Untitled, Summer Scott ‘29; Maddie Robertson ‘26……………………………………….………………6
Go Forth, Petra Cernjul ‘27……………………………………………………………………………………….………...……..7 和敬清寂, Ayumi Hayashi ‘27.........................................................................………………………..……….......8
Truth’s Black Tie, Jade Shepard ‘29……………………………………………………………………….……..……….9 Untitled, Sophia Lord ‘26……………………………………………………………………………………………….…..…….10
Bedroom, Ayumi Hayashi ‘27; Crowded Rooms, Lennon Phillips ‘27
Patio at Night, Madeline Wilson ‘29; Untitled, Mikkie Sharpe
Ruby Rowan-Decker ‘27; Where She Feels Safe, Ayumi
Commencement
Lucy Castoldi ‘26
Before me lies an ocean –Not of water, but of souls, Some stand at the edge of the sand, An empty map in hand,
Eyes bright with the thrill of the unknown, Others drift, their voyage nearly done, Countless lines covering a map which felt like its journey had just begun, Huddled together, reminiscing under the fading light of the sun.
When the sails have been cut loose, And you begin to coast into the uncharted, The clouds gather to host the horizons darkening,
And you wonder if you should have ever departed,
What was once a surface smooth as glass, Now shatters, full of shards of quiet expectation,
Cutting deep with no hesitation, Pressure builds, builds, builds, A silent drumbeat within your chest, The hush becomes a howl, The calm, a test. Every minute, every hour,
Every schedule in which we cower, It builds –
Every voice, every glance, Every bad grade leaving you in a trance, It builds –It keeps on building
Until you’re facing off a wave, Crafted from ones very hands, Reaching out to the waiting palms of others,
The transfer of weight no more noticeable than mere grains of sands, Yet it builds –
You brace for the inevitable crash, Because it will come,
All those hours, a web of perfection stitched from silence, Gone –
The wave breaks.
Hurled into the sea’s fury, Left bare as it decides your fate
As judge, executioner, and jury, And you –Are thrown, Twisted, tumbled, Salt scorches your eyes, Sand grits between your clenched teeth, But you do not drown.
Because this wave was never meant to drown you,
Untitled Luz Abramson ‘30
Untitled Annemieke Bourdon ‘30
Happy Tsz Yui (Clemence) Wong ‘30
Untitled Yilin (Aileen) Wu ‘30
But rather shift you, shape you
Like how the tide turns jagged broken bottles left to decay Into stone of glass that shine bright as may, And when you finally rise again, Because you will –The surface no longer looks the same.
You come up changed, Breathless, yes
Hair thrown in total disarray, With salt soaked within your skin, And stars now chasing out any grey, You turn towards the horizon, Where sun folds into the foam, And realize we were with you every step of the way. For you are not just one ship, Doomed to break against the shore, But rather a Stoneleigh owl, Cheered on as you find your way and soar.
And so I watch,
As each student sets sail, Chasing their star without fail, Daring to return to that restless, unyielding blue, For the ocean of knowledge still calls for you, And all it ever asks, Is that you step beyond the shore.
Tears of the Sea Turtle
Ayumi Hayashi ‘27
Writer’s Block
Lalibela Mekuria-Miller ‘29
Writers block
I’m driving 80 on a highway then suddenly Stop!
No words, no movement, everything drops.
My once busy mind had become a silent shrine,
Unpleasant and eerie, hardly divine.
The silence I once prayed for Has become a locked door.
Inescapable, unavoidable, and so much more.
I’m on a fast break for a layup, then suddenly Stop!
No words no movements everything drops.
Water plugging my ears, unions forming my tears, everything’s fuzzy, nothings clear.
Oh I wish I was an old man sipping a beer
Untitled Summer Scott ‘29
Untitled Maddie Robertson ‘26
Go Forth
Petra Cernjul ‘27
Dust on boots, a road of doubt ahead,
A quiet voice inside our heads.
We move, we search, we do not stand still,
Grit and youth, always a restless will. Somewhere between who we are and forth, We discover ourselves and we go.
Truth’s Black Tie
Jade Shepard ‘28
Wishing to be free, as if a feather suspended in the wind…
only to find my ashes compacted behind the bars my bloodied heart beat against.
We think we know the format of a life from the empty mold but truth himself evades us.
The one who wears a top hat the tallest pines reach for with brushed limbs and a suit pressed by ticking hands
Thoughts of “fact” bow to a childlike game
A lasting family joke
Untitled Sophia Lord ‘26
Klipping Väg
Sonoma Hansen ‘27
I went back. And the air tilted.
Not enough for anyone to notice
Just enough that my balance never found me again
The walls felt closer
Or maybe I was wider
Or maybe something invisible had shifted
And I was the only one still trying to stand
Where it used to be
-Everything intact holds Nothing-
Like a structure rebuilt from memory
With one essential piece missing
And no one able to name it
I moved through
And the ground answered late
Half a second behind every step
Like time had loosened its grip on me
My hands reached out, And came back altered.
Like touching water and finding it thick
Like touching something known, And feeling how it resists recognition.
There was a version of me there
I could almost see her
Slightly ahead and slightly to the left
Continuing without interruption. But I, could not catch up.
No matter how precisely I repeated her How she is supposed to move
No matter how carefully I followed the path
She never turned around.
And re space between us stretched, Quite and Deliberate,
Until it was something I could not cross.
Grief did not arrive.
It revealed itself.
As though it was there the entire time
Woven into the air
Sealed into the tile
Embedded in the way everything echoed Slightly, wrong.
It filled me from the inside out, Not sharp, nor sudden.
Just a steady occupation.
Like my ribs has been hollowed, And something heavier entered.
Birthday Cake
Morgan Bliss-Vandeurse ‘27
I tried to locate the beginning of it.
Some origin or fracture.
But every road leads to the same place:
Absence
Lacking a source. Loss, Lacking an event. Disappearance, That never finished happening.
So space bends around it..
Memories fold in on themselves
Until they no longer resembled a home I could enter.
They hovered, Close enough to recognise But always too altered to survive inside.
Untouched.
So the only thing that no longer fits, Is you. And no amount of staying Correct it.
No amount of repetition
Rebuild it. The system continues, Perfectly.
– Without you.
And something in me understood that, Without allowing it to be said.
Not as a thought nor decision But as gravity, Like the body recognising What the mind refuses to hold.
So I stood, Misaligned, Out of sequence.
Like I missed the moment where, Everything shifted
And no one thought to call me back.
There is a particular kind of undoing, That leaves the shape of everything,
That remaining here; Was a distortion.
Continuing, Was a form of erasure.
That the version of me
That belonged to this passion
Has already been displaced, Quietly, completely.
And what was left was not resistance,
Not strength,
Just the slow, tragic unthreading of attachment.
Until there was nothing left
Tying me to that love
Only the outline
Only the echo
Only the unbearable awareness, That something once lived
And I no longer do.
—- Signed, – Someone who wishes we had more time
A SOUP OF TRADITION
Lydia Wilson ‘31
(Inspired by: Kevin Noble Maillard’s “Fry Bread”)
My teal-gray Suitcase
Filled
Up with clothes
Gets lugged Up up up up
Onto the curb Of the circle. Out of the Uber, Because Papa didn’t drive To get us. He did this Because He wanted to avoid Chicago traffic.
The doormen wave
By the revolving doors.
They know us By now.
We dance through the Halls of Lake Point Tower, so Excited to be Here.
I Still wish I Could smell That heavenly Scent
Of chlorine rushing down the walls That settles in my Stomach as it Flows
Into black marble pools
That make the lobby glisten
“What’s Papa doing?” I ask. “He is making Chicken noodle soup,” Neenie replies.
I squeal in Anticipation as She guides us up Into the elevator
To floor four.
The elevator takes an eternity
To open the sleek metal doors.
I bounce on the Balls of my feet
Launching Myself up
As I think, Openup openup openup!!!
Coral Grief
Ruby Rowan-Decker ‘27
Mania
Mica Hastings ‘26
Madeline and I
Sprint down the grey-carpeted Hallway, North Wing getting
There before the
Adults
As soon as the elevator doors open
Trying to be
Mindful of The older People in the Hall.
Neenie and Dada chat, Having a mother-son conversation.
Failing to look up
As we strike poses for them
In front of the red-black ombré
Painting
At the end of the hall, A tradition we started this Summer.
Closer now, they Look up
And see our dramatic Shapes.
They laugh, saying,
“Are you two going to do this every time?!”
“Probably!” I say grinning.
Madeline nods.
We hold hands, my right in her left.
As soon
As they touch, A
Tremor of excitement passes between us
Traveling down my bicep-
Shooting down my ulnaInto my hand.
Pooling into my sister’s glowing golden warmth.
I ask for the blue circular key
And buzz us into the Door
That means so much more.
“Hello!” Papa greets us, “Are you ready for chicken noodle soup?”
“Yessss!” We Say in Unison. Madeline
And I exchange a Mischievous Smile because we Don't jinx.
We hug him and put our things in our room, that is Already ready.
Philautia Mica Hastings ‘26
Fiona Thompson ‘29
The mini-lamb weighed just seven pounds. A normal lamb weighs twice that much. Because we have so many lambs, we ear tag them to keep track of age and gender. The tags are a different color every lambing season, and have a constant order: year, then the lamb’s number. Gender is easy: right ear for ram lambs, left for ewes.
I held the mini-lamb for Dad, low, to keep the ewe calm, but high enough Dad could reach him. The lamb fit in one hand, and he nursed on my fingers while he was tagged. I rubbed the cowlick on his face and set him back under his heat lamp. It was February, and cold. He shook himself and toddled away, crying for his mom. Later that day, I sat on a two-gallon, red plastic bucket in the back right corner of the pen, holding a little Kenya Air water bottle from a recent trip in one hand. This alone was odd: we always used a larger glass bottle for nursing, but the lamb was too small. The bottle had a rubber nipple and was filled with milk replacer. The barn smelled, not bad, but like oily wool and the heat that comes from too many bodies in a small space. I supported the lamb with a hand splayed under his chest, fingers keeping his legs from folding, holding him up, each slender rib easy to touch through the soft, thin skin that shifted around, like he hadn’t quite grown into it. I had his back legs pushed up against the bucket to keep him standing. What I was doing always sounds more complicated than it is. With the same hand holding the bottle, my thumb and pointer finger circled under his chin, in the natural gap near the back of his mouth. My palm was over his eyes, so he’d stay calm and nurse. He was weak, young, and apathetic, and wriggled enough that it was a struggle to feed him. I did my best and, I guess, he did, too. I pinched the rubber nipple when he wasn’t nursing, pouring milk into his mouth so that all he had to do was swallow. He wasn’t really a bottle lamb, but because he was so weak, I fed him anyway for the first few days of his life. He needed a little help to get going.
Untitled Dory Gronberg ‘29
By the end of that week, he was stronger, and it was clear he would live long enough for a name — a few weeks at least. I chose May, the month he should’ve been born in. I didn’t see him much, since he wasn’t an official bottle lamb yet — he was still with his mom, even though he sometimes drank from the bottle. I sometimes visited him, though, and always defended him against Dad’s comments on his size. Once, some kids visited the farm and my dad showed them the lamb.
“They held your little guy. The skinny one.” Dad hadn’t bothered to learn his name. He almost never did, except sometimes for the longest-living bottle lambs. It upset me to learn children had touched my lamb, who was fragile and shy, and I told Dad so. He didn’t get why I cared so much. I could still adore the soft, silly lambs. But with Dad, livestock always meant there would be some dead stock. Before I went back upstairs, he said, “Will you go over there later and give that little guy a bottle? He’s really skinny; I think he should be a real bottle lamb.”
I started feeding May regularly. I talked to him while I mixed his milk, telling him about my day. Partly because I hated the silence. Partly because he got upset when I left him, and then the silence would be broken by his bleating as he stumbled around the pen. I never liked to hear him cry, and would let him nurse on my fingers. Sometimes, I held him in my lap and he fell asleep. Bottle lambs have it tough. They really do. And I’d been told before, don’t set your heart on a lamb. For some reason, I always do. Every time I think, “Maybe it will make a difference.”
By the end of that week, he was stronger, and it was clear he would live long enough for a name — a few weeks at least. I chose May, the month he should’ve been born in. I didn’t see him much, since he wasn’t an official bottle lamb yet — he was still with his mom, even though he sometimes drank from the bottle. I sometimes visited him, though, and always defended him against Dad’s comments on his size. Once, some kids visited the farm and my dad showed them the lamb.
“They held your little guy. The skinny one.” Dad hadn’t bothered to learn his name. He almost never did, except sometimes for the longest-living bottle lambs.
It upset me to learn children had touched my lamb, who was fragile and shy, and I told Dad so. He didn’t get why I cared so much. I could still adore the soft, silly lambs. But with Dad, livestock always meant there would be some dead stock. Before I went back upstairs, he said, “Will you go over there later and give that little guy a bottle? He’s really skinny; I think he should be a real bottle lamb.” I started feeding May regularly. I talked to him while I mixed his milk, telling him about my day. Partly because I hated the silence. Partly because he got upset when I left him, and then the silence would be broken by his bleating as he stumbled around the pen. I never liked to hear him cry, and would let him nurse on my fingers. Sometimes, I held him in my lap and he fell asleep. Bottle lambs have it tough. They really do. And I’d been told before, don’t set your heart on a lamb. For some reason, I always do. Every time I think, “Maybe it will make a difference.”
“A Peaceful Place”
Amelia Stewart ‘28
Look out into the quiet field
The rose and tiger sunset
Sweet baby deer learning to run and laying in the tall grass once their energy is all gone
I hear the peaceful songs of the whippoorwills and chickadees getting ready to turn in for dusk
For a moment I feel calm and quiet in my mind and body
Then the familiar sensation creeps up on me
First it’s above me
Then in cascades down through my skull and into my brain
My neurons are taken over by the violent thoughts that I cannot shake Whats happening?
Where is my mom?
Where is my dad?
Are they okay?
Am I?
My mind becomes too loud to bear so my body starts to hurt Im vibrating
My stomach churns and aches
I lay down seeking relief but it never comes Im panicking
But no body else in the field is
The baby deer and their mother are peacefully sleeping
The songbirds have stopped singing for the night
The air is still
It is silent
But I am not
How could I be?
From Memory Lennon Phillips ‘27
Grace Welch ‘28
Rubble crunches beneath the feet of Montag and the group of underground intellectuals. Only fragments of roads, the skeletons of buildings, and pieces of everything remain–nothing is whole. The men carefully step through the mess of former life while Montag stumbles like a drunken man, a stark contrast to the calmness of the rest.
“There,” Montag says, his voice crackling from the previous many moments of silence. The cluster of professors follow his outstretched arm to see more just more piles of stone and metal.
“What do you see, Montag?” Granger asks, his tone even, almost gentle. Montag retracts his hand, not answering right away. He stares at the ground as rain starts to trickle down from the gray sky. He watches the droplets smack the ruined cement. Each time a new one falls he hears the explosion all over again. Montag sits down, getting ready to speak again. He takes a shaky breath in.
“This is where I met her,” he manages to make out, the rain falling steadily now.
“Clarisse, a young girl that was taken too soon. Maybe not soon enough though,” he pauses, not sure if he should continue or not. He takes another breath and carries on, “You all would have liked her, she was interesting. She had this way of making you think, quite like a book seems to do. McClellan was her last name. Clarisse McClellan. She would always speak of her crazy uncle that housed these insane ideas and thoughts.” His voice becomes less shaky as he speaks. “They silenced her,” he ends his story there and looks up from the spot he had pointed to.
“They were not successful,” a voice says that Montag can’t place specifically. He turns to look at who it was when something catches his eye. Montag abruptly starts walking, pulling himself away from everyone and ignoring the last statement. His pace quickens as he gets closer, growing more eager to see what lies in front of him.
Untitled Lily Sherritt ‘31
He makes it to the red corner that peeks out from under what seems used to be a parlor wall. Montag drops to his knees, tugging the large shard out of the way, slicing his fingers in the process. He digs away at the pile surrounding it until he is able to remove the bright square shaped item away from the debris. His head spins with confusion, fire dances across his vision, his gut tightens as his heartbeat quickens. He hunches over the object to protect it from the water dripping down, pressing it tightly against his chest when he hears a rumble emerge from deep within him. Montag laughs.
“Yes!” He yells as he stands tall. His arms go up triumphantly. He continues laughing, the sound shocking. He pulls his hands back down to look at the red book with a girl that sits on the front. An eruption rips his body apart, the excitement too much to bear. He flips through the pages, holding them to his nose and inhaling deeply. The others swarm around him, joining in on his outburst of happiness and delight.
“Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi. Montag, this is called a graphic memoir, a story told through images about something the author went through. I want each one of you to memorize this word for word, this is history that is no longer told,” Granger says to the group that is gathered around a fire. Montag already has each word ingrained into his brain, from start to finish. He watches the flames flicker, his eyes growing heavy. He soon falls asleep, a sleep better than he has endured since he was a child. The warm memory of his mother soothes him, erasing the deep sadness within him for the time being.
He wakes a bit later. Everyone sleeps peacefully around him; they don’t have to worry about the government finding them anymore. Montag moves closer to the fire, reaching out his hands, feeling the emitting heat.
“Montag?” he jumps at the voice. It doesn’t belong to anyone in the circle, it’s too young and high-pitched.
“Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re a little dramatic, did you know that?” the girl says as she sits next to him. She has long dark hair that is poorly covered with a scarf.
Untitled Morgan Bliss-Vandeurse ‘27
“What-” he starts, but she cuts him off.
“You look so confused,” she laughs, “I’m Marji, you know exactly who I am.” He stares at Marjane blankly, his body frozen in place. She takes off the scarf and tosses it in the fire.
“Oof, that thing is uncomfortable. I don’t have to wear it here,” Marji says to Montag, he still stares at her blankly.
“I know you speak, Montag.”
“I’m just not exactly used to people from books speaking to me.”
“Well here I am.”
“I can see that… How can I see that?”
“Hey, it’s your brain, don’t ask me. Though you can ask me anything else you are curious about.”
“Anything?” She nods at his question. He thinks for a moment and then continues, “What is it like being forced to wear a head covering all the time?”
“Suffocating. I just want to be me. It’s kinda like you and books actually. The government tried to shape you into the person they wanted you to be, but you weren’t that person.”
“You think very clearly and matter of factly,” Montag observes, “You can read any book you want.”
“More or less. I only really read about the revolution and war in my country though there is a decent amount of censorship now. All they care about is religion and being true to god.”
“Religion is an interesting thing. I never heard of it prior to a few weeks ago.”
“It’s incorporated into my everyday life. It’s worse for the women and girls though.”
“How come?”
“We have to follow dress guidelines, less legal rights, restrictions to jobs and education, and more, the list goes on. You have seen these examples in your life too, Montag.”
“Well women are supposed to stay home, raise the children, clean the houses, it would be wrong for them to do anything else. I understand the dress guidelines are a bit too far but-”
“No. I am just as able to do anything a man can. I can set fires too, Montag,” Marjane cuts him off. Montag doesn’t say anything, letting her words sink in. He closes his eyes and Mildred appears. She's gripping onto the kerosene snake, spraying their old home. She wears a smile similar to the one he himself used to have. As bizarre as this imagination is, it feels right to Montag. Mildred’s brain was always structured to be able to work in the position. Clarisse on the other hand would have never touched a hose if her life depended on it. She would be sitting right here with the rest of the men, contributing more to their meaningful conversations than Montag can. The woman who burned her house down would be eager to share her knowledge. All of these women could have had a large impact on society if given the chance.
“You’re right,” Montag says, opening his eyes. Though when he opens them Marjane has vanished completely and is replaced with Granger standing over him, shaking him awake. The fire is long put out and the day is young.
“What happened?” He asks, confused.
“You were mumbling in your sleep, maybe dreaming. It’s time to get up now, we have a lot of land to cover today. People are waiting for us.”
Fiona Thompson ‘29
Montag–
I’ve been thinking; it’s a bad habit I have, a terrible, destructive habit I’ve adopted and you too may find yourself struggling with thought if you continue on this path; in any case, in the past weeks I’ve thought about many different things, really. I’m going to die, we’re all going to die – we’re only human, you should know, Guy, what with the McLellan girl; the fragility of our species is inane, a simple problem to be fixed, an illness to cure – but I am going to die by your hand: don’t worry, Montag, I doubt you’ll ever read this, which of course frees me to say whatever I want, secure in the knowledge that you can’t hurt me because you are nothing but a weak fool with a taste for the forbidden and who would know fools better than I, raised among them and yet above them, understanding and surpassing them– I know fools, Montag, look around at your wife and your peers and look at the faces on the walls and tell me you do not see the faces of the faithless faithfuls awaiting their fates, the deaf and dumb zombie-people that people our streets and fill our schools and file listlessly into work and stumble drearily out again, I know fools and I recognize that selfsame light in your eyes, the light of madness, the light of stupidity and greed.
You haven’t the cunning nor the courage to turn me in even if you had a single scrap of evidence to convict me of my supposed crimes like a villain, and who would they believe, you, a mindless follower, a sheep in the fold, a face among the crowd, or me, the man who has proven worthy to lead my men against those wolves that threaten the peace and safety of us all? I certainly could list a thousand awful things I’ve done, could confess my deepest darkest most damning secrets in this letter, without fear of punishment, but I have toiled longer and harder than you shall ever know, Guy, and I don’t plan on giving all that up now to confess to my sins, so I am afraid you won’t be learning my dark secrets, shame though that may be. They die with me, as many things will: knowledge, secrets, and where I’ve buried the bodies.
Caroline Abbe ‘28
Untitled
Montag–
Perhaps I’ve grown soft, senile swayable in my old age but I tell you now that fire has lost its brightness for me. The colors have faded from the flames and I’ve discovered quite recently that burning no longer holds the same appeal as it did for a young and bitter man, betrayed by his books, searching for redemption and finding it in the flames– now, I long for the cleansing fire brings without the fury of the flames to contend with. I am an old man, Montag, older than you know and sadder, and the fires of hell beckon me – I wish for a fair trial for my crimes, doubt it will come to pass – and sparks now fly blindingly into my eyes; tongues of flame that once respected me now scorch my skin; the smell of smoke that in the past pleased me has begun to pervade my senses. I am an old and tired man, Montag, and I am ready to rest.
Montag–
I tried so many times to warn you, my friend, I came myself and warned you (without success) of the evils you are so determined to pursue; I sent the Hound and once again failed to stray you from this path you’ve set yourself upon; the serpent has crawled into your mind and whispered in your ears, sweet, convincing lies, and you have had a taste of the apple and soon (but not soon enough) your eyes will open to the horrors of this world and I dread that day, and fear it may be coming soon: for you, for everyone (don’t think yourself special).
Montag–
And I, Caesar, and you, Guy, shall you be my disloyal Brutus and strike me down, or take up my mantle after I die and avenge my death as Mark Antony once did; Montag, my old friend, my foe, shall you kill me or defend me, join my side or theirs, for you must choose, Montag, choose! Choosing will kill you but indecision takes longer, I would know, the paradox that is choosing exists unparalleled inside me, to burn or read; to fight or befriend; to kill or preserve? I above all know the choices we firemen make and I more than anyone know the only exit left in this burning house is death and I flee there now, Montag, and you shall aid me on my journey, unwilling as you may be, aid me, my friend, as I die.
Untitled Dory Gronberg ‘29
One metaphor that captures Dckinson
Anonymous
(Inspired by Hope is the Thing with Feathers)
Emily is the orb in the sky, Observing and watching with a skeptical eye.
More often than not, she evades our sight But shines again straight through the night. Her scars and craters do not go unnoticed, though there is beauty and brightness in what she shows us
Cool Breeze
Valentina Hernandez ‘27
SALE: Everything Must Go!
Matcha Nguyen ‘27
Another day, another failure
For the best to succeed, the rest must fall
Eager grins descending akin to vultures and a corpse
Not a trace left behind, a name catchy enough to be entirely forgettable.
It all builds upon ruined glory, to reach heaven you must step over their bodies
A sob story is a dime a dozen (sixty into twenty four dollar jeans, once in a lifetime)
A steal, deal, discount stickers peeling off the wall, more than affordable to customers
Get it while you want, so you will never need. A chance to gain will never come for free
Fixed smiles and hollow eyes, desperation scrawled in marker, signing receipts…
A life passes by in a blink of an eye, don’t you feel fulfilled, superior?
No one has to know what’s behind the changing curtains fluttering on the heels of their feet
The only way forward is through, don’t look down or you’ll get sick!
The numbers flash by, up and on it goes churning through its (necessary) sacrifices
Suffering is an art gobbled up by the masses regardless of price tagged Mirrors and cameras condemn you from all angles, on stage for the world
Think of it this way: if you don’t buy, then someone will anyway.
Skull Drawing
Bela Miller
Cow Skull Still Life
Chiara Brown ‘31
Im right you’re wrong
Anonymous
A fan fiction by a non fan (Fahrenheit 451)
The first thing you gotta understand is this, I ain’t always been a book burnin man. Nope. Back in my younger days, I had opinions, curiosity, even read half a magazine once before I realized it didn't have a single picture of a truck in it. That's when I knew there was something wrong with the world.
Names Earl Beauford Jerkins, Senior firemen, And I been burnin books longer than most folks in this town been ignorin their own thoughts.
Now folks think bein’ a fireman is all glory- sirens wailin, flames roarin, neighbors peekin through blinds like it's the sunday show. And yeah, it's a fine job, honest work. You show up, you torch a house full of dusty O’l ideas and you go home smellin like kerosene and purpose. But I'll tell you what really matters, your truck.
Now montag, nice boy, little confused, probably thinks too much. He rolls up sometimes starin at things like trees, people and his own hands. I keep tellin him “Son, you aint gonna find answers in no leaves. You wanna understand life? You look at a good 7.3 power stroke engine.”
And let me tell you, if the firehouse ever switched us over to a toyota tundra or tacoma, id retire on the spot.
I aint trustin my book burnin reputation on somethin that sounds like it should be mowin lawns, not haulin bodies.
Potatoes
Valentina Hernandez ‘27
Potato Kahoko Okumura ‘30
Potatoes
Yilin (Aileen) Wu ‘30
Potatoes
Valentina Hernandez ‘27
Ford, now that’s a machine. Strong, loud, reliable, just like a proper fireman oughta be. “Found on road dead” my ass. You turn that key and it don’t whisper, it declares. Smells like freedom, it does. Like gasoline and runs like an eagle's boutta bite its butt.
Toyota? That thing would probably apologize before startin the fire.
Anyway, back to burnin books. We pulled up to this one house the other day, full of em. Books stacked like they thought they meant something. This Chick inside wouldn't leave, just stood there, clutchin her little paper friends like they was family.
Now I aint heartless, I mean I teared up once when Ford won Le Mans in 66. But this? This was different.
Montag looked at me like he wanted to ask a question. I could see it in his face, that dangerous itch of curiosity. So leaned over and said, real calm “BOY, don't you go thinkin too hard. That's how folks end up sittin in burnin houses.”
He didn't laugh, kids these days got no appreciation for wisdom.
We lit the place up, flames climbin like they had somewhere to be. And I stood there, hands on my hips, admirin the work.
Later that night, Montag kept starin off into space again, probably thinkin about books or feelins or whatever nonsense gets into a man's head when he ain't grounded by horsepower and common sense.
So I told him straight,
“Listen here, Montag, you can question the government, question why we burn books but you DO NOT question that fords are better than toyotas. Some truths just hold the world together.”
He blinked at me in silence when I just handed him the meanin of life. What a waste.
In a world where nobody reads, nobody thinks, and everybody’s scared of a little knowledge, sometimes the only thing you can trust is a good engine, a loud flame, and the fact that someone out there, a Ford is startin up without hesitation.
And that, my friend, is what keeps me sleepin easy at night.
Parlor Musings
Matcha Nguyen ‘27
Mưa, nắng, mưa, nắng
Bên ngoài, trong trí nhớ
Mỗi ngày, từ ngữ càng quên.
Phải ráng nghe âm thanh của tuổi thơ.
Trên trời đất này, còn có ai với tiếng ru
ngủ như họ?
Trong lòng, chỉ có tiếng ngoại ngữ,
còn không biết gì có nghĩa không,
Chỉ có một mình trong hang này.
Văn như bút của bé lớp mầm.
Ngồi trong lớp, hồn mất tích trong phòng
Dậy đi em, đời đang kết.
Con sóng Biển tới cửa nhà, một cuộc đời như vòng tròn.
TL:
Rain, sun, rain, sun
Outside, in memory
Everyday, vocabulary fades away.
Have to try and listen to the sound of childhood.
In this universe, who else has lullabies like theirs?
Inside the soul, only the language that is foreign remains, but there is no sense of meaning, Alone in this cavern.
Writing like pens of kindergarteners.
Sitting in class, soul is missing from the room
Wake up kid, life is ending.
Waves of the Ocean arrive at the doorstep, A life alike a circle.
Summer Forever
Ruby Rwan-Decker ‘27
a day it could have ended
Matcha Nguyen ‘27
truly, regrettably, it wasn't your disappearance that changed
I felt it on the horizon that day the birds biting at each other through the branches it all collapsed like rotting wood, drifting along to the wide, vast sea
I felt it in the way no one burned through my eyes, peering in watching the ash light up like candles imagining it was you inside your silence always spoke louder than your words
I felt it when my eyes were clouded over tugging on his sleeves, asking after her night after night of dead quiet all i can really remember, feeling the exhaustion reflected without a mirror she never really came back, you never really visit
I felt you understand, or maybe in a false vision, why I had to get away the way the living haunts the dead in those midnight hours the listlessness of the recently departed, groaning in their sleep
endless seas separate my memory from you in the dead of night, I hear the roosters awaken in the flash of a camera, the candle that burnt through flesh living in the indents of your fingers
Untitled Yuki Vilayvanh ‘29
prologue
Matcha Nguyen ‘27
by the edge of the pool under the sleepy trees and between statue'd dogs
I sit: find myself joined by swinging, splashing legs a soft hum echoes in the air, interrupted by half formed words and giggles everything sways gently with the summer breeze I don't move to fix her hair, nor respond to her questioning glances there is no point anymore.
tiny hands look imploringly at the strangeness she finds, unfamiliar and uncertain before I can reach out, it all withdraws stillness disturbed and sucked, a plug pulled on the very air we breathed
I cannot look her in the eyes, I've long made peace with the weight the very same conflicting glint in the inky darkness guilt and shame darken the clouds
selfishly, i never want to atone, apologize
to keep the peace and hollowness that I've turned my back on she promised, a long time ago, in the future that she will transform into a beautiful butterfly and never be left behind again.
that family will mean more than just people, that she would be perfect as she is. that naiveté stills my hand, sits on my chest. left by the only one she had.
Crowded Room Lennon Phillips ‘27
My Dorm Room Ayumi Hayashi ‘27
A Long Overdue Entry
Matcha Nguyen ‘27
It was 8:10 PM and I was sitting feel the condensation on my fingers. Ginger, the dog, not the spice, was panting softly on the couch as my hand ran up and down her back. For a second everything kind of stopped, and I had felt it and I say that a lot. Many times before, it was true then and it was true now. I guess it was a culmination of my thoughts that led to this. Because, for a split second all I could think of was myself, what could i have done, was there someone better, I didn't know and it killed me. It killed me that every time I set aside that pop-up bar, thinking there was more time when, in my mind, the clock had always been ticking. It was ironic.
How you said that lying was unbearable, for I think I've been lying the entire time to myself to you to everyone who would listen.
It's not your fault that I only cherish things when I lose them. That I only mourn things before, and after, never during. I live in the moment. But, I never remember it.
That night, I could've said something stirred in the air. Yet it would've been an excuse for the inevitable; but I hoped, and I prayed.
It wasn't ignorance, but I cannot find another name for the way it feels to talk to you. It was the way a child clasps their hands over their ears to escape the world
It feels unfair, to say that it was too good to be true because it was true.
I still don't quite understand and I don't think I'll ever understand.
Scratch out self
Charlotte Caputo ‘26
I know the quickest path is through. And for that I would need to tear apart your brain, but therein lies the issue, doesn't it?
No point digging around, in there, when you yourself seem uncertain of the past. I want to feel guilt for not seeing it sooner, but you have always loved me for the way my feelings never fully cannibalized me. I never wanna hurt you, even if I am brash, and I forget myself in order to hear you laugh.
I recognize that it is quite hypocritical to write you, now. When you have been begging for months and years and it kills me that I haven't been able to read between the lines.
I don't know who I blame. I don't know if there is something out there to "blame". you Believe, you always have (more than I do), in the goodness of people,
So, for once, I will believe in the goodness out there.
I know that it was always collateral that figuring this twisted thing out was always more complex than we could say.
I regret quite a lot, all the time, and I know nothing is ever lost, just re-purposed.
My goodbyes are never sincere, I hope that, someday, it all collides. Slinging, around the moon and back.
