Pillars of Salt Spring 2026: Kaleidoscope

kaleidoscope pillars of salt - spring 2026

The Archer School for Girls

Los Angeles, California

our staff

editorial board

Editor-in-Chief: Natalie London '26

Jr. Editor-in-Chief: Chiara Silveri '27

Performing Arts & Layout Editor: Emerson Cohen '26

Prose/Poetry Editor: Vivianne Arnold '26

Visual Art Editor: Evan Weingarten '26

Performing Arts Editor: Katherine McKillop '27

Prose/Poetry Editor: Clara Lieberstein '28

Prose/Poetry Editor: Melinda Wang '26

staff

Eleanor Bromwich '27

Samara Gottlieb '28

Nina Norwood '29

Beatrice Washburn '27

London Pecano '28

Caroline Muldaur '28

Phoebe Gustafson '27

Hollyn Alpert '29

Juliet Lukas '27

Tyler Reif '29

CW class

*Vivi Arnold '26

Isley Bonney '26

Sofia Capanna '26

*Emerson Cohen '26

*Quinn Evans-Agard '26

Alex Lafitte '26

*Natalie London '26

Ava McQuade '26

*Oona Seppala '26

Sydney Tilles '26

*Avery Panepinto '27

Abby Lennon '28

*Clara Lieberstein '28

Luella Moshtaghi '28

*Sarah Mzoughi '28

Rowan Schwarz '28

Natalie Subotki '28

*Pillars of Salt Members

Editorial Policy

Our staff welcomes any and all Archer students to submit their work. Staff may make as an extra-curricular and as part of the creative writing class. Works are solicited in a variety of ways, including pithy posters advertising our email address for submissions, teacher encouragement, and word of mouth. At meetings, works are presented anonymously and members anonymously vote yes, no, or maybe on each piece. Pieces that receive a greater number of ' yes ' votes than 'maybe' or ' no ' votes are awarded publication in the magazine with the understanding that editors exercise discretion regarding inclusion at the time of production. Visual work is voted on independently from literary work. There are no strict limits on the number of works that an individual can have in the magazine, nor are there limits to the number of works featured in the magazine.

Mission Statement

Through Pillars of Salt, we hope to showcase the diverse pool of writers and artists we have at The Archer School for Girls. Because of this, we accept as many submissions as possible. Submissions are subject to feedback from a panel of editors, but changes are only made after consultation and with permission from the artist. We distribute copies freely to those who submitted and have it available in our Tia Palermo library.

More Information

The Archer School for Girls 11725 Sunset Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90049 (310)-873-7000

481 Students and 144 Faculty

Published December 2025

240 Copies Printed litmag@archer.org Font: Karma

butterflies - Mia Goldberg '28 ----------------------------------------------------------------

Of Thorns, Photography - Chiara Silveri '27 -------------------------------------------------

The Journey - Natalie Subotky '28 ------------------------------------------------------------

Calvary Baptist, Photography - Chiara Silveri '27 --------------------------------------------

Blizzards Approaching Cincinnati - Beatrice Washburn '27 ---------------------------------

Family Tree, Photography - Edie Wyles '27 ---------------------------------------------------

The Devil's Hand - Isley Bonney '26 -----------------------------------------------------------

Point Dume, Illustration - Nora Bromwich '27 ----------------------------------------------

lighthouse and the sea - Rowan Schwarz '28 -------------------------------------------------

Bed - Olivia Boehm, Illustration '26 ---------------------------------------------------------maybe i should stop looking out for you - Nina Norwood '29 ------------------------------Man on Street, Photography - Rockwelle Dortch '29 -----------------------------------------

table of contents mirror

Venture, Photography - Hollyn Alpert '29 ------------------------------------------------------

Girl in the Mirror - Ardyn Maynard ‘29 ---------------------------------------------------------

Gulfoss, Photography - Nora Bromwich '27 -----------------------------------------------------

sixteen-year-old shoulders - Adella Travers '27 -------------------------------------------------

Just Overhead, Photography - Adella Travers '27 -----------------------------------------------

green thumb - Natalie London '26 --------------------------------------------------------------

Headed, Photography - Nora Bromwich '27 -----------------------------------------------------

prayer - Emerson Cohen '26 ---------------------------------------------------------------------

Epiphany, Photography - Hollyn Alpert '29 -----------------------------------------------------

Not Just You - Quinn Evans-Agard '26 ----------------------------------------------------------

Mona, Photography - Nora Bromwich ‘27 -------------------------------------------------------

these 2 hands - Adella Travers '27 ---------------------------------------------------------------

Fenced in Sky, Ceramic - Charlotte Stein '26 ---------------------------------------------------

Sestina Of Lolita - Sarah Mzoughi '28 -----------------------------------------------------------

trip to gambier, ohio, Photography - Natalie London '26 --------------------------------------

lullaby #1 - Emerson Cohen '26 -----------------------------------------------------------------

Unveiled, Photography - Hollyn Alpert '29 -----------------------------------------------------

endings - Clara Lieberstein ‘28 ------------------------------------------------------------------

Hazy, Photography - Hollyn Alpert '29 ----------------------------------------------------------

That Girl in the Mirror - Sydney Tilles '26 ------------------------------------------------------

Wide Open, Photography - Oona Seppala '26 ---------------------------------------------------

You know what? - Phoebe Gustafson '27 --------------------------------------------------------

table of contents glass

Maternal Scent - Sarah Mzoughi '28 -------------------------------------------------------------

Autumn, Oil on Canvas - Charlotte Titmarsh '27 -----------------------------------------------

Teardrops, Acrylic - Evan Weingarten '26 -------------------------------------------------------

The beach - Stella Leland '26 --------------------------------------------------------------------

Roller Girl, Photography - Rockwelle Dortsch '29 -----------------------------------------------

Dance Like Nobody’s Watching - Alexandra Laffitte '26 ---------------------------------------

Mr. Leroy, Photography - Rockwelle Dortsch '29 ------------------------------------------------

Silver City, NM Stella Leland '26 -----------------------------------------------------------------

Traverse, Photography - Hollyn Alpert '29 ------------------------------------------------------

Look-in, Paper Collage - Charlotte Titmarsh '27 ------------------------------------------------

Funhouse of Mirrors - Avery Panepinto '27 -----------------------------------------------------

Caged, Sculpture - Nora Bromwich '27 ----------------------------------------------------------

Fantasy - Clara Lieberstein '28 -------------------------------------------------------------------

Gaze Detection, Paint on Canvas - Olivia Boehm '26 -------------------------------------------

Two People - Juliet Lukas '27 --------------------------------------------------------------------

Temple Through the Mist, Photography - Avery Panepinto '27 -------------------------------

in the sound, in this quiet - Beyla Patil '27 -----------------------------------------------------

The Male Gaze, Paper Collage - Evan Weingarten '26 ------------------------------------------

character map - Ava McQuade '26 --------------------------------------------------------------

Eve, Mannequin - Nora Bromwich '27 -----------------------------------------------------------

{body] - Natalie London '26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Sidelines - Luella Moshtaghi '28 ------------------------------------------------------------

Tree Rings, Ceramic - Charlotte Stein '26 -------------------------------------------------------

Favorite Child - Sabrina Knight '27

The Journey

Natalie Subotky '28

The thicket is nice. It grows like a fence

A nd r o u

a large patch of tamed wilderness: dirt plays home to shriveled bits of grass that pull out like the hair on my head.

I whispers that it is mine, but it doesn’t belong to me. It is soothing.

I am lucky to have known this place forever.

I can track every inch of wild, scratching, protective branch, so when it draws beads of red on my arms I cannot complain.

There is stream of clear, cold water that babbles by, and occasionally a withering flower or two can be found clustered together, quaking in a corner.

I know that I am fortunate in such a dark world to have this corner of definition where everything is as it seems: so beautiful, only wanting me to match.

The one drawback of this lovely place is the turn of the weather. When it grows harsh I twist with guilt and thoughts sprint through my head. Often, it is so cold that I worry my bones will snap like twigs from the bitter

FREEZE

that seeps into the roots beneath my skin. My mind churns as clouds jeer and clap endlessly and raindrops fall screaming.

But it is not so bad, for Afterwards the grass looks radiant. The sun shines for precious moments and I have survived, stronger than before, with only dry dirt caking my feet and legs as a reminder of the storm.

I claw at it with my nails, longing to look as fresh as the grass and the suddenly blooming flowers But it won’t come off the clouds gather and begin to shout and pour, the beautiful promise dies around me And it is my fault.

I can’t know whether I am crying or the sky is; I just keep repeating that I like the thicket I like it I do.

A small part of me wonders: when will I BE FREE OF IT?

Blizzards Approaching Cincinnati

Beatrice Washburn '27

The low drone of voices on the television: blizzards approaching Cincinnati, gusts of wind off the Atlantic coast, increasing temperatures in someplace I have never been. Someplace outside this window, if I break past the static from the radiator, past the hum of this television, out into the night, past the steam and warehouses and flashing lights, someplace where the sky is a little less black.

This black night emits no sound, not even a ticking clock, just steam and electricity.

I think I have seen all I need to see, now, on this insulated night; I have seen the television and the blizzards approaching Cincinnati, I have heard the static and the invisible steam. Time has stopped and simmered around me, and now I am wasting it: as the piercing clock ticks, which just a few years ago could never pierce through nights like these, now haunt my ears. Just a few years ago, in fact, I would have felt like a god, reigning above this city of lights, the television remote as my sword, the blizzards approaching Cincinnati as my army. Now I can watch television whenever I want. Now I have a notebook and boots, and I can board a plane all by myself, and this radiator is just a panel of metal, built for humans to withstand the freezing temperatures down below and traipse through these long winters towards victory – but couldn’t it be so much more than that? Just for this moment? The metal’s molecules will never stay compact in my mind; they disintegrate, spilling into the surrounding air, mingling with the television’s sound waves to cast a great haze which creeps dangerously towards me: and slowly, out the window, somewhere across the soundless night, my goddess heart can beat.

#898a83

#5a5c54

Family Tree

Edie Wyles '27

The Devil's Hand

Isley Bonney '26

devil’s hand grows in the quiet field, the fingers are curled like a strong symbol. red petal reach to the sky, a strange, bold flower in the sun.

some people pass and look away, its aura is very dark and wild. but in the wind it sways back and forth, as it stands on its own stem with pride.

bees still pass throughout the day, drawn to the color and soft aroma. the flower never means any harm, it just grows where it’s meant to be.

so devil’s hand lifts to the light, petals open, calm and free. the flower with the scary name, still a unique part of nature’s beauty.

lighthouse and the sea

Rowan Schwarz '28

Impossible to imagine a lighthouse without including the sea. * They are a single entity, but also opposites. She and I were like that. My name carried hers inside it. Hers carried mine. You didn't find one without the other, and I was proud of that. I would shine light, and she would catch it. reflect it. Make it look brighter than it ever was alone. She was my sea. But what happens when the sea is forced to leave? The lighthouse still stands. Still tall, still lit, still pretending it was built to be alone. But its light feels heavier now, like it has nowhere to land. The waves don’t answer when it calls out, and the silence feels louder than any storm ever did. People call it strong for staying upright, but they don’t notice how it was never meant to shine for empty water. And somewhere far away, the sea is still moving, learning new shores, carrying pieces of the lighthouse in every tide. Because even if distance changes the map, it doesn’t undo what once made sense. A lighthouse can survive without the sea but it will always remember who gave its light a reason to exist, and who it was meant to reach.

* from On Lighthouses by Jazmina Barrera

maybe i should stop looking out for you Nina Norwood '29

summer houses, tan lines, and freckles

i looked at your side profile while you looked at the stars i wouldn’t trade you for anything you look to me how the earth looks to astronauts: everything i love the way your hair falls over your shoulder when you laugh i love you the most when you hug me maybe that’s too much people look at me weird when i look at you and you ’ re too busy looking at him but i wouldn’t trade you for anything maybe i should stop looking

Silent Night

Katie Ray McKillop '27

A dark silver moon soon to eclipse

Humid air fills my suffocated lungs

I feel the Earth’s heart

A beating pulse beneath my soles

Long silent sobs escape from my lips

Violent tremors in my body and the wind sweeps me away

Girl in the Mirror

Ardyn Maynard '29

Somewhere in a school bathroom, a girl does her makeup. She dabs concealer under her eyes, tapping it in with her finger until the dark purple bruises fade to a beige. Mascara is next slow strokes. She blinks between the coats, trying not to smudge it or let tears escape from her eyes.

Somewhere in a school bathroom, girls stand over the sink.

One sits cross-legged, braiding her friend’s hair. Their reflections blur together in the small mirror, both of them staring straight ahead.

“Okay, I’m done!” a voice breaks through the silence.

“Thanks,” the other girl smiles, slowly standing up. They put their arms around each other as they exit.

Somewhere in a school bathroom, a girl cries. She sits on the floor of the stall, knees drawn tight to her chest. Her cheeks are damp,her breath shallow. The door smacks open, giggles spilling in like cold water. She stiffens, clasping her hand over her mouth. Voices bounce off the walls—sharp, excited, unbothered. Somebody’s backpack falls to the ground, lip gloss is pulled out of a pocket. She stays still, almost invisible. The bell will ring soon. They’ll go. They have to.

Somewhere in a school bathroom, a girl throws up. Her hair is tied below her neck in a long braid. Fingers graze her throat, and she gags. She gives in and vomits into the toilet. Her stomach clenches and her eyes close, afraid to look. Breath held, she flushes and stands up. At the sink, the water comes out in spurts. She scrubs her hands like she’s trying to erase something. Red blooms across her palms, hard and raw. She pops a piece of gum into her mouth and runs out of the bathroom to rejoin her friends before their next class.

Somewhere in a bathroom, a girl skips class. History is happening without her she can picture it. The teacher’s eyes dragging across the room, the click of his sneakers passing by everyone ’ s desks. Someone walks in. The door creaks, the toilet flushes, water runs. She holds her breath until the door closes. Her “friends” haven’t bothered to wonder why she isn’t in class. She stands, and swings her backpack over her shoulder. The hallway is quiet now. She doesn’t wait for the final bell. She just leaves.

Somewhere in a bathroom, a girl fixes her hair. She woke up late but still wanted to style it. She loops her hand around her hair, and pulls it up into a high ponytail. As she walks out, a short girl passes her. They avoid eye contact. One mutters an “Excuse me. ” They don’t mention the late-night phone calls or the inside jokes. No bitterness, no forgiveness nothing. They simply walk away. They’ve become strangers.

Somewhere in a bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. There’s one girl here but the ghost of hundreds. As I bring my head up from washing my hands, I notice a sticky note.

“You look so pretty!” it says. I smile to myself in the mirror and leave.

sixteen-year-old shoulders

Adella Travers '27

sixteen-year-old shoulders are sore and tense and hurt because sixteen-year-old shoulders carry the weight of the world in a backpack.

sixteen-year-old shoulders must be covered up because young flesh is provocative yet easily bruised.

sixteen-year-old shoulders are hunched over the harsh glow of a screen. they bend towards it as though they might fall in, as though they might escape their burdens. they wait for weightlessness which never comes.

Just Overhead Adella Travers '27

green thumb

Natalie London '26 | Poetry

overgrown roots potted in the soil to make it seem like i have begun life here, transplanted in to dance in the wind and shed occasional shards of autumn to remind you that there is beauty in the world.

fake roots adorned with fake mold

to convince you that love grows here, and if you truly believe that then my fake flesh is real enough.

prayer

Emerson Cohen '26

i used to love butterflies

i had one of those plastic children’s kits little cocoons weaving for little hands only $10 off a target wall at the promise of learning how to give life, to lose it

how to play (god)

we spoke in sweet monarch tongues a secret language, a sacred code

but our quiet humming soon faltered

i must have kept them in the tunnel too long begging for just one more gentle whisper, for they fell softly from their sterile home

save for one with a missing wing, threadbare and struggling for the sky unraveling in the light

i let her out into the wind clouds like a blessing, a prayer i never once uttered out loud

Just Not You Quinn Evans-Agard '26

You whisper that you love me

And smile when the breeze greets your hair–

You look at my mountains in awe

And smell my flowers when your love is not there–

You tell me that you love me And try to emulate my being Through fake cellular trees and domesticated wolves

Then you take my oak and fish until I am desert–And, attempting retrospection, in the garden of your thoughts, you dare to ask me: Do you love me, mother?

So I blow you a kiss, quiet my volcanos, and blossom a batch of lilies,

Because I think the truth will sting you like a scared honey bee–

Please, hold water in your hands when I say That it is not love I feel for you.

Please, focus on the tiny waterfalls between your fingers when I say that Yes, I feed and house and breathe you into life,

But do I love you? No.

I am obligated to you, for I have grown tired of your loveless mold

What is it then? You ask, as ocean water fills your eyes. What is it that rolls through all of us?

This, I cannot answer.

But I promise that when your child replaces you, I will give them a home And let them fall for me.

But I will never love them, nor their greed, which overpowers any attempt To compost their scraps

But do not fret, for I forgive you

And when the sun glistens in my lakes and rivers, And when the baby birds perch on strong old branches,

I am reminded that I do love something, Just not you.

these 2 hands

Adella Travers '27

cupping lakewater, and watching it slip through the gaps between my fingers.

did you know that atoms (mine & yours) never actually touch?

when I crash (shoulder to boulder) the rock refuses to move but red poppies bloom beneath my skin. of course I want to change the world, but my hands pass through it. I’d think myself a ghost if I didn’t bleed.

sisyphus, at the very least, had the illusion of motion.

blood drips from my palms and vanishes into the soil. soon I will be buried with it.

as I sink down I’ll reach for the sky. I’ll reach and reach and never touch.

Sestina Of Lolita Sarah

Mzoughi '28

It's been a while since I've seen her, Lolita

Last I heard a pack of silver tipped, hungry lobos

Grabbed her limbs and disappeared into the gust of smoke,

Her supple cheeks drained of their vivid pigment.

I heard that the earth kept rumbling while they dragged her out of your gaze.

Their once dark eyes hovered as their gaze

Lied low, lingering and hungry, ay Lolita, her spirit that started a long rumbling

And shook everything from humans to lobos. That shake that could smack the pigment

Out of your skin, turning it as translucent as clouds of smoke.

I remember that she hosted the best parties though her house smelled of smoke.

The flicker of light only bright enough for me to meet her gaze.

Eyes bright like the gemstones she collected, their pigment

Ever so potent in that dim parlor ay Lolita…

Why did you have to open your doors to the lobos with their bloated bellies rumbling?

California plates started rumbling

while she was outside for a quick smoke.

Ash crept onto her fingertips while the lobos

Inched closer into and closer into her gaze.

Did you know it was happening Lolita?

When your shirt was soaked in that red pigment?

A babe’s neck somewhere dripping of the same pigment

That stained your skirt, the washer rumbling

But the stain lingering like the scent Lolita

Carried even in her parlor of Agustin Lara and smoke

When she called you to dance so you averted her gaze. When the clock struck 12 and you heard distant howls from lobos.

They're creatures without mercy those damn lobos. They're in the floor and out the window and behind you with their soft pigment

Creeping and biting at your heels until the day you meet their gaze.

The day the earth stops rumbling

A force trapped like a bottle filled with smoke.

When did you know to look back Lolita?

How long can I avert my gaze from the lobos?

Lolita, how long till they suck out my pigment?

The earth stopped rumbling when she disappeared, poof, like smoke.

lullaby #1

Emerson Cohen '26

(A)

gentle moon, tell me what you see of lilac bloom and bleed overgrown, hush of lawn untrimmed unafraid of clipped wings

(B)

spring in need

strum of steel

tell me of love

show me that it’s real

(A)

fly home monarch, faded by the song and sweat of children come and gone sandbox dirt, pollen from the leaves syrupy and sweet

(B)

spring in need

strum of steel

tell me of love

show me that it’s real

endings

Clara Lieberstein '28

And when the end came it had been about time, everyone thought. No one was expected to cry. They gathered around and said their goodbyes as though it was simply the next organized step in addressing the end of the world. As though they had been planning. They formed two even lines facing each other and every pair got two minutes together before the rotation, and it might just have been the only thing they ever agreed on.

It was an easy reprieve from lies. No reason for them anymore. So the day before the end, practically no one spoke at all.

And when it came everyone knew the metronome would get slower. Allegro to andante to adagio, and then, of course, that funny feeling again. They briefly considered that maybe they could use the metronome more permanently, measuring time in the pace of it, not the passage, but not unlike today, no one really knew what there’d be to measure tomorrow.

Still, when the end came, it was approached with an uncanny sense of logic. It wasn’t sad, for there would be no world for that sadness to exist in. Nor would there be any place for any hindsight. Rather, when the end came it was a relief. Words didn’t mean much anymore, and with that new, fresh kind of finality came silence. The kind they sat in in their cars with the exhaust running for hours on the freeway, and no one honked.

It was addictive. Not the absence of something but something new, the absence of everything. Nothing was coming; that was why.

And still when it happened the timer elapsed, and they held on to each other for far too long. When the end came, they began shouting for more time and arguing over the rules of goodbyes, so much so that it began something else. And it might just have been in the light of the end of the world, but I thought the paintings they made with restaurant crayons started glowing somehow, and the sky changed color and every landline in every landfill started ringing. And so they ended just as they had begun: clinging, grasping, clawing their way off the dark side of the planet.

It should’ve ended there.

For light years after the end, caught in a different kind of silence, they waited for the sun to explode, each second more convinced of some deep and impending darkness, more confused by the light. But once they realized there wasn’t an answer, they got more creative with the question. And at some point during the eternal end, they resolved to be a lot like Icarus, floating closer and closer towards the fire.

Soon enough, they started to quite like the feeling of flying.

That Girl in the Mirror

Sydney Tilles '26

I hate watching that girl in the mirror

The dark reminder of a dead existence with scars that mark her wasted desistance

A humiliating exposure of fables she no longer hold dear She is the reason I refuse to look in the mirror.

Existing only in an aching void

Filled not with grief, but a degrading relic

Of her tarnished past anything but angelic

An oversized gap in her lifetime, destroyed

I see her only in this place of despair

That girl from my nightmare.

Wide Open

Oona Seppala '26

You know what?

Phoebe Gustafson '27

Whatever seems to be happening, I believe it is good enough for me.

This is what I think was going on way, way back, on tour, in front of the same microphone, bandannas around our heads, signing off.

We’re touring too, right? Talking loudly without amplification. Put your hair up nicely, and I’ll put on my good shoes, we ’ re going out.

Can you let me drive this time?

If we die, we’ll come back, but we ’ re not going to die.

You’d be just like you are now, looking the same behind every light I try to hold you under.

True blue magic. Good enough for me.

Maternal Scent

Sarah Mzoughi

'28

What is the name for the scent that whispers mother. Does it smell like bile in my mouth before I throw up on my sheets? Does it smell like the plasticly dress for Easter? Will either of us return to what we once were? A child at the foot of her mothers bed, poking the gray face until watery eyes crack open, facing the chunks of carrot and peas mushed into the unicorn jammies. We come from a crybaby family. Why does she cry when she's in that Easter dress? You look beautiful sweetheart, now strike a pose for mommy. In the crybaby family mother cries when someone drops their cereal and she cries when someone uses her perfume. What is the name f0r the scent? The one I put on when I wanted to parade down the nighttime streets. When smoke and gasoline mix into your hair, the floral undertones complimenting the scent of an empty desire. Mother, will you tell me I'm pretty in my Easter dress? When the plastic tutu doesn't reach over my knees and the pastel green bodice rips at the seams?

Titmarsh '27

The beach

Stella Leland '26

When you ’ re eight you ’ re at the ocean you ’ re at the ocean and you ’ re flying through the waves like

No one can stop you because they can’t

When you ’ re eight the waves are giant Gianter than you ever thought possible

Five feet

And they crash over your head and you go spinning

There is no left or right only

Water

And it is everywhere

You do not know if you are trying to breathe

The floor scrapes your knees every once in a while

Arms flailing, chest heaving you somehow make it to shore

Crawling like some desolate creature

Some parasite of a human

Struggling to stand

There is seaweed in your hair and you are a mermaid.

Roller Girl

Rockwelle Dortch '29

Dance Like nobody’s watching

Alexandra Laffitte

Dance like nobody’s watching

Even if the room is full

Even if their eyes feel heavy

Like rainclouds you can’t outrun

Because they don’t know how your body learned to carry silence

How your ribs hold echoes

Of every word you ’ ve ever said

Dance like nobody’s watching

Like your past can’t reach you here

Like the version of you that broke, Isn’t still standing in the mirror

Let your hands forget hesitation

Let your feet forgive the ground

You’ve spent so long being careful

That you ’ ve forgotten what it’s like to be loud

And if someone is watching,

Let them.

Let them see what it’s like to choose yourself without apology

Let them understand that healing isn’t quiet

It doesn’t always look like peace

It’s messy and it’s trembling

And hardly ever, does it finally get released

So dance like nobody’s watching

Not because they aren’t

But because for once you aren’t watching yourself anymore

Silver

City, NM

Stella Leland '26

Goodbye cracked concrete road

Where the dogs never cease to howl

Where the wind is warm yet still respite

Cacti sing blooms of spring and bb gun pellets litter the old mines. The longest i ever stayed was a month. i thought you would stay forever. I remember jumping off the high board, terrified.

It was 14 feet deep and no one at the public pool cared but me i could have avoided the heat forever after i moved on to backflips. monsoons were my favorite. Calder and I would collect all the snails and leave them on G-Ma’s patio

Like some cult offering. i always loved thunder. Seasons passed and snow arrived Later each year, better than candy on our tongues. stole her jacket never warm enough but i would jump as deep as I could into the little prairie patch where i resisted the urge to touch that caged off electrical box. i miss that dairy queen blizzard

The one we had after getting chased by her dog scared out of my mind.

i’ll miss drifting down the Gila river cautious of cow pattiesAt the time my biggest worry in the world. Last time i went i didn’t realize i wouldn’t go again. why couldn’t you stay forever?

Traverse Hollyn Alpert '29

Funhouse of Mirrors

Avery Panepinto '27

Bright lights, strobing colors, and dizzying reflections.

There is no way of telling up from down, left from right, or an exit from a wall of mirrors.

I walk around aimlessly for hours, bumping into mirror after mirror. Every direction looks the same.

When I first entered the funhouse, I was confident that the maze would be easy.

At first, it was.

It was enchanting, the way the lights danced on the reflective surfaces, creating a kaleidoscope of color and wonder.

But the deeper I went into the maze, the more lost I felt.

Every turn felt wrong, every choice incorrect.

I felt like I couldn’t even trust my own feet to guide me in the right direction. Slowly losing my mind, becoming more and more trapped with each step taken. The funhouse quickly turned into a house of horrors.

All I could see was myself, or at least a distorted version.

The girl I saw was not me.

This house was tricking me into thinking that what I saw was the truth.

As I stared at my own reflection, I began to believe it.

Mirrors don’t lie.

They tell a version of the truth.

Doubt crept in, and I didn’t know what to believe: the truth, or the twisted truth right in front of me.

Hours have turned into weeks, and I am still trapped in your funhouse.

I can hear your laughter echoing through the maze, mocking me.

I feel like a marionette, and you, the puppeteer.

You whisper in my ear, manipulating my thoughts and making me see myself as something I am not. Like Arachne, you have spun your own web.

A web I, like a moth, am trapped in with no way of escaping.

I am trapped in your funhouse of mirrors, a hell I cannot leave.

Fantasy

Clara Lieberstein '28

Dear sir, your silence is an honor. You take it all, the crown, the cake, the pounds and the prizes, the credit and cash and miles, you absorb it all like a staggering whirlpool of might.

Dear sir, you ’ ve got it now, her pretty face on a billboard you own, her likeness controlled by your blind impulses, your insatiable pleasure.

Dear sir, I get it now. You see it mathematically, logically, sensibly, comprehensively, whereas I live in colors, in light, in splatters of acrylic. I am out of control.

Dear sir, I’ll tone it down. I’ll learn contortionism, and I’ll keep practicing until I’m on my deathbed, but only then will I be small enough, irrelevant enough for you. How do you think I will die?

Dear sir, I’ll keep at it. I’ll shrivel and shrink simply to adorn your adoration. You’ll say I look better than ever, which I do when I obey. I glow with hunger and restraint.

Dear sir, the apple is bloodred. It hangs over me like a broken promise.

I’ll grovel and gripe at your sharp jagged edges and sand your pearls with my sugarsweet body.

Dear sir, that’s how easy it is to be your fantasy.

Two People

Juliet Lukas '27

Sitting across a room

Both silent

Neither knows what the other is thinking

But they walk by each other as strangers

Knowing everything about each other

Two souls that were once tied are now broken

So many memories attached

Yet both refuse to speak up

What once was a world of happiness

Is now lost

Free to explore a life without

in the sound, in this quiet

Beyla Patil '27

[We are supposed to write a monologue about when we are most ourselves and when we perform, about the difference between what we show and what we feel. But I have never known where that line begins. For me, the problem has never been hiding, but learning how to let what I feel be seen. The only place I find that truth is in the quiet of a song, the opening notes of River by Joni Mitchell reaching past everything I’ve frozen around me.]

The stillness settles over me as the opening piano notes flood in, carrying me back to the same room where I was five, where my parents first told me, we won’t be with you forever. Death, as they named it, offers no magic, no way back. After that, sleep became my own worst enemy. Night after night, I dreamed my family vanished one by one, swept away by a river while I ran after them through endless grass, reaching for hands I could never hold. Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I’d wake up choking on air and stand in my parents’ doorway, my fingers hovering above their sleeping chests, terrified that one wrong touch might turn the dream true. The piano moves softly beneath me, showing me how that fear has followed me through the years, quietly teaching me that being close meant being at risk, that loving too much might be the very thing that calls the flood. I wished then, and still wish now, for a river wide enough to skate back through time to that girl by the door, to tell her it’s safe to feel their heartbeat.

The chords keep unfolding through me, and for a moment, I am entirely bare. It only fits here, in the sound, in this quiet that belongs to me alone, and it settles in my chest with the knowledge that this openness has nowhere to go and no one to receive it. The ache is not fear but sadness, a sadness that deepens the closer I get and tightens when I’m seen. Oh, I wish I had a river. As the piano notes fade, I can feel the river pulling beneath me, dark and open and real. I want to reach for it. I want to feel it all at once, but my hands tremble as they always do, and my chest presses tight against itself, remembering how much desire hurts. So, I stay on the ice, alone and aching, skating just above the water, close enough to hear it rushing beneath me, close enough to know that skating hurts just as much as drowning.

character map

Ava McQuade '26

I had to write a character map today and I think I wrote it about myself.

My strongest traits and my worst, my fears and if I was cursed.

I can’t stand being alone, which is odd because I grew up that way.

I didn’t have a little sister to run around and play.

I spent my days making patterns in the sky. The popcorn ceilings holding stories, and letters, and shapes of feelings.

I can’t stand to be alone now, and I couldn’t stand it then.

I would rather do anything with a friend.

I’ll come clean your room and fold your clothes, do your math homework, just don’t leave me alone.

I don’t understand how people can choose to be alone.

To say they're tired, or lazy, just can’t pick up the phone.

I hate to think that when I die that I could still be stuck inside me, myself and I.

I don’t like your forced company, I don’t like the way you breathe, I can’t escape you even when my eyes are closed for sleep.

You think too much, you hurt when you don’t have to, you always turn blue. When left alone in my room, I trace the popcorn ceilings to protect me from you.

# b 3 9 a 7 3

# 2 e 3 3 2 f

# b c c 7 c 3

Natalie London

body, all i have, but when body, inevitably:

lumps on muscles [on body] that release sour liquid so i cannot run in the park medical 1/10,000 mystery that makes [body] eyeballs fall out everyday so i cannot see the sun

throttling genes passed down [body to body] wrapping and wrapping until they suffocate [body] and the doctor says itoldyouso inevitably body, the very last of what i have will spoil, and no one will think about my mind or my heart because you: eat [body] with your eyes judge a [body] by its cover and what good could lie in a spoiled [body] that was never made to last?

The Sidelines

Luella Moshtaghi '28

I stand just far enough away to see the pattern, the way people move like constellations they don’t know they’re part of. Everyone is living inside a different version of the same moment. Same street, same sky, but the air feels different in every chest. Someone laughs like the world has never bitten them. Someone else flinches at the sound of joy because it reminds them of something they lost. Both are real.

Both are standing ten feet apart. It’s strange how I can watch a person walk past me and know they are the center of their own universe, that their thoughts are loud and vivid and urgent, while I am only background noise in the corner of their day.

I wonder how many times I’ve been a blur to someone else while my mind was breaking itself open trying to understand everything. From the sidelines, the world feels layered. Like overlapping conversations in a crowded room too many truths happening at once, none of them wrong, none of them complete.

I don’t feel above it. I don’t feel below it. Just… adjacent. Close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to notice how fragile it all is.

And sometimes I think that’s the strangest part: we are all so deeply alive, so intensely alone in our own perspectives, yet somehow we keep brushing past each other like it means something.

#524029 #6e5721 Tree Rings

Charlotte Stein '26

Favorite Child

Sabrina Knight '27

I never noticed the pictures of you that litter the walls of our living room. Why aren’t there as many of me? I was a cute kid, too. Maybe you ’ re the favorite child. Your rosy, chubby cheeks, your gapped, infantile teeth, your tiny t-shirts, decorated in your favorite cartoon characters, and the breakfast you ate that morning. Your golden hair glimmers through the picture frame, but your blonde, wispy curls grew out years ago. Now, all that is there is a dull, long brown hairdo that covers your eyes. Maybe you like it that way. I walk out of the living room and up the stairs to find you playing video games in your room. You laugh with your friends over the phone, and I would say hi, but I don’t feel like interrupting. Later in the day, we’ll probably talk about school and your friends and maybe the girls you like, but our conversation won’t mean anything. [sigh] They’re normally not very meaningful anyway.

Do you remember that day when we were camping in Joshua Tree, when we thought you had gone missing? Mom and Dad turned themselves inside out looking for you. They thought you had been bitten by a snake, or maybe you fell in between some boulders and couldn’t get out. I was the one to find you napping in our tent, holding a big, black dung beetle you named ‘cutie’. You don’t really do stuff like that anymore. You just sit around, uselessly, playing video games and complaining about the screen time limits on your phone. I was driving you to your friend's house the other day, and I asked you what you were going to do that night. You just grunted and went back on your phone. Maybe Dad gave you more screen time.

You were always the problem child. Mom and Dad always say, “You were easy, but your brother was a pain since his first day alive.” I never understood why you got so much attention when you were a baby, especially because you were so difficult. You strayed away from us anywhere we went, you took things apart piece by piece, and you always managed to stick your hand in hot coffee pots or boiling water. I.... I’m almost surprised you ’ ve made it to thirteen. Do you remember when we would go on walks or ride around on our bikes together? I would take you to the store, and you would always pick out way too many snacks, and I’d have to yell at you to put them back. The cashiers looked at me like I was some evil monster of a sister, but really, I was just trying to help you make the right choices. Besides, you were so difficult to manage and never wanted to listen. I got those weird looks a lot. I didn’t think I was being hard on you, but enough dirty glances made me think otherwise. I guess that’s why you don’t talk to me.

Sometimes I wish I had been nicer. I was really just trying my best, but maybe I shouldn’t have cared at all. After all, you ’ re older now and should be able to make some decisions for yourself....[shakes head, taking back what you just said] I don’t think I trust you enough to do that. I remember the day I took you and your friend to Target. I didn’t need to go with you, but I thought it would be best if I did. You two shotgunned energy drinks in the store aisles, and you wouldn’t have paid for it if I weren’t there. Mom and Dad knew he was a bad influence on you, but you didn’t really notice. Your friend got hit by a car a couple of weeks later. I would do anything to stop that from happening to you. Mom is worried we hate each other so much that someday, we’ll only see each other on holidays and birthdays. I really hope that’s not true.

[reluctantly] But you don’t know that, and you never will.