PAUSE Spring 2026

PAUSE

the creative voice of Thomas College students

SPRING 2026

Waterville, ME

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Launched in 2026 by students in EH 228, The Art and Craft of Poetry, the PAUSE team includes us, the student editorial board, a faculty supervisor, and generous support from the Provost’s Office. The inaugural issue features creative work that deserves attention and recognition. PAUSE encourages you to slow down and remember what makes you tick, what fires your engine, what refuses to be unnoticed. What makes you human.

This first student-led publication brings together a collection of short stories, poetry, and visual art that explores identity, growth, and the complexity of being human Themes of self-discovery, love, resilience, and uncertainty appear in both quiet, reflective moments and in more surreal or transformative experiences Many pieces wrestle with finding stability in faith, learning to embrace happiness, standing firm in personal beliefs, and understanding the challenges that come with change and moving forward. The photography and artwork add another layer, capturing both subtle, natural beauty and imaginative, otherworldly scenes that invite a closer look. Together, these pieces offer a space where emotion, perspective, and creativity come together, reflecting the diverse voices and experiences of the students here at Thomas.

Sincerely,

Emma, Noah, Gus, Hannah, Katie, Nick, Justus, Jacob, Cayo, Emily, Kendall, Zayin, Adam

Professor Lisa Hibl &

1,001 Stories, and all subsequent images of Robin Duperry’s artist’s books, is printed with the artist’s permission.

1,001 Stories by Robin Duperry, 2019

Materials: encyclopedia base, and an old gardening book, book pages, white glue, LED lights, unlit

Photographed by Karen Winfree, Class of '27

I wanted to convey the sheer amazement I felt when encountering the intricacy of Duperry’s artistic world. The precision is stunning, from the tiny LED light bulbs in the reading lamp to the delicate fringe of the chair, showcasing the artist's meticulous skill. I was drawn to how the materials reflect everyday reading materials, with a variety of shapes and sizes of miniature books and papers. I composed the shot to magnify these small, lifelike elements, appreciating the scene's depth of detail.

Bella Sturtevant

Fish In the Sea

So many people. So many options. So many fish in the sea.

Why would I choose you?

When I am so kaleidoscopic, so intricate, so colorful.

When you are so one-dimensional, so plain, so gray.

You need more time. Time to become better. Time to become you.

Back when we read children’s books about rainbow fish, happy endings, and second chances, you were happy.

But this isn’t your book, and I am not your fairytale.

You have no rainbow scales. So I will keep swimming.

Artist’s

Statement

My photographic approach here aimed to reflect that playful, yet slightly unsettling, pun in Be Careful What You “Fish” For! I positioned the light source to deliberately create a powerful backlighting effect This not only gives the image an "awesome glow" but also dramatically reveals the hidden details, such as the surprising, ferocious fish lurking beneath the surface. This technique highlights how Robin Duperry’s art actively draws the viewer in and encourages the imagination to follow.

Karen

EH 228 Exquisite Corpse

Our Version

I am from my 6ft Type C Anker phone charger, frostbitten mornings quiet woods and winds that whisper through them.

I am from cold mornings and kitchen lights. I am from Lewiston, from CMCC Hospital, chocolate-chip banana bread and warm meat pie.

I am from the mill where my Memere worked with a woman whose family handmade solid gold rings.

I am from palm trees, chicken over rice at dinner, sand, and the ocean.

I am from four seasons, maple syrup, and pancakes, from the hours of labor called “quality time,” collecting, transferring, boiling, and finishing sap into syrup.

I am from the 08-Jeep Liberty with a random assortment of wires swaying under you, from DSi and the days of Game Cube.

I am from big pine trees and small apple trees, running streams and a shallow pond where the dog can run with no leash.

I am from Spotify and speakers, all the music I listen to. I am from daisies and dandelions, things that grow wild and hopeful, from the bright, beating sun and sneaky, poisonous jellyfish moving beneath the water, from the little toys I collected, the slime I created, the bracelets I made.

I’m from the dinners at 9pm because that’s when everyone was finally all home, the kids of the family splashing around in the pool and causing a ruckus the entirety of the block had to endure.

I’m from I. the smart one and L. the hard worker, from apple juice,

Apple iPhone and Poland Springs water, ponds frozen in the winter and wavy in the summer, where ice skates carve lines and mucky feet stir up the water.

I'm from C. and eyeglasses so clean they’re clear and so dirty they have a tint, bouncy house birthdays, my parents picking up scattered Barbies and toy bullets

I am from E. who gave me the blueprint of the family image. I am from the blueberry bushes in my greatgrandmother's backyard, prickly vines and flowers still blooming though she's no longer here to pick them

I am from the lion pillow pet that I took everywhere and how Lye the lion will be in every single family photo of my childhood. I am from the anger I expressed as a ten year-old, the sound of the office as I waited for my parents to come scold me for fighting on the playground

I’m also from drifting, from a small space that moved with the water from music I didn’t understand yet but asked for anyway

Mira Snow

Forest of Moving Trees

You are lost. Most definitely, undeniably, irrecoverably lost. This must be the end as you know it. You’ve walked past the same trees, kicked the same roots, even peed in the same bush over the last several hours. Hope is slim that you will ever find your way out of this forest. Poor, poor you. Poor, whiny, demanding (especially annoying), you. This is probably exactly what you deserve It’s not like anyone is going to miss you Maybe you should take this time and thoroughly reflect Nothing like the wind blowing through the leaves and the smell of earthy moss to open you up to some healing meditation Now you’re taking some deep breaths, as if that’s going to help your situation! You hate meditation, how could you forget? So, you keep walking. Right. Like that is supposed to help. You’ve been walking this whole time. Isn’t that how you got into this situation? Maybe you should take a moment to reminisce, remember how this whole thing began . . .

You are standing at the edge of the woods. People are jeering behind you. Some might call them friends, you did too once, but now they are anything but. It’s just a dare and it’s just the forest. Sure, people go missing in this forest all the time, but that’s different from this. Definitely different. Nothing to worry about. All you have to do is walk straight in for ten paces, then turn around and walk out. Literally a cake walk. So, you take the first step forward . . .

Ah yes! Now you remember. The ten paces in were easy, but getting out is proving to be difficult. You had turned around, eager to escape the confines of the trees, but all too quickly the edge of the forest was gone, and the sounds of your friends’ jeering had disappeared with it. And now here you are. Wandering like a lunatic through the trees. Oh, woe is you, lost and all alone. Of course, it would be just your luck to

be dared to wander into this haunted place. You’re not even here for a heroic reason. Just a childish game of ego.

Now it’s dark. Good for you, you’re completely screwed. This is when things get real. Sit on the ground, cry, maybe even wallow a bit. All very helpful to your situation. Why don’t you start collecting sticks to attempt a fire? Seems like an excellent idea Oops! You dropped your pile, what a clutz You begin picking up what you dropped but wait a minute that can’t be right The pile of sticks isn’t a pile of sticks at all! It’s a pile of bones Good job, you’ve either just desecrated an ancient grave site, or a murder scene. Either way you’re looking at an interview with the police. Sounds fun!

What’s that sound? It was probably nothing . . . maybe. There it is again! You’re looking around now, but nothing greets your eye except the same trees that have been surrounding you. The noise is echoing all around now. It’s a terrible creaking and cracking, like logs being ripped apart. It doesn’t occur to you that maybe it’s the trees making that sound until it’s too late. Congratulations, you just discovered a new species of tree! Your reward is your own bones joining the pile you left discarded on the ground. Just a little bit rude don’t you think?

Lucy Frazzitta

Stranger Things, acrylic

A Hole In the Tire

I long to stand up

I long to be heard

Yet breaking the silence

Seems more or less absurd.

To speak without words

To long, Or simply desire,

How long will I ride this bike

With the same faulty tires?

Danielle Stubenrod

Let the Light In

There was a time I shut the windows, locked the doors against the dawn. The sun knocked softly on my walls, but I whispered, “I can’t . . . I’m gone.”

The world outside felt sharp as glass, each breeze a cruel disguise. I turned away from tender hands, afraid of love, afraid of lies.

But sometimes, light comes differently, not breaking in, but weaving through. A voice, a touch, a quiet presence someone who sees the hidden you

They do not rush or pull too harshly, but sit beside the aching space, a steady hand upon the shadows, a kindness time cannot erase.

At first, I barely saw their light a candle’s glow where storms had been. But slowly, gently, they reminded me how sunlight feels upon the skin.

They spoke of mornings still worth seeing, of music waiting to be heard, of strength I carried, though unseen, of life restored by whispered word.

And one day, I cracked open wide, a window’s edge, a quiet grace

The light came pouring through my ribs, and kissed the shadows on my face

I felt the warmth I’d long forgotten the way a song could hold me near, the way a morning, soft with hope, could wash away the weight of fear.

So to the ones still in the darkness, to every heart too tired to fight: Know that you’re seen, and hands are waiting, to edge you gently toward the light.

Let them sit beside your silence. Let them hold you, still and true. The light they carry isn’t borrowed it’s a mirror of the light in you

And when you’re ready trust the windows Unlock the door Begin again

For though the hurt may guard the shadows, it’s always safe to let light in.

Until We All Are Free

Beneath the stars, the same sky we share, Lies a world burdened by wounds laid bare. A thousand voices rise, yet go unheard, Chained by fear, silenced word by word.

What binds one soul shackles us all, Injustice echoes, a clarion call. Can we not see, in each other's face, A mirror reflecting the human race?

Implicit chains forged by bias and fear, Divide what love could hold so near. But the path is clear, though steep the climb, To choose what’s just, to heal in time

Stand with the weak, the silenced, the scarred, For freedom’s light is never marred. It shines in hearts that dare to care, And grows in hands that choose to share.

Until we all are free, none are whole, Each of us tethered by a single soul. The better choice is ours to make, For love’s great power, the world’s to take.

Rise with courage, and take a stand, Together we’ll build a freer land. No chains shall hold, no fear remain, When we break these bonds, we break the pain.

Lucy Frazzitta

Sophie Damon

The Art of Moving On

You know it’s time to move on

When words don’t slice through you like a papercut anymore.

Shallow, but oh so deep.

You know it’s time to move on

When you see your reflection in a puddle

And instead of stepping in to shatter the image, you stop. You look at yourself for a moment, and smile

Stepping past it

You know it’s time to move on when the tears

That once fell from your mind’s abyss

Don’t seem to come anymore.

When you wake up every day, with something, anything, That makes life worth it.

I guess that’s the art of moving on.

Teardrops turn to puddles

And eventually, the sun always comes out to dry them up.

Ups and downs

Laughs and soul-crushing cries.

Those feelings are life.

Life Is Worth it.

William Haas

Life

This line is fine straight to the naked, winding to the eye.

A twisted path: broken, mended, and brittle appearing single Splitting into many, fraying away burning.

Mistakes occur, and streets dirt are worn.

Passing branches fallen; buildings forgotten; and grass beaten. Though if urged aside, hidden truths resurface

Forgotten lessons dig and age; eating away.

Emerging and reminding you of times of pain. These not isolated but accompanied by the experience that created them a mold.

Whether it’s judgment or jealousy, joy or fatigue, frustration or failure;

All shock and jolt a realization, a cruelty unseen.

Covering the surface, defined by its face seemingly emotionless, feeling disastrous

What’s to be remembered? Highs exist because of lows, And consequently, lows exist because of highs. To live you must die.

To begin you must end.

Lying patiently is an uncharted path A Life to be held, an earth unsettled.

William Haas

Perspective

A firm stance, an aching back

Standing tall for a glimpse, trying not to crack

A tight strain, a sore neck

Keeping my head high as I trek

A strong grasp, a tired hold

On to the vision I see and have been told.

A straight gaze, a dried eye

Watching and staring at the world and sky.

A weakened sound, a tender ear

Listening to promises, hearing the fear.

A pained head, a fatigued mind

Speeding thoughts, questioning the blinds.

A rowdy voice, an awful scratching

Begging me to open up, to stop patching.

A tough decision, a verdict serious

To change my Perspective, to shape my experience.

Connor McMahon

The Cold Stone

The stone beneath you is cold and steady, pressing back like it knows something you don’t.

You lean into it anyway

As if answers might rise through your bones if you stay.

Long enough.

The sun is sinking, spilling gold into bruised purples and grays, and you can’t decide if it’s beautiful or cruel.

You were taught sunsets meant peace as God closes the day gently, like a promise that’s always kept.

Tonight, it feels more like a distance.

Like something holy slipping further away no matter how hard you try.

Struggling with your faith doesn’t feel loud

It feels quiet in the worst way.

It feels like praying and hearing your own breath echo back at you.

A Walk With the Soul Flicker

I used to believe like a child, Without hesitation; without fear; without needing proof. God felt close then.

Close as breath.

I would talk to him in the dark like He was sitting at the edge of my bed, listening to every word. Now the dark feels bigger. I still pray but the words move slower. Heavier.

Sometimes they barely rise past my chest. I ask for peace; for clarity; for something unmistakable. Most nights, all I hear is the low hum of the ceiling fan and my own restless thoughts

Small faith

Still breathing

I don’t think faith left it just changed. What once felt like fire now feels like a flicker. A fragile flame I cup cradle in both hands. Hold it close and don’t let go.

Sunday Morning Hands

My hands are raised during worship but my mind drifts. I watch others cry, eyes closed; faces lifted. I want that certainty again. That surrender. Instead, I feel split in half belief in one hand; questions in the other.

The music swells; the drums echo in my chest. For a moment, something cracks open not joy exactly; not peace. Longing.

Homesick faith.

I remember kneeling beside my bed as a child, believing heaven hovered just above the ceiling. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear me whisper. Now my prayers feel formal Distant

Careful

But maybe missing that closeness means I still care Stay reaching.

Empty Church

Sometimes I sit in the back pew after everyone leaves no music; no crowd; no expectations. The air is still.

Dust floats in colored light. The cross at the front looks smaller without the noise.

I stop performing.

I speak plainly.

“Are You still here?”

The question hangs thin, trembling

Silence answers with more silence

But I stay seated

Stay anyway

Karen Winfree

Bad Words by Robin Duperry, 2021

Materials: Encyclopedia base, old Reader's Digest, book pages, white glue, automotive wire, LED lights, unlit

I chose to capture the dynamic, aggressive, unsettling energy this piece embodies A monstrous figure appears to be directly conjured from the pages of the book, violently expelling its dark essence into the world, with words like “ugly,” “stupid,” and “whore ” I wanted to reveal the contrast between the dark, ugly words and the beautiful ones that come with change, like “beautiful,” “caring,” “brilliant,” and “kindness.”

Madyson Nichols

The Perfect Order

What is more enjoyable than a nice cup of hot chocolate? Nothing. You know this; you always have. This coffee shop, with the towers of bookshelves and the library vibe is the best in town Every day you order a cup of cocoa and sit here watching The people walk by; the husband picks up his wife's favorite-- iced white mocha caramel with whipped cream. The grad student on her way to her biology lab-- small black coffee. The mom who comes in with her three kids who all seem to be under the age of five-- large iced coffee with four pumps of French vanilla creamer.

Today someone new walks through the door. He has dark hair and sharp green eyes. He’s tall and skinny but he looks so muscular from where you sit. The deep green shirt he wears clings to his arms allowing you to see the way his body is shaped. Muscular. Built. You can tell he is someone who cares for himself. He orders something you would never expect: large cocoa with extra whipped cream. His voice is deep and cuts through the chatter. The kind of voice you hope to hear at night before you go to bed. He is clearly a protector, a man who can keep you safe at night and hold you close when you cry You don’t catch his name; at least not today His smile left a memory on your brain you could never forget

When leaving the coffee shop, you notice a new feeling within you. You feel lighter . . . brighter than before. At work you notice that things don’t bother you as much as before. The coworker who likes to gossip is just background noise. The man who reeks of body odor apparently wore deodorant today. The boss who expects too much took the day off. There is no dread in the day that could ruin your mood. When you get home, the vibe stays the same. Your cat is happy to see you. Dinner cooks just right. Your pillow is cold on both sides, but your blankets are warm. You wonder what caused this perfect day. Your mind wanders back to him. His dark hair and sharp green eyes. Could it be love at first sight? Your dreams replay your morning, with the way his smile felt.

The next morning starts the same. You get your cocoa and watch. The husband The grad student The mom, with all her kids He doesn’t walk in So, you wait just a little longer than normal Watching more people come in Sadly, he never shows up Instead of feeling light, you drag your feet to work. Think about strangling the woman who gossips and yelling at the man who smells. When you get home, you find your cat has puked on your pillow. Your blankets are scratchy. Your dreams turn into nightmares.

The next morning you enter the coffee shop again. You get your cocoa and watch. The husband. The Grad Student. The Mom with all her kids. Then Him. His dark hair and sharp green eyes. This time he stops. Notices you. He doesn’t say a word, but you know what he is thinking. He sees you. Your goofy smile and soft laugh. If love at first sight is real, this is it. The way his expression softens makes you warm. He reaches out his hand. “Hi, I’m Andrew.” His words leave you stunned, speechless “So, are you a marshmallow or whipped cream kind of girl?

Lucy Frazzitta

Zygomaticus

Ancient is the day of ages, Gone are all the nations. Old is the age of days, Time is marked by generations.

Nature’s thirst, now forever quenched, Done with all resistance. Eternally at peace, Is that which has left existence

In her stead, a storm of malice Rules over the wastelands. A ghastly ochre haze, An end the fault of many hands.

Now all history has faded, Leaving nothing to show. Beneath the raging clouds, There’s no longer a past to know.

Nestled in a barren valley, Clinging to piety, Bereft of all life’s joys, The remnant of humanity.

Endlessly toiling for their worth, Knowing only hate’s glare, Forced into a scorched world

Merely to suffer in fate’s snare.

A sanctuary, a bastion, Emerged from the frail ground. Life’s last hope, man’s last try, A husk that had long since been crowned.

Evan Thomas

Old as the sun, young as the sea, Arrived a new savior. Survival from the storm, Granted for prescribed behavior.

Behold, a new safety and home, Sent from the lord most pure! The last remnant surmised Blessed us, chosen to endure!

Majestic in its curvature, The piper lured the mice. Safety from the great storm, Shelter, sustenance for a price.

They passed through the translucent dome, A shield of sienna.

A priest then did declare: Praise to our new god, Datura!

For within its rounded confines, The storm instantly ceased.

Protecting the remnant From joining the countless deceased

Datura, as named by the priest, The clear source of power, Was fleshy and throbbing, Unfurled like that of a flower.

While the shield stemmed from its center, Ominous in its shine, Ripples of energy Manifested from the design.

Writhing tentacles plunged downward, Obtaining a strong glow, Obscured by the sick earth, Drilling into what waits below.

Curved and far surpassing man’s height, Appendages arced in A tight, crumpled spiral, Pulsating red, their sallow skin.

Just as the remnant first arrived, The tentacles soon furled.

The survivors were pushed, Coerced into the core’s small world.

Where arm met arm, the doorways lied, Ovals of modest size.

Only the fit slipped through, Only the best escaped demise.

This chamber was like a new womb, Dark and hopelessly warm.

Bulbous, transparent spores

Occupied its amorphous form

They flashed with replenishing light, Providing rest so sweet. The remnant wholly lulled, The priest said: it is good to eat!

Numbed to a restorative sleep, Fed by the gentle gleams, The last remnant of man Was thrust into relentless dreams.

There they saw visions of the storm, And what would be their death, If they chose to betray That which had saved their life and breath.

With the warning came instruction, To reach symbiosis. A perpetual task, To thwart a shared diagnosis.

Every day, the arms furled inward, Leaving their power source Overcharged and weary, The shield and Datura divorced

With life-force drained, Datura bled. With that, the dark dream’s end, The priest arose and said: We must help our savior ascend!

We must labor so she can heal, Come, my congregation!

Push her arms to power, The charge of this generation!

And thus, the grueling work began. For if she were to yield, They would all soon follow. Return the arms, restore the shield!

Out from the core, they were rebirthed, Slaving against her mass. All muscles toned and tense, Death was what they sought to surpass.

Five tentacles they had to mend, With only life to show. Five sinister divots, Providing power from below.

Survival became a cycle, Repeated every day.

Work rewarded with rest, Until the body would decay.

Within the core’s numerous spores, Children were soon produced From their parents, they’re cloned, All knowledge innately induced

All memories and dreams attained Akin to their brother.

From that ignorant sleep, Datura was named man’s mother.

Children: incubated. Mankind: inundated. Elders: fabricated.

Promising the storm’s end, The priest hid his grave fallacy. Teaching the elders to ascend, Assume the prophecy

The cult’s ninth messiah, In the age when none could be blamed, Known as the great Hannaniah, Watched as young Claeg was named.

To the cause, youth was sold, Among the dedicated throes. For effort, clones were amply old; Claeg felt nothing but woes.

Take pride, lift your nation!

Hannaniah to Claeg once said.

Prove mighty, your generation! But he’d rather be dead.

Claeg would soon lose to thought, When freedom he found to be right A symbiote, mother was not She was a parasite

While daring heresy, He considered the storm a lie. Perhaps it was conspiracy, Perhaps he wouldn’t die.

The bones of the abused, Claeg would join through his lethal race, As the remnant observed and mused: What’s that look on his face?

Lucy Frazzitta

Danielle Stubenrod

Becoming Peregrina: What She Saw in Me

My family’s story began in Rochester, New York, but much of my childhood unfolded beneath the vast skies of Colorado Springs. I lived there until I joined the United States Marine Corps in 1989. In those formative years, I developed a fascination with birds of prey. As a high school student, I volunteered at a local aviary where injured raptors were rehabilitated. I stood in quiet awe before a Harpy Eagle, a Red-tailed Hawk, and a Snowy Owl But it was the peregrine falcon that stayed with me

The falcon was different It was not merely powerful; it was a survivor. It carried a sharp, ringing cry that cut cleanly through the aviary air. Even now, years later and even with the hearing loss I carry I can still remember that sound. It was both reassuring and commanding. It did not plead or perform. It simply declared its presence. In that call there was steadiness. It existed fully, whether the world answered back or not.

The peregrine falcon (Falco peregrinus, the “wandering falcon”) moves between cliffs, coastlines, and cities. It does not belong to one landscape alone. Its flight is not escape, but intention. Known for reaching diving speeds of over 200 miles per hour, it is considered the fastest animal on earth (National Audubon Society). Yet its story is not only one of speed, but of survival. During the mid-twentieth century, peregrine populations declined dramatically due to the effects of DDT, which thinned eggshells and devastated nesting success Through conservation efforts and reintroduction programs in the 1970s and 1980s, the falcon recovered Today, it nests again in the cliffs of Colorado and along the granite coastlines of Maine Its return is renewal.

Migration is often understood as movement across geography, but it is equally a movement across identity. To migrate is not simply to travel; it is to adapt, to endure, and to be reshaped by terrain without surrendering one’s core. In nature, migration is survival. In human life, it is becoming.

I first encountered the peregrine falcon in Colorado, but its meaning deepened over time. My abuela, María Díaz, used to call me mi peregrina her traveler. As a child, I assumed it was simply a term of affection. Only later did I understand the weight of the word. “Peregrina” means pilgrim, wanderer, one who journeys with purpose. She would tell me, “Mija, do not let others steal your joy.” She understood, perhaps before I did, that my life would not follow a straight path. She saw movement not as instability, but as calling.

Like Nice in The Girls in the Wild Fig Tree, whose name Retiti connected her to the healing strength of the oretiti tree, I began to understand that my own name in nature carried intention rather than accident Nice’s name reflected qualities she would grow into and embody for others In the same way, Peregrina is not simply a word of affection It reflects endurance, disciplined movement, and a life shaped by terrain rather than confined by it.

My Shoshone heritage and my Colorado roots taught me early that land is not background; it is teacher. The cliffs, the open sky, and the wind were constant presences. Birds of prey were not abstract symbols; they were part of the lived landscape. The falcon did not belong to one place alone. It moved between altitude and earth, between canyon and coastline. In that way, it mirrored something I was only beginning to recognize within myself.

Years later, I encountered John Gillespie Magee Jr.’s poem “High Flight,” particularly the line, “Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth.” The line resonated not because it described escape, but because it described release the lifting of constraint through skill and intention. The peregrine falcon embodies that same disciplined freedom. It does not flee the earth; it commands the air above it. To fly is not to abandon where one began It is to rise while still belonging

The falcon’s presence followed me into adulthood in unexpected ways. On the day I was thrown from my horse, Oats, I remember looking up and seeing a falcon overhead. Even in moments of impact or disorientation, something above remained balanced. The falcon was still flying. And so was I. Falling and flight are not opposites; they are part of the same terrain.

Today, the peregrine falcon nests both in the cliffs of Colorado and along the rocky edges of Maine. It thrives in cities and on remote ledges alike. It adapts without losing its nature. In that adaptability, I see a reflection of my own path across states, across roles, across identities. Migration has not erased who I am. It has clarified it.

My Shoshone heritage shaped how I understood land long before I had academic language for it. In that worldview, land is relationship. Sky is presence. Movement across terrain is not random wandering but survival and adaptation. Birds of prey were participants in that ecosystem, governed by endurance and precision. The falcon does not waste motion. It studies, waits, and commits. Its migration is deliberate.

To claim the name Peregrina is not to romanticize nature, but to acknowledge relationship. Migration is not disconnected from origin. It is continuity carried forward. The peregrine falcon moves between cliffs and coastlines without abandoning its essence. It remains fully in Colorado’s altitude and Maine’s granite.

In choosing this name, I am not stepping away from where I began. I am recognizing the terrain that shaped me. The Colorado sky, the disciplined flight of raptors, and my abuela’s voice together formed a language of becoming. Between heritage and land, between lineage and movement, Peregrina emerges not as invention but as alignment.

References

Magee Jr., John Gillespie. “High Flight.” 1941.

National Audubon Society. “Peregrine Falcon.” Audubon, www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/peregrine-falcon. Accessed 20 Feb. 2026.

Shamsie, Kamila. The Girls in the Wild Fig Tree. Riverhead Books, 2018.

In the Eyes of Speckled Sunlight

Overnight the frost had begun to climb up the trees. It took a great effort for me to pull my legs out from beneath me with the cold biting. I felt Mother’s nose prodding at my hind and urging me to rise She had taught me that movement was survival, so I begrudgingly dragged myself to stand I mourned the loss of my mother’s warmth as she rose and began the journey for the day. It was late in the season of falling leaves, and Mother was determined to eat as much food as possible. She told me that the coming season would be barren, and food would be scarce. I didn’t really understand, it seemed like there was plenty of food now, but I had no choice but to follow.

We had only been walking through the trees for a short while before Mother stopped and pawed the dirt. This was the place I was meant to stay while she continued on. She would always return, often with food to share. Twisting rays of light sliced through the air and dappled the ground, leaving small spots of white in the dirt. These spots matched my furry coat perfectly. As I settled into the spot, making myself small and invisible, I became the dappled light. Now, only my mother could see me, but she was already traveling away. She would be back . . . soon.

I could tell time had passed based on the movement of the light from the sky Something had caused my large ears to perk I heard it It was a being, that much I could tell It was also large, probably monstrous, if the snarling wet sniffs I could also hear were any clue. It was creeping closer to me from behind, and although my heart pumps blood through my body, I dare not move. My invisibility is my only protection now. It’s right over me, its shadow interrupting the light. And just like that, my cover is blown. With all the might my little body can muster, I burst up and away from the brush. My ears flop back to listen for my pursuer while my white tail pins up, like a flag signaling danger. I hardly make a sound as I bound through the trees, hurtling over bushes and logs like they are nothing. I don’t know where I am going. I only know what Mother taught me; movement is survival. Around every tree I dive behind I imagine she’ll be there to save me,

but she isn’t. The creature is still behind me, but I don’t dare glance back. I can feel its hot breath nipping at my back legs, and I know it has fangs waiting to sink into my flank.

A sharp whistle pierces the woods in front of me, and I panic. Indecision causes me to plant my hooves in the dirt and screech to a halt. The creature is immediately on top of me, but I feel nothing as fangs like daggers rip into flesh. All I know is my heart, that it is still beating and I am still breathing. I must stay strong, for Mother. I want to see her again. I can imagine her soft kisses soothing my wounds. I hope she returns soon.

The creature, some sort of strange wolf I can now see, suddenly gets dragged off me A new creature stands over me and I am terrified It towers on two legs instead of four and makes strange noises, much like a bird does It stares at me for a moment before turning away and dragging the wolf with it. Now I lay alone in the dead leaves. I don’t feel cold now; my own blood warms me as it stains the ground. I am too tired to move. Mother will return; she always does. For now, I will wait here for her, invisible under the speckled sunlight.

Sophie Damon

Dr. Red

We wake up at 7 am every day. We eat oats for breakfast. Fruit is allowed, but brown sugar is not. There are a lot of things not allowed here. We live in a brick building; there are many floors, but the only one we aren't allowed in is the basement. There are four of us. We are all girls with blonde hair and blue eyes, all around the same age, thirteen, I think. I don't know exactly what I look like, just what the others have told me. We can't look at our reflection here, there's no way to see my own face. I’m not allowed to talk about it but it wasn't always this way. Sometimes I remember the world before I was chosen It was better then, but I can't say that, because I am meant to be here I would tell you the logistics of why we are here, but we don't know The only thing we know is that we are elite We are the chosen ones We belong to Dr Red

It's Sunday today, I know that because it's “Lab day.” Every Sunday I go to a little room on one of the upper floors of the building and get testing done. Dr. Red says we do this because we are special; one-of-a-kind beings, the best in the world. He tells me this regularly as I sit on the fold-up, musty-smelling hospital cot in the stuffy, manilla colored room. There is a singular lightbulb that hangs above me, attached to a thin wire. A fly is hitting it, causing a slight buzzing sound as the light flickers. Dr. Red begins cutting my hair, but not much, just an even trim all the way around my head. He does this every week. Often, I wonder why he doesn't just cut more off at a time. The scissors he uses always seem pristine. It's a sharp contrast to the dingy room. The scissors are shiny and polished, they look like they’re brand new. I stare at them and wonder if it's the same pair he used last time, or if they are brand new

“Your hair has gotten longer,” he remarks, jotting it down with no emotion in the notebook he always brings with him

I wasn't old enough to read when he brought me here, but Dr Red wanted me to be a “smart girl.” Every day, for countless days, I learned. I sat in a small room, empty and dark; except for a small wooden chair, and a box-shaped TV. I didn't know where I was, but I was there for hours, maybe days, at a time. Books and puzzles filled

the room; the television played movies about how to read, write, and speak. The lady on the television had brown hair; I remember her now because of how odd she looked. She was beautiful, but so different from us. I’ve only seen blonde hair since I got here. Maybe I had seen brown hair in the distant past, but I don’t remember. Slowly, I started to read the books one by one It started with picture books, ones I had already known how to read As I got older, and began living with the others, the books were mostly about science I don't know what “Science” means. Even so, I am the only one of us who can read. Occasionally I try to teach others, but it has become exhausting and tumultuous to try and teach a person who can't really speak how to read.

Regardless, that's how I know at this instant that his notebook only says one word on the black-speckled cover: “Original.” I try to analyze what this means as he tells me to lie down. I have never heard this word before. This distraction doesn't last long enough, I know the worst is coming. I look at the old ceiling lightbulb again, covered in cobwebs. I need to distract my brain from the pain. The bulb flickers and I wonder why it hasn't been fixed. It always looks the same.

The needles are lined up on a metal tray resting next to me on the already too-small cot Some poke into my veins, emptying their contents inside of me before they hit the tray again, empty Some start empty and come back with my blood filling them to the brim The liquids crackle through my blood, hot with lightning. The pain is still there, but it used to be worse. I guess I should be grateful. I feel numb as Dr. Red works on me, making me “perfect,” as he says. He collects sample after sample and labels funny looking containers. I peek when he routinely turns to write in his journal. I can't read all of them, but most say that same strange word on them, “Original.” After a while, I feel an odd sense of comfort looking at the lightbulb. It flickers in and out until the room goes completely dark.

When I wake up I’m back in our quarters. We have a bedroom, and all four fold-up beds are lined up, only feet apart. The beds look the same as the one in the dark lab room. The floor is covered in cement.

The rooms are strange and small. There is something that screams through the walls of every room, “trapped.” The voice sometimes becomes so loud it feels inescapable. The walls are manilla colored, tainted brown, chipped by time. There is nothing on the walls, this place is very plain. Nothing is colorful like the images on that old box TV screen that I still remember from what must have been years ago. There is no television here. There are no books I can really read. Did I do something to lose the little box TV? Am I supposed to be this upset about something most of the others haven't even seen. Maybe the little TV never existed. Maybe it was in my life before and I should forget it. Maybe I’m just not meant to see color, or know stories. Dr. Red always says that the chosen ones live by different standards. Besides the bedroom we have one bathroom, the common room, and the dining room. These are much like the other rooms: cement floors, dreary manilla walls, and bright lights filling panels of the ceiling The dining room has nothing but a long wooden table in it, and all of us sit on opposite sides

I’m certain we are on the first floor, besides the basement, which none of us will ever see. We have a common room, which has four wooden chairs, and a small metal table that holds blank paper and pencils. Dr. Red comes and collects the papers on Lab Day. Usually they are mostly blank. He must have put those there to write, but none of the girls know how. He told me it was my job to teach them. The girls never seem to learn, though. The only things ever drawn on the blank sheets of paper are scribbles, holding no meaning at all. Even though it is forbidden, sometimes I write and keep it from Dr. Red. In the night I've figured out that I can scribble my thoughts on a piece of paper, and eat it when I am done. I have thought about other hiding places, but nowhere is safe. Usually when I write I find myself scribbling the same words every time: “Original,” over and over. I want so badly to know what it means. I can’t give those to Dr. Red, of course, because he’d know I was spying Chewing a bit of paper is worth keeping my secret He can't know I am spying If he knew, I don't know what would happen to me

None of the others have a set day for testing, only I do When the others leave for testing, they go with Dr. Red to a different floor, I don't know which one. The girls don't come back for what I assume is days, sometimes weeks. When they return, they don't act normal for a while. Maybe because they are burnt out from the labs; not all of the others are as used to them as I am. I am the oldest one here, I think. All the girls are the same height. They all have very similar faces and blonde hair, but some have it tied in styles like ponytails or buns. The way I tell them apart is by their outfits. We each wear different colored one-piece jumpsuits. Each one has something inscribed on the right side of the chest. None of us knew what that meant at first, so we decided those were our names. 1.0, 2.0, 3.0, and I was 0.G. Every time one of the others came back from testing, though, one of their zeros was replaced. Mine never changed though, I’ve always been 0G. Right now we are 1.5, 2.7, 3.2, and 0G. I wish I knew why their names changed and mine doesn’t

One of the girls disappeared last night, I assume for testing Occasionally the others get taken in the night, but this time something is off. The bedding is scattered on the floor, and 3.3’s jumpsuit is tangled in the sheets. I have never seen this before. The walls start calling to me as the room closes in. “Trapped,” they scream, “trapped.”

At breakfast, everything seems normal. We eat the oatmeal that is always waiting for us in the dining room when we wake up. We sit at our table, but none of us talk. We only talk sometimes, because the girls will only answer direct questions; some, never speak at all. I am tired of asking all the questions so I usually don't speak. Today, when I’m almost finished with my oatmeal, I lift my head from the ceramic white bowl. Something scares me about saying my fears aloud, but I need to know where she is. I look around at all the girls. They monotonously eat their oatmeal with their head down and their spoon in the right hand. My voice, though only just above a mumble, rips through the familiar silence I shift upward in my chair and ask, “Has anyone seen 3 3?” The girls look up, one-by-one, stunned by the question itself They have obviously noticed her absence, and signal

this as they shake their heads. Not a word from any of them, and not a care in their bare eyes. Instantly, like I never spoke a word, they turned their heads back down to their ceramic routine, uninterested.

I’m not like the others; I can't stop thinking about the bedding on the floor. When girls leave for testing the bed is always perfectly made, and the girls always leave with their jumpsuits, and come back with new ones. I can't help but wonder if 3.3 is okay. After we clean up the dining room, we do our daily chores: Sweeping, wiping down the tables, dusting, and changing our sheets I feel sick as I plaster a calm look on my face and finish my tasks Then, I go back into our room I pick up the bedding, and the jumpsuit off the ground I fold it up and put it on her bed for when she returns. It doesn't feel right. Why would the jumpsuit be here? I pick it back up off the bed, feeling the damp material on my fingers, and make a decision. If she's without clothing, she must need it back, right? I should go find her. Something is telling me it’s the right thing to do. She is either in serious danger, or she has attempted to leave this place. Although, I’m not sure if that's even possible. I have never seen anyone do it before.

I can't let the others see me leave, so I devise a plan to leave deep into the night when they are sleeping. There are only two rules here: to only leave the living quarters if accompanied by Dr. Red, and to never, under any circumstances, go into the basement. This room being the only one forbidden tells me one thing: the only way I can get out is through the basement I don't know for sure, but I am going to find out

Dr Red used to tell me stories of girls who went down there before, never coming back; screaming but no one could hear them, alone, kicked out of the elite, never seen again. The chosen aren't meant to want to leave. We are “changing the world,” says Dr. Red. He has promised us great success and a home, after our families abandoned us. Why would I risk that to find her? What if she is totally fine, and is truly in the lab right now? I wonder if it's worth it

to go down there, but it's the only way. As far as I know, the basement door has never been locked. Dr. Red said it was a loyalty test, that he would know if I even touched the door handle. He told me that if I ever thought about breaking his rules, I’d be banished from the elite. I’d be starved, and on the streets. I wonder if the others have ever tried. I doubt it. As I turn the knob slowly, my heart beats to the same rhythm as the walls that moan with insistence for my escape. I think it over one last time. Is this the right decision? What if I die because of this? It’s too late now. I have already thought about it. That alone should condemn me I slowly descend the staircase long and narrow, I grasp the banister with a shaky hand, not knowing what I'll find at the end

I push open the door and I see a white room. Not a closet-sized manilla room, an actual room. This is the cleanest room I’ve ever seen. The walls are white, and none of the bright rectangular lights covering the ceiling are flickering. It smells like chemicals, the scent burns my nose. There are two plastic chairs by another door, which has a large number of different locks on it, and a small window leading to the outside. Quickly, I run to it. My heart leaps through the window as I look out the glass square. I see nothing but trees and a small dirt pathway that is so narrow I can hardly see it at all. I see colors, greens, browns, yellows, and blues. I can almost feel the breeze of freedom sway through the locks.

Suddenly a sound penetrates the ceiling above me. I can’t tell if it’s Dr Red or not, so I run into a much smaller room on the other side of the stairwell and shut the door When I’m sure there isn’t anyone coming I turn on the light There, above the sink, is a mirror I look at myself, startled. I never could remember what my face looked like. It looks familiar, like I see it every day. Almost too familiar. My throat swells as I have a horrifying realization: I look exactly like the other girls. My eyes are the same, my nose is the same shape, and my hair is the same color as theirs. It’s almost like we’re all . . . related. A shiver runs down my spine as I abruptly look away from the mirror and turn

off the lights. I leave the bathroom, wondering exactly what is going on that I don’t know about. My heart pounds and the thoughts slice through my head.

Why would Dr. Red not tell me that we are related? I would have been trying so much harder to interact with them if I knew they were my family. I look to the other side of the room and see a metal table, a computer system, and two large metal fridges that cover the wall.

The lights are beaming off the silver color on the fridges and the table. The brightness is alarming and unusual. I wonder why we aren't allowed down here. I go to the first fridge and open the sliding door. There are test tubes, blood samples, hair samples, nail clippings, and tons of other things I’ve never seen before. I pick up a tube, interested to yet again see the word "Original" on it, accompanied by numbers with a green check mark As I pick up another one I see red check marks, and odd-colored samples, all with the word “Original” on them. I close the fridge and walk to the desk next to it. The drawers seem to be locked, except for the top one. The drawer is cracked open a bit, just enough to pry open. Inside there are notebooks, at least ten. I pick up the one on top and instantly recognize it. It’s the same one Dr. Red uses for my tests, at my routine check-ins, and when he comes to see us in our quarters. The black-speckled secrets are in my hands.

I waste no time opening it. I flip through pages of numbers and tests, data collected over the years, boring stuff. Things I, for the most part, can't understand. Until I get to something else. It’s pictures. I flip through pages of photos showing my brain, limbs, and body, with writings scattered around them. I look asleep in the photos. I don't remember them being taken at all. I can't help myself as I eat more and more of the forbidden fruit, reading on. There are columns on the sides of some of the pictures showing my cells, my blood, and my DNA As I keep reading, I see more photos of myself, except this time they are labeled with numbers 1 0, 2 0, and 3 0 Just like the jumpsuits, each time the number changed the girl was slightly different. The only thing consistent is the labels on the side columns, blood type: “0.G - Original.”

In the next notebook I pick up I come across a page that says “buyer's receipt.” Reading further, it says: “Sold, $1.4 million dollars. Clone 1.1, in progress. Notes: Adjusted well to living situation. The Original has proven successful in adapting clones to human routine.”

I drop the notebook in utter disbelief. Who is Dr. Red?

Contentwarning:thispoemdiscussesemotional abuse,trauma,andtheaftermathinhealing.

White Curtain

There are rooms in my mind with the lights still on but the door only opens a crack.

I can stand in the hallway and hear what happened, the way his fist kissed the wall the way my name sounded like an accusation in his mouth, but when I try to step inside a white curtain drifts down between me and the girl I was

I see her shadow I see her flinch. I see her say, “this is the last time,” over and over. Like a prayer she hoped would someday mean something.

But the details blur like rain against a windshield. I remember the feeling more than the facts.

The way my stomach learned to tie itself into knots. The way my shoulders lived somewhere near my ears The way love became a thing I had to survive

Two and a half years is a long time to wear rose-colored glasses when the world behind them is burning I tell myself, I should have known, I should have left. I should have run the first time his anger filled the room like smoke with nowhere to go.

But survival is strange, it teaches you how to call smoke “fog” it teaches you how to call control “care” it teaches you how to shrink yourself small enough to fit inside someone else's rage and still believe you are loved.

Sometimes I wonder who I would be if I had never learned how to pretend to be asleep like a little girl hiding from her parents.

There must be another version of me in some softer universe. A girl whose laughter was never interrupted, whose body was never a battlefield, whose heart never had to barter for safety.

I want to meet her. I want to ask her what it feels like to grow without bracing for impact. Instead, I am here. At times, I ask myself the worst question. Was it me?

Was there something in my bones that made him cruel? Was I too loud, too quiet, too needy, too human?

If I deserved it, then why does the man beside me now speak to me like I am something fragile in the best way?

Why does he hold me like I’m precious instead of something to control?

Why does his voice stay level even when we disagree? Why does he never make me earn my safety?

I wait for the catch. I wait for the volume to rise. I wait for the door to slam

But it doesn’t And the quiet is so unfamiliar it feels almost dangerous.

I am learning that peace Can feel like walking on a frozen lake After years of standing in a storm. The stillness is loud. The gentleness makes me ache. Because chaos was predictable. Chaos made sense. If love hurt, then at least I understood the rules.

Now I am loved without flinching, without bargaining, without shrinking, and I don’t know where to put my hands.

The girl behind the white curtain is still there

She is not stupid. She is not weak. She is not to blame.

And maybe, the alternate universe isn't the one where it never happened.

Maybe it’s this one, where I am still here. where I am soft and scarred but learning.

Where I am held and nothing is demanded in return.

Where I am beginning to understand that discomfort in kindness does not mean I am unworthy of it.

The curtain is still there. But sometimes, it moves.

And I see her more clearly. The girl who endured, the girl who stayed, the girl who found comfort in leaving.

She is not a mistake She is not the problem She is Me.

Author’s Note

This poem is a reminder that pain and fear do not coincide with love Understanding that love shouldn’t hurt is the first step toward seeing your worth, and choosing the kind of love that is gentle, safe, and truly meant for you.

Lillian Clark

Dreaming

I am sitting at the head of the table at a bookstore, signing copies of my new book, Murder at the Palace. I do the same thing every day like clockwork. I ask for people’s names and write, “Never stop reading” in their book next to my signature as if I’ve never written it in a book before. After five intensely long hours of sitting and signing books are over, my security team escorts me to my car, and I get driven home.

“How did today go, Miss Jacobs?” My driver, Eric asks. He has driven me home for the past three years, ever since I got the National Book Award for my fictional novel, about my childhood dream of becoming a famous author.

“Boring as always. There was this one really cute little girl who came up to me and asked if I knew where her mom was,” I replied. “I just asked my security team to help her.”

Eric concerningly replies, “Well, Miss Jacobs, did she find her mom? She must have been very scared ” Eric turns down the radio “We are here Miss Jacobs Make sure you say hi to your family for me.”

“I will, Eric. And she did find her mom. I think. It was either that or she got kidnapped.” Eric smiles at my joke while I wave to him goodbye from my front porch.

I walk into an empty house and change into an oversized Tshirt, throw my hair into a messy bun, then scrummage for something to eat. I am standing in a dark kitchen with only the refrigerator light shining on me. I stare into a fridge with nothing but a bottle of ketchup and a takeout container from two weeks ago.

“What am I doing with my life?” I say to myself aloud. I always thought by the age of twenty-five I would be a famous author, have a husband, and have two toddlers running around the living room but here I am, sitting in my kitchen, watching gossip girls on my phone in the dark while eating dry cereal for dinner

Around 3:00 am, I get an email from my publisher asking if I have finished my new book yet To be honest, I haven't even started I haven’t written anything since my novel Murder at the Palace came

out and I got an award for it. I have been meaning to start, but I just can’t get the words out.

Dear Max Sheldon (M and S Publishing):

No worries about my new book I just have to smooth out some rough edges and finish the last few chapters I am currently thinking about cover ideas It will be about a book called ‘Murder’s Circle’ I will try to have it in your inbox no later than Halloween I will send you some cover ideas until then This one is gonna be good, Max

As always, Rylee Jacobs

I have no idea how I am going to write a whole book by Halloween. That's only two months away. Sometimes I wish no one knew me. No one knew my name, no one read my book, I never became an author. When I close my eyes, I imagine myself in scrubs giving a little boy a new heart, changing his life for the better. Or maybe a teacher teaching high schoolers how to do quadratic equations while they yawn. Maybe a biologist helping a beached whale back into the ocean on the coast of Santa Monica. Imagine, no more book signing until 7:00 pm, no more deadlines for things I haven’t even started writing, and no more security watching my every move People would praise me for the good I’m doing in the world, not for making up stories

“How did you sleep?” I roll over in bed to find some strange man I’ve never met, lying next to me.

“Who are you?!” I gasp, trying to understand what is happening. I am in my house, I'm in my room, so who is this man next to me?

The man looks at me in confusion as he answers, “It’s just me.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Ryan. Are you feeling okay?” Ryan replies.

“Who's Ryan?” I say while scooting to the edge of the bed trying to get farther away from this strange as possible.

“Umm . . . ” Ryan thinks for a second. “Are you serious? I’m your husband Hello? You’re a dentist down the street from here

Remember, that’s how we met ” Ryan gets out of bed and starts getting dressed “You should probably get dressed You have to leave in fifteen minutes ”

“I don’t think I’m feeling well Can you call whoever and tell them I am sick?” I ask.

“Yeah. That's probably a good idea with the way you’ve been acting.”

Lilah Wells, 1 month old, 3/16/2024. That's what the photo in the hallway said.

This means she is six months old, and Ryan's last name is Wells. I look at the other photo on the wall of my wedding day. It says:

Ryan Wells and Rylee Jacobs, 6/19/2021, wedding day.

“I feel like I am dreaming. Am I dreaming?” I say to myself while pinching my arm. I quickly put the pictures back in their frames and hung them up on the wall in the hallway. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bathroom door. I stare at myself for a minute. I’m still me but different. The skin on my stomach hangs from my bones. My skin is glowy, yet my body longs for attention. I am the same person as I was in my past reality, but slightly different. Maybe it’s the bags under my eyes, or changes from childbirth, but it isn’t quite me.

Later that night I lay in bed. “I am tired. I think I’m going to go to bed. Are you able to take care of Lilah?” I ask. “Sure Good night I love you ” Ryan replies “Love you, too ” I say to a man I met this morning Maybe if I go to sleep, I will wake up and everything will be normal again But when I wake up in the morning, everything is the same I am not sure if things will ever be the same again Maybe I was just living in a dream before. A childish dream.

As days went by, nothing went back to normal. No book, no fans, just a family. I don’t know how I got here, but it’s nice to know I am loved by someone in this universe. Maybe I was dreaming, or maybe I have been like this all along A dreamer who is so strong and powerful that they lose sight of their own reality

“Hello, my name is Rylee, and this is all true If you don’t believe me, try and prove me wrong,” I say, to the crowd full of people at the release of my first book, Dreaming.

POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE

OF PARADISE

Capturing Miami’s Rhythm in Still Images

The Rattling Cadence of a Beach Cart

A couple or family is walking down a residential street or a paved path, pulling one of those heavy, wheeled beach carts. It’s loaded down with a cooler, umbrella, bags, and towels. The scene is sun-drenched, but the beach itself is not yet in sight You can feel the heat rising from the pavement.

This image is all about the sound of effort and anticipation. You can hear the specific, uneven rattle of the cart’s plastic wheels over the cracks in the pavement of a rhythmic brrrrrtap-tap-brrrrr It’s the sound of the cooler shifting and clunking against the metal frame, the gentle clatter of the umbrella pole, and the soft, shuffling footsteps of the person pulling it.

The Rhythmic Click-Click-Click of a CitiBike

Cassette

A low-angle shot of two boys riding a citibike through Ocean Drive. The focus is on the spinning chain and gears against a backdrop of a colorful street

The visual effect of the precise, interlocking metal gears immediately suggests a rhythmic, mechanical ticking. It’s the sound of constant, leisurely motion, the soundtrack of a Sunday morning or a commute down the Venetian Causeway It’s not a loud sound, but a persistent one, the quiet metronome of an active city life.

The Heavy Silence of a Forgotten Corner

A photograph of a homeless man, sitting under a tree just off a sun-drenched, busy street. The composition highlights the contrast between the blazing light on the pavement and the deep shadow where he rests.

This is the most powerful sound of all: the sound of silence. Not a peaceful silence, but a heavy, isolating one. In a city that is so lound, this image captures a pocket of profound quiet. You imagine the distant, muffled sounds of the city from his perspective, the laughter and the cars are just a dull echo. The world is happening over there, and here, it is silent It’s the sound of being unseen.

A couple sits in wrought-iron chairs on Ocean Drive, locked in an intimate conversation. The woman leans forward, a cigarette held loosely in her hand, a delicate wisp of smoke curling into the humid air.

This image captures a private frequency within the public buzz You can almost hear the low, confidential murmur of their voices, a world of shared secrets contained between two people in a chair The visual detail of the cigarette is key; it adds a sensory layer of the soft crackle of burning tobacco and the faint hiss of an inhaled breath. It’s the sound of slow time, of a pause in the city’s frenzy

A shot taken from the sidewalk on Ocean Drive, but in the brilliant midday sun. A lowslung, hyper-colored sports car in motion, tearing through a scene of otherwise slow, sundrenched strolls.

This isn’t the synesthetic roar of neon; it’s a violent, auditory shock, the contrast between the tranquil, visual clarity of a Miami day. It’s a sound that doesn’t just fill the air, it shatters it. It’s the sound of unapologetic performance, a stark reminder of the city’s flashy engine idling just beneath its sunny, relaxed surface.

All the Noise I Couldn’t See

A family is on the sidewalk of Ocean Drive. The son wears a baby carrier. The father gently pushes a stroller where the son is sleeping. Despite the sleeping child, the parents and their oldest son are leaned in close, sharing a soft conversation, their own little world

This image captures the sound of a delicate balancing act. It’s the soft, rhythmic murmur of the parents’ voices, a quiet tide of shared words that exists just above the silence of their sleeping children. It’s the sound of sustained connection, the quiet, resilient soundtrack of family life continuing its flow in the heart of the vacation chaos.

Artist’s Statement

I was inspired by the busy, colorful energy of Miami Beach, especially Ocean Drive. Instead of focusing only on the beautiful beaches and bright colors, I wanted to capture something deeper; the sounds of the city. I didn’t record any audio. Instead, I took photos that I hoped would make people feel the sound in each scene: the noise, the quiet, the whispers, and the rush.

I looked for natural, real moments because true sounds are found in everyday life. I didn’t ask anyone to pose. I simply waited and let the city show me what it wanted to. In my photos, I used contrast to make the idea of sound stronger. A sports car looks loud next to a calm, clear background. A person standing in deep shadow feels quiet compared to a bright street beside them. I edited the photos to look natural and sunlit so the “sounds” in the images would feel real.

All the photos connect through one main idea: every place has its own private frequency A city is not just one big noise, it’s a mix of many smaller sound worlds There is the soft clicking of a bicycle chain, like a steady beat in someone’s active day There is the heavy silence felt by a man standing alone while everyone else keeps moving. There is the soft, warm sound of a quiet conversation, a small pause in the middle of the chaos. And then there is the loud, powerful roar of a sports car, reminding you of the energy hidden under the city’s relaxed vibe.

The sound of a place reveals its true character. It shows what people care about, what they ignore, and how different lives exist side by side. The gentle rattle of a beach cart shows family and excitement. The sudden blast of a luxury car shows show-off culture and speed. Together, these moments show Miami Beach as a place full of strong contrasts: quiet and loud, private and public, peaceful and intense.

This project changed how I see the world. Now I look for the unseen sound in everything around me. It’s a challenging way to take photos because it requires patience and a new way of observing. You have to listen with your eyes.

Still Water Turned Whirlpool

I thought I was in love with my ex-boyfriend, Tyler. I clung onto that idea like a drowning person clutching onto an anchor, painful and ultimately dragging me under. Every time I saw Tyler my stomach would fill up with butterflies, and whenever his name would pop up on my phone, that feeling of happiness was like biting into a chocolate chip cookie.

Then Virginia, my best friend, decided to dig her fresh new nails into my heart strings I honestly should have seen it coming; she was always there with me whenever I would bring up Tyler, nodding sympathetically, feeling what I had to say. Then one day, his contact popped up on her phone. I was confused. It felt as if I was back in my geometry class talking about Pythagorean theorem. I asked Virginia about Tyler and what they were talking about, but she wouldn’t tell me. It was as if her mouth was zipped.

And then it hit me, as if I were stuck by a truck while lying in the road thinking about the past. Tyler and Virginia had dated back in their elementary days. Those feelings they had for one another never went away. I saw that day on her phone that they were meeting up at a restaurant. I was furious. Not just angry, but that type of rage that made me want to throw red wine on Virginia’s favorite dress, or “accidently” send Tyler an embarrassing photo of her. I yelled at her, swore at her, letting those texts rot for the rest of life. I imagined confrontations that never happened. I convinced myself that my heartbreak was proof of my underlying love for him My dream of kissing in Paris had turned into eating stale salt and vinegar chips in my apartment alone

But then something weird happened. That heartbreak did not sit right with me. It was like trying on a new shirt that looked good on the clothes hanger but felt as if it were suffocating me the moment I put it on. The more I obsessed over Tyler the more I realized I truly wasn’t heartbroken. I wasn’t mad at Tyler, I was mad at Virginia for finally making me confront the thing I had shut off for years.

This anger that bubbled was never about Tyler or Virginia, it was about something deeper, something that had been gnawing at me since 8th grade. What I was truly angry at was the fact I had spent years pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

You see, the real monster in this story was never Virginia or Tyler, or even that heartbreak I was clinging onto. It was me. It was the internal homophobia that I had buried so deep inside of myself that I never recognized it The truth was, I was in love with the idea of being normal I was in love with the idea of being in love with a man, which is the only love I ever knew was acceptable.

Then when Virginia stepped in, it wasn’t a betrayal of friendship, it was the betrayal of everything I had convinced myself I was supposed to feel. The anger I felt toward her wasn’t about the fact that she was in love with Tyler. It was the fact that she made me realize I was the monster inside. That lie that loving a woman wouldn’t fit the “script” of the real world. That if somehow I admitted what I truly wanted, it would make everything collapse. So I clung to him like that drowning person, clung to him with that idea.

Still water turned whirlpool, that’s what it felt like. I had spent years floating, convincing myself that stillness meant safety, that if I didn’t stir the waters, nothing inside me would rise to the surface. But Virginia was the storm that changed everything, and in that chaos, I saw the truth. I wasn’t drowning because of Tyler or her. I was drowning in the current of my own denial And when I finally stopped fighting, when I let the truth pull me under, I didn’t sink I surfaced Slowly letting go of the anchor brought me to the shore Everything I had dreamed about with a man started to look like a girl.

Harke

When the waves came, I thought I was ready for them to wash over me, and as the last salt-filled water left my lungs, I would breathe in new air. Air that would be clean, fresh, and cold. I thought I would feel my feet glide over the warm sand, and as the sun broke over the horizon bathing me in that warm golden glow, I would emerge a new, better man

Instead, when those waves came, they crashed down upon me They tossed me in their current, winding and sudden The water stung my eyes and took my breath, and as I finally emerged, the air was no sweeter. The boy was no different. He just lacked you.

We spent our senior trip at the beach. We woke up and watched the sunrise over the ocean. We sat on that cool, hard stone, and we watched as the waves slowly rolled in. Little trails from the rocks created stretch marks over the beautiful coastline’s skin. The sun skated across as if each wave had been hand-built for where I sat. I remember the silence.

Then we ran into the ocean. A handful of kids who thought they had an idea of who they were. I thought I knew who I was, but as that cold water climbed up my body, I sacrificed more of my soul to its unforgiving cold touch, and it taught me a new perspective.

The boy who dove into those waves was not met with the waves of change he thought he was entering; he was just met by waves. No moment of symbolism, no grand moment of triumph Not a rebirth, but a realization

As each ray of sunlight bounced on those waves, as each foot sunk deeper into the sand, as each breath became more strained, I changed. The same way the sky slowly left behind that golden hue from the first extensions of sunlight, I gave up the parts of you that colored my skies, and not a single day goes past that I don't think of going back to that beach. Finding each piece of sand, every drop of water, and each morsel of energy that poured onto our skins to see if I could find you there again.

Noah Spieldenner

Bite the Bullet

“You dodged a bullet,” is a saying that I never used to understand. Logically, bullets should be impossible to dodge, but somehow people dodge them all the time. Supposedly, this saying usually insinuates that people are the metaphorical bullets being dodged. How do you dodge a person? I should have known the answer to that question sooner. Maybe then I would have saved myself some pain.

It was perfect while it was happening Me and him Him and me it felt right It was right He never looked like a gun to me He was like a flower, just beginning to blossom into his potential I was shocked that he chose me. I’m not anything special, especially compared to him. He was the sun and I was the shadow created by his presence. Never was I looking for the suspicious sheen of gunmetal silver. Never was I watching out for the tell-tale red dot floating above my chest.

But I should have.

He is walking away from me now. Faintly, in the back of my mind, there is pain. I can’t move. He was a flower. He was the sun. Why now as I stare at his back am I just seeing the gun?

“You dodged a bullet.” The words echo venomously through my head. I didn’t dodge anything. The bullet flies through my mouth when I open it to scream The bullet splits through my chest where my heart is supposed to be I am pockmarked with bullet-holes on every part of my body in any place he had touched me

I cough up blood and spit it on the ground. It is colored red like a rose. Like he used to be. I am stained with his color and cut with his thorns. I long for him to turn around. He wouldn’t do this to me, this isn’t real. He’ll come back. Hope makes my wounds bleed more. My heart aches for his embrace for his sweet comfort. I know it will not come.

I dare to reach out at his retreating figure. My fingers are dripping with red. He stops and my damaged heart leaps. He turns and for a moment the pain is numbed by his gaze and

He pulls.

The trigger

Again

This time I’m not sure if I can get back up I could have dodged the bullet . . . but maybe I didn’t want to.

The Portrait of Love

I have always believed that love is an art form. Whether it be realism, or surrealism, each encounter we have with love paints a different picture to add to our collection Each love we experience creates a different piece for us to hold on to or choose to toss away These, once collected, turn into portraits of us of our souls. Love being the primary medium. I don’t think it has to include 365 letters just to be a masterpiece. Sometimes the most beautiful works of art can be held in the palm of a hand, just as they can be created in the shortest windows of time. Hence the saying: life is what you make it. If I had to choose, to be a romantic or a realist, I would say I am a romantic. But not the hopeless kind that believes there is only one soulmate on this planet for me to love. I think love is everywhere, and it’s a conscious choice whether we explore it or not. The more we let into our lives, the more expansive our collection of art and stories will become. Piece by piece these will turn into the portrait of love. Different for everyone, but beautiful, nonetheless. I think for a lot of “realists” love has become a portrait of black and red. It has been torn down and warped so many times, they no longer have the urge to pick up the brush and create once more Some could argue that being a romantic is simply finding love in everything, whereas a realist is someone who has been hurt by that very feeling so much that they can’t seem to find it in anything anymore. It’s funny how the most powerful emotions we experience come to us so doubleedged. There is something so scary, yet so beautiful, about the experience of sharing your soul with someone else. In Nathan Hill’s book, Wellness, this soul tie is further explained: “Beyond all the poetry, beyond all the songs, love is this, my dear: it’s an expansion of the self. It’s when the boundaries of the self spread out to include someone else, and what used to be them now becomes you” (Hill 14). Every encounter we have with love broadens our soul and opens us up to new ways of feeling. I suppose to me, a romantic is someone who’s always open to exploring feeling deeply with others. If everything happens for a reason, I believe it all ties back into learning what love is, and how to create art from it.

1,001

Encyclopedia base, an old gardening book, book pages, white glue, LED lights, lit

Photographed by Karen

Class of '27

CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

BismarkisaDigitalMediaand CommunicationsstudentatThomas Collegewithapassionforvisual storytellingandmeaningfulconnection. Throughphotography,videography, graphicdesign,andmarketing,hecreates workthatsparksemotionandcuriosity Hiscreativeapproachblendsadaptability withstrategy,usingdiversestylesand toolstobringideastolife.Recently,he hasfocusedonbuildingbrandpresence, aligningstorytellingwithimpactful visualstostrengthenaudienceconnection andconsistencyacrossplatforms.

Lilli Clark

Lilliisafirst-yearstudentatThomas CollegefromAlbion,Maine,studying InternationalBusinessandMarketing Managementwithagoaltopursueacareer inmarketingfortravelcompanies.Lilli enjoystapdancing,reading,crocheting, andwritingshortstoriesandpoetry.

HannahisaJunioratThomasCollegewith amajorinBusinessAdministrationanda minorinMarketing.Shehashadalovefor artsinceshewaslittle.Herartworkinthis issueisaformofprintmakingcalled etching.Sheusedaphotoofherdog Winstonholdingthetoyduckthatheloves somuch.Inherfreetime,Hannahenjoys bringingherdogsforpupcups,thrifting, dancing,andfightingherrooster

Sophie Damon

Sophieisexpectingherbachelor'sdegreefor SecondaryEducationEnglishwithaminorin PsychologyinMayof2027.Sheiscurrentlyon aThomasCollegeresearchteamfortheJournal oftheAmericanMedicalAssociation(JAMA) Pediatrics,examiningtheBidirectionalityof TraumaandExcessScreenTime.Sheis passionateaboutwritingnarrativefiction,poetry, andpsychologicalresearch.Shehopestobring herloveforliteratureandwritingtothe classroomasshebeginsteachinginthefall.

LucyisasophomoreatThomasCollege majoringinElementaryEducationand minoringinMultimediaArtandDesign. Shehasbeencreatingartpiecesin multipledifferentmediumsforaslongas shecanremember.Sheaspirestocreate commissionsandsellherartinthefuture.

Lucy Frazzitta

William Haas

AsenioratThomas,William’sloveforpoetrycan beattributedtoteachers,friends,hismother,and lifeexperiences.Thesummerof2023openedhis eyestotheexpressivefreedomofpoetry,aswell asthejoysthatcomewithopeninguphisheart andhandtoothers.Williamhopestocontinue writingpoetryandtocompleteapoeticstatement, here,tofurtherexpresshimselftoallwholove poetry ToWilliam,wordsheal.

Joseph Lugo

Josephlikespictures,astheygivegood insightintowhatapersonsees.Josephwrites, “Tomepicturesareart.Ilikelandscapesand nature.Mydreamistogetacamera (currentlyusingmyphone)andhavemyown followingwithpeopleinspiredbymy pictures.Thisismyfirstbigstep.Thank you!”

ConnorlooksforwardtograduatingthisMaywith abachelor’sdegreeinInterdisciplinaryStudies.He hasapassionforwritingandforhelpingothers. Thisspringhehasbeendoinganinternshipwith SpecialOlympicsMaine,helpingoutwithevents andtellingthestoriesofathletes.

AstudentintheMiddleEducationprogram atThomaswithaconcentrationinSocial StudiesandEnglish,Madyispassionate aboutmakingcommunitiessafeand inclusiveforall.Madytakespridein advocatingfortoday'syouth.Whennot workingonaproject,Madycanbefound coloringorhangingoutwithfriends.

FromGoffstown,NewHampshire, Tiffanyiscurrentlyajuniorhereat ThomasCollege,graduatingnext December TiffanystudiesCriminal Justicewithafocusonconservationlaw, andispassionateaboutnatureandthe sciencethatcomeswithit.“Idon’t usuallyconsidermyselfawriter,butI wasinspiredbymycoming-of-ageclass towriteaboutmypersonaljourneysand lifeexperiences.Ihopeyouenjoythis piece!”

Noahisasecond-yearstudent studyingBusinessManagementat Thomas.

Tiffany Paris

Danielle Stubenrod

Bella(she/her)isasecondyear Interdisciplinary-PoliticalPsychology studenthereatThomas Shewrites poetryasacreativeoutlet.Someofher hobbiesincludeenvironmentaljustice advocacyandwatchingmovies.

Evanhashadalifelongfascinationwith writingandstorytelling,expressingsuch interestprimarilythroughself-publishingthe cosmic-fantasyseriesofnovelscalled Lloyd Salt onAmazon.Heisparticularlyintrigued withtheliterarydevicesofintentional ambiguity,impliedcorrelation,andthematic content.HeiscurrentlymajoringinSecondary EnglishEducationatThomasCollegeandhas aspirationsforfuturewritingendeavors.

Karen Winfree

CurrentlyaCommunicationsstudentatThomas College,Karenbeganhercreativepathwithan Associate'sdegreeinPsychology Asatransfer student,shehaspivotedfromstudyinghuman behaviortocapturingitthroughdigitalmedia. Abouttheprojectpublishdhere,shewrites,“I photographedalocalartist'sworktoexplorethe intersectionofemotionanddesign.Byblending psychologicalinsightwithdigitalstorytelling,I aimtohighlightcommonhumanexperiences broughttolifethroughart.Iviewtechnologyasa vitalbridgebetweeninnovationandauthentic humanconnection.”