Table of Contents
Untitled
Elise Verrier '23
Into the Wild
Grace Brenner '21
The Next Minute
Allison Powell '20
Blue
Grace Brenner '21
Your Stars
Grace Brenner '21
Golden Beginnings
Rachel Staffier '21
How It Used To Be
Emelia Burns '23
The Last One To Bloom
Elanor Hart '23
Roses
Grace Brenner '21
The Timed Essay
Grace Brenner '21
The Mall
Katelyn Puglia '23
How to Heal
Abbey Brenner '23
Bells of Freedom Ring
Grace Brenner '21
L'Arbre de L'Amour
Allison Powell '20
Games
Gavin Pu '21
Qui Vivra Verra (Time Will Tell)
Allison Powell '20
Mourning Daze
Rachel Staffier '21
Watch for Turning Vehicles
Rachel Staffier '21
Dominance
Rachel Staffier '21
Anything Caramel with a Lot of Espresso
Grace Brenner '21
Fall to Fly
Grace Brenner '21
Overgrown and Toxic
Alex Shikhanovich '22
The Tail of the Tiger
虎头蛇尾 (hǔ tóu shé wěi)
Allison Powell '20
Beautiful as You
Grace Brenner '21
Pure Contrast
Rachel Staffier '21
The Girl on a Purple Bike
Allison Powell '20
Where Fire Meets the Light
Grace Brenner '21
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Elise Verrier '23
Into the Wild
Grace Brenner '21
The Next Minute
Allison Powell '20
Blue
Grace Brenner '21
Your Stars
Grace Brenner '21
Golden Beginnings
Rachel Staffier '21
How It Used To Be
Emelia Burns '23
The Last One To Bloom
Elanor Hart '23
Roses
Grace Brenner '21
The Timed Essay
Grace Brenner '21
The Mall
Katelyn Puglia '23
How to Heal
Abbey Brenner '23
Bells of Freedom Ring
Grace Brenner '21
L'Arbre de L'Amour
Allison Powell '20
Games
Gavin Pu '21
Qui Vivra Verra (Time Will Tell)
Allison Powell '20
Mourning Daze
Rachel Staffier '21
Watch for Turning Vehicles
Rachel Staffier '21
Dominance
Rachel Staffier '21
Anything Caramel with a Lot of Espresso
Grace Brenner '21
Fall to Fly
Grace Brenner '21
Overgrown and Toxic
Alex Shikhanovich '22
The Tail of the Tiger
虎头蛇尾 (hǔ tóu shé wěi)
Allison Powell '20
Beautiful as You
Grace Brenner '21
Pure Contrast
Rachel Staffier '21
The Girl on a Purple Bike
Allison Powell '20
Where Fire Meets the Light
Grace Brenner '21
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Untitled
As the door shut behind me, I knew that nothing would ever be the same. I had just left my whole life behind, so, how could it? I picked my head up and walked.
Just keep walking, I thought, You’ll be okay if you just keep walking. So that’s what I did, hours turned to days turned to weeks. After travelling for 9 days, I stopped. There was a small shack. I went inside. I must have looked like something out of a book because the old lady who owned the place, walked over and handed me a glass of water.
She told me, “You go on now and sit. You look like your gonna faint boy.” As I sat she shuffled away and came back moments later with a large fruit pie. She set it down with a fork and my stomach grumbled as a thank you. I cleaned the plate in five minutes. She brought more. After I had eaten all they had cooked up for the day, the lady led me to a set of stairs in the back of the shack. I followed her up to what seemed like living quarters.
“No ma’am you treated me fine and nice, but I’ll be on my way now. You don’t need to waste a bed on me.” I turned to leave, but turned back around when I heard her laughing.
“Son I ain’t got no extra beds for you so no need worrying on about that. But, don’t you want a nice shower and maybe some clean clothes. You're filthy, and not to mention you stench.” She continued chuckling as she went to a closet. She pulled out a soft brown towel. I followed her into a white and blue bathroom. She turned on the shower. “Go on and get in once it’s warm. Throw your clothes out though, there’s no saving them.” As she turned to leave, I felt myself smiling. She reminded me of someone. But of who. Why couldn’t I remember. I shook off the thought and just before she closed the door, I opened my mouth to speak, but she beat me to it. “My name’s Mary boy, and don’t bother telling me yours… Jake.” And with that and a wink, she was gone.
I waited ‘till the water was steaming hot and hopped in. My shoulders drooped under the calming of the steady warmth. After what seemed like ages of scrubbing, I was relatively clean. I turned off the water, grabbed the towel and climbed out. I shivered under the cool of an evening breeze that came in through an open window. I dried off and as I did so I noticed a pile of freshly washed clothes. A flannel shirt and jeans. I put the still warm garments on. What are you doing Jake, you can’t take clothes from some lady! I hear my mother’s voice say. I can and I will. She offered. I retort. Where is my mother now? Is she playing with the dogs in the yard? Or taking Molly shopping? Doesn’t matter. The voices say, you left for a reason and now it’s time to forget them...
Elise Verrier '23
Just keep walking, I thought, You’ll be okay if you just keep walking. So that’s what I did, hours turned to days turned to weeks. After travelling for 9 days, I stopped. There was a small shack. I went inside. I must have looked like something out of a book because the old lady who owned the place, walked over and handed me a glass of water.
She told me, “You go on now and sit. You look like your gonna faint boy.” As I sat she shuffled away and came back moments later with a large fruit pie. She set it down with a fork and my stomach grumbled as a thank you. I cleaned the plate in five minutes. She brought more. After I had eaten all they had cooked up for the day, the lady led me to a set of stairs in the back of the shack. I followed her up to what seemed like living quarters.
“No ma’am you treated me fine and nice, but I’ll be on my way now. You don’t need to waste a bed on me.” I turned to leave, but turned back around when I heard her laughing.
“Son I ain’t got no extra beds for you so no need worrying on about that. But, don’t you want a nice shower and maybe some clean clothes. You're filthy, and not to mention you stench.” She continued chuckling as she went to a closet. She pulled out a soft brown towel. I followed her into a white and blue bathroom. She turned on the shower. “Go on and get in once it’s warm. Throw your clothes out though, there’s no saving them.” As she turned to leave, I felt myself smiling. She reminded me of someone. But of who. Why couldn’t I remember. I shook off the thought and just before she closed the door, I opened my mouth to speak, but she beat me to it. “My name’s Mary boy, and don’t bother telling me yours… Jake.” And with that and a wink, she was gone.
I waited ‘till the water was steaming hot and hopped in. My shoulders drooped under the calming of the steady warmth. After what seemed like ages of scrubbing, I was relatively clean. I turned off the water, grabbed the towel and climbed out. I shivered under the cool of an evening breeze that came in through an open window. I dried off and as I did so I noticed a pile of freshly washed clothes. A flannel shirt and jeans. I put the still warm garments on. What are you doing Jake, you can’t take clothes from some lady! I hear my mother’s voice say. I can and I will. She offered. I retort. Where is my mother now? Is she playing with the dogs in the yard? Or taking Molly shopping? Doesn’t matter. The voices say, you left for a reason and now it’s time to forget them...
Elise Verrier '23
Into the Wild
Grace Brenner '21
The Next Minute
The hoarse moan of the coffee grinder startled her from her partial upright slumber. For some reason, the machine seemed to be working slower than usual. Fully awake now, she frantically drummed her fingers against the marred granite counter covered with lacy streaks and scratches that dulled its former glossy shine as she let out a flustered sigh. To her left was a foggy stovetop clock covered in fingerprints and a tarnished screen. Its lime-colored neon numbers were getting more difficult to decipher by the day, as age was gradually causing them to fade in such a way that parts of them were practically nonexistent. Nevertheless, the time it displayed was quite clear to any drowsy eye - 8:09 A.M. By the time she made it up the street, she would be arriving ten minutes late. The company was strict about late arrivals, and the city traffic at this hour was atrocious. At last the coffee began to trickle out the machine funnel as the lethargic woman rubbed her eyes rather abrasively. Before the last drop of coffee could make it into the mug, she grabbed the ceramic by its aging lacquer handle and chugged it down all at once with a single gulp. She choked on what little coffee didn’t properly go down for a brief moment before dashing off into the entry room to grab her purse, some makeup, and maybe an oat granola bar or two to eat on the way out. With half a cherry chocolate chip granola bar clenched between her teeth, she struggled to yank the door open. The door was beyond the need of replacement with a chipping white paint job that was far past its prime. After a good pull, the door burst open with fine force that nearly caused the woman to fall over, but she was in too much of a rush to have the time for such incidents.
She made her way down the precariously narrow stairs down her apartment dwelling, clenching onto the rusting rails for dear life while still attempting to make good time. She only slipped for a moment on the final stair before regaining enough balance to dart in the direction of yet another door. The rushing thoughts in her head were briefly interrupted by a familiar, raspy-yet-cheerful voice. It belonged to her neighbor and former college roommate, Mrs. Sarah Hopkins, who stood there alongside her six-year-old son, little Jamie.
“Good morning, Amber!” she greeted with a smile. Amber only held her hand up in the mother’s direction for a second to acknowledge her presence before bolting out the door, hardly pausing long enough to breathe in the musky odor of the foyer room. While Amber wore a numb smile on her face, rancorous thoughts bombarded her brain. I have no time for this, lady! She scoffed just softly enough to not be heard as she fiddled with her keys before finding the right one and jammed it into the door to her car. She crawled into her seat, pausing long enough to smooth her Prussian-blue dress and gather her makeup as she began the car engine. With the jerk of her hand, she popped open a portable mirror. A slight trail of acne dotted down her face from behind her ginger bangs to the rim of her rose-colored nose, something quite peculiar for her twenty-nine-year-old skin. Of course, she could care less. Just as she began to apply mascara, she was disrupted by the starling bing of her phone. She craned her neck to see that she had received a text from her mother that made her wince. It came in delayed from the other day. “Fingers crossed. Hope all goes well today. And as always, enjoy life!” She saw that it was now 8:17 A.M. Something else. “My wallet!” she shrieked while hectically plowing through her purse. Indeed, it was going to be a long day.
8:29 A.M. Amber nearly caused a car wreck in her haste to make it to the office parking lot on time. A burning sensation seized her throat like she had just recently freed herself from a rope tied about her neck. She panted rapidly and could feel her heart painfully pounding against her chest, struggling to meet the arduous demands of a panicking brain that harkened to man’s ancient instincts to escape the jaws of an impending danger. She felt the muscles of her legs begin to clench tightly. Faster. Faster. Maybe she could just make it in time. Just in time!
“You’re late!”
Her heart, still aching from the accelerated beating from a moment ago, sank low. The blood once pumping to every corner in her body now rushed to her face. “W-wha-what!?!” she said between inconsistent breaths.
“You’re late,” her coworker taunted. “You were supposed to arrive before eight thirty. It’s eight thirty-four.”
“That’s literally only four minutes off! Cut me some slack - there was traffic!”
“It seemed fine when I left this morning,” he huffed smugly. “Gonna have to take it up with Vanessa today.”
Amber let out a flustered, dramatic sigh and made a perspicacious eye roll, though not obvious for anyone to see. After all, the last thing she desired now was to make things worse. The next action, however, was a little less elegantly concealed, for the moment she took her seat her impassioned rage could longer be contained, and she angrily struck her desk, causing an avalanche of papers to rain down in a stunt that she quickly regretted. A careful estimate of half the company stared in her direction in a moment of awkward silence. At that moment, she desperately wished she could have handled her emotions a little better. Quickly trying to pick up the fallen papers, she saw her coworker approach her.
“Like what’s gotten into you lately? You’re worse than usual, and yesterday you just seemed so happy and full of life! What gives today?”
Amber’s cheeks glowed a bright shade of red as she tried to conjure up an honest answer to his question. The previous day bore promises of so much hope. Opportunity was nearly in the palm of her hand. She recalled the joy that overtook her veins, how she marched through those sliding doors the previous morning on the way to the reception hall with a grin upon her face. She hadn’t even paused for a coffee that morning, hadn’t even slept soundly the night before, and though the bags in her eyes hung like weights upon her face, her mind was too occupied with the same, young, fervent optimism that she brought with her entering high school, entering college, and attending both graduations. Because, on that day, she was going to get what she wanted. Her life was about to be one of meaning, purpose, and importance. No longer would she be confined to doing the same, monotonous task of picking up the phone to pacify irate customers and investors of the company. No. At that moment, she was going to lead the company.
“Look you’ve got to pull yourself together. This isn’t like you!” his words interrupted her trance.
Still distraught, Amber took her attention towards the bronze plaque on the side of the wall: TECHNO CORPORATIONS: CEO VANESSA BLOOM
“I understand. You work so hard! You live alone, you’re single. Why don’t you take your mind off your work for a bit this evening and maybe make some plans to settle down, raise a family, and add a little more meaning to your life.”
Not exactly what she wanted to hear at that moment. Indeed, she was beyond that. She wanted so much more for herself. Then, at that moment, she recalled the conversation she had with Vanessa the other day. It haunted her like a bleak-looming phantom upon her soul. “No, really. I’m very happy for you, really,” the part leaving her mouth softer and more timid than the rest.
“Really? You seem a little upset. Is something wrong?”
Is something wrong? Something was wrong, horribly wrong! My dream was taken from me! All of it! Right then and there! But she, of course, did not say this out loud.
Indeed, this is what she muttered: “You know, it’s funny - how life turns out. You work all your life, whether it be at school, at a couple of jobs, or your professional career as an adult, and you have all the desire and ambition for something more and greater than what enters the mind of the average soul in this world but are never given the opportunity to achieve that!” That came out a little more passive aggressive than she had wished.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean - I don’t know how to put this - that everyone is motivated by something. A force that gives a person meaning in life. To make a person needed and depended upon by others.” And for Amber, this force she was speaking of was power. Power. A lust for leadership that resided within every strand of DNA in her blood. A need to feel needed.
“You’re not referring to my promotion, are you?”
“Well, to some degree it must be great to know that as a leader, everyone here depends on you and your wellbeing. You’re the CEO. You’re the face of the company, for crying out loud! Every job, income, and livelihood depend on you. Me, I’m quite dispensable, but you, you are invaluable!”
“It’s a mere position I tell you! Surely you don’t believe that you in the position you are in makes you any less valuable to the company and to the community and those that care about you?”
“No, but it will never be the same thing.” She felt awful after those words slipped out her mouth. She felt so selfish, so ungrateful. And yet she knew it was absolutely true that she would never become all she wanted to be.
The hours went by like grains of sands in a glass vessel, one by one, in what seemed like a dreary eternity. The hours were only made more unbearable by one of her assistant colleagues, Jeremy Copeland. Whenever she came off the phone, he would interrupt her, constantly asking her if she needed water or a snack and the like. “Can I get you anything?” he would ask as he nervously brushed back his bristly coffee dark hair that often fluttered down to his timid hazel eyes. Most likely he was being extra friendly after witnessing Amber’s incident that morning, but then again it had seemed as though he had always been desperate for her attention somehow. As Amber arose from her woven-cloth office chair, Jeremy approached her again. This time he seemed especially anxious, his hands shaking and his voice nervously stuttering. He was acting more uneasy than usual. Before she could leave, he jumped in front of her with his hands facing forward in a stop sign gesture.
“Say Amber, I was just wondering if, that is, if you would be interested in going out with me for dinner. I mean, uh, if that’s okay with you. The thing is I’ve never really gotten the chance to ask you really,” he said, gaffing a couple of times.
“Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe some other time,” she said in agitated response before carefully maneuvering her way out. She brushed past the synthetic hydrangea bushes in the hall as she meandered past the idle sliding doors out the lobby. Once again, she pulled out her keys and jammed the first one into the car door, hopped in, ignited the engine, and began to make her way out of the murky garage to make her typical everyday trek back to her dismal apartment down the street. On her way out the garage, she spotted a man sitting slouched in a corner of the alley. He lacked color in his prematurely decaying face and wore tattered rags wrapped about his shoulders. He appeared so alone and insignificant. Then an older lady approached. She too appeared years beyond her age with a gray look on her face and fading cloth on her body. But then she reached out her hand to the man, lifted it up, and spoke to him. Amber couldn’t exactly tell what words were being spoken, but she saw the old lady steady the limping man to a humble pizzeria next door. From inside, she saw the old lady go up the counter and place an order while placing her weathered shawl upon the man. And just like that, the man’s entire face brightened. Amber pondered for a moment. The lady - she didn’t appear to be wealthy or powerful in any way. She surely wasn’t a CEO, or a politician, or a governor. And yet a single act of kindness on part with the little she did possess made all the difference. As she was driving, Amber envisioned an alternative world where others lives were being made better by hers. Then she thought about Mrs. Hopkins, little Jamie, Vanessa, and her coworker. They had done so much for her. And then, she thought about Jeremy. She thought what a terrible way to have left him like that, without as little as saying goodbye. A sudden trickle of guilt came upon her, making her throat sore and mouth dry.
The next minute, something very shocking and abrupt occurred. All sense of control was lost, as Amber felt a forceful blow to her forehead, causing a flash of white to come out of nowhere and leave her in a perpetual state of turbulent dizziness and unconsciousness. The strength and sense of feeling was zapped from her body. She became feeble and weak, unable to move. The moment she could regain her senses, the smell of wispy smoke overcame her nose and there was a sharp pain in her right arm for it was crushed by an enormous tree branch that had somehow burst through the windshield. Blood was splattered as far as the eye could see. Lightheaded, Amber felt herself grow queasy and overcome with frightening confusion. Suddenly, it became difficult to breathe and Amber heard sirens in the distance. At that moment, what she had or didn’t have ceased to matter, for when you’re at the brink of death the human body draws all focus on keeping itself alive. No longer did her life feel insignificant. Right now it was absolutely precious. Though they are coming closer, the sounds of the sirens were eerily starting to fade in and out.
She made her way down the precariously narrow stairs down her apartment dwelling, clenching onto the rusting rails for dear life while still attempting to make good time. She only slipped for a moment on the final stair before regaining enough balance to dart in the direction of yet another door. The rushing thoughts in her head were briefly interrupted by a familiar, raspy-yet-cheerful voice. It belonged to her neighbor and former college roommate, Mrs. Sarah Hopkins, who stood there alongside her six-year-old son, little Jamie.
“Good morning, Amber!” she greeted with a smile. Amber only held her hand up in the mother’s direction for a second to acknowledge her presence before bolting out the door, hardly pausing long enough to breathe in the musky odor of the foyer room. While Amber wore a numb smile on her face, rancorous thoughts bombarded her brain. I have no time for this, lady! She scoffed just softly enough to not be heard as she fiddled with her keys before finding the right one and jammed it into the door to her car. She crawled into her seat, pausing long enough to smooth her Prussian-blue dress and gather her makeup as she began the car engine. With the jerk of her hand, she popped open a portable mirror. A slight trail of acne dotted down her face from behind her ginger bangs to the rim of her rose-colored nose, something quite peculiar for her twenty-nine-year-old skin. Of course, she could care less. Just as she began to apply mascara, she was disrupted by the starling bing of her phone. She craned her neck to see that she had received a text from her mother that made her wince. It came in delayed from the other day. “Fingers crossed. Hope all goes well today. And as always, enjoy life!” She saw that it was now 8:17 A.M. Something else. “My wallet!” she shrieked while hectically plowing through her purse. Indeed, it was going to be a long day.
8:29 A.M. Amber nearly caused a car wreck in her haste to make it to the office parking lot on time. A burning sensation seized her throat like she had just recently freed herself from a rope tied about her neck. She panted rapidly and could feel her heart painfully pounding against her chest, struggling to meet the arduous demands of a panicking brain that harkened to man’s ancient instincts to escape the jaws of an impending danger. She felt the muscles of her legs begin to clench tightly. Faster. Faster. Maybe she could just make it in time. Just in time!
“You’re late!”
Her heart, still aching from the accelerated beating from a moment ago, sank low. The blood once pumping to every corner in her body now rushed to her face. “W-wha-what!?!” she said between inconsistent breaths.
“You’re late,” her coworker taunted. “You were supposed to arrive before eight thirty. It’s eight thirty-four.”
“That’s literally only four minutes off! Cut me some slack - there was traffic!”
“It seemed fine when I left this morning,” he huffed smugly. “Gonna have to take it up with Vanessa today.”
Amber let out a flustered, dramatic sigh and made a perspicacious eye roll, though not obvious for anyone to see. After all, the last thing she desired now was to make things worse. The next action, however, was a little less elegantly concealed, for the moment she took her seat her impassioned rage could longer be contained, and she angrily struck her desk, causing an avalanche of papers to rain down in a stunt that she quickly regretted. A careful estimate of half the company stared in her direction in a moment of awkward silence. At that moment, she desperately wished she could have handled her emotions a little better. Quickly trying to pick up the fallen papers, she saw her coworker approach her.
“Like what’s gotten into you lately? You’re worse than usual, and yesterday you just seemed so happy and full of life! What gives today?”
Amber’s cheeks glowed a bright shade of red as she tried to conjure up an honest answer to his question. The previous day bore promises of so much hope. Opportunity was nearly in the palm of her hand. She recalled the joy that overtook her veins, how she marched through those sliding doors the previous morning on the way to the reception hall with a grin upon her face. She hadn’t even paused for a coffee that morning, hadn’t even slept soundly the night before, and though the bags in her eyes hung like weights upon her face, her mind was too occupied with the same, young, fervent optimism that she brought with her entering high school, entering college, and attending both graduations. Because, on that day, she was going to get what she wanted. Her life was about to be one of meaning, purpose, and importance. No longer would she be confined to doing the same, monotonous task of picking up the phone to pacify irate customers and investors of the company. No. At that moment, she was going to lead the company.
“Look you’ve got to pull yourself together. This isn’t like you!” his words interrupted her trance.
Still distraught, Amber took her attention towards the bronze plaque on the side of the wall: TECHNO CORPORATIONS: CEO VANESSA BLOOM
“I understand. You work so hard! You live alone, you’re single. Why don’t you take your mind off your work for a bit this evening and maybe make some plans to settle down, raise a family, and add a little more meaning to your life.”
Not exactly what she wanted to hear at that moment. Indeed, she was beyond that. She wanted so much more for herself. Then, at that moment, she recalled the conversation she had with Vanessa the other day. It haunted her like a bleak-looming phantom upon her soul. “No, really. I’m very happy for you, really,” the part leaving her mouth softer and more timid than the rest.
“Really? You seem a little upset. Is something wrong?”
Is something wrong? Something was wrong, horribly wrong! My dream was taken from me! All of it! Right then and there! But she, of course, did not say this out loud.
Indeed, this is what she muttered: “You know, it’s funny - how life turns out. You work all your life, whether it be at school, at a couple of jobs, or your professional career as an adult, and you have all the desire and ambition for something more and greater than what enters the mind of the average soul in this world but are never given the opportunity to achieve that!” That came out a little more passive aggressive than she had wished.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean - I don’t know how to put this - that everyone is motivated by something. A force that gives a person meaning in life. To make a person needed and depended upon by others.” And for Amber, this force she was speaking of was power. Power. A lust for leadership that resided within every strand of DNA in her blood. A need to feel needed.
“You’re not referring to my promotion, are you?”
“Well, to some degree it must be great to know that as a leader, everyone here depends on you and your wellbeing. You’re the CEO. You’re the face of the company, for crying out loud! Every job, income, and livelihood depend on you. Me, I’m quite dispensable, but you, you are invaluable!”
“It’s a mere position I tell you! Surely you don’t believe that you in the position you are in makes you any less valuable to the company and to the community and those that care about you?”
“No, but it will never be the same thing.” She felt awful after those words slipped out her mouth. She felt so selfish, so ungrateful. And yet she knew it was absolutely true that she would never become all she wanted to be.
The hours went by like grains of sands in a glass vessel, one by one, in what seemed like a dreary eternity. The hours were only made more unbearable by one of her assistant colleagues, Jeremy Copeland. Whenever she came off the phone, he would interrupt her, constantly asking her if she needed water or a snack and the like. “Can I get you anything?” he would ask as he nervously brushed back his bristly coffee dark hair that often fluttered down to his timid hazel eyes. Most likely he was being extra friendly after witnessing Amber’s incident that morning, but then again it had seemed as though he had always been desperate for her attention somehow. As Amber arose from her woven-cloth office chair, Jeremy approached her again. This time he seemed especially anxious, his hands shaking and his voice nervously stuttering. He was acting more uneasy than usual. Before she could leave, he jumped in front of her with his hands facing forward in a stop sign gesture.
“Say Amber, I was just wondering if, that is, if you would be interested in going out with me for dinner. I mean, uh, if that’s okay with you. The thing is I’ve never really gotten the chance to ask you really,” he said, gaffing a couple of times.
“Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe some other time,” she said in agitated response before carefully maneuvering her way out. She brushed past the synthetic hydrangea bushes in the hall as she meandered past the idle sliding doors out the lobby. Once again, she pulled out her keys and jammed the first one into the car door, hopped in, ignited the engine, and began to make her way out of the murky garage to make her typical everyday trek back to her dismal apartment down the street. On her way out the garage, she spotted a man sitting slouched in a corner of the alley. He lacked color in his prematurely decaying face and wore tattered rags wrapped about his shoulders. He appeared so alone and insignificant. Then an older lady approached. She too appeared years beyond her age with a gray look on her face and fading cloth on her body. But then she reached out her hand to the man, lifted it up, and spoke to him. Amber couldn’t exactly tell what words were being spoken, but she saw the old lady steady the limping man to a humble pizzeria next door. From inside, she saw the old lady go up the counter and place an order while placing her weathered shawl upon the man. And just like that, the man’s entire face brightened. Amber pondered for a moment. The lady - she didn’t appear to be wealthy or powerful in any way. She surely wasn’t a CEO, or a politician, or a governor. And yet a single act of kindness on part with the little she did possess made all the difference. As she was driving, Amber envisioned an alternative world where others lives were being made better by hers. Then she thought about Mrs. Hopkins, little Jamie, Vanessa, and her coworker. They had done so much for her. And then, she thought about Jeremy. She thought what a terrible way to have left him like that, without as little as saying goodbye. A sudden trickle of guilt came upon her, making her throat sore and mouth dry.
The next minute, something very shocking and abrupt occurred. All sense of control was lost, as Amber felt a forceful blow to her forehead, causing a flash of white to come out of nowhere and leave her in a perpetual state of turbulent dizziness and unconsciousness. The strength and sense of feeling was zapped from her body. She became feeble and weak, unable to move. The moment she could regain her senses, the smell of wispy smoke overcame her nose and there was a sharp pain in her right arm for it was crushed by an enormous tree branch that had somehow burst through the windshield. Blood was splattered as far as the eye could see. Lightheaded, Amber felt herself grow queasy and overcome with frightening confusion. Suddenly, it became difficult to breathe and Amber heard sirens in the distance. At that moment, what she had or didn’t have ceased to matter, for when you’re at the brink of death the human body draws all focus on keeping itself alive. No longer did her life feel insignificant. Right now it was absolutely precious. Though they are coming closer, the sounds of the sirens were eerily starting to fade in and out.
Allison Powell '20
Blue
Grace Brenner '21
Your Stars
Today, the Times are Trying
they fill Our Hearts with fear--
Today We dream of what our life
was like in Better Years.
Tomorrow is uncertain
Our worries vast and deep--
and Yesterday feels like a Promise
that Today has failed to Keep.
like You, I am Unsteady
like You, I wonder Why
the Times have stolen All The Stars
that used to Light Our Sky.
like You, I live in memories
of the Past and all it’s Light--
of an Era where the Yellow Stars
like Fire, lit the Night.
I miss the way things used to be
And the way it all made sense--
But I have learned that part of Life
Is living in suspense.
I miss the Safety of The Stars
I miss their Golden Glow--
But I have learned that part of Life
Is learning to Let Go.
Today, the Times are Trying
Their Evils are so Strong--
But remember that in Trying Times
You’re a Fighter, You Belong.
And when it feels like All The Stars
Have fallen from the Night--
Remember that they shine within You
With an even brighter Light.
When it feels as though you’ve Lost it All
When there’s only darkness, doubt--
Remember that Your Stars and Fire
Can Never Be Put Out.
Grace Brenner '21
they fill Our Hearts with fear--
Today We dream of what our life
was like in Better Years.
Tomorrow is uncertain
Our worries vast and deep--
and Yesterday feels like a Promise
that Today has failed to Keep.
like You, I am Unsteady
like You, I wonder Why
the Times have stolen All The Stars
that used to Light Our Sky.
like You, I live in memories
of the Past and all it’s Light--
of an Era where the Yellow Stars
like Fire, lit the Night.
I miss the way things used to be
And the way it all made sense--
But I have learned that part of Life
Is living in suspense.
I miss the Safety of The Stars
I miss their Golden Glow--
But I have learned that part of Life
Is learning to Let Go.
Today, the Times are Trying
Their Evils are so Strong--
But remember that in Trying Times
You’re a Fighter, You Belong.
And when it feels like All The Stars
Have fallen from the Night--
Remember that they shine within You
With an even brighter Light.
When it feels as though you’ve Lost it All
When there’s only darkness, doubt--
Remember that Your Stars and Fire
Can Never Be Put Out.
Grace Brenner '21
Golden Beginnings
How It Used To Be
* a poem inspired by "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon
I am from boardgames
I am from my cousin’s backyard tire swing
From many bikes and scooters
The sidewalks
Where I have skinned my knees and elbows
But always kept playing
I am from parties and bounce houses
From the warm hugs from my family
And secret handshakes with friends
I’m from steaming German food
From Sunday brunches and Friday campfires
From movie nights and pizza parties
That we all spent together
I am from never feeling alone.
Emelia Burns '23
I am from my cousin’s backyard tire swing
From many bikes and scooters
The sidewalks
Where I have skinned my knees and elbows
But always kept playing
I am from parties and bounce houses
From the warm hugs from my family
And secret handshakes with friends
I’m from steaming German food
From Sunday brunches and Friday campfires
From movie nights and pizza parties
That we all spent together
I am from never feeling alone.
Emelia Burns '23
The Last One To Bloom
Beware the twisted, grinning face
A thin layer of paint over porcelain base
It will brand your skull with fire and heat
Until you go numb, and succumb to defeat.
A smiling frown is a lopsided reflection
That will shield any tears from foolish detection
It will meld to your skin, it will bleed through your eyes
A forged guise of nothing, built on a fabric of lies.
But the paint will fade, and the silver tongues rust
The masks are falling, and turning to dust
Don’t scramble for pieces, don’t hide in your room
The most beautiful flower is the last one to bloom.
Elanor Hart '23
A thin layer of paint over porcelain base
It will brand your skull with fire and heat
Until you go numb, and succumb to defeat.
A smiling frown is a lopsided reflection
That will shield any tears from foolish detection
It will meld to your skin, it will bleed through your eyes
A forged guise of nothing, built on a fabric of lies.
But the paint will fade, and the silver tongues rust
The masks are falling, and turning to dust
Don’t scramble for pieces, don’t hide in your room
The most beautiful flower is the last one to bloom.
Elanor Hart '23
Roses
It was after midnight, the stars were dancing over Oklahoma City, and I needed to finish packing. I had made considerable progress, in fact, before snapping a suitcase zipper, nearly falling asleep on a pile of half-folded t-shirts, and noticing the sash of roses resting on the table; the sash of roses I had almost forgotten to pack.
Moving towards them, I pulled over a chair and ran my fingers over the scarlet, paper petals. Less than 24 hours ago, these roses were wrapped around the neck of my coach’s horse when we were named Reserve Champions--second place--in the country for my age division. But these roses, I realized, meant so much more than that.
The faded rose--the one with sharper edges--was a rose for resilience. The faded rose was a rose for the horses in my life who taught me that failure is inevitable, who taught me that fear is natural and important. It was a rose for a horse named Rocket who, seven years ago, threw me over his head, broke my nose, and showed me that nobody--regardless of strength or stature--is invincible. It was Rocket who made me fear doing what I love the most, and Rocket who taught me to love doing what I fear the most. This rose, the rose with hidden thorns, was a rose for the falls, the broken bones, the tainted, persisting memories--a rose for the horses who made me stronger.
The vibrant rose--the one with softer petals--was a rose for the beautiful moments. This rose was a rose for the horses who taught me to love and embrace the thrill of competition; to live, always and indefinitely, in the moment. It was a rose for a horse named Viv who taught me that, amidst the sea of expectations and under the eyes of the judges, I was never alone. It was Viv, the horse who wore these roses, whose own love for competition had helped me to overcome the pressure and anxiety that invariably accompany competing on the higher circuits. The vibrant rose, too, was a rose for a horse named Willa, whose life and training was dedicated to providing Equine Therapy to veterans and individuals with disabilities. It was Willa, my assigned horse for a week of volunteering, who taught me to believe in second chances.
The rose with a petal missing was a rose for goodbyes. This rose was a rose for a horse named Zack; an older horse at my barn who had turned the youngest of beginners into the most accomplished competitors. It was Zack, the horse I grew up riding and loved for his huge personality, whose passing taught me to honor and remember those who are taken too soon; those who deserve to live eternally. It was Zack whose presence never left my side this week in Oklahoma; these were his roses. These would always be his roses.
Blinking away a tear, I set them down on the table and glanced at the clock. It was long after midnight now; the stars were still dancing over the city. From the window of my hotel room, I watched them for the final time. It would be hard, I thought, not to come back here next year and compete; hard to close this chapter of my life; to let go. But if my 13 years with horses have taught me anything, it is that new beginnings are often disguised as difficult endings. It is that life changes constantly and unexpectedly. There will always be, I have learned, a new chapter, a new story. So in this unchanging moment I let myself remain under the inertia of the midnight stars--and I whispered a “thank you” to the horses of the past whose memories shine, here and forever, among their sparkle.
All that is left to do, it seems, is hold on for the ride—and finish packing, of course.
Grace Brenner '21
*author photo credited to Howie Schatzberg, professional photographer
The Timed Essay
Stage One: Denial
I whip out a pen
And sit down in my seat-
Hoping to keep my
Hyperventilating discreet.
I pretend very well
That I won’t lose my mind
The second I remember
This essay is timed.
It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine,
I hear myself lying--
Why do I suddenly feel like crying?
Stage Two: Acceptance
After we finish our poem of the day
The questions start coming and won’t go away:
What if I fail this? What if I blank?
I’d literally rather be doing a plank.
But I stop, then, and think
On this day in December
About how excited I was
Back then, in September--
Excited to learn to love to write;
I may just be ready to win this fight.
So I sit up a bit straighter
And take a deep breath,
Ignoring that feeling
Of impending death.
I glance around me
As pens start to move-
Ready to argue-
With something to prove.
Stage Three: How Not to Write an Organized Essay
Oh no. Oh God. Oh no.
Where do I start? What do I say?
Flustered, I descend into panic
And spell my name the wrong way.
I gather my thoughts and I start to write
Trying not to explode--but thinking I might.
You see, I tend to plan as I go
And forget how to spell; that’s true, I know-
I’ll sometimes add in a paragraph or two
And change my thesis halfway through.
“Five minutes left!” I hear
With confusion;
I still have to write
Some sort of conclusion.
But nothing is better than “Pencils down!”
When dropping your pen feels like wearing a crown-
And you can’t quite tell if you want to laugh,
Or pick it back up and snap it in half.
Stage Four: Reflection
I know, I know-
I’m being dramatic--
But timed essays like these
Can be somewhat traumatic.
They ask us to test ourselves,
To push all the limits;
They measure our talent
In just forty minutes.
But as much as we dread them,
We must understand-
That these essays make
Good writers grand.
As much as we fear them
And fear them, we do,
It’s time to face them-
And trust ourselves, too.
Grace Brenner '21
I whip out a pen
And sit down in my seat-
Hoping to keep my
Hyperventilating discreet.
I pretend very well
That I won’t lose my mind
The second I remember
This essay is timed.
It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine,
I hear myself lying--
Why do I suddenly feel like crying?
Stage Two: Acceptance
After we finish our poem of the day
The questions start coming and won’t go away:
What if I fail this? What if I blank?
I’d literally rather be doing a plank.
But I stop, then, and think
On this day in December
About how excited I was
Back then, in September--
Excited to learn to love to write;
I may just be ready to win this fight.
So I sit up a bit straighter
And take a deep breath,
Ignoring that feeling
Of impending death.
I glance around me
As pens start to move-
Ready to argue-
With something to prove.
Stage Three: How Not to Write an Organized Essay
Oh no. Oh God. Oh no.
Where do I start? What do I say?
Flustered, I descend into panic
And spell my name the wrong way.
I gather my thoughts and I start to write
Trying not to explode--but thinking I might.
You see, I tend to plan as I go
And forget how to spell; that’s true, I know-
I’ll sometimes add in a paragraph or two
And change my thesis halfway through.
“Five minutes left!” I hear
With confusion;
I still have to write
Some sort of conclusion.
But nothing is better than “Pencils down!”
When dropping your pen feels like wearing a crown-
And you can’t quite tell if you want to laugh,
Or pick it back up and snap it in half.
Stage Four: Reflection
I know, I know-
I’m being dramatic--
But timed essays like these
Can be somewhat traumatic.
They ask us to test ourselves,
To push all the limits;
They measure our talent
In just forty minutes.
But as much as we dread them,
We must understand-
That these essays make
Good writers grand.
As much as we fear them
And fear them, we do,
It’s time to face them-
And trust ourselves, too.
Grace Brenner '21
The Mall
Cecilia was looking at a zombie.
Well, the zombie was behind a barricaded glass door and didn’t seem to be holding anything that could break it, so it didn’t startle her much. In fact, it didn’t stir up any emotions at all. The zombie was like the last film in a horror movie marathon; she was completely desensitized to it. It was trapped behind a screen, so unless something really weird happened, there was nothing to fear. Logically.
Its skin was all green and falling apart. Its brains were spilling out, which didn’t make much sense. Aren’t zombies supposed to not have brains? she wondered. Isn’t that why they always look for them?
Cecilia decided to stick her tongue out at it to see if that would make the situation less boring. It didn’t. The creature just kept staring at her with dead, dull eyes that were on the brink of popping right out, as always.
Boring.
She sighed and attempted to scoot away on her skateboard, which was difficult because no one who could teach her how to properly ride one had survived the apocalypse.
Bummer.
As the wheels of the skateboard click-clacked over the tiled hallway and Cecilia struggled to stay balanced, a quiet song began to play over the speakers. Fluorescent lights and dying potted plants showed her the way.
She turned after a while, which almost threw her off the board, and saw the familiar sparkle of the mall’s jewelry store. Its resident waved hello, her hands covered in engagement rings, her neck adorned with diamonds and pearls, her arms covered in a dozen golden watches each, all telling a different time.
“Interested in anything today?”
She rolled her eyes. Brenda was probably one of the more annoying people to survive the zombie plague in Cecilia’s opinion.
“It’s not as if you don’t have the money. This mall is full of cash registers. Nobody cares if you take anything, dear.” The woman whispered all of this as if it was some great secret.
“I don’t want anything. Sorry.”
Brenda sighed. “Well, if you ever change your mind...”
“You do this every day,” Cecilia reminded her. “I don’t think I will.”
She wobbled away on her trusty skateboard.
Dark storefronts peered out at her in each hallway, their contents ranging from pretty much left alone to completely ransacked. She always felt like there was something watching her. Maybe it was watching through the security cameras or hidden behind a rack of sweaters.
The next shop on her journey was a toy store. Its pastel-colored products always looked strange to her in the dim light. The laughter of three rambunctious children rang out into the near-empty mall, becoming distorted. She waved hello at the three, who ran up and hugged her before she could get away. Their father gave her a tired grin from inside the shop as their mother apologized for their endless energy.
The mother picked one of them up. “You can’t just jump on people,” she scolded.
The child looked at her with eyes of steel. “I do what I WANT,” she growled, then reached at Cecilia with her tiny claws.
Cecilia had never been a kid person, or much of a people person at all, so she detached herself from the would-be-preschoolers and continued on her way to her own home.
It wasn’t that far. She lived in a store full of trinkets and journals, the kind of stuff people bought constantly but rarely ever used. She stopped to take one out and spent the next ten minutes filling a meditation journal with “positive reflections.” They wouldn’t stop the end of the world, but maybe they’d make her feel a little bit better about it.
Then, she went through the aisles of singing birthday cards and bright party games, looking through everything. Her phone had been dead for months now, (the guy in the tech store was too possessive of his stuff to give up any charger) so this was her main entertainment.
Finally, she made her way to breakfast, passing the edgy store where she’d found her skateboard. The food court was dim, all of the restaurants empty shells except for one. Cecilia vaguely remembered that some controversy had kept her from eating at this place before, but now that the CEO was probably snacking on brains instead of participating in scandals, she ate there daily.
“What will it be today?” asked Chef. Chef’s job was frying chicken nuggets and handing out fruit cups, but he insisted on the title for whatever reason.
“I’ll have the usual.”
“Cece, you can’t have burgers for every meal.”
She lifted her chin and spoke seriously. “Yes, I can, and I will.”
Cecilia set up camp at a random table and scarfed down the greasy food, wondering when the food supply would run out. There was enough food in that freezer to feed the survivors at least a few months more, and there was no fear of it going bad; there were thousands of strange preservatives in this place’s food.
Eventually, though, it would be gone.
Then what?
She silently scolded herself for thinking such dark thoughts.
Her mind settled on planning the rest of her day. I’ll explore those last few stores, she thought. Maybe I’ll even find another skateboard. Or what if there’s one of those mattress stores? I haven’t slept on an actual bed in ages.
Why did her old life feel so distant? It hadn’t even been that long.
She didn’t expect it, but in that instant, Cecilia just wanted to go home. Not to the ripoff Paper Store she wandered daily, but to her little brother and her parents and the pet cat she used to take too many pictures of. She wanted to spin in the swivel chair in her mom’s office and bake cookies with her friends and never write in her journals and learn how to actually skateboard.
How did she end up in the mall, alone, on the day the world had ended? All she wanted was that shade of Sephora Lipstick Abigail liked. Blaze of Glory, or something. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. It was hard to remember the last time that had happened.
Before she could let out the first sob, an alarm shrieked through the building.
Cecilia grabbed her skateboard and dashed down the halls of the mall, wobbling the whole way. She passed her store, the kid’s shop, and the jeweler’s. They each passed her in a blur of lights and confused people.
In a flash, she was at the entrance. The glass door was shattered. A rock lay on the ground in a pile of glass shards, the barricades scattered to the sides.
A group of zombies looked at her.
She looked back.
Unlike this morning, there was no screen to protect her.
Cecilia knew what to do. She stepped off her skateboard, picked it up, and used it to defend the only home she had left.
Well, the zombie was behind a barricaded glass door and didn’t seem to be holding anything that could break it, so it didn’t startle her much. In fact, it didn’t stir up any emotions at all. The zombie was like the last film in a horror movie marathon; she was completely desensitized to it. It was trapped behind a screen, so unless something really weird happened, there was nothing to fear. Logically.
Its skin was all green and falling apart. Its brains were spilling out, which didn’t make much sense. Aren’t zombies supposed to not have brains? she wondered. Isn’t that why they always look for them?
Cecilia decided to stick her tongue out at it to see if that would make the situation less boring. It didn’t. The creature just kept staring at her with dead, dull eyes that were on the brink of popping right out, as always.
Boring.
She sighed and attempted to scoot away on her skateboard, which was difficult because no one who could teach her how to properly ride one had survived the apocalypse.
Bummer.
As the wheels of the skateboard click-clacked over the tiled hallway and Cecilia struggled to stay balanced, a quiet song began to play over the speakers. Fluorescent lights and dying potted plants showed her the way.
She turned after a while, which almost threw her off the board, and saw the familiar sparkle of the mall’s jewelry store. Its resident waved hello, her hands covered in engagement rings, her neck adorned with diamonds and pearls, her arms covered in a dozen golden watches each, all telling a different time.
“Interested in anything today?”
She rolled her eyes. Brenda was probably one of the more annoying people to survive the zombie plague in Cecilia’s opinion.
“It’s not as if you don’t have the money. This mall is full of cash registers. Nobody cares if you take anything, dear.” The woman whispered all of this as if it was some great secret.
“I don’t want anything. Sorry.”
Brenda sighed. “Well, if you ever change your mind...”
“You do this every day,” Cecilia reminded her. “I don’t think I will.”
She wobbled away on her trusty skateboard.
Dark storefronts peered out at her in each hallway, their contents ranging from pretty much left alone to completely ransacked. She always felt like there was something watching her. Maybe it was watching through the security cameras or hidden behind a rack of sweaters.
The next shop on her journey was a toy store. Its pastel-colored products always looked strange to her in the dim light. The laughter of three rambunctious children rang out into the near-empty mall, becoming distorted. She waved hello at the three, who ran up and hugged her before she could get away. Their father gave her a tired grin from inside the shop as their mother apologized for their endless energy.
The mother picked one of them up. “You can’t just jump on people,” she scolded.
The child looked at her with eyes of steel. “I do what I WANT,” she growled, then reached at Cecilia with her tiny claws.
Cecilia had never been a kid person, or much of a people person at all, so she detached herself from the would-be-preschoolers and continued on her way to her own home.
It wasn’t that far. She lived in a store full of trinkets and journals, the kind of stuff people bought constantly but rarely ever used. She stopped to take one out and spent the next ten minutes filling a meditation journal with “positive reflections.” They wouldn’t stop the end of the world, but maybe they’d make her feel a little bit better about it.
Then, she went through the aisles of singing birthday cards and bright party games, looking through everything. Her phone had been dead for months now, (the guy in the tech store was too possessive of his stuff to give up any charger) so this was her main entertainment.
Finally, she made her way to breakfast, passing the edgy store where she’d found her skateboard. The food court was dim, all of the restaurants empty shells except for one. Cecilia vaguely remembered that some controversy had kept her from eating at this place before, but now that the CEO was probably snacking on brains instead of participating in scandals, she ate there daily.
“What will it be today?” asked Chef. Chef’s job was frying chicken nuggets and handing out fruit cups, but he insisted on the title for whatever reason.
“I’ll have the usual.”
“Cece, you can’t have burgers for every meal.”
She lifted her chin and spoke seriously. “Yes, I can, and I will.”
Cecilia set up camp at a random table and scarfed down the greasy food, wondering when the food supply would run out. There was enough food in that freezer to feed the survivors at least a few months more, and there was no fear of it going bad; there were thousands of strange preservatives in this place’s food.
Eventually, though, it would be gone.
Then what?
She silently scolded herself for thinking such dark thoughts.
Her mind settled on planning the rest of her day. I’ll explore those last few stores, she thought. Maybe I’ll even find another skateboard. Or what if there’s one of those mattress stores? I haven’t slept on an actual bed in ages.
Why did her old life feel so distant? It hadn’t even been that long.
She didn’t expect it, but in that instant, Cecilia just wanted to go home. Not to the ripoff Paper Store she wandered daily, but to her little brother and her parents and the pet cat she used to take too many pictures of. She wanted to spin in the swivel chair in her mom’s office and bake cookies with her friends and never write in her journals and learn how to actually skateboard.
How did she end up in the mall, alone, on the day the world had ended? All she wanted was that shade of Sephora Lipstick Abigail liked. Blaze of Glory, or something. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. It was hard to remember the last time that had happened.
Before she could let out the first sob, an alarm shrieked through the building.
Cecilia grabbed her skateboard and dashed down the halls of the mall, wobbling the whole way. She passed her store, the kid’s shop, and the jeweler’s. They each passed her in a blur of lights and confused people.
In a flash, she was at the entrance. The glass door was shattered. A rock lay on the ground in a pile of glass shards, the barricades scattered to the sides.
A group of zombies looked at her.
She looked back.
Unlike this morning, there was no screen to protect her.
Cecilia knew what to do. She stepped off her skateboard, picked it up, and used it to defend the only home she had left.
Katelyn Puglia '23
How to Heal
It hurts us to discover
The horrors of our past
But we must withstand the brutal pain
And face our fears at last.
Our history defines us
And lives with us today
The injustice and the hardships
Have yet to fade away.
Our story, it is timeless
It haunts us without fail;
The truth is real and hard to hear
Far from a fairytale.
We must free ourselves from expectation
And let true colors show
For we cannot simply erase our past
But from it we can grow.
Censorship, it has its holes
And ignorance shines through
To a vision built upon false hope
A view we thought we knew.
We are told the dates, the months, the years
Of the events that changed our past,
But we cannot feel the pain and sorrow
That will forever last.
It is okay to break the rules,
If they do not let us see
Not only who we are today
But who we’re meant to be.
The horrors of our past
But we must withstand the brutal pain
And face our fears at last.
Our history defines us
And lives with us today
The injustice and the hardships
Have yet to fade away.
Our story, it is timeless
It haunts us without fail;
The truth is real and hard to hear
Far from a fairytale.
We must free ourselves from expectation
And let true colors show
For we cannot simply erase our past
But from it we can grow.
Censorship, it has its holes
And ignorance shines through
To a vision built upon false hope
A view we thought we knew.
We are told the dates, the months, the years
Of the events that changed our past,
But we cannot feel the pain and sorrow
That will forever last.
It is okay to break the rules,
If they do not let us see
Not only who we are today
But who we’re meant to be.
Abbey Brenner '23
Bells of Freedom Ring
We gather here today to honor
A man who gave so much-
A man who fought a fight for freedom
With his kind and humble touch.
We gather here today to honor
A man whose life was lost-
When he vowed to win this fight for freedom
Regardless of the cost.
On this day we must remember
The father and the son;
This angel of a man whose memory
Shines, now, in the sun.
On this day we must remember
The man who dared to dream-
The man who dared to dream of justice
When hatred reigned supreme.
His words, they sought to unify,
His actions sought to bind-
The wounds that broken centuries
Had placed upon mankind.
His love, it sought to mend and heal
The scars that told our fate-
It sought to lead us to the light;
To open freedom’s gate.
I ask you, now, to take a breath
And open up your eyes-
I ask you, now, to look above,
Towards silent, silver skies.
Do you see that fading flicker?
That sparkle in the blue?
For beyond those clouds, a hero lies-
And liberty lies there, too.
I hope that when you leave today,
Wherever you may go-
You think about his legacy
And dream under its glow.
I hope that when you hear the bells
Of peace and freedom ring,
You send a “thank you” up above,
To Martin Luther King.
A man who gave so much-
A man who fought a fight for freedom
With his kind and humble touch.
We gather here today to honor
A man whose life was lost-
When he vowed to win this fight for freedom
Regardless of the cost.
On this day we must remember
The father and the son;
This angel of a man whose memory
Shines, now, in the sun.
On this day we must remember
The man who dared to dream-
The man who dared to dream of justice
When hatred reigned supreme.
His words, they sought to unify,
His actions sought to bind-
The wounds that broken centuries
Had placed upon mankind.
His love, it sought to mend and heal
The scars that told our fate-
It sought to lead us to the light;
To open freedom’s gate.
I ask you, now, to take a breath
And open up your eyes-
I ask you, now, to look above,
Towards silent, silver skies.
Do you see that fading flicker?
That sparkle in the blue?
For beyond those clouds, a hero lies-
And liberty lies there, too.
I hope that when you leave today,
Wherever you may go-
You think about his legacy
And dream under its glow.
I hope that when you hear the bells
Of peace and freedom ring,
You send a “thank you” up above,
To Martin Luther King.
Grace Brenner '21
L'Arbre de L'Amour
Allison Powell '20
Games
It's just for fun, but
My opponent wants the win, And that makes me sad. |
It's just for fun, but
Everyone wants me to win, And that makes me sad. |
Gavin Pu '21
Qui Vivra Verra (Time Will Tell)
À minuit, une nouvelle ère est née
La naissance de la nouvelle année Les esprits des souvenirs passés Dissipent dans l'air du soir, effacés Les calendriers sont démarqués. L'ardoise est vide. Santé, remarqué. Les joyeux confettis sont lancés Une nouvelle ère a commencé Et donc nous supposons à la rue Que nos problèmes ont disparu Pourtant cette rue appelée la Vie il est lourd de terrain rigide et divis La tempête fait rage comme les flammes Sur l'arrière pays commes des lames Tandis que les cœurs et esprits asinaires nous transforme en bêtes sanguinaires Les incertitudes sombres dans le vent nous sommes confrontés s'élèvent comme de la fumée suffocante car la tragédie est fréquente Que va devenir cette ère ? L'histoire n'est jamais linéaire on ne peut donc pas supposer Le bien ou le mal. Rien n'est imposé Il faut vivre la vie Qui vivra verra |
At midnight, a new era is born
The birth of a new year Spirits of past memories Dissipate in the evening air, erased The calendars are unmarked The slate is blank. Cheers, remarked. Joyous confetti is launched A new era has begun And so we assume at the street Our troubles have faded away Yet this street called Life Is fraught with rigid and divided terrain The storm rages like the flames On the backlands like blades While asinine hearts and minds Transform us into bloodthirsty beasts The dark uncertainties in the winds That we confront rise Like suffocating smoke Because tragedy is frequent What are we to make of this era? History is never linear. Therefore, we cannot suppose Good or ill. Nothing is imposed One must live life Time will tell |
Allison Powell '20
Mourning Daze
Rachel Staffier '21
Watch for Turning Vehicles
Rachel Staffier '21
Dominance
Rachel Staffier '21
Anything Caramel with a Lot of Espresso
“Is that all?” I inquired, attempting to shield my incompetency with a smile. The lady nodded and I put in her request: a Venti Iced Cinnamon Dolce Latte with almond milk. “You’re all set,” I managed, handing back her change, “have a good one.”
I took a breath amidst the chaos of the Monday afternoon; the screeches of the espresso machine and inconsistent harmonies of ice hitting plastic drowning out any instances of quiet. I glanced at my reflection in the window across the counter, taking note of my unruly hair and the waves of frizz that reminded me never to fall asleep in french braids again. I sighed at the sight of the mocha drizzle on my apron, some of which had migrated and settled above my right eyebrow. If “new, minimally-trained, and sleep-deprived barista” was a stereotype, I was it.
It was not before the sun was replaced with a blanket of stars--or before I managed to dump two entire pitchers of lemonade on myself--that my outlook on life was transformed by a man I had never met.
The time was some hour after seven o’clock when he entered the store and sauntered up to the counter in such a discreet manner that I nearly missed him. I had been, in fact, wiping down the counters in a perpetual state of dismay, anxious with the thought of that biology test I still had to pass and that English essay I still had to write. Midway through developing a thesis on the back of a coffee cup sleeve, I turned to face him.
“Hi! How are you?” I asked, noticing the kindness in his eyes and sparkle of his military badges before remembering that it was Veterans’ Day.
“I’m alive,” he grinned, “so I’d say today is a wonderful day. What’s your name?” His response caught me off guard and I momentarily forgot the answer to that question, a question that not many took the time to ask. I loved that he did.
“I’m Grace,” I responded after what had probably felt, for him, like eternity. But he did not seem to mind. “And yours?”
“Mark,” he answered. I thanked him for his service, still admiring his collection of badges. “It’s really lovely to meet you, Mark. What can I get started for you?”
He told me he would like “anything caramel, with a lot of espresso.” I laughed and suggested a caramel brûlée latte with two extra shots. Mark trusted my judgement–a risky move. I placed his order with ease at first, keeping up that whole “I know what I’m doing” facade.
When reality hit and it dawned on me that I had no idea where to find the military discount code, I started to apologize for taking his time. He stopped me before I could even say the word “sorry.”
“Grace,” he chuckled, “You don’t have to apologize for being new at something. I know when I come back here in a month or two, you’ll be throwing coffees together faster than I could blink. If I’ve learned anything from life, it’s that you can’t always live it putting others’ expectations before your own happiness…there’s simply no reward in that.”
I felt myself relax instantly. There was something about his presence that just made talking to him so enjoyable; so easy. It was as if he understood that feeling of “oh my God, they’re going to bite me” that takes over when I put a customer’s hot drink through as “iced.”
“Thank you...you just made my day,” I whispered.
“I’m glad,” he responded, his grin refusing to waver. With a burst of luck, I managed to locate the discount code and punch it to reduce his charge to zero. At this point, I would have paid for his latte myself.
Looking up, I let him know he was all set. I wished him nothing but the best and told him to come back soon. To my delight, though, he decided to stay. As the night grew darker and its stars brighter, I cleaned, he talked, and I listened. He told stories of his service: the ups, the downs, the love and losses. He told me about the soldiers that had become his brothers and the brothers who had become mere, beloved memories. We talked about history and life and coffee as I made his own, with extra caramel.
It was not until this point that I happened to notice a hint of pain behind his brown eyes, as if a rose were planted in a cracked vase. The flower itself was big and bold and beautiful, though it had experienced considerable trauma. It had felt the severity of its own thorns; thorns of war and violence, but had managed to retain its pride and stature nonetheless.
Mark stayed until the store closed at eight o’clock. I had just finished mopping the floors when he got up to shake my hand.
“Thank you for everything,” I told him, and I meant it. He had made my night.
“Thank you,” he responded. And with that, I watched as he ambled out the door and into the darkness.
Feeling a little lost, I retrieved my cardboard thesis and tossed it in the trash. I hung my apron on the wall and felt myself reach for my keys, stepping out into a night that felt more broken than whole. The stars, though, twinkled above like embers that had fallen from a yellow moon and stuck. I found myself gazing towards the galaxies and their glow, thinking of Mark and of all of those who sacrificed so much for a world whose violence gave back so little. I thought of my own grandfather and the lives of all others that had been dominated by war and threatened at the hands of their human opponents; the mothers, fathers, sons, and brothers who spent their final moments on the battlefield. I felt their presence in the crystals of the constellations, and I found some closure too.
I drove home and forgot about that biology test I still had to pass. I forgot about that English essay I still had to write. I remembered Mark instead, his doppio caramel latte, and the rose in the splintered vase. I remembered the stars, the stories they held, and the angels they carried. Putting my car in park, I wiped away a tear and whispered one more “thank you” to those who gave their lives for perfect strangers; those who deserve every ounce of honor that this universe has to offer.
Grace Brenner '21
I took a breath amidst the chaos of the Monday afternoon; the screeches of the espresso machine and inconsistent harmonies of ice hitting plastic drowning out any instances of quiet. I glanced at my reflection in the window across the counter, taking note of my unruly hair and the waves of frizz that reminded me never to fall asleep in french braids again. I sighed at the sight of the mocha drizzle on my apron, some of which had migrated and settled above my right eyebrow. If “new, minimally-trained, and sleep-deprived barista” was a stereotype, I was it.
It was not before the sun was replaced with a blanket of stars--or before I managed to dump two entire pitchers of lemonade on myself--that my outlook on life was transformed by a man I had never met.
The time was some hour after seven o’clock when he entered the store and sauntered up to the counter in such a discreet manner that I nearly missed him. I had been, in fact, wiping down the counters in a perpetual state of dismay, anxious with the thought of that biology test I still had to pass and that English essay I still had to write. Midway through developing a thesis on the back of a coffee cup sleeve, I turned to face him.
“Hi! How are you?” I asked, noticing the kindness in his eyes and sparkle of his military badges before remembering that it was Veterans’ Day.
“I’m alive,” he grinned, “so I’d say today is a wonderful day. What’s your name?” His response caught me off guard and I momentarily forgot the answer to that question, a question that not many took the time to ask. I loved that he did.
“I’m Grace,” I responded after what had probably felt, for him, like eternity. But he did not seem to mind. “And yours?”
“Mark,” he answered. I thanked him for his service, still admiring his collection of badges. “It’s really lovely to meet you, Mark. What can I get started for you?”
He told me he would like “anything caramel, with a lot of espresso.” I laughed and suggested a caramel brûlée latte with two extra shots. Mark trusted my judgement–a risky move. I placed his order with ease at first, keeping up that whole “I know what I’m doing” facade.
When reality hit and it dawned on me that I had no idea where to find the military discount code, I started to apologize for taking his time. He stopped me before I could even say the word “sorry.”
“Grace,” he chuckled, “You don’t have to apologize for being new at something. I know when I come back here in a month or two, you’ll be throwing coffees together faster than I could blink. If I’ve learned anything from life, it’s that you can’t always live it putting others’ expectations before your own happiness…there’s simply no reward in that.”
I felt myself relax instantly. There was something about his presence that just made talking to him so enjoyable; so easy. It was as if he understood that feeling of “oh my God, they’re going to bite me” that takes over when I put a customer’s hot drink through as “iced.”
“Thank you...you just made my day,” I whispered.
“I’m glad,” he responded, his grin refusing to waver. With a burst of luck, I managed to locate the discount code and punch it to reduce his charge to zero. At this point, I would have paid for his latte myself.
Looking up, I let him know he was all set. I wished him nothing but the best and told him to come back soon. To my delight, though, he decided to stay. As the night grew darker and its stars brighter, I cleaned, he talked, and I listened. He told stories of his service: the ups, the downs, the love and losses. He told me about the soldiers that had become his brothers and the brothers who had become mere, beloved memories. We talked about history and life and coffee as I made his own, with extra caramel.
It was not until this point that I happened to notice a hint of pain behind his brown eyes, as if a rose were planted in a cracked vase. The flower itself was big and bold and beautiful, though it had experienced considerable trauma. It had felt the severity of its own thorns; thorns of war and violence, but had managed to retain its pride and stature nonetheless.
Mark stayed until the store closed at eight o’clock. I had just finished mopping the floors when he got up to shake my hand.
“Thank you for everything,” I told him, and I meant it. He had made my night.
“Thank you,” he responded. And with that, I watched as he ambled out the door and into the darkness.
Feeling a little lost, I retrieved my cardboard thesis and tossed it in the trash. I hung my apron on the wall and felt myself reach for my keys, stepping out into a night that felt more broken than whole. The stars, though, twinkled above like embers that had fallen from a yellow moon and stuck. I found myself gazing towards the galaxies and their glow, thinking of Mark and of all of those who sacrificed so much for a world whose violence gave back so little. I thought of my own grandfather and the lives of all others that had been dominated by war and threatened at the hands of their human opponents; the mothers, fathers, sons, and brothers who spent their final moments on the battlefield. I felt their presence in the crystals of the constellations, and I found some closure too.
I drove home and forgot about that biology test I still had to pass. I forgot about that English essay I still had to write. I remembered Mark instead, his doppio caramel latte, and the rose in the splintered vase. I remembered the stars, the stories they held, and the angels they carried. Putting my car in park, I wiped away a tear and whispered one more “thank you” to those who gave their lives for perfect strangers; those who deserve every ounce of honor that this universe has to offer.
Grace Brenner '21
Fall to Fly
When it simply hasn’t been Your Day,
And the Sky’s more Gray than Blue-
I hope You know there’s Someone There
Who will Hold the Door for You.
When You spill a cup of fresh-brewed Coffee
Seething, down Your Sleeve-
I hope you know the Pain won’t Last
And those Scars, they too will Leave.
When You lose Your Way, just slightly
And Life, it goes Awry-
I hope You’ll start to Understand
That it takes a Fall to Fly.
I know the Sun can’t always Shine;
That Bad Days come and Go-
But without Them, how could all Those Great Ones
Ever have Their Glow?
And the Sky’s more Gray than Blue-
I hope You know there’s Someone There
Who will Hold the Door for You.
When You spill a cup of fresh-brewed Coffee
Seething, down Your Sleeve-
I hope you know the Pain won’t Last
And those Scars, they too will Leave.
When You lose Your Way, just slightly
And Life, it goes Awry-
I hope You’ll start to Understand
That it takes a Fall to Fly.
I know the Sun can’t always Shine;
That Bad Days come and Go-
But without Them, how could all Those Great Ones
Ever have Their Glow?
Grace Brenner '21
Overgrown and Toxic
It is a dreary, rainy day in Reading. The sky is consumed by a blanket of grey, and a spirit of melancholy is cast onto the environment. Due to the aforementioned circumstances, I am writing indoors from my room and am presented with an aerial view of a tree. The scene before my eyes is familiar. The tree that resides just 20 feet from the window of my room has the same black, coffee-colored bark, the same grass-colored leaves, the same fingerlike branches, and the same large and welcoming presence in the front yard of my home as it always has. However, I notice that the branches have expanded significantly further than they did. The tree is overgrown. It has been left unchecked for almost a year now, free to grow as its natural code directs. It casts a great shadow onto the oval enclosure of mulch where it and other small bushes and flowers are growing. Even on this hazy day, I can see the tree stealing the minuscule rays of sunlight that break through the thick clouds. A small bush that is in closest proximity to the trunk seems prematurely barren; as if it had decided that it was already winter. Its demand for sunlight cannot be met due to the overgrown tree. As my eyes run over this botanical game of King of the Court, I notice a yellow bush that is growing crooked. It is contorted in a manner that allows it to receive ample sunlight (if the weather allows it to do so). The crafty bush has found a loophole. In this broken ecosystem run by the tree, this bush has cheated its way to survival by any means possible.
The tree is a superpower in the pocket-sized biosphere of my front yard. It has not been trimmed or maintained since last year. Due to the lack of regulation, the tree rules the yard. The remaining flora is left with three options: to die, persevere, or outwit. Some plants suffer, others keep fighting for sunlight, and one bush finds an alternative route. This scene sparks a connection in my mind to the American college system. As many pursue higher education, the demand for spots at schools increases. As a result, schools get more selective, and the cost of education rises. Much like the tree, colleges are slowly gaining a monopoly. For many, this means that a college education is now unattainable. For these individuals, the tree’s shadow has already maimed them. The majority are forced to persevere. They fight their way through and grab as much sunlight as they can. These people deal with crippling student debt and make sacrifices to get into schools. Students try tirelessly to set themselves apart from the rest. The school system forces them to make decisions at the age of 14 that will affect them when they are 40. The stress of constantly attempting to steal rays of sunshine has caused an exponential increase in teenage anxiety and depression. These individuals have also felt the wrath of the tree. But then there are others. These are the people that finesse their way to the top. They bribe, cheat, and lie to get ahead. These are the people that get involved in scandalous circumstances that get uncovered and reported on the news. They are the celebrities and star athletes who pay their way to the top for their children. In the end, they end up ruined, just like the plants that grow by the trunk of the tree. The system is broken due to a lack of sufficient regulation. Today, all that many desire is a few moments in the sun.
The tree is a superpower in the pocket-sized biosphere of my front yard. It has not been trimmed or maintained since last year. Due to the lack of regulation, the tree rules the yard. The remaining flora is left with three options: to die, persevere, or outwit. Some plants suffer, others keep fighting for sunlight, and one bush finds an alternative route. This scene sparks a connection in my mind to the American college system. As many pursue higher education, the demand for spots at schools increases. As a result, schools get more selective, and the cost of education rises. Much like the tree, colleges are slowly gaining a monopoly. For many, this means that a college education is now unattainable. For these individuals, the tree’s shadow has already maimed them. The majority are forced to persevere. They fight their way through and grab as much sunlight as they can. These people deal with crippling student debt and make sacrifices to get into schools. Students try tirelessly to set themselves apart from the rest. The school system forces them to make decisions at the age of 14 that will affect them when they are 40. The stress of constantly attempting to steal rays of sunshine has caused an exponential increase in teenage anxiety and depression. These individuals have also felt the wrath of the tree. But then there are others. These are the people that finesse their way to the top. They bribe, cheat, and lie to get ahead. These are the people that get involved in scandalous circumstances that get uncovered and reported on the news. They are the celebrities and star athletes who pay their way to the top for their children. In the end, they end up ruined, just like the plants that grow by the trunk of the tree. The system is broken due to a lack of sufficient regulation. Today, all that many desire is a few moments in the sun.
Alex Shikhanovich '22
The Tail of the Tiger
虎头蛇尾 (hǔ tóu shé wěi)
The Tiger prowls the jungle in search for its feast
The creatures tremble at the sight of this beast
In the jungle the mighty king doth reign
For in the eyes of his subjects he is Cain
In the jungle that the tyrant hath called his home
Behind this Tiger its tail stealthily doth comb
The ominous floors of the dense jungle loam
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
The Tiger’s jagged ears and slick fur form its crown
Its razor claws make for the Tiger’s great renown
Its cunning shrewdness and his stalwart kingly might
Are what make his presence cause such a fright
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
His fire and his rage match the passion in his stripes
The Tiger is the champion of all jungle archetypes
The Tiger would strike fear in the jungle he hailed
Until one fateful day when the almighty Tiger failed
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
One day the regal Tiger caught his feeble tail in a trap
And as he sprang to pounce he was thrust back with a snap
Restrained, the prideful Tiger to say none the least
Lay hostage to the ground wretched and triste
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
The piercing steel jaws caused the Tiger great pain
As the Tiger tried to flee from the trap in vain
No longer free to stalk his prey and roam
In the jungle that he hath called his home
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
No longer a king but an unfortunate clown
Whose mighty sneer had faded to a dreary frown
As no creature comes to soothe his dismal plight
Indeed the Tiger’s future does not appear too bright
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
The Tiger’s anguished cries and gripes
Go against the unbreakable lordly stereotypes
The tiger lies in humiliation on the jungle floor
His condition foretells a fate that is bleak and poor
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
The creatures tremble at the sight of this beast
In the jungle the mighty king doth reign
For in the eyes of his subjects he is Cain
In the jungle that the tyrant hath called his home
Behind this Tiger its tail stealthily doth comb
The ominous floors of the dense jungle loam
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
The Tiger’s jagged ears and slick fur form its crown
Its razor claws make for the Tiger’s great renown
Its cunning shrewdness and his stalwart kingly might
Are what make his presence cause such a fright
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
His fire and his rage match the passion in his stripes
The Tiger is the champion of all jungle archetypes
The Tiger would strike fear in the jungle he hailed
Until one fateful day when the almighty Tiger failed
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
One day the regal Tiger caught his feeble tail in a trap
And as he sprang to pounce he was thrust back with a snap
Restrained, the prideful Tiger to say none the least
Lay hostage to the ground wretched and triste
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
The piercing steel jaws caused the Tiger great pain
As the Tiger tried to flee from the trap in vain
No longer free to stalk his prey and roam
In the jungle that he hath called his home
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
No longer a king but an unfortunate clown
Whose mighty sneer had faded to a dreary frown
As no creature comes to soothe his dismal plight
Indeed the Tiger’s future does not appear too bright
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
The Tiger’s anguished cries and gripes
Go against the unbreakable lordly stereotypes
The tiger lies in humiliation on the jungle floor
His condition foretells a fate that is bleak and poor
The Tiger, though mighty, is only flawed with its tail
For the Tail is where the Tiger is meek and frail
Allison Powell '20
Beautiful as You
Have faith in who you are
And who you will become-
Be proud of all that you have done,
And all that’s yet to come.
Don’t let them tell you how to act
Or tell you who to be-
For you are beautiful as you,
Just as I am me.
Do not conform to expectation
If it robs you of yourself-
The light and love that you deserve
Upon the highest shelf.
We live together in a world
That does judge us from afar-
Oblivious to the fact that flaws
Make us who we are--
And I do hope that when this world
Seeks to knock you down,
You stand up taller and refuse
To let it tip your crown.
I hope that you stop listening
To what they deem “ideal”-
Those beauty standards far from beauty,
Far more fake than real.
I dream that you will look once more
In the mirror on the wall
And instead of breaking, you will smile-
Instead you’ll rise, not fall.
I leave you, now, to navigate
Through this strong and stormy sea-
Not to let you sink and suffer,
But just to let you be.
I hope that, through the ups and downs-
One day you will see
That you are beautiful as you
Just as I am me.
And who you will become-
Be proud of all that you have done,
And all that’s yet to come.
Don’t let them tell you how to act
Or tell you who to be-
For you are beautiful as you,
Just as I am me.
Do not conform to expectation
If it robs you of yourself-
The light and love that you deserve
Upon the highest shelf.
We live together in a world
That does judge us from afar-
Oblivious to the fact that flaws
Make us who we are--
And I do hope that when this world
Seeks to knock you down,
You stand up taller and refuse
To let it tip your crown.
I hope that you stop listening
To what they deem “ideal”-
Those beauty standards far from beauty,
Far more fake than real.
I dream that you will look once more
In the mirror on the wall
And instead of breaking, you will smile-
Instead you’ll rise, not fall.
I leave you, now, to navigate
Through this strong and stormy sea-
Not to let you sink and suffer,
But just to let you be.
I hope that, through the ups and downs-
One day you will see
That you are beautiful as you
Just as I am me.
Grace Brenner '21
Pure Contrast
Rachel Staffier '21
The Girl on a Purple Bike
I found myself walking. Just walking around the neighborhood. The sights seemed so similar yet completely foreign all at once. I was lost. I couldn’t seem to remember why. The clouds above me cast an eerie shade of gray. The ominous promise of rain lay on the horizon. I frantically searched my pockets for my phone, hoping to get a sense of my location. It was missing. I grew flustered. So much so that as I was walking I somehow tripped on a rock or a crack on the road, causing me to fall flat face-down on the pavement and tear my jeans. A sharp pain rang throughout my body. My head was still spinning in dizziness. It took me a moment to regain clear vision. As I lifted myself off the ground, I saw a large gash on my right arm. Blood ran down past my elbow. Here I was, lost, injured, and left with no way to contact anyone. My panicked thoughts were startled by the sound of childish squeals. I slowly turned my head past my right shoulder to find a young girl riding around on a purple bike on a driveway in front of a small quaint white house tucked in amongst the others. From what I could see, the small bike was without stabilizers. The bike’s handles were festooned with white and pink streamer-strings. It gave off a blinding purple sheen as it raced around the asphalt. The girl was gleefully swerving her small princess bike in endless circles around a distracted teen, perhaps her sister or babysitter, texting on a Blackberry flip-phone; a device that I hadn’t seen since the early 2000s.
“Watch me! Watch me!” was all you could hear. The teen, looking slightly annoyed, peered up at me. She looked only a few years younger than myself.
“Can I help you with anything?”
I shook my head. I was too mesmerised by the little girl on her bike. Her untamed fiery curls beneath her glittery helmet flew all around her face like she was a wild mustang galloping across the barren plains. Her emerald eyes glistened. The little girl, who looked no older than five, rode her bike with such confidence - with no training wheels at all. I wished I knew how to do that by five. I wish I had that confidence the first time I went on a bike. Why, by the time I was seven I was still timidly clutching onto my bike for dear life, needing to have my mother constantly grab me lest I tropple over and need a trip to the emergency room, and even then I literally feared for my life the entire time. And I was seven!
“You sure about that? You have a really bad gash there,” said the teen pointing at my arm, interrupting my thoughts.
I shook my head once more. The girl hopped off her bike and did a cartwheel. Her stunt seemed to mock me. I was older than the teen on her phone, and yet I still couldn’t do a cartwheel to save my life. At age five or less, she could do a cartwheel like she was prepping for the Summer Olympics and I’m such a clumsy idiot that I cannot even walk on terra firma without half killing myself.
Then she went up to the teen and proudly declared, “When I grow up, I’m going to be an astronaut and explore the galaxy! I already know the planets of the solar system. I want to explore them all!”
“Oh I know!” the teen smiled, bending down to hold the girl’s hands.
The little girl in front of me expressed such balance and grace both on the bike and off. There was something about her, and it wasn’t just the fact that she could ride a bike well or could do a cartwheel. There was something else about her that made me envy her, despise her. Her plucky little arrogant confidence. Her obnoxious overbearing joy. Her ignorant belief that she could achieve such greatness that even the galaxy was within reach for her. Then I realized something. That little girl was me. She was me, yet not me. The me that could have been - who I wanted to be. She had my eyes, my hair, my passion. She reached out to me, grabbing at my gashed arm. I tried to hide my expressions, I didn’t want her to think poorly of me, knowing that I was her and all. To my surprise, however, the girl simply looked up at me.
“Reach for the stars” was all she said as she gently hugged my wounded arm.
The next minute, I found myself lying awake in my room, frantically looking to check the time, fearing I had overslept. The awful gash on my arm was gone. On the dresser was my phone, a modern iPhone, where it was there all along. Beside it was an aged photo - a photo of a girl on a purple bike.
“Watch me! Watch me!” was all you could hear. The teen, looking slightly annoyed, peered up at me. She looked only a few years younger than myself.
“Can I help you with anything?”
I shook my head. I was too mesmerised by the little girl on her bike. Her untamed fiery curls beneath her glittery helmet flew all around her face like she was a wild mustang galloping across the barren plains. Her emerald eyes glistened. The little girl, who looked no older than five, rode her bike with such confidence - with no training wheels at all. I wished I knew how to do that by five. I wish I had that confidence the first time I went on a bike. Why, by the time I was seven I was still timidly clutching onto my bike for dear life, needing to have my mother constantly grab me lest I tropple over and need a trip to the emergency room, and even then I literally feared for my life the entire time. And I was seven!
“You sure about that? You have a really bad gash there,” said the teen pointing at my arm, interrupting my thoughts.
I shook my head once more. The girl hopped off her bike and did a cartwheel. Her stunt seemed to mock me. I was older than the teen on her phone, and yet I still couldn’t do a cartwheel to save my life. At age five or less, she could do a cartwheel like she was prepping for the Summer Olympics and I’m such a clumsy idiot that I cannot even walk on terra firma without half killing myself.
Then she went up to the teen and proudly declared, “When I grow up, I’m going to be an astronaut and explore the galaxy! I already know the planets of the solar system. I want to explore them all!”
“Oh I know!” the teen smiled, bending down to hold the girl’s hands.
The little girl in front of me expressed such balance and grace both on the bike and off. There was something about her, and it wasn’t just the fact that she could ride a bike well or could do a cartwheel. There was something else about her that made me envy her, despise her. Her plucky little arrogant confidence. Her obnoxious overbearing joy. Her ignorant belief that she could achieve such greatness that even the galaxy was within reach for her. Then I realized something. That little girl was me. She was me, yet not me. The me that could have been - who I wanted to be. She had my eyes, my hair, my passion. She reached out to me, grabbing at my gashed arm. I tried to hide my expressions, I didn’t want her to think poorly of me, knowing that I was her and all. To my surprise, however, the girl simply looked up at me.
“Reach for the stars” was all she said as she gently hugged my wounded arm.
The next minute, I found myself lying awake in my room, frantically looking to check the time, fearing I had overslept. The awful gash on my arm was gone. On the dresser was my phone, a modern iPhone, where it was there all along. Beside it was an aged photo - a photo of a girl on a purple bike.
Allison Powell '20
Where Fire Meets the Light
We find ourselves amidst the Glory
Of a wise man’s dream and fight-
A place where clouds of dark misfortune
Are overcome with Light.
We meet a man whose history
Of pain has taught him well-
That fighting evil with more evil
Sends cracks down Liberty’s Bell.
We find ourselves amidst the Thunder
Of a strong man’s dream and plight-
A place where storms of Purple Fire
Threaten to ignite.
We meet a man whose history
Of bloodshed over bliss
Has left him tethered to the ties
Of Injustice’s Abyss.
One man seeks to Unify,
The other to Divide-
With motives to assemble peace
And motives to collide.
Oftentimes we ask ourselves
Which answer here is right?
Do we strike a match to our oppression-
Or do we drive it out with light?
As divergent as they seem in nature,
That Sparkle and the Flame-
They stem from roots and depths of dreams
That are, in part, the same.
Both men walk this Troubled Earth
To challenge what they know-
To liberate their Friend of Freedom
And break its Fragile Foe.
I hope, now, that you’ll listen
With Wonder, have you might-
To the truths and forces of Our Past
That tell us why we fight.
I hope, now, that you too will Dream
Of a place not far from sight-
A place that justice calls its home,
Where fire meets the light.
Of a wise man’s dream and fight-
A place where clouds of dark misfortune
Are overcome with Light.
We meet a man whose history
Of pain has taught him well-
That fighting evil with more evil
Sends cracks down Liberty’s Bell.
We find ourselves amidst the Thunder
Of a strong man’s dream and plight-
A place where storms of Purple Fire
Threaten to ignite.
We meet a man whose history
Of bloodshed over bliss
Has left him tethered to the ties
Of Injustice’s Abyss.
One man seeks to Unify,
The other to Divide-
With motives to assemble peace
And motives to collide.
Oftentimes we ask ourselves
Which answer here is right?
Do we strike a match to our oppression-
Or do we drive it out with light?
As divergent as they seem in nature,
That Sparkle and the Flame-
They stem from roots and depths of dreams
That are, in part, the same.
Both men walk this Troubled Earth
To challenge what they know-
To liberate their Friend of Freedom
And break its Fragile Foe.
I hope, now, that you’ll listen
With Wonder, have you might-
To the truths and forces of Our Past
That tell us why we fight.
I hope, now, that you too will Dream
Of a place not far from sight-
A place that justice calls its home,
Where fire meets the light.
Grace Brenner '21