Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Dedication
In harmony with year’s long fall, perfect temperatures, and the happiness so present on campus, we bring you the Fall 2025 edition of the Athenaea—filled with poems, art, and warm, cozy vibes reflecting our campus’s natural beauty, culture, and love.
Thank you, Fountain Valley, for the countless joys you have gifted to every student, faculty, and staff members—joys that have inspired every inch of this year’s Athenaea. We take this opportunity to calm our hearts and minds from every test, quiz, project, and paper, and instead fuel our spirits with the inspiring, goosebump—creating words that echo through these pages and linger with us through the years. We hope you are touched by the incredible writing and striking artwork created by so many of your peers.
This year, we dedicate the Fall Athenaea to the community of Fountain Valley—for fueling the creative energy of these young artists and encouraging them to unlock their potential as the writers and dreamers they are becoming. Thank you for giving voice to the next generation and nurturing our appreciation for culture, life, and connection.
We dedicate this issue to the moments that make our community unique: to the crunch of fallen leaves and the cold, crisp air as we step out of our dorms; to our tireless climb to the chapel for All-School; to Dave the squirrel, anxiously awaiting students to share a fry; to the winding road whose speed bumps make every car soar; to the endless candy bowl in the Admin building that Mrs. Baldwin never fails to refill; to the loud, all-consuming laughter of freshman girls retreating to the Village; and to Mrs. Harlan’s dogs, who can make every student drop what they’re doing just for a chance to pet them.
We dedicate this year’s Fall Athenaea to Fountain Valley’s community—because we are strong, we are connected, and we are endlessly grateful.
-Annabelle Cabaniss
Magic Food
6:31 p.m. My mom is cooking. Steam rises from the kitchen, warming me. It seems to soften the coldness of the night, to ease its quiet fear. I breathe in again, and the faint sweetness of fermentation lingers in the air. Then the smell of the soup—the smell of the sea (Dashi, which is made from dried bonito and kelp)—drifts downward, settling deep inside me. When I listen carefully with my nose, I catch more: the subtle fragrance of fried tofu, the sharp edge of spinach and onions. And when the first taste touches my tongue, a fine line of salt wakes it alive, soft, living, like a wave that never breaks. Below that, a deep richness spreads, coating every corner of my mouth, like warmth itself has flavor. The umami follows, echoing quietly at the back of my throat. These scents and tastes mix warmth and nostalgia, dissolving into the ordinary rhythm of my family life.
“Miso soup.”
Seventy percent of my body is made of miso soup. Statistically, this is no lie; 6,500 bowls have already passed through my body. When the steam begins to rise, when the fragrance reaches me, all my cells dance, and my body tilts and walks toward the scent. From the first taste, I surrendered, a sweet surrender, the happiness that can never be returned.
-Yusei Asai
Waves of Happiness
Oh how life reminds you
It is worth living
When going through hard times, find the light
Use the waves of happiness to keep going
To push through and become stronger from it.
These waves of happiness come in different forms
Laughing until you can’t breathe with some of your favorite people, Finding a new favorite song
Seeing the sunset flood the sky with colors
Getting a hug from someone you haven’t seen in a while
These waves of happiness are everywhere
Sometimes they will be subtle
And sometimes they will blow you away
This is the universe telling you
It’s okay;
You got this.
Learn to find the waves of happiness
And when you do
Listen
-Keira Llewelyn
Footsteps mark the path, Vanishing as the flakes descendPeace in what is gone.
-Archer Adams
Winter has arrived Cold chilly ski days shall be fun Snowflakes descending
-Mateo Lopez Alvarez
Tides
The tides move with the quiet certainty of breath-in and out, A slow rhythm that shall never die. She watches from above, drawing the sea toward her with a loving patience. Each wave that rises carries both longing and surrender, Reaching toward something that can never be fully held. We move like the tides. We expand, we contract. We breathe and let go. We reach for moments that slip through our fingers like water. And we retreat and do it again.
Yet the motion itself- reaching, returning—it is life’s most precious gift. The moon does not pity the sea for its restlessness. She simply pulls and the sea follows. In that balance of distance and desire, there is humanity. We are born to move, to lose, to find our way back again. Not to what we were, but to what we are becoming with each turn of the tide.
-Nia Williams
The Creation
Water droplets trace the window, sliding down the wooden frame. A cool breeze brushes her arm— goosebumps rise like tiny warnings.
She grazes her fingers across them, sighs, and wonders why she cannot break this spell.
Dizziness grips her, knocking her down. She looks in through the glass and meets her own gaze. Her reflection stares back, calling her forward— to touch the cold, dark-golden knob of the white door. Not to confront the monster, but her creator.
Knuckles raw, red, she rests her hand upon the metal. Fear roots her to the spot. Still, she readies herself for pain. The door opens. The breeze rushes in. And she learns: the cold outside is warmer than the cruelty within.
-Annabelle Cabaniss
Thoughts
I think I think too much I wonder what other people are saying I notice what others are doing I wish my mind would quiet for even a moment I think if the thoughts stopped my headache would go away I want to not worry or notice or question everything that is happening because it would be simpler wouldn’t it?
-Emily Safyan
Ode to the Bell Tower
Oh, carillon, standing over the prairie, ringing your sweet music for all to hear, enlightening spirits and making students merry, a true gift for anyone who lends an ear. Oh, how majestic is your sight! And how splendid and sublime you appear! Your golden bells and towering height never fail to astound.
From your music I draw much delight, listening to the clear bell-tones of your sound. How I yearn to hear your sensational show, With superb music all around.
With all this said, I hope you know That you should never stop ringing, for I love you so.
-Cooper Lee
Heart’s Voice
It is that time of the night. Logic fades and the heart leads the head It’s steady when you lay your head down.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
And sometimes you hear it whisper sweet songs, And sometimes it is silent.
But beyond the thumping, and the whispers of the night, You will find your voice
-Katie Benavides
Winter at FVS
The trees, exuding an excellent color, The leaves fall like letters into the snow.
Students kick through the gold leaves on the way to class, The sky, an icy glow.
Laughter flows from the tennis courts, As a whistle glides through the brittle air, Classroom doors close, the echoes of everyday life fade The year tips faintly into care.
By late November, the daily breathing turns white, The windows fog into hazy art.
The first of many snowflakes lands upon the courts, A delicate start, yet still with a beating heart.
Soon enough the footsteps echo a crunch where leaves once were, The benches wear a coat of ice.
The world slows as the days grow short, However, school still feels warm and nice.
As seasons shift, so do we,
From golden sunsets, to a gentle silver cast. Every bell rung, every raging blizzard, turns its own leaf, And it reminds us: change brings new beginnings fast.
-Matt Olezeski
The Silent Moment
The moment after you say goodbye, The silence isn’t heavy anymore— It’s just quiet.
So this is how it ends: Not with closure, but distraction. And you wonder when the missing stopped— Maybe it slipped out quietly
Like a goodbye no one ever heard, Like silence settling, Like the light fading at sunset, Like the echo of a name. What was once there
Became part of the silence.
-Regan Westergaard
Haiku
A crushed pinecone
Litters the trial
Future dirt.
Fuzzy grey shadow
A powerful eep, scary fellow, that pika.
Cicadas!
I hear your cry this summer night
two trails side by side, both chosen and taken gentle juniper blankets the ground a sharp summer seat.
-Nat Barrett
Medicine of a Death Foretold
Poor Santiago Nasar
Or maybe not
You could see his death coming from afar
His body was left to rot. (Bayardo had a car)
Like June from Love Medicine
His death was central to the plot And I kind of needed some aspirin
Because when I first read it I understood nought.
But now I’m okay, and can confidently say I miss the days of Love Medicine
Because As I Lay Dying makes it look like child’s play.
-Wayne Osso
eyes
you see the world i see you
you see the donut i see how you smile
you see the rip in your favorite pants i see how the cuffs sit on your ankles just right
you see your hair in the mirror you fix it i see you fix it i rustle my hands through it to mess it up again i like when it’s messy
you see me cry you see me laugh i see how you see me they see how you see me
you see my eyes i see yours eye see yours.
-Stella Rhee
Wandering
Not all that wander are lost those who are lost go in circles over and over again—repeating the same mistake
but those that linger are stopping to smell the flowers to ponder the sounds that surround
those who wander are curious discovering the path less traveled the unknown is only unknown until it is explored
then it becomes an adventure where those willing to learn sit in thought and ask questions they will pause but they are never lost
-Emily Safyan
The Hem of Progress
If I were to stand in your attire, I would be seen as successful and powerful, full of life, For I am aspiring to be more like you, Right?
But if the roles were reversed, you would be mocked, scorned, for it is seen that you are wanting to be like me, And I am a joke. I am?
I have contributed to this scheme as well, this I see now looking back, I laugh at the idea of you being like me, I laugh at me?
Yes, I mean’t no harm in this, I truly did not. I see you laugh, then me laugh, so I do the same.
I long to be alike.
But this does not bring me to your level, It drives me down lower, So I may continue to reach up toward you, So I may reach toward my ruin and continue this cycle, So I may hinder myself, be a pedestal to your image, Not mine.
-Alexa Bartz
eighteen
Starving
An artist’s greatest fear, is not starving.
When poets cannot find a refrain to describe the emptiness and release the words that flood the mind, a turn of phrase that devastates even a recreational reader,
When composers cannot create a melody that sweeps the audience into the heavens and cradles them among soft clouds and singing angels,
When an actor performs for no audience, with no one to be as devoted as they are to a role, no one to see the masks that slide on and off like oil on water,
When a painter has no muse, nor medium, nor passion, no clue as to what caught their eye so they sit at the easel in silence with only white paint,
When a seamstress of many years knows every nuance of the craft but has no desire to spend hours on a project that would be worn and disregarded by someone else or sold to the highest bidder,
That is the fear. The loss of passion. Who gives a damn about a paper bill when you foster the spark of life within your mind. But to have felt its warmth, only to lose it?
An artist’s greatest fear is not starving, but never to be hungry again.
-Katie Benavides
Dear Lewis
Dear Lewis,
I quite like your homeland. California enamors me. Joshua Tree is an enamoring place. Even though you gave me a shoddy sleeping bag, and we ate straight carbon and hydrogen, it was sick. Thank you for showing it to me. I want to attend college there. I do not know why I feel so strangely drawn to it. It’s not just for all of the reasons above; I know it’s something more, something greater that I can’t grasp. I could be like Sal in On the Road. He tried to find meaning through going west. No, that’s not quite it. The feeling is more similar to a dream someone might have. There’s a little fairy or many a small speck of illuminated dust, and you’re chasing it, trying to hold it and find out what it is, but you can’t. You just keep chasing because it beckons you. It beckons you the way an iced latte beckons millennials. I think it could be in my blood. My family on my mom’s side went west. It called them. They came from the Basque region. They somehow ended up in the Rockies. Colorado. Then they rose up to Montana. Then dropped right back down to Colorado again and stayed. They never made it to California or Oregon or Washington, the true West Coast. My dad’s side succeeded. I don’t know where they hail from, but I know they claimed Washington as their home for a time. I think in the late ‘70s or early ‘80s. My family’s always been in the West. It’s in my blood. What is the value of blood? I’m a progressive in nature. I think traditions are useless and only exist to serve the elite, to protect the guys at the top. I hate those guys that think their old way is the best way. I hate old poet men. Yet, even with that, I feel obligated to uphold their legacy. I shouldn’t care about these things. I shouldn’t give a damn about going west. Still, family holds onto you. History holds on to you. My middle school history teacher decorated his walls with a few quotes. One of them was “History isn’t what happened; it’s the story of what happened”. I used to think it was kinda dumb. Now I get it. Everything affects you somehow. The people who came before you matter the most. Anyways, Cali’s a cool spot, man. LA might be smoggy and gross, but it has some pretty intoxicating National Parks around. I hope I can get into the Claremonts or Occidental or something like that. I’d be able to see you at least a bit that way.
Hope you’re doing well, Lewie. See you at lunch, Ryan
-Ryan Douchane
How Missing Someone Affects the Brain
Missing a loved one is a complex phenomenon that we all have experienced. The tightness in our chest, breath stuck in our throat and intense sense of longing are all feelings that Fountain Valley students may have felt. Afterall, a majority have someone at home that they are physically separated from. It is important to understand how this partition affects the brain, and how to overcome these feelings of melancholy.
The Science Behind Missing Someone
The strong feeling of “missing” is deeply connected to our brain’s chemistry. Scientists have found that people going through periods of longing have a dramatic drop in oxytocin, dopamine, and cortisol levels. Anxiety, restlessness, and fatigue are all symptoms of this chemical imbalance. These emotions are caused by the disruption of the “reward system” in our brain.
Managing Emotions of Longing
Sometimes, you may find that your brain hasn’t fully accepted or recognised the fact that someone from your life is missing. Your brain uses this coping mechanism to avoid negative feelings. Which is, unfortunately, unhealthy. A study conducted on the nervous system found that when trying to suppress emotions, “sympathetic nervous system activation shoots up”.
Therefore, although it may be unpleasant to do so, allowing yourself to feel sorrow is essential in feeling better.
Conclusion
Missing someone important to you is challenging and it is important to acknowledge your feelings. Understanding the chemical reasoning behind this experience can help you in processing your emotions.
-Helena Johnson
twenty-four
It was Thanksgiving 2024, and my mom, my aunt, and I were tasked with one of the most grueling challenges in all of human history.
“You’re my sisters! You’re supposed to do this for me!” my uncle shrieked.
I didn’t know how it came to this—I still cannot fathom it—but my uncle had somehow forced my mom and her sister to chemically remove his back hair, with Nair. Nair is a hair removal cream, typically used when someone doesn’t want to shave, wax, or laser their hair. I’m talking about the thick, mayonnaise-like substance that can only go on a person so long or it will burn their flesh off. For some reason, my uncle made it seem like everyone was on a clock, so I quickly ran to find the gloves in my grandparents’ messy house. They lay in the coat closet on the top shelf in a small plastic baggie. We only had one pair left, so each sister had a singular glove. They were going one handed.
My grandmother sat in her recliner and started cutting pieces of cloth towels to wipe Nair off of his back once the transformation was complete. I was given the task of the timer. I had to set it to 7 minutes. Not 8, not 6, but 7. The precise number for someone of his stature. I took the massive tube of cream in my hand and squeezed it onto the gloved hands of my mom and aunt. They shrieked in disgust. They quickly slathered it all over his back before the sauce could burn through the latex.
“More!” they yelled. The land area the cream covered seemed too large for that one bottle. “Spread it out!” My uncle corrected me.
Finally, the bottle was empty. They covered what they could, and it seemed like an OK job. We sat for what felt like an eternity. My uncle stood, sodden in mayonnaise.
Suddenly, the timer buzzed in my left hand. “Time!” I alerted everyone.
twenty-six
Now, it was my grandma’s turn. She had to cut the cloth faster than the women could wipe. It seemed impossible. They wiped and wiped then dropped the soaked rags to their feet, where a massive garbage bag shielded the floor from the hairy mess. I quickly turned around, my head buried into the leather sofa. I unlocked my phone and began scrolling on TikTok, my safe space. Finally, he left the living room to go take a shower. I hoped the excess fluid was scrubbed clean; I couldn’t handle such a sight anymore.
“Honey, come over here. Stop looking at your phone. Let’s play cards,” my grandmother whispered in her thick accent.
My mom, aunt, and I gathered at the dining table and took out the tupperware of cards. It was at that moment that my mother found something stuck between her toes. It was an excess chunk of hair glued together by Nair. She shrieked once again. No one flinched. No one moved a muscle. We didn’t know how to react, so we just didn’t. My uncle trudged down the stairs after his refresh.
“It’s not even,” he complained. “The place where my skin begins and my hair ends is way too visible. There’s no fade,” he criticized.
That was it. All that work for nothing.
“You know what, Sim,” my aunt scolded “next time, I’m going with you and we’re waxing your back. Professionally.”
- Max Fazio
twenty-seven
Summer Day
Summer day
Summer drifting away, The air feels different. Leaves turn orange, Then brown.
They crunch under my shoes
Fall feels cozy… Hoodies, Warm drinks, smell of pumpkin candles Till the cold starts creeping in.
The trees are empty…
The sky grows darker. Winter arrives with quiet snow and frosted breath, wrapping the world in stillness.
It’s odd…
How one season moves into the next, And suddenly Like a dream you can’t quite remember. Summer is far away.
-Anonymous
twenty-eight
Midnight Tunes
Rain’s little blue car was one of a kind. A 2006 Toyota Matrix, bought for a hundred dollars, that was peppered with hail dents. Its back was a collage of bumper stickers— “Keep your shirt on,” “Quit being Ugly,” “Don’t Tailgate me, I have rabies.” A green scratch traced the back corner, leftover from when I backed it into a gas station pole after three failed bathroom stops. I still hear the cashier’s voice–“Do you live in the ghetto?”–and see the gas station shrinking in the rearview as we raced toward Safeway.
The car was alive with chaos and stories. The passenger’s feet never touched the floor— empty Chick-fil-A bags, peanut-butter-smeared plates, and a two-month-old bag of popcorn. A mattress was folded in the trunk, different pins lined the ceiling, and decorative flowers and LED lights hung from window to window. There are two polaroids of Rain and her friends in the fold of the sun visor mirror.
This past summer, I learned the art of car rotting. Windows down, seats reclined, music hovering between sad and electric. In a Sears parking lot at 11 p.m., street racers revved their plain, ugly-looking cars. We stayed for hours, half-annoyed, half-laughing, using our classmates to play kiss, marry, kill.
On a warm summer evening, I got into the driver’s seat and we blasted music. The sun was setting, slipping past the visor to blind my eyes. A black truck swerved as I nearly clipped it, then honks echoed when I froze in the middle of the intersection. Yet, with laughter and panicky screams, we made it to Cold Stone.
One night, we circled a bakery parking lot, waiting for summer to come to an end. Sam was leaving for college, and our laughter over pizza carried the sounds of secrets only Rain and I shared. After cookies and stomachaches, we sat in the car, SZA and Drake spilling from cracked windows. The conversation bent toward what we’d been avoiding: the loss of one of my best friends. The disbelief, the unfairness, my tears running while Sleep Patterns played. Above us, the full moon hung steady, and ever since, its pale face has belonged to him.
-Sofia Deocon Day twenty-nine
Acknowledgements
Faculty Sponsor
Joshua Bloom
Editors Stella Rhee
Emily Safyan
Annabelle Cabaniss
Printed by On Target Marketing
Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado.