Excursions
Academy of the Holy Names
Down The Rabbit Hole
“Begin at the beginning and go on
till you come to the end; then stop.”
Meet the Editors
Editor-in-Chief
Alex Fanaro
“Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible.”
Assistant Editor
Andie Rogas
“I don’t see how he can ever finish, if he doesn’t begin.”
Assistant Editor
Katia Huddleston
“Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,” thought Alice; “but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in all my life!”
Assistant Editor
“Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle!”
Table of Contents
“Against Reality”
CANVAS
COCO JACOBSEN ‘23
She stood in front of the water-stained mirror, gently wiping away the red paint from her lips. The once white towel, now stained with streaks of crimson, dripped colored water onto the tile. Her tender arms, covered in shades of yellow and green, legs purple and blue. She set the damp towel onto the bathroom counter and let out a sigh. Her body ached as she stood before the rusted sink. When will I learn? she thought. His leaden footsteps grew louder and louder as he approached the bathroom door. Knock. Her body tensed as she backed, slowly, from the locked door. She didn’t make a sound. If I stay silent, maybe he’ll go away, she thought. His hand pressed against the locked knob. He knew she was in there. A wet trail of crimson paint had led him directly to her. A faint cry escaped her lips when his hand bung against the aged, wooden door. She was trapped and they both knew it.
BANG! He was restless; pounding at the damaged door, almost enough to break it. She hid between the sink and toilet, praying that he wouldn’t see her. His vision was always so terrible when he drank. She looked up at the homemade paintings on the wall--her paintings. She couldn’t bear to be near him, so instead, she came here to hide away in her own little world, and paint. A tear began to roll down her stained cheek as his pounding grew louder. It hadn’t always been this way. It wasn’t until he lost his mother, that he started having outbursts. She looked at the cracked glass covering of the hanging angel. The painting she had made for him after the funeral. It was the only thing she knew how to do; the only way she could comfort
him. Another tear fell as she watched the frame fall to the floor. The banging finally stopped.
She sat motionlessly- a crumpled heap of distress lying on the floor. Her head between her knees, her body shaking softly with each sob. Gathering all her strength, she pressed her palms onto the floor on either side of her and began to stand. She twisted and wiggled her way off the title before stepping over the toilet seat, her eyes never leaving the doorway. She stared at the bathroom door, waiting for the banging to resume. After what seemed like hours, she thought, is he had just given up? It never ends this way. He always finds me. She reluctantly stepped towards the door, her hands in fists. Inhaling deeply before she unlocked, and opened the creaking door. He was gone.
“She couldn’t bear to be near him, so instead she came here to hide away in her own little world, and paint.”
A sigh of relief left her heavy chest and she wobbled her way to the bathroom counter. She took a long, concentrated look at her skin; observing every marking, every picture he had painted upon her skin: a true artist. She was tired. Tired of crying, tired of running. But mostly, she was tired of being his canvas. She stepped back from the filthy, broken mirror and looked at the glass laying on the floor. Bending down, she picked up the largest piece. How lucky am I, she thought sadly, to be filled with such crimson paint.
MIGHT THE MITES BE TOO
ALEX FANARO ‘22
Mother was a hungry broad
Father was a fixed and fed man.
Birds wished upon wind, I wished upon stars
My only fault.
Willows gather whatever tears I had left
Their roots planted a fruitless garden.
I prayed for weeds in spring
I suppose I wanted an empty vase
My only decision.
Black ink and open bottles belittle the desk
Spiraled mangroves formed on my hands
Mother called for me
I followed the echoed trail
My only keeper.
Desperation paints the walls of my bedroom
Salt settles in the wounded wood
I gasp for air
My only dream. A plea
Freedom screams in isolation
My only regret.
Footsteps fluctuate around the lifeless girl
Chatter fills the busy room
Windows were opened I waited for silence
Beaming Beloved
My beaming beloved was never one for clouds
I liked things gray and simple
Colors were always too bright
But his eyes painted skies a wonderful blue
And my hair held the sunlight
My beautiful boy was never one for holding things together
I liked things perfect and clean
Messes were always too intricate
But his hands filled lands with a wide open abyss
And my arms found home
My bashful betrothed was never one for leaving
I liked things consistent and steady
Variables were always too unpredictable
But his voice heeded choice in terms of forever
And my mouth spoke few words
MUCH FOR ME?
Leave the light on for me, won’t you?
I won’t be a bother I wish only to see you better
Holes aren’t made for the missing
Lie to me sweetly, won’t you?
Maybe the mites won’t falter the flowers
And your hands will hold mine once more And weeds won’t spoil my garden
Oh remember for me, won’t you?
Paint pictures with your eyes
Dance utop the mound and sing to me
For memories are rarely granted to the dead
Leave the light on for me, won’t you?
May they swarm and fester, I’m home in the field now
But there was always something comforting about light
Make me out to be missed. Mend your conscience with the torches you carry.
Match the veins in my cheeks to the tip of your thumb and smile. May your fingers bend to the will of your pen and bleed with the ink.
Marked hands were made to carry wood. Melded dreams restored whatever remained.
Matted hair eventually fell to the satin. Moths fed upon the drapes that cloaked me.
Maggots burrowed under my fingernails and found home. Martyrs are easier, but easy isn’t simple.
My face was frozen. Masked in a glaze of gelled resentment.
Mites staggered among the angels. My father cried.
Maidens and misters watched you kneel. Mother asked you to say something sweet.
Ministers envision a black chasm, but you knew me more. My very own keeper.
Moments with you were monumental. My eyes are closed now but I promise I am looking for you.
Must your hands close my new cage? Make sure you press firmly, darling.
You knew the bugs were my only worry.
Heretic
ANONYMOUS ‘24
Again, Mark was careful upon entering his apartment. Calculated steps, sure to steer clear of the particularly noisy floorboards - though surely no one was sleeping in the middle of the day: for the first time in months, Mark was home when the sun still shone in the sky. He could hardly contain his composure as he tossed his termination letter onto the coffee table near his chair; the edges of the papers were crumbled and the ink was smudged with droplets of water one can assume to be tears. It would be hard to imagine Mark as happy on the day that he was let go of his job just weeks before graduation. If all else failed, he had his resume - now, not even that was worth paying attention to. Nothing separated him from everyone and anyone else his family would rather see.
No time to waste on tears, he had allotted himself five minutes of sadness before he opened his chest and searched for his suit and tie, just as he did every evening. Mark grabbed his keys and set his GPS destination to the senior care facility. He wished with all of his heart that it wasn’t under the most recent list in his phone: he wished with all of his heart that he actually needed the directions. But he had been there enough times to know how many turns led him to any son’s biggest supporter.
If only she remembered who she was supporting.
The curtains to her room were drawn and the light further illuminated her constantly bright, wrinkly smile. Shannon liked this particular volunteer. She rested her
gaze on the young man that entered. What was the name? Matthew? Martin? Max? Definitely Martin. No… she’ll just call him M.
M walked over to the woman. “And how are we today, Shanon? Anything exciting happen without me yesterday? Maybe… skydiving? Water skiing?”
Shannon laughed, then closed her eyes and said with a smile, “When I fell asleep, I dreamed that I did both.”
Shannon did not do both. Shannon did the same word search that she has done every day for six years, had a warm cup of unsweet tea and cream, and drifted off to sleep, her frail body kept warm by the blanket she knit for herself.
M walked over to Shanon with a small glass vial. Shannon’s one regret - if such a thing existed - was that the young man that she held so dear to her heart (though she wasn’t quite sure why) had to be the one to deliver such bitter medicine every evening. The substance itself had no taste whatsoever. Rather, it was the message that it delivered every morning that was hard to swallow - the one message that she wouldn’t, couldn’t forget: you are dying. You cannot remember your own family. Where is your family? Why have they not come to see you?
______________
Her family did in fact come to see her every day. At least, one of them did. And it was just as hard for him to deliver the bitter news as it was for her to take it.
______________
Mark set down the glass vial holding medication he had just administered. He sat next to her bed in an old
wooden chair upholstered with a variety of cotton fabrics sewn together with the utmost care. A blanket was hung over the side of the armchair. He noted the beading that was loose. It was held on by a few threads. Soon, it would be separated with no hope of reattachment. It would be lost from the rest of the piece for good, and the fabric would never be the same. Others would see a beautiful work of art, but someone could see - if they looked just a bit closer - that it was missing something. If only someone had known earlier, maybe they could have fixed that beading before it was beyond repair, leaving a small gap that could be filled only by what had gone. When he had lost something, she was his light, guiding him, helping him find whatever he needed. Now, she had lost everything, and she didn’t even know what she lost. He tried his best to be that same light for her. Mark lifted his eyes to the smiling woman staring back at him. He adjusted his composure just in time so as not to sour the brightest smile the world has ever seen resting on the complexion of the woman he always knew, but would never know him again..
He reached below the bed and took out a wicker basket filled with paper. He picked up two word search puzzles - one for him, and one for Shanon - and placed the basket back down.
______________
“Alright,” Mark said with a smile he wished could be genuine, “take it easy on me, will you?”
Shannon returned his smile with another. “Sure will,” she said with a sly grin. Shannon had no intention of letting him win.
______________
Shannon gripped her pencil with a firm grasp. She smiled and poked her tongue out at M, her favorite in-
timidation tactic. It must work! She hasn’t lost a game yet. And what a lovely puzzle it was.
“5, 4, 3, go!” Shannon always skipped the last numbers. She enjoyed watching M’s face, a look of surprise when she omitted the ending of the countdown.
She giggled the purest and wholesome laugh, then furrowed her brow, smiling, yet focused on the puzzle at hand.
The first word she was tasked with finding was wool.
Shannon let one hand slide down the side of her bed to the blanket knitted with this such material. She rolled a bead in between two of her fingers. She saw a wonderful work of art in this beading. Such a beautiful blanket. She smiled to herself, knowing she was the creator of such a lovely embroidered piece.
“Look!” she would say with a smile. “You know, I made this blanket! Did you know that?”
“Wow, Shannon, that sure is a beautiful blanket.”
“I made it myself,” she said again with a smile” Shannon was amused to see his look of absolute shock.
“You made that blanket? That was you? What a beautiful blanket. You are very talented.”
______________
Shannon was right; it was a beautiful blanket. But Shanon was also wrong: The look on Mark’s face was not one of absolute shock - it had been practiced. Every day in fact, when the first word of her word search reminded her of a knit blanket that she took pride in showing to the young man named M.
______________
“I made it myself,” she said again with a smile” Shannon was amused to see his look of absolute shock.
“You made that blanket? That was you? What a beautiful blanket. You are very talented.”
Mark tried his best to hold back his tears, for he knew that that would upset her. It was so overwhelming to hear the same thing over and over, every day, then come in the next with a false hope that things would be different.
He wished that their shared laughs - some genuine, some curated - would drown out the sounds of labored breathing that grew louder everyday and the voices in his own mind that told him to stop hoping for a difference.
Mark looked up to see Shanon staring at the wall in front of her with a blank gaze. She seemed confused, as if regaining the memories she had lost, but in pieces, unable to find the correct spots for them. He watched in horror as her hand loosened on her pencil, her eyes fluttered open and closed, and her monitor blared in the corner. He wanted to call out to her, to tell her it was alright. He wanted to get a nurse from the hall to care for his sick mother. But all he could do was look into her half-open eyes and hope for a better outcome than what appeared to be coming soon.
______________
Shannon looked up from her puzzle. She looked forward, not at the wall, exactly, but at the space in between herself and the end of the room. Her eyes began to flutter closed.
“Oh, I’m awful tired, I think ill just rest a bit and finish this fantastic puzzle later. When I fall asleep, I am going to go skydiving again” she imagined saying to M, but the words never left her mouth. She could already imagine the thrill of the dream she would soon encounter - an adventure! Oh, how she longed for an adventure. She dropped the pencil at her side and flexed her hands as she prepared to
fly through the hair and feel the rush of adrenaline that she longed for when she was awake. She dropped her hands to her side and lay motionless on the bed. Ready for the sweet feeling of sleep to carry her away. The sweet feeling of sleep did not intend to carry her back.
She wore the same smile of triumph that he wore as a boy when he found what he was looking for. He knew that she had not found what she lost, but forgot what she had been looking for in the first place. That light he had always tried to be - it was gone. As she looked up to the sky, Mark knew she saw a different kind of light and it drew nearer with every tear that silently streamed down his cheeks. He tried his damnest to match the smile that she gave him, but his composure broke as her hands loosened their grasp.
“I love you.”
He let his face drop to her side as her face lost its pigment and faded into a sickly white.
Shannon died that day. But Mark was the one who knew the true suffering - both his, and his mother’s who was lucky enough to forget any source of suffering within a matter of hours.
He cried as she went, and lost a piece of his soul as he placed her favorite blanket over her to say goodbye.
______________
He noticed a missing space where a bead must have fallen off.
A WEB OF WORDS
HAYNES MELCHOIR ‘25
I used to be afraid of spiders. Whenever I saw one crawling towards me, my chest would tighten up, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until I could barely breathe.
Then I had my first eighth grade writing class. Every day we’d write: drafting, revising, editing. Every day, like clockwork, my teacher would ask someone to share. And every day, like clockwork, I would begin my mantra. Not me not me not me. Someone else. I’m not ready. Not me, not me, not me. My chest would tighten up, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until I could barely breathe. But every day, like clockwork, my teacher would call out someone else’s name. Until our journalism unit.
“Haynes,” she called out, “let’s take a look at what you have,” as she opened up my folder projected on the board. Time stopped. The smell of dry erase markers was suffocating, the nearby squeak of someone’s shoes deafening. I stuttered out a shaky “okay,” crossing my arms to keep them from running through my hair, though I couldn’t conceal my bouncing leg, going wild underneath my desk. As I read my introduction, I was confused by the impressed looks of my friends. However, this soon turned into pride as I realized that my classmates actually liked my work. When I looked at my teacher, she too had a matching expression.
“Wow,” she said simply, “this is good.”
That was the day I overcame my fear of spiders. Suddenly, tiny little arachnids no longer seemed
so bad. At least, it was nothing compared to my newest fear, my downfall, my kryptonite. It loomed over me like a mountain, pushing, pushing, pushing me forward, away, though somehow the jagged ice capped peaks never seemed to get any farther into the distance: the thought of being average.
Distinction trapped me in its web. Once I’d seen excellence, I couldn’t bear to go back to doing things halfway. Mere adequacy clutched at me with its icy fingers, but I ran - built myself a staircase of A+s and awards and medals and success, and never looked back. Mediocrity was par, and I wanted to take my club and shatter it, waltz through the barrier into the sunlight of extraordinary.
We still wrote every day. My teacher still asked for someone to share. And every day - like clockwork - my hand shot into the air. Words became my empire, my desk was my throne. Worlds fell from my fingertips, ideas bloomed in my mind. Poems flowed in a torrent from my pencil, and I stayed up late scrawling out ideas for novels. My bookshelf became a second
I traveled through books, devoured short stories, learned fables from other cultures, and pored over fraying science textbooks. It seemed that all the knowledge of the world lay just at my fingertips, and I wanted to learn everything.
While my voice was so often drowned out in the clatter of the world, I found that writing was strangely immortal. Here, the letters shouted, marching boldly across the page, I’m here. Look at this. Look at what I can do. I’ve always been shy, too afraid of judgement to risk approval. But when I read my writing in class, I was confident. This, I realized, this is what I’m good at. With my words, people would listen. With my words, I could change the world.
I’m no longer afraid of spiders. My leg still bounces sometimes, but confidence and a few deep breaths can calm it back down. It’s better to get trampled out in
the world, trying and living, than just existing on the sidelines. You might fall down a couple of times, but it’s okay - you can’t let your doubts clip your wings before you’ve given yourself the chance to even get off the ground
UNCERTAIN TIMES
ANDIE ROGAS ’22
Make me laugh, I thought Looking up with teary eyes
Help me forget this
I needed something To distract me from the thoughts That raced through my head
What? Why? How? When? Who? Too many questions without Any good answers Was guessing better? What if, If only, Maybe I will never know
But I can infer And keep up the guessing game Until I conclude
The good ones leave too So I guess I’m the issue The reason love fails
I wasn’t enough; The only thing that’s certain In uncertain times
“We’re All Mad Here.”
THE BOY AND THE BOOK
LILLIE HOLMAN ‘24
She remembered the first time she laid eyes on Dallas Linden. The tall, muscular frame. The floppy dark brown hair that always got in the way of his emerald green eyes that sparkled when he laughed. The way his calves bulged with muscles, displaying his undeniable strength and athleticism from hours after hours at soccer practice. How his tan skin seemed to gleam like a radiant sun in the light. He was the definition of perfect. Caught in her daydream, Eve failed to notice the scrawny old librarian Mr. Herbert Linden marching toward her, his long boney finger waving in her face. How could such a perfect specimen such as Dallas be the prosperity of such a complete and hideous freak. That’s when she ran right into the defined chest of Dallas Linden. She staggered backwards but his warm, calloused hands held her upright, preventing her from sprawling all over the cold tile floor. A casual and insignificant encounter for most, a simple apology and both parties would instantly forget about the person they had run into at the Anderson Library. Not Eve Robertson. That was the moment she became utterly obsessed with Dallas Linden.
The darkness seemed to engulf all of the surrounding houses and shadows seemed to creep as if they were animals preparing to pounce on their prey. This was the typical weather for Salem- granted it was the city of witchcraft, mystery, and terror. Mr. Linden knew it better than anyone. As librarian of Anderson Library, he had read every page of every chapter of every book inside, except for one he never dared to open. The one his superstitious self had carefully placed in
a sealed hidden compartment in the bottom left corner of the bookshelf in the back of the library, where almost no one would think to search.
No one in his forty years of working had ever even come close to the compartment or the hidden book. No one except for himself and his son even knew about it, well that’s at least what he thought. You can imagine his surprise when exactly a month later, the police opened the sealed compartment to reveal nothing but an empty space where the forbidden book had once been.
Eve’s crush on Dallas started out like any other girl’s crush. She would look up his Instagram and scroll through all of his posts...even the ones from his 2003 freshman homecoming. She would casually drive by his house, just to see if he was home. However, Eve was different from any other girl. Eve was one who had never felt very loved- her parents were divorced and her only boyfriend had cheated on her with her best friend. She never took an interest in boys from then on-until she laid eyes on Dallas Linden. She had fallen in love at first sight-literally.
Her little school girl crush quickly grew to something more. She would call his phone every night from a different unknown number, just to hear his voice. She would coincidentally always be at the library when he came back from classes to help his father.
One night she even drove to his house to watch him sleep through his back window. She was completely and utterly in love with this boy. If only
he loved her back... Their next mutual encounter occurred at the library. She was strategically positioned at a computer near the Book Return Box, as she knew Dallas would have to come buy and retrieve the books, just as he did. They made eye contact and she made an exasperated sigh of frustration at the computer. Dallas bent down and looked at the computer screen over her shoulder. She could feel his warm breath on her neck, his cologne like sandalwood, and his soft arm brushed against her back. They continued to cross paths over the next couple of weeks and even got involved in some engaging talks regarding sports teams, Chinese food superiority, and how they loved green smoothies-things Eve only liked because she knew Dallas did. Dallas thought it was completely coincidental to run into the girl so many times throughout his week, but Eve knew the real reason was because of her analysis of his every move. She was convinced he was in love with her too. At least she was until she saw her. Her. The bleached blonde hair that flowed in the wind. Her neatly manicured hands that were intertwined with his. The way she went on her tiptoes to kiss his neatly shaven cheek. Dallas’s girlfriend was back from college and Eve was not taking it well. She felt her throat closing in, the blood roared in her ears. Tears streamed down her face as she raced home. She was furious, hysterical. How could this happen? That girl hadn’t been here for him. Eve was the one who kept him company- even without his knowledge. She knew his every move, every action of his she could predict. She was in love with Dallas Linden, but he was not in love with her.
Dallas Linden and Mr. Linden heard the news from Salem Sunday’s News. A girl was found mysteriously dead in her room. A girl named Eve Robert-
son. No blood, no pills, no gun, nothing. The police searched and searched. The only thing near the girl’s cold body was a piece of greenery, strewn across an old book, still dusty from being hidden for so many years.
“She was completely and utterly in love with this boy. If only he loved her back...”
What happened to that girl? Dallas’ thoughts were interrupted by a harsh knock on the library’s door, revealing three policemen. Since the finding of Eve’s body, the book had been traced back to Mr. Linden’s Library. The policemen inquired about the title, but Dallas knew nothing of the sort. His father approached and said that he knew of a book, but that it was concealed away for over forty years and no one had known about it. He was certain the book was still in its hidden state, so he led the policeman to the back. A policeman bent down and looked in the bottom left corner of the bookshelf in the back of the library. He peeled the top from the hidden compartment, only to reveal not a book, but an empty space.
Evidently, Eve’s feelings towards Dallas consumed her, causing her to act out and trace down the book. She had spent enough time there in the library listening, watching, and taking notes that she easily discovered the secret compartment. It was Eve who stole the book.
The detective identified the greenery as Deadly Nightshade, a plant that the book mentioned was of numerous uses. One being death. The detective closed the case. Eve Robertson, newly identified stalker, committed her own suicide by injesting a lethal amount of Deadly Nightshade. Eve Robertson, a book stealer, got the idea from a witchcraft book hidden in Mr. Linden’s Library. Who was accountable? Her death was inevitable. Her lack of levelheadness and maturity mixed with her strong desire to be loved just overwhelmed her. She had killed herself, yet Dallas and Mr. Linden could not shake the feelings of guilt they had. If only Dallas had taken notice of her, she would still be alive. If only Mr. Linden had kept quiet and not discussed the contents of the library. He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late.
THE GIRL WITH A HUNDRED LIVES
GIA JOSEPH ‘25
This odd, unbearable, yet familiar feeling surges through my thoughts and emotions like a tsunami. I try to push this powerful tide back, but it won’t give in. It makes me feel utterly alone and empty. It’s the type of feeling you get when you’ve been away for far too long. Homesickness, if you will. This feeling isn’t new to me. I know there is only one way to relieve it. So that’s what I do. I surrender myself to my fictional fantasies.
My fingers skim through my bookshelf, feeling the bump of each spine as I glide across the novels. I scan each book, hoping to find one that will finally appease this ache. I pull out books (hardcovers, paperbacks), reading the synopsis of each, until I find one that can finally scratch my insatiable itch. Finally, a tick goes off in my head. Ah, there it is. That’s what I’m looking for, I think. I pull the book off its shelf and find a soothing space to subdue my discomfort. I find myself curled up on the couch with a nice blanket and tea. Gotta prep for my journey. My fingers flip the smooth leaves of the book back, as I begin my descent into the fictional life. I skip through the title page, the dedication, and the chapter index, as they are just obstacles in the way of what I desire. Page one. Finally.
“Prologue.” The kickoff to my brand new life. It’s like a welcoming doorman, drawing me into the world, characters, and plot. I greet him graciously, exhilarated to secure myself into this novel. He greets me back, surpassing all my expectations. Oh my gosh, this world is incredible. Fae? Royalty? Yup, I’m going to
enjoy this.
“Chapters 1-10.” Still sort of an introduction point. I get thrown into the character’s daily life, witness their struggles, maybe get to meet their love interest. A difficult, headstrong, yet attractive prince. Yes, please! As I face their endeavors, I can’t help but become jealous. I’d rather deal with evil sea queens, cruel princes, or grueling monsters than my own seemingly insignificant troubles. At least she’s someone. At least she’s not stuck in a monotonous world where it’s impossible to achieve what she truly longs for. She’s not just surviving, but living. I want that - yearn for that.
“Chapters 11-25.” This is where the good stuff starts. At this point, I’m part of their world. I’m connected to these characters as if I’ve known them my whole life. They are personal to me. At this part in my new little life, the character’s romance slow-burn is finally setting fire. I witness how he truly loves her. How he would do absolutely anything imaginable for her and I once again become jealous. Will I find someone that will care and love me to that extent? Does my soulmate even exist? How could he possibly compare to all of the characters I’ve fallen in love with? I’m convinced this feeling I feel for these fictional characters is love. I yearn to be with them. I yearn to have them love me as I’ve imagined. I yearn to live my life at their side, in their world.
“Chapters 26-30.” The ending. When anyone starts a book, they’re always sad to see it come to a close. For me, finishing a book is equivalent to losing
a part of myself. Throughout this life (or novel as some people call it), I’ve gained a new self in a way. A self that is brave and daring. Strong and beautiful. Loved and happy. The person that my main self desires to become. Finishing a book means that that person is ripped away from me. She’s gone, her journey’s over. I also endure losing loved ones; the character I have fallen so desperately in love with, people that resemble a family. This might be my hardest struggle. It’s not only the fact that their stories are over, but that they were never real. They were just figments of the author’s and my imagination’s. Ghosts, of ones I long for.
When the pages begin to feel rather thin on the right side, I make sure to take each word in. When my eyes hit the blank page, I feel as if I am stuck in the chest. That’s it. The end. I feel that emptiness creep
back up inside me. That peculiar, yet familiar feeling I have come so accustomed to. It’s as if it’s haunting me, rising me up, then dragging me back down into a lonely hole of grief. Again, I know there’s only one way to escape that hole. So, the cycle repeats. that their stories are over, but that they were never real. They were just figments of the author’s and my imagination’s. Ghosts, of ones I long for.
When the pages begin to feel rather thin on the right side, I make sure to take each word in. When my eyes hit the blank page, I feel as if I am stuck in the chest. That’s it. The end. I feel that emptiness creep
back up inside me. That peculiar, yet familiar feeling I have come so accustomed to. It’s as if it’s haunting me, rising me up, then dragging me back down into a lonely hole of grief. Again, I know there’s only one way to escape that hole. So, the cycle repeats.
HE LOVES ME; HE LOVES ME NOT
ANDIE ROGAS ’22
We were sitting on the pier Gazing at the starlight
And he said it He loves me
But then the tension built And suffocated us He used his last breathe to say He loves me not
White flags raised in surrender We forget about the war times And I’m momentarily reminded He loves me
Until the armistice ends And the fighting resumes Tearing bullet holes through my heart He loves me not
He rushes to my side to apologize If he’s the first one to fix me Does that mean He loves me?
But I wouldn’t be broken If not for his weaponous words And poison-pen letters He loves me not
But he said it And he meant it He just has a strange way of showing it He loves me
Right?
PERSEPHONE
KATIA HUDDLESTON ’22
Tears start with the Fall yet only end come flowers that welcome her home.
If only seasons could mourn like the desolate and forlorn mother.
Deep beneath the soil, she longingly awaits for the flowers and sun.
“All the Best People Are.”
How did I get here?
FALL FROM GRACE
ANYBODY ‘25
My surroundings seem so well-known that I can hardly remember it being any different. The damp, choking air. The rough, enclosing stone walls. But I know that I wasn’t always trapped down here, in this dark, frightening abyss that threatens to swallow everything inside of it, so that nothing good or carefree can ever exist again.
I promised myself I would never fall into this giant pit. I stared down into the gaping hole of carelessness and ignorance when they revealed the scarce number of 8th graders who had gotten an A average or higher on their report cards. And again once more, looking down the middle-school corridor at the older kids who sat against the walls, laughing and talking instead of doing classwork. I stood atop the cliff that day without fear, not worrying about what the future could bring. I clearly remember telling myself that day:
I’ll never become one of them.
And yet, that very next year, as I peered over the precarious ravine, the ground underneath my feet crumbled. Large, ominous cracks had formed in the stone where I was standing. My inner conscience screeched at me to turn and run. But the sound was deaf to my ears, my eyes blinded by the small, bright, rectangular screen I held in my hand.
And before I could realize what was happening, the rock broke away, and I was plummeting down the rock face.
I was never planning to get so absorbed. But the desire inside of me only grew and grew the more I indulged myself. I found myself putting aside the truly important things to spend more time online. Homework no longer had the most precedence but got put on the backburner. It became something to be hurriedly completed in the morning or during homeroom. And as you can expect, my grades began to pay the price for my stupid decisions. I ignored this, convincing myself that my sports and extracurriculars were to blame, although deep inside I was aware that the real issue was all my fault. I should have known how the games and online interactions influenced my life. I never relished it; in fact, it probably caused me more stress than happiness. I played simply for the satisfaction that came from being better than others. I did it to cope with my anxiety of not meeting expectations in my sports. It made me feel more relaxed, but the unfavorable effects clung to me like a disease, and it continued to plague me as I moved into high school.
But by then, I had a bigger problem on my hands: lack of time management. High school assignments, sports, and activities took up more and more of my evening. To explain it fully, three out of five days of
the school week I was getting home at 9:30 at night. Any time I had in between was mostly spent on my phone. I was anxious that if I didn’t have some leisure time for myself, I’d become dejected from the heavy workload. To try to fix my plight, I resolved to wake up early in the morning to do my schoolwork. However, I would always be too tired to do much, and even what I finished was lackluster and bland. The first semester of high school dragged on as I sank deeper and deeper into a point that seemed to have no return.
Then, after that first semester, my dad realized I was missing. He looked over the edge of the cliff and spotted me near the bottom. Puzzled, he called out,
“What are you doing down there?”
“I’m stuck down here,” I replied, “and the way out is too strenuous for me. I’ll surely get hurt.”
My dad shook his head slowly. “You have to get out of there,” he said sternly. “There’s no way you can live your life in that ravine. No one became anyone without hard work. You can take the risk, and put in the effort to write your future, or you can remain there and let your substandard actions speak for themselves.” Without another word, he turned around and disappeared.
My heart ached. His harsh treatment stung, but I knew he was right. There was no way I would thrive down here. Hope to fill my mind instead of darkness, I stood up, legs aching, and began the long, treacherous climb back up to the surface.
THE MEMORIES OF OCEAN REEF
BIANCA DE QUESADA. ‘22
On an early Saturday morning, a brilliant blue light crept in through the crevasse of the white curtain. The sound of singing birds and a calm ocean opened the girls’ eyes. The scent of coconut and salt filled the room. She stretched with a burst of energy that jolted her out of bed. Opening the sliding door, she stepped outside and a warm floor greeted her feet. The strong sun reached out with golden arms and embraced her. Back inside, the smell of coffee met her nose and her family welcomed her with a smile. Ready to start their day, they head over to breakfast. A tall room with large windows that fills the room with light. A wide bar with an endless supply of delicious food stood in the middle of the room. Outside in the sun, the sound of Classic Acoustics floats with the breeze causing her feet to dance in the soft sand. By the cool blue pool, her caring mom smothers her skin white in SPF worried about the harsh Florida heat. In the pool, the chlorine is overwhelming, but that doesn’t phase her. Listening to the muffled voices of her family conversing around her, she feels utter bliss floating in the water while the sun slightly kisses her cheeks. Later, the sun began to set indicating it was time to go home. The mesmerizing sky revealed an array of hues of orange and pink. Wrapped in pool towels, the family ventured their way home on a small green golf cart that traveled at precisely 15 miles per hour. The kids argue over who gets to shower first but the girl is triumphant. The showers’ warm water
evokes a satisfactory feeling as it cleanses her body of the salt, sand and sunscreen. The steam from the warm water arose, fogging the mirrors which prompts her to sketch smiley faces. Feeling fresh once again, she sits on the cozy sofa and watches the show Grey’s Anatomy. A wave of exhaustion causes her eyes to feel like 5 pound weights and when she can no longer fight it off, she drifts to sleep.
By the Seaside
Waves crashing with pain
A rider has lost his path Will he return home?
King of the Zoo
The crowds are watching Beast awakens with a roar
The smooth ground rumbles
Meadows Petals fall in dirt
Tulips dance in the bright sun
Dark storm clouds approach
SOPHIA PAL ‘22
OPHELIA’S SENTIMENT
ALEX FANARO ‘22
Summer’s days around a warm pond
Blankets of grass covered us from oblivious bystanders Only the moss knew of me and him He basked in the sun’s glory
Spring’s flowers were picked just for me His fingers held these very stems
And they planted a seed of faith beneath my stone
Then the wind set in
Fall’s leaves padded the green
My world was painted golden
Breath outlines the air and he smiles at my clouds His cheeks bore this very breeze
Winter’s ice coated the hands he called his His frost surrounded me I mistook necessity for love A burning state of immobility
Maybe father was right He was like winter invading fall - Ophelia
FLOOR 2
SABRINA PEDREGAL ’22
My eyes jolted open at the sudden shrill that echoed through the halls. By instinct, I jerked and felt pain run down my body that was bound to a chilling metal table. Based on the stabbing feeling spreading across my torso, I assumed a few of my ribs were broken. After a quick scan of my surroundings, I came to the conclusion as to where I was: The Bidding Room.
I’d been selected. My life no longer belonged to me. The only word flashing through my mind was “Property.” I was theirs until they rendered me useless. The fluorescent light was brutal on my eyes, and a voice bounced off the walls, “Lot 290.” Colored lights danced around the room, signaling that the lot was open for sale. Once I was claimed, I would be named, branded, and used. The final flash before my eyes closed was the winner’s glowing name, Ambrose Green.
I began to stir as the sedatives wore off. I slowly opened my eyes, noticing my surroundings were no longer familiar. Although my memory had holes it was safe to assume I’ve been under for a few days. I struggled to my feet and approached the mahogany-stained door. It hadn’t even been opened an inch before an agonizing howl coursed through the air. Before I could recoil into my quarters, an old stout woman with short curly hair and a mousy face came barreling through the door.
“Oh deary,” she began, “keep this door shut at all times. Yes at all times, unless told otherwise.” The lady, allegedly given the name Claire, went on “Look at you fixed up with not a scratch in sight, Oh no not one scratch.” She rambled about how the medics fixed me up nicely, and that my “Symbol should heal soon. Yes, very soon.” All I could process was that my new living quarters were above what seemed to be hell on Earth.
I’d have to endure the agonizing screams if, by chance, I was brave enough to open the door.
“The memories should come back slowly, oh so slowly. For now deary just know you are in the holding house. Yes the holding house but understand any class violations will result in banishment to floor 2”
My nerves began to settle. Although I could hear the bellows if the door was open, I was not part of “The Banished”. With this slight context and the one memory I still had of me being barren I guessed my role was class 4, the servants. I personally had no qualms with being “class 4- lot 290”, so there was no reason to risk my life in order to be of higher ranking.
Dragging me from my thoughts was the preparation process. Claire bathed and groomed me for my first encounter with Sir Green. I smelled of lavender and mint according to Claire. My raven hair was groomed and pinned into a loose braid, and I donned a fairy green maxi-dress “Look how it matches your eyes 290. Oh how lovely it matches!”
I dreamily gazed towards the mirror, the girl in front of me was unrecognizable. Claire said I looked beautiful. Despite the overwhelming vision staring back at me, the most compelling new feature was the brand on my left shoulder: a delicate symbol that honored the initials of Sir Green. I felt dizzy.
Claire’s nurturing voice broke my trance, “Are you ready, 290?” she asked in her thick English accent. Even if I wasn’t, it didn’t matter; it was time to accept my role in the house of Green. Sir Green. I started towards the mahogany door, when Claire briskly took my arm and escorted me out the passage behind the bookcase. The path we followed was dim
and smelled of mildew, overgrown ivy adorned the stone walls. We were inside, but not above ground. “I
Suddenly a door opened and I was met with the face of Ambrose Green. He was tall, had vibrant hazel eyes, tousled dark curly hair, and elegant features. He resembled a god with his brazen frame. He stirred emotions so deep inside me that I could not place where they came from or what they were. He mirrored a distant memory lost in my battered mind. “I shall call you Athena” he stated.
And with that, I was officially property. Expiration date: unknown.
He demanded Claire to leave so he could evaluate me. With a bashful bow she was off. Once she was gone, he gave a tour of his extravagant manor which ended in the library overlooking the gardens. Past the roses was a dark 4 story building with, “Holding House” spread across the top. I felt sick at the sight now fully understanding my role in the world. He stopped with the formalities and instead asked basic questions that resembled what a two-year-old would ask when making a new friend. “What’s your favorite color? Meal? Season?”. I was uncomfortable and vulnerable, which I assume is exactly what he wanted. He wanted to see my genuine reaction to what he would say next. With a devious smirk he nonchalantly stated “So, how does it feel to be the surrogate for the Noble House of Green?” Surrogate.
It rang in my ears. He must have been joking; I could not be a surrogate. I was barren. I would be sent to Floor 2 for class climbing, I would mirror the shrills that rang through my room. I have to tell him- don’t I?
How long could I pretend to hold his child and feign miscarriages before he finds out? I was busy estimating what the best option would be when he broke the silence. “I have not courted anyone and must produce an heir soon,” he went on. “Your beauty captivated me,” he mockingly said “That is why I bought you.” How charming.
Now. I had to tell Ambrose now. I would have to see his expression turn to rage as he sent me to Floor 2. “But I’m ba-”
“Yes, you are unable to have my child, I already know” He said assertively.
DRONE LIFE
ANONYMOUS ‘24
He opened the door slowly and carefully so as to not wake his neighbors at this late hour. They were never considerate of him, but Mark never saw others’ rude actions as justification for his own. He made it into his room without so much as a squeak from his old apartment floors. He popped a frozen meal into the microwave. Mac and cheese - classic. He was sure to stop the microwave right before it reached the end. No one wants to be woken up at 11:47pm to a microwave’s tune. Just because Mark didn’t have time to sleep, didn’t mean others were as misfortunate. Despite his constantly packed schedule, He savored every bite of his late dinner; He was grateful for it and wished he could share it. But his financial situation was just like his schedule: tight. He stepped over to the sink, avoiding the loud floor boards, and began to wash his dishes.
Of course, Mark could choose to focus on all of the things in his life that needed fixing. His grades, his income, the leaking kitchen faucet, his social life (oh definitely his social life). But he chose to focus on the good things. Like the fact that he only had a few more months in the state. Soon he would be back home with his family. Hopefully with a degree in marketing, his father would be proud; How he wished his father would be proud! It’s all he’s ever wanted. Some people want the material things in catalogs, but Mark? All Mark wished for was his family’s approval.
Of course he wanted to travel the world on mission trips instead of an office job - If it was up to him, work would be volunteering, shelters would be homes, and money would be traded for generosity. But of course, it wasn’t up to him, and he didn’t live in that world. Even if such a place existed, his father wouldn’t
approve of his residence. He would rather have his son in a corporate office debating the new running price of paper towels. And Mark would rather have it that way too if it meant he was accepted and appreciated. Lost in thought, he propped the plate against the drain Crash.
It rolled off of the table and came down with a clatter as it shattered into broken fragments of glass. He could hear irate muttering and cursing from his neighbors as they stirred. Unfortunately, as they often did, his desperate efforts to please amounted to none.
ALEX FANARO ‘22
“Six impossible things.”
DON’T LEAVE US IN FEBRUARY
MYKHIA PURSLEY ‘23
Every February we come together to celebrate. In school we have book reports, and in public we Have parades. We applauded the generations before us the history they hold within their lips slips Into stories for us to know. Memories that we can hold and carry on to the next. In this month we have years of generational trauma condensed all into 28 days in a continuous cycle with the problem still unsolved. Products marketed off of us, the same three figures taught each year But we are not just MLK and we are not just in February. So don’t forget about us. Don’t forget about the countless lives affected by a system that was built on a continuous failure. Don’t forget that we are fighting the same problem with just a different name. As much as some may doubt that are problems are not solved, one life can spark a revolution. We shouldn’t let this continue on for the next generation to carry the baton. And shouldn’t let our sacrifices be down without result. So don’t forget about us, as March starts to roll in don’t silence your support and hibernate on issues until the next celebration. Don’t leave us in February.
ANY QUESTIONS?
ALEX FANARO ‘22
I settle for less. How could I deserve more? I fought all your battles. I settled your scores. There’s a white flag waving, yet you assume war. If it was all in my head, What are you sorry for?
Cause I have your letters in the back of my drawer. I’m searching for answers I shouldn’t need anymore. It’s not like this was planned. Not like I want it.
But since I am leaving, Could you just be honest for once in your life?
Did you ever even love me at all? Because as far as I’m concerned, I was meant to make you feel tall. And you stood there watching, and letting me fall. Where I saw a window, you built a wall. You let me believe in you. I withdstood it all. But I imagined it. And I’m glad you did. Cause if I had known this is how it would end, I wouldn’t have gotten round to writing this. So I’m glad you did. Yes. I’m glad you did.
THE BLUE-EYED BOY
ANDIE ROGAS ‘22
I usually prefer the rain over the sun, but today is different. The sun isn’t blinding or burning. No. It is warm and comforting. I stroll down the pedestrian bridge on my way to Miss Patricia’s bakery, taking the same old route but admiring the new, lovely weather. The water glistens calmly below, reflecting the sunlight. The pavement is firm under my step and the slight breeze fills my lungs with purifying air. I can hear birds in the distance – doves, or maybe blue jays. I close my eyes and let myself take it in.
I’m jolted back to reality as I feel the shape of another person crash into my side.
“I’m so sorry!” I say immediately.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles, seemingly occupied with a different train of thought. His glance shifts from up to down, left to right, never truly focusing on one thing. There is a brief moment when neither of us moves or speaks. I catch a glimpse of his eyes — a brilliant ocean blue. You could jump right into them and hear the splash.
“Woah,” I say softly.
He looks puzzled. Those lake-like windows to his soul have frozen over, as if he needs to protect what is underneath.
“Sorry, your eyes are just unreal. I didn’t know there was a shade of blue more mesmerizing than the sky,” I say, clarifying.
The ice melts and his face softens. He looks like a different person now: not distracted with his own thoughts, not distant as if I wasn’t going to be nice to him. This new version of him seems friendlier and less
guarded.
“Oh, thanks.”
He half smiles and saunters away.
The next morning, my eyes flutter open, sensitive to the morning sun that seeps through the window. It’s never this bright when I wake up – 7:15 sharp, 8 on the weekends. I glance over at the clock on my nightstand, confused and disoriented. It’s 9:45 already?! I turn over my phone to double check the time. It’s dead; no wonder I didn’t wake up to my alarm. I slip on leggings and a t-shirt and head off on my usual route trying to go through the normal motions, even if at a different time. The sky is overcast as the rain debates drizzling down softly from the heavens. As I walk down the sidewalk, the grey darkens and tears start seeping from the clouds overhead. As the pedestrian bridge over the river gets closer, I notice that there is some kind of commotion up ahead. There are people gathered and police officers standing inside a bubble outlined by their yellow caution tape.
A distraught woman approaches me. Her eyes seem cloudy and glazed over, like they are unsure of themselves. Her hand shakes, ruffling the piece of paper she is holding.
“It… it’s you,” she whispers, holding up a sketch of a girl. The way the girl’s hair falls just past her shoulders. The way the girl’s arms reach a little longer than most. The way the girl’s nose sticks out of her face, jagged and pointed. It must be me; it has to be me.
My mouth opens slightly and then closes. No words come out; just silence.
“I think you should have it,” the woman says, handing over the drawing.
I take it, not knowing what else to do. There is writing on the back – slanted scribbles. My eyes run over the words, trying to interpret their meaning. The woman watches as I read.
I look back up, catching the woman’s gaze, putting the pieces together.
“You have his eyes,” I say gently. The woman bursts into tears and almost collapses. I wrap my arms tightly around her, holding her up. We stand like that in the pouring rain in a solemn moment of silence and sobs. Maybe I was late today so I could console her; maybe if I wasn’t late today it wouldn’t be too late.
NO ROOTS
BROOKE FECHTEL ‘25
I am a plant. I can be uprooted, moved to another place, and then planted again. I scatter my seeds, my memories, around the Earth with a small hope that someone will care for them. Being a military child means I need to be a plant. I need to be able to get up and leave my home for a strange land, and when the strange land becomes my home, it is time to be uprooted again. My roots always reach down far into the ground trying to hold on, but the gardener always wins. I don’t know if my roots are too weak or if the gardener is too strong, but I am carried away to a new home. My most difficult move was from Wiesbaden, Germany to Tampa, Florida. In previous times, I was younger and didn’t really understand moving as a huge change in my life. Now I am 11 and very aware of the impact it has on my life. I watch as the past three years of my life is packed and tossed into a box.
The worst part about moving, however, is saying goodbye. This is always the hardest part. I know that I am going to be torn away from the people that I have grown up with in this chapter of my life. You can say that I will meet new people where I am going. I will say, how will those people replace the ones I have already known for so long? The people that I have laughed and cried with will be gone from my life. My best friend, Elizabeth, is the hardest person to say goodbye to. Now she lives in Korea. We keep in touch, but it isn’t the same as spending time with her in person. When I finish parting with my last friend, Meghan, I slowly drag myself to the car that is ready to take us to the airport. I look out the back window only to see my friend sobbing while riding her bike to follow the car. I feel the back of my throat tighten, suppressing a sob. I am so happy that someone cared for me so much. I am so sad that I have
to leave her. She stops riding just as we are leaving our small community. There is no sun that day and no hope to grow towards but I have to turn to face my new life. When I look back to that time, tears still fill my eyes. When I think about it, Elizabeth and Meghan are plants just like me.
When I arrive in Tampa, I am physically and emotionally tired. It had been a really long flight and everything hurts. I still cannot get over the fact that I had left a life behind. My mom tells me that when school starts, everything will feel better. It does. I immediately start meeting new people and I settle right into my classes. I even find new skating coaches and a viola instructor! But something still doesn’t feel right, I need a best friend. I was lucky to find one in Sara. We actually met at a friend’s house. I had no knowledge of her being there, and she had none of me. After that, we started hanging out at school, and we hit it off. We have been best friends since 6th grade. Now, I feel like I have finally found a home. I root myself in Tampa.
Over time, people may forget about me, but I will never forget them and the time I have spent with them. I cannot spend the rest of my life wishing I was back in Wiesbaden so I need to learn how to look on the bright side of any situation. I find that it is possible to do this by finding the things I need to grow. Like a plant needs the sun and water to grow, in order for me to grow, needed to find something that was missing. That something happened to be a best friend. Now, I can grow. I have decided to deepen my roots in Tampa and grow where I have been planted. I may move again, but I know wherever I go, my roots will grow strong.
Twinflame A love unspoken Intertwined, A bond unbroken.
In Fall
Like an autumn sky Your copper hair curls and coils, Frost hidden in gold.
Religion
I have no beliefs But your eyes, In them I see God.
“Off with their Heads”
THE MEANS OF BURNING
ALEX FANARO ‘22
His head was throbbing. Sweat and dirt dripped from his hairline. His ears rang as muffled echoes of liquid spilling sounded from a distance. The smell of petrichor and chemicals flooded his nostrils, demanding him to cough. He wanted to run, to help, but his limbs remained motionless; the ropes were too tight and the more he fought them, the faster they poured the gasoline.
A collection of wood chips and crumbled paper formed towers beneath her bleeding feet. Drops of blood fell from the tips of her toes and dyed the lumber a glistening shade of red– her favorite color. Her corkscrewed blonde hair was a matted frame around her perfect face. The sun wasn’t out, yet she was glowing. She did nothing wrong, at least nothing worthy of what he saw that day. He wailed at the men, their expressionless faces never granting a shred of empathy or hint of remorse. But her eyes never left his. As if she was telling him it was okay, that she would be okay. He wanted nothing more than to look away, nothing more than to look at the ground. But who was he to avert his eyes? As if he was the one being tortured; who was he to look away as they took her? Tears cooled his face and he struggled to inhale. The tallest man, the leader, gestured to the others, and one threw a burning match to the pool of gasoline.
Tendrils of orange and white consumed her body. The sound of her screams penetrated his ears and he ached for her. He watched as the flames coated her skin, as the life left her eyes, as the ropes holding her up burned until her body collapsed. All he wanted
to do was hold her. He watched her face fade until all that remained was a glorified bonfire. The men cut the ropes from his wrists and he fell to the ground in horror and exhaustion.
Tears trailed down his neck as he watched her burn.
He tried to stand, but his shaking legs were paralyzed. He embedded the tips of his fingernails into the thick of his calves. The men saw bleeding crescent moons pepper his legs, but he saw her golden smile in the depths of the wounds. He finally managed to bring himself to his knees.
Putting all his weight on his arms, he clenched the muddy moss. A reflection of flames and smoke painted the surface of a puddle— the distorted blaze screaming to him that he had lost her.
He stood.
His mind burned, as if alcohol was circulating his brain instead of blood. He ripped his gaze from the fire and locked eyes with the tallest man. The two others tensed up. Their palms became fists as the leader threw a mallet and an ax to the ground in front of him. “Take your pick,” said the tallest, the others waiting in silence.
They wanted a fight.
The shortest man, the one who poured the gasoline, had a smile plastered on his face. The next, the one who threw the match, adjusted the brass knuckles on his fingers. And the tallest, the one who orchestrated her execution, didn’t move; he was waiting for a weapon to be chosen. But there would be no brawl, no bloodshed. Their once inscrutable faces were now confused guises staring back at the man they had ruined. His feet went first, like he was floating on water.
He saw the fire engulf his legs, then his hands. Intricate spirals of embers marred his fingertips as he reached for her. He pictured her running through their marigold field in May. Heard her laughing as she picked him a flower. Held her as they watched the sunset; until the sky of spring blended with the blaze. He held her in his seared arms while the world around them went up in smoke. He watched his skin conform to flame. His eyes were bystanders to a blanket of inferno that covered whatever was left of his body.
But he felt nothing but the warmth of her embrace. His fingers replaced the feeling of molten flesh with the fuzzy plush of her favorite sweater, his nose replaced the smell of smoke with the subtle scent of her gardenia perfume, and his mind replaced his idea of hell with her heaven.
“I’m coming, Marigold. Just wait a moment more; I promise I’m coming.”
THE COLOR OF A FADING WORLD
ANYBODY ‘24
The color of the cloudless skies, not tainted yet with jet black smoket; it’s the rich hue of the ocean, soon covered in a thick oil cloak.
To be poached, their horns sold for prize, the color of dying species; now display with lifeless, glass eyes, the frame of hunted wildlife.
With absolutely no regard to animals living off it, the color of extending plains we will cut and burn for profit.
In our own doing we let spoil Earth’s colors, deep, rich, and royal.
BITTERSWEET ENDING
SABRINA PEDREGAL ’22
Dripping like honey, Screams are dancing around me For I am damned
I must run My feet no longer move Feel death’s hand
SABRINA PEDREGAL ‘22
THE 14TH FLOOR
CHRISTIANA CAROTENUTO ‘22
Her journey always started on the 14th floor. It was the same every day: she would step into the new, shiny elevator and ride down the floors as it stopped at various levels to pick up new passengers. Ultimately, her journey, as with everyone else’s on the elevator would end on the first floor, when there was nowhere lower to go. However, something was different about today, she could feel it in the air of the metallic elevator as the elevator stopped at the 10th floor and opened its doors. In walked a boy. Someone she had not yet seen before, despite her over 20 years of residence in this apartment structure and 4 years since she first began this consistent elevator journey. She sneakily tried to gaze at this boy, who was he? What was his story? Questions instantly plagued her mind as she began to look him up and down in the confined elevator space. She desperately wanted to introduce herself, to say hello, to say anything to this boy that was new and intriguing, but she remained silent. She couldn’t form the words even if she wanted to; it wouldn’t even matter if she could say anything, he would not even notice her. The elevator once again came to a halt, this time on the 6th floor. She knew what this meant. Another passenger would be joining her journey. This passenger was a regular to her, she saw him every day, always in a dull dress shirt with black slacks. As he stepped into the elevator, she watched as he began a conversation with the boy.
The man began with, “Good morning, I have to say I haven’t seen you before, are you new to the building?”
“You could say that,” the boy replied. “We haven’t had many new tenets since the accident, you know. Such a shame, she really was a wonderful girl.”
As the boy began to speak she suddenly felt as if her world shifted. His voice, his presence, everything about him was intriguing to her. She wanted to make herself known, to scream that she was here, with him, in this elevator. Alas, her mouth stayed shut. No words drifted from her, her silence was deafening to her. The man and the boy carried their light conversation to the 1st floor, it was an empty day for the elevator. She watched as the man gave the boy a polite wave as he departed from the elevator, next she watched the boy as he hesitantly stepped out and into the apartment lobby. He spared a glance back to the elevator, back to her, but it was as if he was looking right through her. He continued walking towards the lobby doors and exited the building. She was next. This was the final part of her journey, as she stepped out of the elevator, she found herself stepping back in, back on the 14th floor. She was doomed to repeat the same elevator ride forever, ever since the old elevator line had snapped when she was in it, plummeting her 14 floors to her tragic death. Now, her afterlife consisted of watching the residents move along with their lives. She lived in her silence, cursed to watch the world move on without her.
A LITERARY COMMENTARY
KATIA HUDDLESTON ‘22
And who decided that left is not right? Or that up is not down and that sphinxes and dragons will never be found?
And who made it up to them, to declare flying improbable and blubbering, bumbling lions impossible?
I certainly did not consent to deem the worlds of Carrol and Lewis to be outright outlandish and ludicrous.
I ask what the harm is, in letting one’s mind run wild With vivid imaginations like that of a child? And so I present this:
no scientists or doctor can ever truly say, that hobbits and jobberwacks will not exist someday, because all that we know is really very small, for all that we know isn’t very much at all.
“How long is forever?”
SMASHED CHINA
ANITA BUCHANAN ‘23
Smashed China
Like a cup of tea
So warming, So so fragile
Your love sips away
Tarnished Mind
My tiresome eyes
Just never enough for you
The mirror stares back
THE FUTURE MATTERS
Where will time take us?
Could we jump into a hole?
Start a new life there.
Are we all mad here?
Looking for fun in high school.
Waiting to be pleased.
The use of a book?
We have the internet. The future matters.
JACKIE BURGESS ‘22
RADIOACTIVE WORKDAY
SAV ARMENTROUT ‘22
With the push of a squeaking, rusted apartment door, Cyprus stepped out into the cold, noisy city. Immediately the stench of sewage and alcohol assaulted his senses, but it was how he knew he was home. The rusty machinery of the radiation plants clanked and whirred over his head as he walked to his assigned job. The city’s bitter outlook wasn’t helped by the crowded sidewalks, packed full of bodies pushing over each other trying to get to their destinations. Fortunately, Cyprus’ tall and slender frame lended a hand in these types of situations, being able to see above everyone and pass around those who didn’t get the memo to move quickly that day. The outfit that adorned his frame was black and worn—any color would be a sign one was new, or was still lying to themselves that the city was something other than a human landfill.
As he walked, crowded in the pack of those going a similar way, he took in the sounds of the city: the honking of cars in traffic jams and the yelling of indistinct conversation. Today, however, Cyprus could pick enough bits and pieces of an unimportant conversation to almost smile, if he did that. Etched onto Cyprus’ face was a near permanent expression of complacent dissatisfaction.
It was not that Cyprus did not know how to smile, the many pictures that framed the house he grew up in said otherwise. It was more so that there was simply nothing to smile about. Everyone was focused on getting to their assigned destination, walking the same path as the day before, and the day before that. No changes, no excitement. Just moving around like robots—deprived of a soul and autonomy.
DISTANT MEMORIES
NICOLE SAKRE ’22
Fluorescent lights buzz
Monotonous keyboard sounds. How did I get here?
Familiar walls
The couch that once held my shape No longer my home.
Passing by the house That was once another home
Distant memories.
ANTITHESIS
KATIA HUDDLESTON ‘22
Part One: The Beginning Rolling waves of blue Gently spray its occupants
And nudge them to fingertips’ reach Like beaming sunflowers That turn to face shining rays And let themselves enjoy the warmth
Part Two: The Boy
She was a soft breeze That soothed him on scorching days And embraced him atop mountains
Part Three: The Girl
He was a stone hearth, That kept her warm in white frost And glowed when she entered a room
Part Four: The Middle
Do leaves know when to part from loved branches? Do clouds know when to lose cherished raindrops?
Part Five: The Boy Again
The wind ripped through him in great violent gusts Stung young eyes, pricked smooth skin And flung him from the mountaintop
Part Six: The Girl Again
The hearth exploded in a fiery blaze, Scorched pink lips, singed soft hands And relinquished her to ashes
Part Seven: The End
Roaring swells capped white
Tore their outstretched hands apart, ‘Til they’re swept across a lifetime
Like thirsting sunflowers, That wilt in relentless beams, And wither back down to the dirt
CASSIOPEIA
NICOLE SAKRE ‘22
According to her mother, Violet spent her earliest months mad at the world. From the moment she was born, she was an angry baby, and her rage was unmatched. Nothing her mother did could calm her down, not for long. She screamed and screamed, because she was hungry, or tired, or for no reason at all. Violet screamed until her throat was raw and sore, making her head pound and her vocal cords ache. It went on like this for months, her mother taking her to an endless amount of doctors and asking for advice from everyone who crossed her path. She tried everything she could, but to no avail. It got so bad one day that her mother swept Violet up, strapped her in her carseat and began to drive. She didn’t know where she was going, but she just kept on driving until finally they arrived at the sea. It was the first time Violet had ever been to the ocean, and the longest she had ever gone without screaming.
Anger was rarely with Violet again until her mother died when she was 18 years old. The all too familiar feeling of blinding rage returned, and just like her mother had done 18 years before, she drove herself to the ocean. The sound of waves crashing and the salty smell of the air took Violet back to all the years her and her mother spent together at the beach.
Violet’s earliest memories were filled with images of the sea: visions of her and her mother running down the beach, the sensation of sand and wind hitting her face, her first steps taken right at the shoreline, her mother cheering her on. It had always been just the two of them, but for Violet that was enough.
Her mother had taught her everything she knew about life, and they did it all at the sea. She learned to count with sea shells, learned how to spell her name and write the alphabet in the sand, and
learned the names of all the different marine animals. Violet’s mother had taught her how to use an old vintage camera, and she’d use up rolls of film taking pictures of all her favorite things at the beach. She loved taking pictures of her mother the most. She tried to capture her long, soft locks of chestnut hair, her laughter that was more contagious than any sickness, and her free-spirited soul.
Violet’s mother didn’t believe in traditional schooling, which most people thought was bizarre, but Violet had loved it. Her world was small throughout her childhood, and that was just how she liked it. She had never felt the need for friends growing up. Her mother was her sole companion, and Violet was hers. Her mother was smart, and she had taught Violet subjects like physics, astronomy, and calculus. They took stacks of books to the beach, and lounged for hours as they read every single one. They would wait until the sun dipped below the horizon and everything around them went dark, and her mother would point out every single constellation, knowing all of them by memory.
“Look Vi,” she would say, “There’s Ursa Major, see it? Oh, and look there, it’s Cassiopeia!” Cassiopeia was her mother’s favorite constellation, and she frequently mentioned that she almost named Violet after it. Looking back, those were the best days. Life was slow and simple and good, and they soaked up every minute of it with each other.
Then, when she was 16, her mother got sick. It was out of nowhere; she had always been the healthiest between the two of them. Violet had sat by her bedside constantly, sleeping in a chair and helping with whatever her mother needed. She showed her pictures of the shoreline she had taken on their old film camera and collected the prettiest shells for her to look at.
Violet tried to keep her in good spirits, but it wasn’t enough. She passed, and for the first time in her entire life, Violet was alone. …
It had been exactly 15 years since Violet’s mother’s passing, and Violet was driving her daughter to the sea. Violet spent this day each year at a different beach, spreading a pinch of her mother’s ashes into each shoreline that they visited. She wanted her mother to be spread around the world, floating freely through the ocean, their favorite place in the world.
The day with her daughter was perfect. They collected shells, looked for dolphins swimming by, and spelt their names in the sand: Violet and Cassiopeia. They stayed there until dark, laying in the sand together looking at the stars, and Violet pointed out all the constellations.
“Look Cassie, do you see Cassiopeia up there? It’s you! “They laughed, and Violet was happy.
“Its no use going back to yesterday, because
because I was a different person then.”