methods when the character is a strong derivative of logogram. If I encountered a character without any resemblance to logogram, I had to take my time and endure the strain caused by improper gripping position. After the practice sessions ended everyday, I had repeatedly complained to my parents that writing with my other hand is miserable. Unsurprisingly, my parents took my word as an excuse and mocked me that I was not strong enough to overcome this challenge. Indeed, I failed the challenge, the challenge to change my writing hand. The summer flew by, a simple task like writing suddenly became the hardest challenge to me â&#x20AC;&#x201D; I could barely write a full sentence with my right hand. When the class started, I moved my right hand awkwardly, tried to jot down as much notes as possible. Baffled and shocked, my friend sitting next to me thought it was a shame that I started to use my right hand. I asked him why, and he said my left-handedness is one of the things that makes me different from other people, yet I tried to abandon it. He was right; I should never be afraid of being different. I switched back to my left hand as if nothing just happened. I realized the real challenge for me is not about writing with my left or my right hand, but whether I have will the courage to be different and reflect what truly makes me different than 52

others. Granted, busy schoolwork and peer pressure almost leave no time for me to think about who I am, but I will carry this courage to face different stages of my life. Needless to say, I do not intend to fail this challenge. *

MIRACLES OF ST. ANTHONY BY CAITLYN MCDERMOTT ‘18 I don’t remember anything about the weather, or the season, or what else I had done that day. I was five years old, and my parents called a family meeting. My brother was two and a half years older and eager to prove it by getting to the living room first. By the time I hopped up on the red and white checked couch, everyone else was already seated. I squirmed around to get comfortable, then tried to sit with my feet on the ground like the rest of my family. They didn’t reach. I swung my feet back and forth a little, but stilled when I saw that Mom and Dad’s faces were solemn. “Kids,” my mom started, “Dad is sick.” I didn’t understand. The worst illness I had seen was the flu. Dad continued, “I have cancer. That means I’m pretty sick, and need to get medicine at the hospital, but I’m going to be okay.” I still didn’t really understand. I remember thinking that cancer was a funny sounding word. It doesn’t sound funny anymore. “The medicine is yucky; like the medicine you have to take when you get sick. It might make me look worse, but it will help.” “Of course it will help! Doctors always help.” I had a lot of faith in doctors. I had four grandparents and two aunts and two uncles and lots of cousins and everyone got better after they got sick. Dad was sick, but he would get better. Looking back, I see my parents’ sad smiles. They knew that people who were sick don’t always get better, but I was five years old and knew 53

everything. The sky was blue, the grass was green, sick people got better. Looking back, I see it in the way they glanced at each other. Sick people don’t always get better. It was on the same couch, three years later, that I learned the truth. It was just my mom and I this time, no dad, no brother. My brother was upstairs. Dad was in the hospital. It had been three years of hope and beating the odds. Three years of chemo and surgery and remission. Three years of a sick person getting better. It was late January and there was some snow on the ground. Not a lot, but we hadn’t gone skiing in awhile, so I didn’t care much. We sat in the middle of the couch, where the sectional formed an L, a cocoon of pillows. Mom’s eyes were red. “You know that Dad got sick again.” I nodded. “The doctors found out that he won’t get better.” She took a deep breath. “Sweetheart, Dad is going to die.” I didn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. I started to cry. “But I don’t want Daddy to die,” I sobbed as I launched myself into her arms. We were both crying now. There were no words of comfort that would help; my world was shattered. “He can’t! He can’t die. No.” I was firm in my denial. All Mom could do was rub my back and murmur that she was there. All I could think was why? Why him? Why my daddy? I cried until my throat was sore and no more tears slipped from my eyes. Mom stayed with me. I hadn’t seen Dad in a little while- I had school and he was unconscious most of the time, on painkillers and antibiotics and saline and everything that might make a difference. The next day, it seemed like a nightmare. I put it in the back of my head and didn’t think about it because I didn’t want to think about it. I had a three-day weekend for Martin Luther King Jr. Day. My friend was staying over. Sick people got better. It was three days later, on Monday at eight in the morning, and the adults were talking in hushed whispers down 54

the hall. Their faces were somber, but shocked, like something had happened that they couldn’t quite believe. Mom called my brother and I into her room and we all sat on the bed. Mario Kart was paused in the other room. She took a deep breath. She seemed to search for the words. “I know this will be unexpected. It happened so fast. Kids, Dad passed away.” Suddenly, it was real. It wasn’t a nightmare; Dad had died. Mom told us about Heaven, that he would always be with us, that he loved us more than anything in the world, but it all seemed to go in one ear and out the other. My crying was quiet, this time. A year later, the crying had stopped being continuous. I could smile without guilt, without feeling like I was betraying my dad. I tried to be happy, to have fun, to play games. Earlier, Mom had given me some coins so I could play in the hotel’s arcade. The coins were heavy in my hand. Eight quarters, enough for two attempts at the claw machine. There was an elephant inside, I had seen it earlier, and I had fallen in love with it. I skipped down the hotel hallway to the arcade, humming under my breath. My mom was in the lobby just down the hall and my brother had opted to stay in the room and watch TV. Outside, snow fell softly to the ground, promising a good day of skiing the next day. The room was empty. I slid four coins, one after another, into the slot. The control board lit up as I bit my tongue in concentration. The claw descended and missed the elephant by a hair. I stamped my foot. Four more coins into the machine. This time, I caught the stuffed animal and it rose into the air, then slipped just seconds before dropping into the prize bin. I huffed. “Once more,” I said to myself. I walked back to Mom and she deposited four more coins into my hand with a fond smile. “Last time, okay?” she said, “It’s almost bedtime.” I nodded absently and skipped back to my game. The room was still empty and arcade music played quietly from the ceiling. As I prepared to feed a coin into the claw game, I gasped 55

in horror. The elephant was gone. Tears gathered in my eyes and I took a deep breath to calm myself. Recently, I had learned the prayer of Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things. Anthony was my dad’s name, and today was the first anniversary of his passing away. I closed my eyes. “Dear Saint Anthony, please come around, something has been lost and must be found.” I crossed myself and took another breath. There was no point in trying the claw machine again, as there was nothing I wanted in it now. There was a racing game, though, and I walked over. As I sat on the seat and grasped the wheel, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. My eyes widened with wonder and I scrambled out of the chair. There, on the floor between the claw machine and the racing game, was the elephant. It was sitting as if carefully arranged, not just thrown onto the floor. I reached out and stroked the soft fur. I looked around and saw no one. I had only been gone for a minute or two in order to get more coins from Mom, and had seen no one in the hallway. It was like magic. I snatched the elephant up and ran down the corridor to the lobby. “Mom!” I cried, “Look!” “You did it!” she said. I shook my head. “No! It was gone so I tried a different game and I found it on the floor! There was no one else around so can I keep it? Please?” She told me we had to check one more time, in case someone won it and then forgot it in the arcade. As we walked down the corridor, hand in hand, I told her that no one forgot it; Dad won it for me and left it where I would find it. I told her that I prayed to him when I saw it was gone. She looked around and, seeing no one, said I could keep it. I held it tight and smiled. My mom had told me that Dad was still watching, still with us, but I hadn’t believed her. Now I did. “Thank you,” I whispered softly. I still have that elephant, almost ten years later. It has lived in my room, next to the Build-A-Bear I made for my dad, the one with his hospital band around its wrist, since I found it in 56

the first of many miniature miracles on the anniversary of my dad passing away or on his birthday. They range from the seemingly unexplainable, like my elephant, to the almost coincidental, like how anything I get from I vending machine on his birthday has a Twix fall down with it, or in its place. They remind me that my dad is still my guardian angel, looking down from above, and that he still loves me. Even as my memories fade with time, these moments keep him in my heart, where he will remain. RULES BY JJ TRIBUNA ‘21 Slap on that fake smile. Make sure to look like a model today. These are the rules to the game, my child. If you don’t follow them, to the devil you’ll pay. Make sure to look like a model today. He’ll say, “I love you,” but there were lies that were told. If you don’t follow them, to the devil you’ll pay. Seems to turn your heart stone cold. He’ll say, “I love you,” but there were lies told. Build your boat strong so it will float. Seems to turn your heart stone cold. Fight to drown on your sunken pirate ship as air leaves your throat. Build your boat strong so it will float. Slap on that fake smile. Fight to drown on your sunken pirate ship as air leaves your throat. These are the rules of the game, my child.

CHOOSING THE “X-STREAM ” BY AVA HILL ‘18 When I was in the sixth grade, I went on a school trip to a camp called Keewaydin. The week was full of adventures I had never experienced before. It was a lot to take in. I was nervous, but as the days went on, I started to feel myself relax. When I showed up at the dining hall on the last day of camp, I got to choose any two activities to participate in. I scanned the extensive list and immediately settled on crafts and canoeing. It was an easy decision, but I glanced over the paper once more to be sure. I stumbled across an activity called: “xstream water hiking.” Right before handing in my paper, I quickly erased the crafts activity and circled “x-stream.” I still don't understand how it happened. Even though the “x-stream” hike was an adventure that far surpassed the edges of my limited comfort zone, in that moment I listened to my heart. Instead of doubting myself, I embraced myself. My teacher, Mr. Kelloway, was somewhat shy, and we connected in that way. Later that day, he approached me to ask if I was sure about going on the “x-stream” expedition. I knew Mr. Kelloway believed in me, but I think he was surprised in my willingness to take this risk. He knew me so well, and choosing such an intense adventure was different from what he expected of me. I continued to amaze him when I said I was prepared to try my best. I went back to my cabin, and after thorough consideration, put on my hiking boots. We took a small trek through the Vermont woods, and when we reached the river, I was skeptical to head right in. The water was raging and the rocks looked slippery and dangerous. I took a deep breath, and realized there was nowhere to go but up the river. I took the first step and never looked back. My only focus was climbing, and it was exhilarating. I never thought I would love hiking as much as I did. It allowed 58

me to completely let go of my shy self. I climbed up the middle of waterfalls without hesitation. Jumping off rocks into deep pools of frigid, flowing river water awoke my senses. I had found a new side of myself. When I got home from camp Keewaydin, I realized I could do more than I thought I could. It was the end of my sixth grade year, and our graduation was coming up. They needed someone to do the speech, and I decided I wanted to volunteer. I remember the look on Mr.Kelloway’s face when I said this, because I knew he understood. I would have never wanted to give a speech before, but this was just another risk my heart was ready to take. I have always been a shy girl. I have never been a risk taker. I have never comfortably stepped foot on an adventure, or been confident in trying something new. Going on my first adventure helped me become less shy and realize the importance of risk taking. I am proud to say I have learned that risk taking takes practice. The more I choose the “x-stream”, the more I enjoy life. That doesn’t always make it an easy decision. I will always be hesitant to take risks, but it is something I continue to work on. People might not know how shy I used to be. The quiet girl I was has not disappeared; she has bloomed. Being shy is part of who I am, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Just like I found the “xstream” river hike, I’m ready to find the next adventure that’s out there waiting for me.

SUDDENLY... EVERYTHING MATTERED BY WILL PERSINA ‘18 I never held my mom's hand She would take me to the park We'd eat dinner together  But the idea was never there Until she couldn't stand No cure  Just time  Time for more trips to the park Another home cooked dinner And a chance to hold her hand I remember one night  Sitting in her favorite seat  Asleep with the TV still on  Took the remote to turn the TV off The first time was an accident She thought my hand was a remote But I gripped back tight  Cried for longer than I remember Then the movie ended I turned off the TV Tucked her in, went to bed I want more time  More time to come home  Come home to the smell of dinner  Eat lunch to the taste  Of a hastily thrown together sandwich and a carefully thought out note 60

I want to squeeze her hand  And cry until the movie ends  I want to hold her hand in the park And at dinner  In the hospital bed  At the funeral * BUBBLING BLUEBERRY PIE

* BY

ALEXANDRA PALUSZEK ‘20

Buttery crust so flaky it’s almost a croissant melting in the mouth. Sweet and sour a punch of flavour hits, blueberries explode with lemon and cinnamon hiding in the corner. Almost simultaneously a cool and relaxing cream with a hint of sugar relieves from the heat and deliciousness of blueberries. An unwanted visitor intrudes, a stick but then a hint of leaf that works with the flavour, what to be said for a homemade dessert. Delightful chatter fills ears as laughter springs from mouths after a deep swallow of blueberry pie made that day. A blueberry pie starts when the day is brand new. Grabbing a container after breakfast, down the ever-steeper hill to the blueberry bushes. There the process begins of picking and then dumping into the bucket. As the sun shines softly down through the leaves the container slowly begins to fill as the bucket moves from bush to bush in a slow methodical fashion. Thoughts run through the head, “Will there be time to make the pie? Are there enough blueberries? GO AWAY FLY! The sun is beginning to get hot, I wonder if I have enough now?” Eventually the bucket is full as legs begin a trying climb back to the kitchen. 61

In the kitchen the food processor is pulled out and a crust is made. The butter is painstakingly cut and added to the flour after the iced water is poured in. The dough quickly forms and is taken to the fridge in plastic. As the crust ages in its polar surroundings the blueberries are sorted. Bad blueberries, sticks and leaves are excluded from the measuring cup, they get a different experience that of the garbage can. Some however hide behind the good blueberries and are mixed with sugar, lemon and various other ingredients some secret to all but the maker. Spinning the bowl is covered in a sweet tangy stickiness and placed next to the crust in the fridge. The bowl is then denied its companion and the crust is rolled and rolled then placed in the dish, straight from its frigid place the sticky wallop is now inside the crust with a layer on top. It is then placed in the blazing oven until it is just right and left to cool. Hours after the pie has been relieved of the scorching heat, it is time for the show. Plates, forks, knives, the works are placed on the table but one last thing is needed. In the kitchen cream gets a pinch of sugar as the beater then whips so fast it is as if the air is injected. Everything is ready, a whole day of effort just for this moment. The whole family sits down, the parents, the brothers, the sisters each waiting for their slice of heaven. As the serious moonlight shines through the window each slice of pie is carefully cut the cream delicately placed on top and passed around it is then when the magic happens everyone forgets who they are, whom they are mad with, who is the good or the bad one and they begin a long journey into forever, a trek into the wonders of the mouth and what is there to experience today. Then the chatter and laughter begin and a whole day has ended in a pie but a new one also begins with a bubbling blueberry pie.

AN AWFUL MORNING

RUIHAN “CANDY” LI ‘21

It’s an awful Friday morning. My stomach hurts a lot. I came to class with a hopeless feeling. I don’t know what to think about. My stomach hurts a lot, And I only got 92 on my Spanish test. I don’t know what to think about. Wondering what will happen next. I only got 92 on my Spanish test. I’m feeling that this sucks. Wondering what will happen next. Oh, there is a community lunch after class. I’m feeling that this sucks. It’s an awful Friday morning. Oh, there is a community lunch after class. I came to class with a hopeless feeling.

I BELIEVE BY KATE GORMAN ‘18   I believe in the pizza guy. The happy dance your heart does when the unfamiliar headlights roll down your driveway and they come walking up to your door with the warm boxes in hand. The guiltless feeling you have as you hand over the last of your cash just to devour the food you gratefully didn’t have to make in the comfort of your own home. They’re doing the job anyone can do, I’m doing the job anyone can do. It was a warm summer night as I confidently stood at a brilliantly built house, only worrying about how far I was from my next delivery. I had only been working at my new job for a few weeks when the little boy answered the door with his father right behind him. Immediately I receive a face of disgust, “Daddy, I thought it was supposed to be a pizza man!” he exclaimed. The father obviously flustered, didn’t know what to say and seemed to be afraid I would be offended. They type of easy going and unfazed person I am, I laughed it off. But as I drove back to the shop, I thought to myself about how I’m the only girl who delivers, and how I don’t think I’ve ever had another girl drop off my food. I also think about all the little comments I get when I walk up to someone's door. “Oh my it’s getting late and they still have YOU working?” “Why would they send someone like you all the way out there!” “How are you doing, are you okay?” All these concerned people worried about a girl going to strangers houses. Yes from the sound of it, it is a sketchy job. But if guys can do it why can’t I? Shouldn’t people be relieved that a little 5’5, 17 year old girl is showing up to their house rather than some creepy man? Why is that? Why is a job that is so easily done, is still expected to be done by a man? There is no reason why we can’t do the same jobs as men. 64

Honestly, I’ve seen more guys fired from my job than girls because they don’t see the importance of it. We’re just as hard working, just as capable and just as determined to come back with money in the bank. It’s more than apparent, the stereotype of a girl. We’re too gentle, too fragile and too kind to do something as daring as knock on a stranger's door and yet give them something as simple as a meal. So let me rephrase, I believe in the pizza girl. I believe in the girls who are breaking society's social norms. I believe in the girls who hang with the guys, who play boys sports, who provide for their family while the man stays at home. I believe in the girl who’s fixing my car, who’s wearing makeup for themselves, who’s leading their company to the top. I believe in the girls, and I believe in myself.

Maggie Adams ‘20

I DON ’T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT BY JAIME APARICIO -HALPERN ‘21 We have to write a poem in class My head right now is a mess If Ms. Fuller grades it hopefully I’ll pass I can’t deal with the stress My head right now is a mess I don’t know what to write Soccer, class, there are too many things I could write about my kite You won’t know what this means Soccer, class, there are too many things We have to write a poem in class You won’t know what this means If Ms. Fuller grades it hopefully I’ll pass

THE MIRACLE BEAN BY JIWOO LEE ‘ 18 “The symptoms are diarrhea, high fever, and vomiting” I try not to yell across the small wooden room. But miscommunication could be fatal, so I tiptoe around the buckets collecting water from the leaking roof and repeat the symptoms in a softer voice to the harried looking pharmacist. As I hand her the wrinkled prescriptions the patients have brought and help her decipher the scribbles smeared by the tropical humidity, I am once again struck my how important our work is. As I take their temperatures, report their symptoms to the pharmacist, and relay her instructions back to them, I am fighting a battle against time to make sure all of our patients can be seen before nightfall. All of this takes place over the 5 days I was in Laos as a part of the NGO Help Professionals for Action. At the beginning of the trip, it was hard to show enthusiasm about the wild chickens outnumbering the planes on the landing strip. Then, on our way into the village, the van my team was riding broke down due to the poor weather and road conditions. It was not an encouraging beginning, even after we got to the medical service center that we were planning on working at. I was horrified to realize there were no bathrooms, that the roofs were leaking, and that cow poop was lying all over the street, exuding a stink that made me visibly cringe. But as soon as we dropped off our bags, everyone got to work. We built public bathrooms by digging holes into the ground and stacking wood to make stalls, we nailed planks of wood to make a small pharmacy and sanitized the entire facility until we officially started seeing patients. My role was to act as an interpreter for the pharmacist. I spent every waking minute running back and forth between the patients and the pharmacist, making sure I did not miss any detail on symptoms or dosage. On the third day, I saw something a prescription for a drug I knew we didn’t have: hepatotonic. 67

With the prescription clutched in my hand, I tiptoed over to the pharmacist. She stared at the word for a while. I could not read what she was thinking. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I need to see this patientâ&#x20AC;? she told me, so I led her to him, an elderly man diagnosed with liver cancer. She asked him numerous questions and opened three different bottles of pills. As she mixed everything into one packet, she explained that this combination would effectively recreate the properties of heptatonic. After sealing the packets she handed over, I gave them to the patient. Taking care to explain the directions to him, I wrote down the times he needed to take his medication and drew a cup of water to remind him he needed to drink lots of water after taking the pills. We treated more than 2000 people over those 5 days. Although, we were not able to work in the best circumstances or with the best equipment, I believe we were able to make a difference in the lives of every patient we met. This made me realize how lucky I am to live in a place where I can walk to CVS for Advil whenever I have a headache or Nyquil to reduce the symptoms of the flu. Medicine has always been within reach, and I now seek to extend this same advantage those who are currently without it. It is for this reason that I seek to join the pharmaceutical industry -- so that I can help make medical care accessible to those who need it most.

PROCRASTINATION BY HARRY EARLY ‘21 I can’t do the things I want My brain has a mind of its own I swear my head just sits and rots All I can do is sit and moan My brain has a mind of its own Yes I’m a procrastinator through and through All I can do is sit and moan The things any brain gets into Yes I’m a procrastinator through and through I know people may think it’s strange The thing my brain gets into So I think it’s time I made a change I know people think it’s strange I can’t do the things I want So I think it’s time I made a change Well, change can wait just one more day

YOU BY CAITLYN MCDERMOTT ‘19 You were the first friend I remember making. Not my first friend, but all the others I’d known since we were little. And little kids make friends in a different way- it’s effortless. We met on the soccer field, the last ones to take off running laps. We gave each other commiserating looks and jogged miserably together. We didn’t talk. We met for the second time in instrumental ensemble, the only seventh graders in it. We sat next to each other and introduced ourselves. You were the only percussionist; I was the only violinist. And so our friendship is based on a hatred of running, a love of music, and being unique. We don’t see each other that often anymore- you go to school in New York and I’m in Vermont- but every time we see each other we slide back into our friendship like barely a day has passed. We laugh and talk, and I’ve always felt like we’re equals, like our uniqueness is to be celebrated instead of hidden. I’d never felt that way before- felt like I was enough. I didn’t have to be someone I wasn’t when I was around you. I was diagnosed with depression at nine years oldnothing major, they said. They said it was grief for the death of my father- it would fade. I didn’t spend my days in bed, or crying, or contemplating suicide. But it was like the world had lost its sheen, become a little more two-dimensional. I did things, but I didn’t want to. I played and laughed and went through the motions, but there was no true joy there. I spent my days pretending. Until you. You smiled without reservation or hesitation. You smiled broadly, unselfconsciously, truly. Whenever I was around you, the veil I saw over the world lifted. Colors were brighter, sounds were clearer, and joy came more easily. You didn’t set out to bring wonder back into my world, but you did. There were no 70

grand gestures or long, deep talks about how I felt. You were simply being kind. You showed me respect, listened to me like what I said mattered, laughed with me like being with me was fun. When you made a mistake, it didn’t break you. When I made a mistake, you still treated me the same. In the end, it was the small things that helped the most. I don’t think I’m the only person you’ve helped. I can’t be. Maybe I’m the only person you’ve helped so deeply, but you’ve made me a firm believer in the power of small, kind actions. I remember the first time you made me feel like I was worthwhile. It was in the beginning of that first school year, when we were barely acquaintances. I had come to the school not knowing anyone, never having had a cafeteria at school before, and I had no idea where to sit. You were at a full table in the middle of the room, surrounded by girls who were already popular. I was standing awkwardly between tables, desperately looking around for an empty table. Suddenly, I heard my name over the chatter. I looked around and saw you smiling at me, waving me over. “Come sit with us!” you said. Everyone scooched around to make room. You introduced me to everyone, drew me into the conversation when I got quiet. You made me feel part of something. It was such an easy thing for you to do- to call me over. It would have been just as easy for your eyes to skip over the girl you barely knew, and you probably wouldn’t have been affected much. That was the action that truly started our friendship, started my ascent from depression, started the many lessons you’ve taught me throughout the years. You taught me to see the little wonders in the world, all the things I have to be grateful for, and that I am worthy of respect. You taught me how to live again, and for that, I can never thank you enough.

SUGAR DADDY BY COLETTE VYNERIB ‘19 Oh, for the moment that I can reveal, You are my world in its totality.  The way you make me feel is so surreal.  How can such beauty be reality?  I see you there, the one I do adore.  Enchant me with your sweet, delightful scent. I’ll shower you with love forevermore.  To be without you is utter torment.  The darkness of your form can’t hide your light, Illuminating all my sweetest dreams.  But all I want is just another bite:  Scrumptious, delicious, my ecstasy screams. Nutella, you’re my rich sugar daddy;  Though this means I might soon be a fatty.

Pauline Farrington ‘19 7 2