Issuu

www.shgreenwich.org

2025

perspectives@cshct.org

Miss Mr. Meghan Danielle Kevin Dodman, Williamson Gennaro Maggie Finn, Ellie Furman, Caroline Gammon, OIivia Olivia Figueiredo Figueiredo Mrs. Marnie Clare Junius, McLaughlin Hunter NigeyEloise Liggitt, Catherine Ononye, Lexi Parsons, Dr. William Avery Mottolese Quake, Carolyn Quill, Nidhi Ray, Callie Regnery, Isabella Salerno, Julia Stiker, Miranda Zapata-Mardini

CSPA Gold Circle Award, 2023-2024, Design Multi-Page Presentation CSPA Gold Circle Award, 2023-2024, Portfolio Illustration NCTE REALM First Class, 2023-2024 ASPA First Place, 2023-2024 CSPA Silver Crown Award, 2022-2023 CSPA Gold Circle Award, 2022-2023, Alternative Story Form CSPA Gold Circle Award, 2022-2023, Humor CSPA Gold Circle Award, 2022-2023, Photo Illustration CSPA Gold Circle Award, 2022-2023, Design Multi-Page Presentation ASPA First Place, 2022-2023 ASPA Best Art, 2022-2023 NCTE REALM First Class, 2022-2023 CSPA Gold Circle Award 2021-2022, Photography: single artistic photograph ASPA First Place, 2021-2022 NCTE REALM Superior, 2021-2022

| Mixed media ational Awards m the Editors n

Starr Boursiquot

Cover 3 8 9

Ellie O’Hara Alexandra Lockhart Grace Riva Hunter Nigey

10 12 12 14

Hunter Nigey Hunter Nigey Frankie Hinton Starr Boursiquot Autumn Giordano Carolina Figueiredo Emily Shull Caroline Hopley Mya Gayle Jaiden Vital Maggie O’Hara Arianna Chin Jaiden Vital Gianna Rodrigues Julia Stiker

14 17 18 19 20 20 22 23 24 27 28 30 30 32 34

Hummingbird’s Delight | Watercolor

Vivianna Chin

Grace Milio

Gabrielle Hughes Emma Mulcahy Emma Mulcahy Kathleen Saxe

42 43 44 46

Aidan Kobata Ellie Dodman Kaitlyn Bentley Emily Shull

46 48 49 50

Kingsley Ely Ellie O’Hara Maggie Finn Vivianna Lostumbo Annie Slocum Lexi Parsons Beata Servick Aitana Ross Perspectives staff, et al. Emma Mulcahy

51 52 54 55 56 58 59 60 62 63

FLOAT Sailing the Stars, after Van Gogh and Hopper | Acrylic

Maggie O’Hara Emily Shull Callie Regnery Meg McGrath

66 67 68 69

Maggie O’Hara Olivia Franco Hunter Nigey Hunter Nigey Colette Minton Frankie Hinton Xan Collins Madeline Beaudry Autumn Giordano Analyse Almonacy Hadley Caras

70 71 72 73 76 77 78 80 81 83 84

Me, Three of Us | Poetry e | Colored pencil, cardboard, wood man Experience | Blackout poetry s On | Mixed media

Madeline Walker Aitana Ross Alexandra Hopley Hunter Nigey Olivia Figueiredo Reilly Berry

85 87 88 89 90 91

Flash fiction

ime | Acrylic

Callie Regnery Kaitlyn Bentley Emily Shull Dasha Holness

94 94 96 97

Angie Seewald Carolyn McBreen Starr Boursiquot Olivia Figueiredo Abi Gschwind Bella Boone Annie Slocum Meg McGrath Grace Im

98 100 100 104 106 107 108 109 112

Kathryn Herman

113

Analyse Almonacy Joanna Eken Lexi Parsons Maggie O’Hara

114 115 116 116

Acrylic

The Apparent World | Poetry Sunset | Acrylic Horizons | Flash memoir Chroma Reverie | Digital photography Contributor Index

118

r passionate and visionary group of Upper School students meets each week to anonymous submissions from our peers, and to edit, arrange, and ultimately this volume that you now hold in your hands. mbined now-twelve years’ worth of experience on the staff of Perspectives weighed pon us throughout the creation of this, our final issue. We took seriously the honor burden of creating a magazine that examines our own journey as writers, artists, students, and leaders, and that also explores and celebrates the individual journeys enges our classmates confront every day. small, private, all-girls Catholic school, we are often seen as “big fish in a small and our theme of In the Water has allowed us to autonomously embrace and late our journey that is about to extend beyond on campus in Greenwich, CT. Our mes of wade, float, tread, and swim, demonstrate a progression of understanding awareness, an evolution of how we see the world and ourselves in it. represents the beginning of the journey into possibility. This is the unknown, the ean before us. Still walking and moving forward with control, we begin to encounter e that slows us and challenges our beliefs—that breaks our fall but also unsteadies e. Float begins to ask questions uninhibited by the gravity of our upbringing, the ble certainty of our grounded lives, prompting—perhaps for the first time—true and d self-reflection. What makes us who we are? What would make us who and what we be? Tread is the encounter of the more concrete challenges that lie ahead. Neither nor floating, we run in flooded limbo, our finish line uncertain and our progress e. Untethered to past or future, we are faced with the isolation that sits on that of growing up. Swim holds not only the climax of our challenges but, also, a ment both frightening and freeing. Breaking through to new beginnings, we finally actualize the future we have imagined for ourselves.

crafted underWe thehope supervision of facultywithin mentors. The art and writing pieces and visions. that something its pages speaks to you the wayare thegenerated sound of by Upper School students through individual creativity and classwork. Student writers and the sea may conjure the unexpected and beautiful. artists submit their pieces to an email account monitored by the Editors-in-Chief, who remove all identifying information before storing the submission on Google Drive to be Ellie, Moira, and Emily reviewedCo-Editors-in-Chief anonymously by the staff and section editors at weekly meetings. —The book was self-published using BookSmart software on a Macbook Pro and produced Perspectives 2025 via digital printing. All image files were formatted by staff using Adobe Photoshop CC 2025 and all text was set in Avenir, a typeface developed by Adrian Frutiger in 1988. 200 copies of this 122-page book were printed on 80 lb. semi-matte photo paper by Blurb, Inc. in San Francisco, CA on May 17, 2025. Books were distributed to contributors and other members of the community at no cost at Sacred Heart Greenwich’s end-of-school celebration on May 30, 2025. Funding for Perspectives comes from the Upper School through a yearly budget and the Upper School English Department.

WADE

of white noise, ocean waves; icks glass, so clear and blue as aof kiss goodnight, nno in fear, the way peacegrace just of a quiet s curve, soft aswings. rain. ars Menelaus’

fly rests, its wings rks attracted to shimmering ght aglow, stars above unlight’s presence— tter slow;peace, a peaceful sigh f serene tranquility. moment, free of issue.

e whispers slow, a steady lullaby, e air like a summer solstice— elaus butterfly drifts; weightless, free stillness of a gentle sea.

shimmer like tiny stars, ty wears these wings of cobalt, se of peace, forever giving.

Sounds of white noise, ocean waves; Inlullaby the thicks glass, so clear and blue a as aof kiss goodnight, an ocean in fear, the way peacegrace no rush, no just of a quiet its edges soft aswings. rain. that wearscurve, Menelaus’ A butterfly its wings Tiny sparks rests, attracted to shimmering in the aglow, stars above the night sunlight’s presence— each slow;peace, a peaceful sigh a timeflutter of serene tranquility. a quiet moment, free of issue. The pane whispers slow, a steady lullaby, filling the air like a summer solstice— the Menelaus butterfly drifts; weightless, free like the stillness of a gentle sea. Sparkles shimmer like tiny stars, tranquility wears these wings of cobalt, a promise of peace, forever giving.

heritance is a phrase Google Translate cannot provide: Je crains degun. g “to fear nothing,” the words are rooted in my mom’s hometown of Arles, The phrase is also a catalyzing force, but once it meant nothing to me. one day, I faced a heart. ne: a 4’5’’ 1st grader standing before a real “human” (actually a pig’s) heart. siting a scientific convention in Massachusetts with my parents when I d upon a section specifically for medical students. A heart was left und and, my curiosity piqued, I decided to join the students. The “operating” AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAA

me was strange in form and texture. Monstrous. Its width rivaled that of my outstretched fingers. Its length was equivalent to that of my forearm. When touched, the outer layer of the heart revealed itself to be thin and slippery, while just below the surface, a tough layer of muscle made itself known. It reminded me of a dead fish, and I recoiled with disgust. —Visions of the lifeless heart rising to life and beating filled my mind. My pulse raced at the thought and I jumped back toward the comforting safety of my mother. She scooped me up and, noticing my visible discomfort, asked if I would like to leave. Though the heart was revolting, my eyes remained fixed upon it. I could not bring myself to part with it. I begged to be put down. As I moved back towards the table, my mom grabbed my hand and reminded me of our family’s motto: “Je crains degun.” —I gave in to the grotesque, the deformed, the monstrous. With my fears subsided, and with the help of the instructor, I carefully dissected the heart. —It was from that same table that my parents bought me my first medical kit. It was simple but functional, with more than enough supplies for me to bandage every stuffed animal in my bedroom. I wanted to understand what was within the human body—what made it tick. Holiday gifts of dolls and books were replaced with anatomical stuffed toys and a prized special edition of Gray’s Anatomy.

of growing up, yet everything I tried left me feeling dissatisfied. Eventually, I local pediatrician if she would be willing to let me extern with her, not only to y art block but, also, to gain real-world experience and a firsthand look into y life of a doctor. Dr. Vatsan shared her own heart through stories. She taught being a pediatrician had showed her the good and bad sides to growing up; could be an exciting process, most kids struggled at some point and needed pport. Her words catalyzed my imagination, and I crafted a painting that nted how I saw the process of growing up, with my family’s mantra also as on. as a student, I find glimpses of the human heart in classroom discussions on morality. Conversations about pairing art and writing in the Perspectives e room are capillaries that connect me to others, while intense debates about ld ethics are veins that bring new insights that transform my views. I fear and seek everything. child, I loved the idea of being able to heal physical wounds and ailments. others through pain and struggles led me to discover my passion for e and my dream of becoming a physician. I recognize that challenges will be but I continue to live my life emulating, “Je crains degun.”

my heart knew before my life. star, do you cry love across crashing waves and icy winds, n a floating ocean, ever watching, ever still? al light; hast thou looked upon me? you from the dirt and stone, tethered to your soft love— iling muse, as I pursue this thankless art. a universe where we aren’t apart? star, do you know who adores you? To be known is to be loved and to be loved is to live. But you do not know me—what have I left to give? sses—your still-gentle face, smooth and warm emain trapped, shackled to my chair. star, why must you forsake me? pleads not strong enough? Do my words hold no weight? a universe where we are together? e, my light, my world, my star, miss me when my mouth runs dry and my blood runs cold? t runs out and my canvas is unfinished. am forgotten, you will live forever. art is not mine—and—you know nothing of me ow my heart has loved you long before my lifetime.

g nature’s home. through fng ancient stone climbing ss, inverted unknown.ocean. he g breeze, d draped in its grey coat. wdery trudge tmosphere— a secret meeting forgreen the eye to rest. nt

en guiding arms— rees l. watch over ty. y smith day, other bite. bite of aofview. e taste wonder.

haunting nature’s home. Wandering through Layers of ancient stone climbing emptiness, unknown.ocean. toward the inverted Caressing breeze, the world draped in its grey coat. The powdery trudge Sullen atmosphere— through a secret meeting a pillow forgreen the eye to rest. of giant with open guiding arms— Plump trees watch over immortal. soft purity. A granny smith day, Take another bite. perfectthe bite of aofview. Enjoy taste wonder.

was no such thing as love. seven-word sentence pulled at my heart. I did not want to believe it. But w, today, I did. Maybe it was the taste of metal, ripe at the tip of my tongue —not my own. Maybe it was the next stretcher carrying in another boy. brother. Another son. Another lover. Maybe it was death creeping around er. Whatever it was, today, there was no such thing as love. sed the wound in front of me, peeling up the soaked-through gauze pad. h! Ouch! A little slower, please,” the boy grumbled, his eyes squinching up osed his wound. Beneath the dirt, the sweat, the scars which weren’t there a ago, his cheeks glowed with youth. He was just another boy. Eighteen, nineteen, his adolescence stolen quietly in the night. He reminded me of e I once knew. h! Please, miss,” his eyes slammed shut. “It hurts. Slow down, please.” going as slow as I can,” I exhaled, trying to steady my palm. I would never d to this job. “Just breathe. It’ll all be over soon.” ted stories for these men, these boys; it made each of them more than just on a hospital bed. air was kissed by the sun, a mark of days spent on his grandfather’s rry farm upstate. His knuckles were calloused and worn from days of up boys for his sister in the nearby schoolhouse. He had fraying aphs of airplanes in his childhood bedroom, memories of a dream whisked AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAA

from reality. They took me away from my own story—my own life—the tacks and gybes of consistency. The ebb and flow of pain. —“Alright, dear, I’m done with the dressing. You need to get your rest now,” I ordered, fluffing the pillow behind him and helping him recline. —“You’re very pretty, miss,” he mumbled, “like my Alice. You look just like her.” —I pressed a warm rag to his head and sighed. I knew that feeling. The hollow that AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAA

e you ever been in love, miss?” The nameless private asked, as his eyes ipped closed into slumber, into those strawberry fields. and trembled. A hand that had once been held by another. The air in my oze, like the hands of an old watch. Love. Not that word again. Deadlier e German air raids which pounded the rooftops of towns down the road. ow could such a word unleash so much pain? e,” I muttered, stepping away from his hospital cot. Once.

me. I could respond. I did not know how. —“Miss, I…I am sorry. I didn’t mean to…ummm…remind you.” His eyes opened and he gave me a limp smile; it was all he could give, all that was left. —“Life.” —“What?” The private’s eyes scrunched up. He shuddered in pain. —“Life happened.” —I moved on to the next patient, doctors and nurses swarming around me. Cot after cot, I peeled, dressed, and bandaged each wound, often not speaking, afraid of what each boy might say, afraid their pain would become my own. I forced myself to smile. —“Helen, you’re needed by the vestibule,” another nurse tugged at my elbow as I spread a clean, white sheet on an empty hospital bed. —I turned to look at the entrance of the tent. Then I saw him. —His face was pale and ashen, colorless, drained of life. He was the subject of a portrait: still and motionless, yet animated and alive. Sweat dribbled down from his forehead. His eyes were shut; their deep brown vivacity obscured from my view. His chest rose and fell from beneath his tattered uniform. Just as it always had, in a rhythm, but this time, I could not hear or feel his heartbeat. —“Jack,” the linens slipped from my hands.

ars: his—” “Helen, I know I’ve hurt you. I know I’ve screwed up. I’ve e! runGet away mefrom the my scalpels, feelings now!” for you. But I can’t. I can’t run away ger. ctor’s I can’t voice loseboomed, you, again.” but my uldn’t ed in amove. deep They breath were andcaught rushed toward the stretcher, brushing eat other ravine—between nurses, tears forming time and at the corners of my eyes. A few were between ferrying now the and stretcher before. toward the operating area in the as thejust tentawhere boy. A theboy doctors who loitered. had opies ed the of shoulder Charles Dickens of one of novels the medics. He turned around, stale te e fuming bookshelf off in hishis breath. bedroom. A t…what o smoked happened? cigars and What drank happened to him?” My voice shook. on iquor the to tipsmitigate of my toes thetrying pain.toAget a better look, but the group o obstructed loved to feel my view. the pulse of the medics n through placed his him fingers down at the on the endtable. Royal er bullet Henley to the Regatta abdomen, his father he’s lucky to still be breathing,” he him My to heart race stopped in each beating. year. He He was brave to the last second. fixed ighting hisforhair something, in the mirror thoughatI never knew what. e,” ice one before of the leaving doctors the spat, house. “get some morphine, and those .” an old photograph of his bed on his thebedside medic’s table. arm, “but He wore he’ll be alright won’t he?” AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AA

What in my isears: his—” “Helen, I know I’ve hurt you. I know I’ve screwed up. I’ve tried to runGet —“Nurse! away mefrom the my scalpels, feelings now!” for you. But I can’t. I can’t run away The longer. any doctor’s I can’t voice loseboomed, you, again.” but my feetsucked —I wouldn’t in amove. deep They breath were andcaught rushed toward the stretcher, brushing in a the past great other ravine—between nurses, tears forming time and at the corners of my eyes. A few beyond,were medics between ferrying now the and stretcher before. toward the operating area in the —He of back was thejust tentawhere boy. A theboy doctors who loitered. had dusty —I tapped copiesthe of shoulder Charles Dickens of one of novels the medics. He turned around, stale lining the fuming chocolate bookshelf off in hishis breath. bedroom. A boy who smoked —“What…what happened? cigars and What drank happened to him?” My voice shook. Icheap stood liquor on the to tipsmitigate of my toes thetrying pain.toAget a better look, but the group boy of men who obstructed loved to feel my view. the pulse of the water run —The medics through placed his him fingers down at the on the endtable. of the Royal —“Sniper bullet Henley to the Regatta abdomen, his father he’s lucky to still be breathing,” he forced him paused. My to heart race stopped in each beating. year. He He was brave to the last second. always fighting Always fixed hisforhair something, in the mirror thoughatI never knew what. least twice one —“Nurse,” before of the leaving doctors the spat, house. “get some morphine, and those He had an old photograph of his scalpels.” mother —I grabbed on his thebedside medic’s table. arm, “but He wore he’ll be alright won’t he?” AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAA

hat heartbreak would make him its prisoner re time. e! Don’t make me ask you again.” ed around, heading toward the table with instruments. ,” the medic’s eyes followed me. “Jack .” calpel trembled in my hands. pel,” the doctor demanded, holding out his I thrust the instrument into it. ,” I whispered to myself, as I watched the chest rise and fall like the curves of ns. The tears clustered in my eyes. A knot in my ribcage, tugging me towards the table.

o the ground, my knees meeting the cement. me a new nurse,” the doctor commanded as s burst from within me. “What’s the matter ?”

afraid that heartbreak would make him its prisoner one more time. —“Nurse! Don’t make me ask you again.” —I turned around, heading toward the table with medical instruments. —“Jack,” the medic’s eyes followed me. “Jack Williams.” —The scalpel trembled in my hands. —“Scalpel,” the doctor demanded, holding out his hand as I thrust the instrument into it. —“Jack,” I whispered to myself, as I watched the soldier’s chest rise and fall like the curves of mountains. The tears clustered in my eyes. A knot formed in my ribcage, tugging me towards the table. “Jack.” —I fell to the ground, my knees meeting the cement. —“Get me a new nurse,” the doctor commanded as the sobs burst from within me. “What’s the matter with her?”

vels steadily along a river of hospitality. n and rest, t covering ry beams. o the rhythm of river’s downs— whoosh, whoosh— beating of heart.

vements trickle oat, ng river’s music. questions swirl; what it is? l of fish, g river’s currents? oup of nymphs, with river’s ms?

Boat travels steadily along a tranquil river of hospitality. Lie down and rest, straw hat covering sun’s fiery beams. Listen to the rhythm of river’s ups and downs— whoosh, whoosh, whoosh— matches beating of heart. Tiny movements trickle under boat, disrupting river’s music. Pool of questions swirl; wonder what it is? A school of fish, following river’s currents? Or a group of nymphs, toying with river’s little drums?

—get up and look under; what plays r’s music. ’t look too deep; r’s spell of immersion.

oat, of shadows what lies below. or hair can be seen; of darkness protecting.

ns left unanswered, n and rest once more. o the rhythm of river’s eats— clunk! whoosh, clunk!— der what lies .

Quick!—get up and look under; behold what plays with river’s music. But don’t look too deep; fear river’s spell of immersion. Under boat, ripples of shadows conceal what lies below. No hint or hair can be seen; a shield of darkness protecting. Questions left unanswered, lie down and rest once more. Listen to the rhythm of river’s heavy beats— whoosh, clunk! whoosh, clunk!— and ponder what lies beneath.

ther’s job had him traveling all over the world for most of my od. It was just my older brother and me at home—my two siblings not yet a whisper—and my father would bring us nkets from each of his travels. Of course, I treasured my one like it was my own child: a small white box with bright rries on it. He got it from Shanghai? Hong Kong? At some ong the way, I can’t quite pinpoint when, I filled it with a of leftover buttons that my mom no longer needed. They etty: gold gilt and sanded wood. buttons, of course, were never just buttons. Nothing ever only itself. My favorite was a shiny gold color. It held the of my childhood home—an apartment in the city. I grew up o sleep by fire truck horns and ambulance sirens and could any of my peers by ten blocks. parts of myself scattered across Manhattan when we moved e, beside the “No Parking” sign. Two, a penny in the Columcle fountains. Three, skating across Wollman Rink with my I think. Four, setting with the sun, touching the horizon. no retrieving these parts of myself. Perhaps their absence is of me, too. I do my best to not lament the holes left behind, away in their cherry box.

—My father’s job had him traveling all over the world for most of my childhood. It was just my older brother and me at home—my two younger siblings not yet a whisper—and my father would bring us little trinkets from each of his travels. Of course, I treasured my favorite one like it was my own child: a small white box with bright red cherries on it. He got it from Shanghai? Hong Kong? At some point along the way, I can’t quite pinpoint when, I filled it with a handful of leftover buttons that my mom no longer needed. They were pretty: gold gilt and sanded wood. —The buttons, of course, were never just buttons. Nothing ever inhabits only itself. My favorite was a shiny gold color. It held the memory of my childhood home—an apartment in the city. I grew up lulled to sleep by fire truck horns and ambulance sirens and could outwalk any of my peers by ten blocks. —I left parts of myself scattered across Manhattan when we moved out. One, beside the “No Parking” sign. Two, a penny in the Columbus Circle fountains. Three, skating across Wollman Rink with my brother, I think. Four, setting with the sun, touching the horizon. There is no retrieving these parts of myself. Perhaps their absence is a piece of me, too. I do my best to not lament the holes left behind, locked away in their cherry box.

never much of a survivor. ot to remember, but I cannot help it. The smooth wood of the smallest button in my hand. When I hold it, I can taste my first bedroom lingering in the air, smell its intoxicating fragrance of midnight and simplicity. It’s the kind of at holds your tears in its big, wide arms until it becomes the ocean. Until it’s ough to rock you to sleep. My baby sister is quiet in her crib… I watch her AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAA

—Then, there’s the largest button, slightly dented and concave. It carries the spiced smell of lost innocence, and it begs me, on its hands and scabbed knees, to move on. To stop strangling it. For all my kindness, I can never bring myself to let go. Oh, that smell of teenage vacancy and symphony. I still succumb to its chasmic emptiness. —My father’s box, my mother’s buttons. My father’s mind, my mother’s soul. I have been closed up, sealed with the two of them still inside me. Each one claws at the other for a chance to express itself wholly. I do my best to keep teeth away from throats. My arms never stop bleeding… —My father’s job still has him traveling. I can see the contrails left by each flight around his eyes, the lines left by each city etched around his smile. I am lucky he still smiles so often. He says he is tired, his burdened bones weary. I am seventeen. I do not yet know for certain what this means, but I think it has something to do with the past clinging to your legs and imploring you for more time in your big, big arms. This, for all my shortcomings and waywardness, this I understand.

ds perch on the tree. an eagle watches, ving eyes staring, ce sharp as a blade.

hums with stillness, casting shadows long as doubt.

ebirds lean close, brushing like gentle promises.

between them thickens, tring waiting to snap, thers bright as stolen laughter. ce between the eagles and lovebirds he lovebirds feel calm and safe, r safety feels like a lie.

eagle waits. ze, a quiet truth lingers: e brightest wings stammer a sky that deceives.

LOAT

FLOAT

light swaddles me the moon’s hazy glow. iresome day’s work, hery depths of my bed invite me the threshold between nd the realm of illuminated darkness.

to the endless abyss of stars, elmed by the beauty of nothingness, he sound of freedom is as clear and constant ain that lulled me to sleep.

m reminded that the ashen atmosphere ferent than the boundless bays, ent than the magnificent mountains; tor, how far does this universe unfold? must I go to reach you orld never ceasing, easing to amaze?

Arms outstretched, I shout with unrestrained joy —Where am I going!— And as I grow accustomed to this unparalleled, unfamiliar bliss I smile as the universe whispers: nowhere nowhere nowhere.

eSaxe birds still look for something more to come— | Poetry ness still remains that gently sustains. shades of blue and white

e sky irds in thepainting bright blue sky through whistling clouds, interfly rapidly a canvas shines on the for girlaswimming in the bright blue pool, ouds whistle shout or rumble, estillness did theyremains— know g,dsthis what they been waiting stillislooking for had something more, for: pany a strong fulfillment— ece ofof a each puzzleother, hidden in a cave, roundings growing deeper with appreciation le boy on his birthday longing patience. e presents.

tle vibrant shades of yellow glisten as the sun, ves the girl comfort of the more to come— ws the sun is the main one stillness remains— looks for something more to come.

again theSaxe birds still look for something more to come— Kathleen | Poetry but stillness still remains a peaceshades that gently sustains. Various of blue and white fill the sky As birds fly in thepainting bright blue sky through whistling clouds, likethe a painter rapidly a canvas thethe sunclouds shineswhistle on the for girlaswimming in the bright blue pool, as shout or rumble, and only littlestillness did theyremains— know but all along, what they been waiting the cloudsthis stillislooking for had something more, for: the company a strong fulfillment— like a piece ofof a each puzzleother, hidden in a cave, theirasurroundings growing deeper with appreciation like little boy on his birthday longing patience. forand more presents. The subtle vibrant shades of yellow glisten as the sun, which gives the girl comfort of the more to come— she knows the sun is the main one but still, stillness remains— but still looks for something more to come.

A window pulling you toward the wild animals as they wake from their slumber. As the sun rises, the wildlife rises with it, bringing light into a new day. The exotic call of conversation lingering throughout call from call flutter through flutter hiss to hiss. The water flowing like the curls of a snail shell. The flamingo drinking from the fountain looking as if it were an umbrella blocking out the rain. The center plant echoing the image of the head of a pineapple, wild like love so complex it holds itself together. The warm seasoned heat flaming from the sun, keeping each creature warm and safe as the jungle maintains itself.

lost in the Liberty of London department store the summer before fifth The winter before, my mother broke her leg by slipping on pachysandra. vy morning dew still clung to the evergreen leaves. Their color was eternal. on her way to pick up The New York Times, when she fell. No one was o hear her fall. onths later in London, she decided to take the elevator up to the fourth the department store, but I refused. It looked like it was from an old black te film with one of those rusty iron gates. I took the stairs instead. I did not be trapped in a box. I did not like the possibility of an elevator falling, ed in a purgatory. After I had walked up the stairs to find her, the elevator rived. Near the shaft, a sign: “out of order.” I searched the store for her, mbing through strangers, surrounded by rooms and rooms of bright fabrics wools. Eventually, I found a saleswoman and told her that I had lost my She asked me for my mother’s number. wards, when we reunited, my mother assured me that the elevator did not and that she bought me the greatest gift. I had had other journals before, was a writing journal. A journal solely dedicated to the pursuit of crafting nd worlds. It soothed my anxious heart. It gave me a place to put that panic jure up dreams. so often, I still pick up that journal and feather through its pages. Some are n chalky pencil. Some are splotched in ink. Others are written in marker the AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAA

and adorned with delicate, little white flowers on its leather cover; this journal, pencil marks peppering silk pages; this journal, full of damsels, lovers, foreign cities, and knights.

somebody. I had always dreamed of becoming a writer, of winning a Pulitzer Prize or Nobel Prize in e. I continued to write, and I was never at a loss for As I filled empty journal pages, I realized that I did not r fame. I wrote because I loved words. I loved their aste, like dripping honey, on the tip of my tongue— verlasting. I loved their melodic sound, like a piece by vsky or a song by Billy Joel. I loved holding them in my cradling them, and allowing them to transform, to t. nny. On the eleventh page of my writing journal, I wrote he English countryside, which was dancing through my ndow, passing like scenes from a silent film that same when I lost my mother in the Liberty of London ment store: “I could just lie there on those hills all day e or read.” And I could. I would. I can. I could get lost here—forever.

were a somebody. I had always dreamed of becoming a famous writer, of winning a Pulitzer Prize or Nobel Prize in Literature. I continued to write, and I was never at a loss for words. As I filled empty journal pages, I realized that I did not write for fame. I wrote because I loved words. I loved their sweet taste, like dripping honey, on the tip of my tongue— sticky, everlasting. I loved their melodic sound, like a piece by Tchaikovsky or a song by Billy Joel. I loved holding them in my palms, cradling them, and allowing them to transform, to transport. —It’s funny. On the eleventh page of my writing journal, I wrote about the English countryside, which was dancing through my train window, passing like scenes from a silent film that same summer when I lost my mother in the Liberty of London department store: “I could just lie there on those hills all day and write or read.” And I could. I would. I can. I could get lost there—here—forever.

Expression— words and symbols;

draw a distinction between utterable and unutterable. Stunned— attempt to convey what we see and cannot see:

unfinished symphony. Adequacy is never achieved—

with it,

the star-studded sky— no language can declare unquenchable amazement.

os on the table, ee bark bowl. n the porch over the crystal lake.

of us in nature, in our chairs. o big, yours too small. dangle above , splintered deck, care at all.

ogether, with nature, low around: and flow of water on rocks, k stretched out ahead, s left unsaid.

the day, Together we escaped mories won’t and fade shared away.the space in the crisp morning chill. pristine t one soul without interrupts our help, our rhythm ed with as we ourcreate love and our joy. own hymn. r. ng the world You, playing around us. your guitar, singing your own song. oungYou, child, suppressing your laugh g the view. as I try to sing along. ise artist, a picture in We our add minds, to the sound ng so within bright a symphony and true. of nature: r we admire, the birds, in the essence of ourthe world. crickets, the water. wind nth before blowing youthrough left, the trees, ment the will buzzing always be of kept. yellow bees.

Early in the day, Together we escaped the memories won’t and fade shared away.the space in the crisp morning chill. Though Notpristine one soul without interrupts our help, our rhythm air infused with as we ourcreate love and our joy. own hymn. Together. Perfecting the world You, playing around us. your guitar, singing your own song. Me, a youngYou, child, suppressing your laugh enjoying the view. as I try to sing along. You, a wise artist, painting a picture in We our add minds, to the sound remaining so within bright a symphony and true. of nature: Together we admire, the birds, basking in the essence of ourthe world. crickets, the water. OneThe month windbefore blowing youthrough left, the trees, this moment the will buzzing always be of kept. yellow bees.

Walsh; compiled by the Perspectives staff | 6-word stories

ays loved to play pretend. r be laughing than crying. aughter student actress Catholic singer. nonsense makes the most sense. g too fast, never far enough.” yself lost, wondering why. quickly, but resentment lingers. et lost in the crowd.

e 1: Emily Shull e 2: Lily Carroll e 3: Colette Minton e 4: Annika Wise e 5: Sofia Latrille e 6: Vange Forte e 7: Julia Stiker e 8: Gianna Walsh

TREAD

I met a young man on a dock in January smoking three cigars at once. He was sixteen years old with brown, fluffy hair and one dimple—that was all I could see of him in the dark. Every few moments he took sips from an old flask, not sharing with those around him. He let the liquid spark flames in his throat. He let himself tilt back off the dock. He knew that, if he fell, only the waves would catch his fall. I met a boy on a dock in January smoking three cigars at once. He cloaked his scars with the scent of tobacco and cheap liquor. He acted like he was okay, like the world was okay. But the world breaks everyone at sixteen.

l your presence the rest of this lifetime you leave me to the house o places only heard of— stay near to me.

eve your voice— me it makes when I hear your laugh, mble when you’re afraid, ness when you cry.

e your face smile that sets off joy, dream where I may find you, int of eyes, telling stories of hope.

ss your spirit, to have seen it for three years. ur love, your heart, your hope— e saved me and many more.

echoing the sweet heat lightning, you are always near to me.

To go there where grass and sky unite, playing like long-time friends— to feel the wind rushing by, to see the sights as I fill with blithe and delight— already there in thought, in heart— shut my eyes. Emotion in my heart continues to multiply: melancholic and hopeful, a blatant outcry.

r once—not flesh and bone, nd sky and stars alone. swirl of blue and gold, to frame, too bright to hold. ved like brushstrokes left unplanned, half-sketched by trembling hand.

I asked—what did I see? h of her—or just of me? ning bends, and names deceive; f,” and what do you believe? g fall, a page, a flight— g thing, a hint of light.

l,” and one may think of grace, sees a different face. ars a laugh, one hears a cry, ks of staying, one says goodbye. ng’s still, but never stays— nside the viewer’s gaze. nce might have meant regret— e something deeper yet.

Each gaze a frame, each thought a lens— we meet ourselves in all our friends. So was she flame, or shade, or song? Or all of them—and all were wrong? Van Gogh once painted night and flame, but no two saw the stars the same. One saw in swirls the weight of sin, one found a galaxy within. So was she real, or just portrayed in meanings I myself had made? Not hers to change, nor mine to know— a girl, a myth, a Van Gogh glow.

ed to Austin, Texas from upstate New York in search of a job at a tech where my business know-how and limited computer skills could improve. I o this buzzing city to rise up the ranks in TranquilWaters, a little-known y that specializes in alternative grief support using the latest technology. he walk to work today, taking in all of the beautiful trees, enjoying a cool I get the feeling that today will be different. Something’s got to change. l move up in this company. off the elevator and into the office only to see all of my coworkers filing conference room. A quick glance at my watch assures me that I am not urriedly join my coworkers in the spacious room. o, everyone. Good morning,” my boss remarks. “Next month, we will be g our latest project, the EternalPeace app for AR headsets.” A round of e bounces around the room. “As you know,” he continues, “this app will ople all over the world the chance to say a final goodbye to their loved ut before it can be released, it needs to be beta tested.” He pauses and rectly at me. “That will be your task, Ms. Barlowe. The headset and other are already on your desk.” His glance shifts to include my coworkers. “The ou will work on advertising.” Without another word, my boss walks out of m and into his office. He shuts the door quickly. t! My intuition is right! This is the opportunity I have been longing for! I exit the conference room and go straight to my cubicle.

soon hold a record of the app’s glitches and errors. I sit at my desk and open the notebook. Wedged between the pages is a small flier explaining the creation of EternalPeace. —“AI generated voices and images made possible by the contributions of fifty families who sent in videos of their loved ones to help the app come into fruition”? I whisper. “Why the disclaimer? I hope there are actual instructions included somewhere on this thing!” —I ignore the flier for now and prepare myself for the main event. I put the weighty headset onto my head and over my eyes. A calm blue “welcome” appears in my central vision, and I am soon familiar with the headset’s controls. With a simple wave of my finger, I select EternalPeace from the homescreen. The app begins to load. Calming music pours into my ears, mirroring the tranquility of a rushing brook. —Then, a list pops up in front of me with dozens of names. Names that belong to real people. People who are dead? A sudden chill sprints down my spine. Is it the room, or my own mortality? I shake my head, recalling the good the app will bring to grieving families. I reorganize my thoughts and gesture to the first name on the list: James F. A tall young man with short brown hair and green eyes. In an instant, it is like he is standing in front of me.

’sm speakers Joanna. I emit like flamingos. the Don’t be sad anymore! I am here now!” Tears oice blur with mylifelike vision,clarity. so I turn I off the headset and take it off. poor e headset girl. Her off, poor and family,” I mutter quietly. tremove cry.” it. with my thoughts for minutes, I gather the to try again. I power dset back on, open the d select another name: W. In the blink of an eight-year-old girl in a striped dress stands in me. She has hazel aces, and a bright pink AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAA

—“I swear I turned this thing —The next day, I stand outside the tower that is home to many companies like off.” —As soon as myThe TranquilWaters. finger globs presses of gray in the sky––like plumes of smoke––make the down onlook building theextra power precarious. button, It looks like it could rain any minute. I reluctantly JoannaIt’sappears. enter. early and I quickly I’m among turn the first ones in. Good. What if the Wifi connection it back of every off. employee She smiles in thisatbuilding me, is the source of yesterday’s glitches? Surely it will her sweet work properly hazel this eyes morning. staring Once I reach my cubicle, I open my notebook and put directly into my soul. I rub my AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA eyes and keep them shut. Too AAAAAAAAAA much screen time.

s shout, “I’m okay… I’m okay… don’t be sad… I’m not in any pain e…” into my ears. It is deafening, maddening. People are swirling around me. ed individuals whose voices persist, trapped and augmented in this twisted ogy. Everywhere I look, people, voices, kids, grandparents. They envelop me, arm me like wasps. d a good life… I want you to be happy… don’t be sad…” echoes throughout ty office. aaahhhhhhh!” I scream in agony. I yank off the headset and thrust it onto the shatters. here is silence. Then the people fade away. Then—complete darkness.

Two steps behind, two steps ahead— in the middle, I dance on the threads. A blend of spirit, strength, and style in my sister’s footsteps, I walk each mile. Two secrets I keep, one for each side— a bridge of whispers, where I confide. With every struggle, I learn to stand tall: in the middle of sisters, I find my all. Being in the middle, I stand in between neither first, nor the last—just somewhere unseen. I am too old for some things, too young for others, caught in the swirl of two sisters and a brother. Through the push and the pull, I carve out my place, a sisterly bond time cannot erase. Sometimes I wish for a moment of peace, a quiet day, where noise would cease.

now, as the house feels too still, ch I love my sisters, and always will.

exandra, the oldest, the guide— a natural leader with wisdom and pride.

adeline, also for “middle,” always wishing to be big or little.

ivia, the youngest, the wild, with her laughter and jokes—forever a child.

mes come together, an acronym clear: though it was planned here. design, but it fits like a glove, O means “love,”—exactly what we’re made of.

ter a piece, each sister a part, r we stand, love filling our hearts. ed, yet perfect, a symbol so true— s the love that carries us through.

The bridge, the bond, the glue that’s true— the middle sister is all I knew.

ble is

what we encounter. A spiritual suggestiveness of transcendent meaning.

A preciousness which is of wonder—inexplicable yet every man has to find it.

The world’s imperfection admitted: neffable is intensely affirmative, something meaningful— the human experience.

her. Before her sparkle dies by his darkening gaze. She, hidden by the ng shadows. She, an art covered by dust and torn rags. She, a prosperous whispered by His breath and built perfectly by His hand. Trap her. Before e goes. Waiting for his back to turn so that she may grin mischievously like d won. Gold glows her crown and further burns her broken core. Cage her. he withers as they all do. As she attempts to create and birth impossibility, laughs. Hollering at her weak mortality. Remember her. Her creator does d her. She searches miles and her silent trail flows deep under her scraping er breath, cold and wild. Picture her. Alive now, adding depth to this holic world. Wildly free.

SWIM

.gnery | Telecommunication _._ . _.. . _. . ___... . __. ..._._. ._ .__ _...__.. . ._._.. .._ ._... _.__ _ __.. ._._._ _. ..._ . ._. _.__ _ ._. . . _ ___. _..

_ _._. _._ __..__ .. ...

_ _.. . ._. _._.__

... ___ _ .... ._ _

.._ _. .. __._ .._ . _. ___

_ ._. . .

_._. ._ _.

_... .

... . . _.

._ ...

Callie | Telecommunication ._ ._.Regnery . ._.. .. _._ . ... .. ._.. . _. . ___... .___ .. __. ..._._. ._ .__

_ ......_ . __.. _...__.. . ._._.. .._ ._... _.__ .__. ._._._ ___ ___ .._. ___. _.. ..._ . ._. _.__ _ ._. . . __. ._.. .._ _._. _._ __..__ .. ... ._. . ._ _.. . ._. _._.__

... ___ _ .... ._ _

.._ _. .. __._ .._ . _. ___

_ ._. . .

_._. ._ _.

_... .

... . . _.

._ ...

a graveyard for my stories. are adorned with ribbons, wreaths, and bouquets. Some have polished nes. Some are covered in grass and overgrown weeds. They tell me that, waxes on, we forget. closet, I keep stacks of journals filled with ideas, characters, and halfpoems, waiting patiently to come alive. Despite these incomplete works, I elf a writer, someone who sees the world as individual stories, even if they unwritten or merely fragmented sentences on pages. reative writing class, I once had the prompt, “Why do you write?” I sat aring at the snowy field of paper. Why do I love to write? Simple. Writing es my gratitude toward words and the surrounding world. It links observing eriencing. I am grateful for words because they bind us together—they are communicate. They are maps, compasses, and keys. Without words, we

ut writing, there would be no known history. My history teachers tell me written language is man’s most significant invention. Rather than making writing allows history to shape itself. It is proof of what existed. e for the same reason the Mesopotamians and Egyptians wrote: to nt, to discover, to be known. Writing unearths universal understanding ndividuals. It connects the human race through shared feelings, events, and No other invention could do this. In a short story I wrote in tenth grade, I AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAA

one of the most universal feelings experienced: heartbreak. Ancient civilizations invented writing nearly 5,000 years ago; today, I still wield its undying power. —My affinity for writing began at age five. My teacher asked my class to write a story about Thanksgiving Break. She asked for five pages, but I came to school AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAA

ther to photocopy the five sheets my teacher had y given us because I knew I more. I needed to finish my This yearning continued out childhood as I filled empty with plots or characters that into my head. This yearning today. th grade, my teacher gave us nment to interview our mothers heir childhoods. My mother told ut losing her mother when she y 13. She described how, after her died, she would immerse n her mother’s coats to smell es of perfume that still clung to

could I display this encounter of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AA

driving force. empathy thatIt clears drove my memind. to write. It allows me to grow. Even when I’m running at Empathy cross country is key practice, to living I envision a meaningful each stride as a character animating the page. —From life. Empathy the stacks is whyof I make old journals friends and in my closet to the countless visits to literary museums, seek deep words, conversations. books, and It captures stories are the lanterns guiding me through the shadowy graveyard. feeling. It captures They the help me human to see that there is always another story to tell, another tale to experience. One resurrect—another day, no one willlifebeto live. alive to remember my mother and grandmother. I must ensure the world never forgets their stories. —So, I published my first short story, “Most Beautiful Woman,” fulfilling my AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAA

epths of my soul, a hollow echo nds— es this emptiness within me nd? ng, unseen force consumes me e, ep inside, it takes its toll. long suppressed, now surge se, sts returning under moonlit

w and tear, seeking to rend, le heart, they aim to bend. the door to keep them at bay, return, relentless, to fray. red to feel, to let love in, g only hurt would begin. dorn me, I’ve come to accept, thought, I’d gracefully adapt.

In the depths of my soul, a hollow echo resounds— why does this emptiness within me abound? A gnawing, unseen force consumes me whole, from deep inside, it takes its toll. Feelings long suppressed, now surge and rise, like ghosts returning under moonlit skies. They claw and tear, seeking to rend, my fragile heart, they aim to bend. I barred the door to keep them at bay, yet they return, relentless, to fray. For I feared to feel, to let love in, knowing only hurt would begin. Flaws adorn me, I’ve come to accept, alone, I thought, I’d gracefully adapt.

olace in another’s gleam. I dare to wish for more, free from solitude’s shore? the warmth of an embrace, omise to stand in any place. walked alone through life’s dark

with loneliness’ silent calls. I long for a steady hand, e me through this shifting sand. ought companionship’s grace, I yearn for its gentle embrace. someone to lean on, to rely, d where trust is hard to supply. nd, amidst this inner strife, for a thread to weave with life. n another, a steadfast friend, ollow echoes slowly mend.

to find solace in another’s gleam. Why do I dare to wish for more, to break free from solitude’s shore? To crave the warmth of an embrace, and a promise to stand in any place. For I’ve walked alone through life’s dark halls, content with loneliness’ silent calls. Yet now I long for a steady hand, to guide me through this shifting sand. I never sought companionship’s grace, yet now I yearn for its gentle embrace. To have someone to lean on, to rely, in a world where trust is hard to supply. So I stand, amidst this inner strife, longing for a thread to weave with life. To find in another, a steadfast friend, as the hollow echoes slowly mend.

lourishes within sight like a winter blizzard— g worth considering. es form a loop thoughts circling a mind. h is dull g the lack of comfort within— nment finishes the night iness sours through the day. leasant feelings seen within an individual t externally e space fills the thoughts in the head mphasizes the shapes and lines, le connection ope in the mind, ome the winter night. wfall is like a tear flowing down. te blank space resembles the glow. ire to escape is like the desire to step outside— cold rejects. d rejects.

Silence flourishes within sight like a winter blizzard— a feeling worth considering. The circles form a loop like the thoughts circling a mind. The finish is dull reflecting the lack of comfort within— abandonment finishes the night as emptiness sours through the day. The unpleasant feelings seen within an individual reflect externally and while space fills the thoughts in the head it also emphasizes the shapes and lines, the fragile connection is the hope in the mind, to overcome the winter night. The snowfall is like a tear flowing down. The white blank space resembles the glow. The desire to escape is like the desire to step outside— but the cold rejects. The mind rejects.

n luminous light, ed in grit and grace. s extend to the deepest depth, swarthy soil with my might.

sp and calloused winter, dy to shine and sprout. iends: daffodils, daisies, and dahlias rise. I, in body, trapped in form, trapped in mind, my roots be alive.

y?” I ask my silty surroundings. I left behind?

worm crawls from her hide. s, “seed, shine, for your light has come.” w may I shine when I can barely survive? l I taste is shadow, not sun?

We slink through and through, and she drags me along across creatures old and new. We shimmy through crippling creatures crying their songs, pass through helping hands latching on. She grabs my hand and places it on one. Suddenly, the hand claws my flimsy fingers. Then, its lifeless limbs drowned in a sea of shimmering light. In this ocean she helps me see. She helps me find me. And it is here that I know we are all meant to be.

ar, a story, your strength flourishes— m as quiet a library, ships fade,asbut you will last.” uggles, silence, and comfort separating them, woman sees her younger self in front of her. ars, she softly whispers:

le me with legs that can barely crawl, ed by the hardships that I must brawl. k up at the endless skies in your stroller, ds of doubt or lies.

w, little one, the road grows steep, ams may falter, wounds run deep. as crooked as a forest trail, the guilt, hardships, and lies of life.

ose your dreams, keep it near, age stand in place of fear. n in the darkest night, find a guiding light.

Each scar, a story, your strength flourishes— In a hardships room as quiet a library, the fade,asbut you will last.” with struggles, silence, and comfort separating them, a young woman sees her younger self in front of her. With tears, she softly whispers: “Oh, little me with legs that can barely crawl, untouched by the hardships that I must brawl. you look up at the endless skies in your stroller, no clouds of doubt or lies. But know, little one, the road grows steep, and dreams may falter, wounds run deep. My back as crooked as a forest trail, carrying the guilt, hardships, and lies of life. Hold close your dreams, keep it near, let courage stand in place of fear. For even in the darkest night, you will find a guiding light.

ndrous water watches hesitantly inviting all around, usly plays without making a sound. mythical reality, ng in this world is ostensible.

cky flowers are frozen onto the frame. tems to trick the observer into believing their lies. diant colors are like fingerprints; each with distinct personalities. ng in this world is ostensible.

luster leaves lust for everyone’s beauty, nsider this their duty. spite their tiles gleaming they still feel common. ng in this world is ostensible.

ess sun stays hidden in the foreground, despite its desire to shine. arkling from behind, it is beauty; only some may get a glimpse. e rays of sereneness, it seems uncrowned— ng in this world is ostensible.

to protect from what’s lurking. Can this reality stay forever? Everything in this world is ostensible.

that has come to a close. The horizon reminds me that in each beautiful outisfrom thethat bowmust of the ponder trajectory of nature. ere a door closesailboat, for the Ione I am the watching to open. NatureI edge the potential growth, much like in my though own life.I This of me that nothing for in life is permanent and, wishreminds it couldmelast years ahead. observe how I may take season, aing day must comeI to an end. It reminds methe thatnew myyear, own the life new will have its mythere own spin on it. Looking sun cresting over et is always another out oneover thatthe willhorizon, come Iinsee its the place. In the quiet an. With thecycles, close of the reminded day, and the of the there night, isI see the of nature’s I am thatintroduction even in endings always of nature. I see the way is a cycle,on one birth, growth, and lbeauty for renewal and the promise of nature new beginnings theofhorizon. am reminded of the way that my own life is a cycle.

chapter that has come to a close. The horizon reminds me that in each beautiful Looking outisfrom thethat bowmust of the ponder trajectory of nature. thing there a door closesailboat, for the Ione I am the watching to open. NatureI acknowledge the potential growth, much like in my though own life.I This of reminds me that nothing for in life is permanent and, wishreminds it couldmelast the coming years ahead. observe how I may take season, forever, a day must comeI to an end. It reminds methe thatnew myyear, own the life new will have its and putyet mythere own spin on it. Looking sun cresting over doors is always another out oneover thatthe willhorizon, come Iinsee its the place. In the quiet the ocean. With thecycles, close of the reminded day, and the of the there night, isI see the rhythm of nature’s I am thatintroduction even in endings always timeless beauty of nature. I see the way is a cycle,on one birth, growth, and potential for renewal and the promise of nature new beginnings theofhorizon. decay. I am reminded of the way that my own life is a cycle.

eaudry ’27

Electric Skyscrapers | Acrylic

ley ’27

Hide and Seek | Digital photography The Unkept Garden | Poetry Standing in the Orange | Digital photography

36 49 94

’28

Van Gogh Monet | Acrylic Spring Time | Acrylic

64 91

mo ’26, Staff

e ’27

The Silent Snow | Poetry

quot ’25

Wallow | Mixed media XOXO | Digital photography The Weight of the Gaze | Digital photography

as ’28

107 Cover 19 100

Triple Swirl, after Thiebaud and O’Keefe | Acrylic

25, Editor

Octet (Line 2) | 6-word stories

n ’26, Staff

ponder | Poetry

in ’28

Hummingbird’s Delight | Watercolor

’27, Staff

Sunrise City | Acrylic

Perpetual Nature | Mixed media

e ’27, Staff

n ’26, Staff

an ’25, Co-Editor-in-Chief

The Golden Isles | Watercolor

n ’28

Sunset | Acrylic

115

’28

Spring Bloom | Acrylic

dman ’28, Staff

Maggie Finn ’25, Staff

The Ineffible | Blackout poetry

Vange Forte ’25

Octet (Line 6) | 6-word stories

Olivia Franco ’27

Where Grass and Sky Unite | Poetry

Ellie Furman ’26, Staff Caroline Gammon ’26, Staff Mya Gayle ’26

Winter Shadow | Digital photography

Autumn Giordano ’27

A Granny Smith Day | Poetry Urban Fog | Acrylic

20 81

Abi Gschwind ’25

In the Shadows | Digital photography

106

Kathryn Herman ’25

You Are Fearfully and Wonderfully Made | Digital photography

113

Frankie Hinton ’27

A Thankless Art | Poetry City Lights | Acrylic

18 77

Dasha Holness ’27

Patterned Walls, after Kusama and Hopper | Acrylic

Alexandra Hopley ’25

The Human Experience | Blackout poetry

Caroline Hopley ’26

Curved Light | Digital photography

Gabrielle Hughes ’27

Nowhere | Poetry

Grace Im ’27

Hardships Do Not Define You: Words To My Younger Self | Poetry

112

97 88 23

Clare Junius ’26, Staff Aidan Kobata ’26

Shadows in Flight | Digital photography

Sofia Latrille ’25

Octet (Line 5) | 6-word stories

Alexandra Lockhart ’27

Menelaus’ Wings | Ekphrastic poetry

Vivianna Lostumbo ’27

Le Ali di Carta | Paper

Eloise Liggitt ’26, Staff

Dance of the Mole Men | Trash

109

’28

Sailing the Stars, after Van Gogh and Hopper | Acrylic

ton ’25, Editor

Octet (Line 3) | 6-word stories A Chance to Say Goodbye | Dystopian ghost story

62 76

ahy ’25

The Broken Self | Digital photography Internal Chaos | Mixed media What Do People Think of Me? | Digital photography

43 44 63

ey ’25, Editor

14 14 17 72 73 89

’28

A Dream Within a Dream | Acrylic The World, after Wyeth and Van Gogh | Acrylic

10 52

Fragments | Digital photography Lost Faces | Collage Nostalgia | Photography Chroma Reverie | Digital photography

28 66 70 116

You and Me and Nature | Poetry Horizons | Flash memoir

58 116

Hara ’26

Ononye ’27, Staff

s ’26, Staff

e ’26, Staff

ll ’26, Staff

26, Staff

Gianna Rodrigues ’27

Chromatic Folds | Digital photography

Aitana Ross ’25

Falling in Wonder | Acrylic Pirouette | Colored pencil, cardboard, wood

60 87

Kathleen Saxe ’27

Longing for Something That Was Always There | Poetry

Angie Seewald ’28

Sunflowers, after Van Gogh and Klimt | Acrylic

Beata Servick ’25

At the Lake | Acrylic

Emily Shull ’25, Co-Editor-in-Chief

22 50 62 67 96

Annie Slocum ’26

The Nature of the Yellow Box | Mixed media Be | Poetry

56 108

Estela Sosa ’27

In the Silence of Feathers | Poetry

Julia Stiker ’25, Staff

Buttons That Won’t Sew Together | Essay Octet (Line 7) | 6-word stories

34 62

Isabella Salerno ’25, Staff

Caitlin Ungari ’28

The Eye of the Wave, after Hokusai and Delaunay | Acrylic

Jaiden Vital ’26

Paper Study | Digital photography Textures and Light | Digital photography

27 30

Madeline Walker ’26

Two of Me, Three of Us | Poetry

Gianna Walsh ’25

Octet (Line 8) | 6-word stories

Annika Wise ’25

Octet (Line 4) | 6-word stories

Miranda Zapata-Mardini ’27, Staff