Table of Contents
Troubled Waters
Madaket Rzepka '22
Untitled
Maya Serrano '23
Flight
Grace Brenner '21
Self-Doubt
Bobby Squires '22
The Witch's Apprentice
Katelyn Puglia '23
Unbroken
Grace Brenner '21
Wispy Darkness
Madaket Rzepka '22
A Hill to Die On
Abigail LeBovidge '23
Madaket Rzepka '22
Untitled
Maya Serrano '23
Flight
Grace Brenner '21
Self-Doubt
Bobby Squires '22
The Witch's Apprentice
Katelyn Puglia '23
Unbroken
Grace Brenner '21
Wispy Darkness
Madaket Rzepka '22
A Hill to Die On
Abigail LeBovidge '23
Blurred Lines
Grace Brenner '21
Through a Monochromatic Lens
Madaket Rzepka, '22
When They Met
Abigail LeBovidge '23
Reaching
Smritha Srinivasan '22
In Timeless Tears
Grace Brenner '21
Golden Times
Smritha Srinivasan '22
Grace Brenner '21
Through a Monochromatic Lens
Madaket Rzepka, '22
When They Met
Abigail LeBovidge '23
Reaching
Smritha Srinivasan '22
In Timeless Tears
Grace Brenner '21
Golden Times
Smritha Srinivasan '22
Troubled Waters
Piercing cold water smacks my face.
Salt seeps into my eyes.
Wrapped in the overwhelming depth’s icy embrace,
I choke on waves.
Whirled down to where sunlight cannot reach,
I fight the current with all my strength.
It is cold.
It is lonely.
All distractions disappear.
All feelings disappear.
It is the only place where I feel the truth.
About myself, about the world, about everything.
The unlimited bounds of my existence become clear,
As they thunder through my mind.
I begin to understand myself for the first time.
Time is running out.
I desperately swim to the surface,
Gasping for the breath of comfort that lies within the lies.
Madaket Rzepka '22
Salt seeps into my eyes.
Wrapped in the overwhelming depth’s icy embrace,
I choke on waves.
Whirled down to where sunlight cannot reach,
I fight the current with all my strength.
It is cold.
It is lonely.
All distractions disappear.
All feelings disappear.
It is the only place where I feel the truth.
About myself, about the world, about everything.
The unlimited bounds of my existence become clear,
As they thunder through my mind.
I begin to understand myself for the first time.
Time is running out.
I desperately swim to the surface,
Gasping for the breath of comfort that lies within the lies.
Madaket Rzepka '22
Untitled
Maya Serrano '23
Flight
For years we’ve soared above the clouds
In diamonds, grey and blue
For years I’ve known and loved myself
For who I am with you
We’ve shared our dreams on starry nights
We’ve found our way, care free--
And all I know is that your light
Brings out the best in me.
For years we’ve gazed on galaxies
We’ve stumbled through the dark
Upon world beneath our feet,
We’ve surely made our mark
I’ve found my heart on mountain tops
In an ember moon, my soul--
Without the comfort of your glow,
How could I be whole?
The time has come for newer things
And stories, I believe-
The time has come for newer chapters
Of all I might achieve
But I’m scared to fall from clouds and thoughts
Without your guiding hand,
I’m not sure where my life is going
I don’t know where I’ll land
For years we’ve soared above the clouds
It’s all I really know--
With memories to light the sky
And worries far below--
I never thought I’d have to say
I love you and goodbye,
But when I think of years to come
I know my reasons why.
So whether you’re on Jupiter,
Or craters of the moon
I know we’ll meet again somewhere,
I know I’ll see you soon.
I'm scared to leave all that I am
But ready, now, to grow--
So I will hold you in our flight
Until
it’s time
to go.
Grace Brenner '21
In diamonds, grey and blue
For years I’ve known and loved myself
For who I am with you
We’ve shared our dreams on starry nights
We’ve found our way, care free--
And all I know is that your light
Brings out the best in me.
For years we’ve gazed on galaxies
We’ve stumbled through the dark
Upon world beneath our feet,
We’ve surely made our mark
I’ve found my heart on mountain tops
In an ember moon, my soul--
Without the comfort of your glow,
How could I be whole?
The time has come for newer things
And stories, I believe-
The time has come for newer chapters
Of all I might achieve
But I’m scared to fall from clouds and thoughts
Without your guiding hand,
I’m not sure where my life is going
I don’t know where I’ll land
For years we’ve soared above the clouds
It’s all I really know--
With memories to light the sky
And worries far below--
I never thought I’d have to say
I love you and goodbye,
But when I think of years to come
I know my reasons why.
So whether you’re on Jupiter,
Or craters of the moon
I know we’ll meet again somewhere,
I know I’ll see you soon.
I'm scared to leave all that I am
But ready, now, to grow--
So I will hold you in our flight
Until
it’s time
to go.
Grace Brenner '21
Self-Doubt
Your ship’s gone adrift as a wandering child
steered by wet whims and desire
The storms are arriving, they’re unsure yet wild
They’ll captain your vessel by ire
A ship without its agency
Is just wood gone adrift
Your ship is driftwood plain to see
Resolve made as makeshift
I turn the wheel without hesitation
The crew is content to obey
Mind’s eye affixed on the destination
The ship is steady on its way
Bobby Squires '22
steered by wet whims and desire
The storms are arriving, they’re unsure yet wild
They’ll captain your vessel by ire
A ship without its agency
Is just wood gone adrift
Your ship is driftwood plain to see
Resolve made as makeshift
I turn the wheel without hesitation
The crew is content to obey
Mind’s eye affixed on the destination
The ship is steady on its way
Bobby Squires '22
The Witch's Apprentice
"Are you lost?"
The little boy and girl looked up with a start at the stranger who had spoken. They had not noticed her, for they had been too caught up in bickering over which paths to take. They were silent now, however, as they peered up at the girl who stood before them.
In the ever-fading light of the evening, they could see that she was much older and taller than both of them, with hair falling in ink-dark curls around her face. They could see, too, that she wore a cloak made of red fur, which trailed in the dust behind her. Whatever creature the fur had come from, thought the little boy and girl, must have been enormous. They each nodded their heads very quickly, unable to find their voices.
Finally, the little girl piped up. "Our father sent us away, and we were trying to follow a trail of breadcrumbs back home," she said, her voice as small as the squeak of a rat, "but something scary ate them up, a-and we don’t want to be in the woods after dark!”
"I'll bring you to my grandmother's house," said the girl in the red cloak. Even though she was a stranger, the sureness of her voice comforted the children. "You will be safe there, and I can help you find your way back home once the sun has risen. You can call me Rowan, by the way."
The little boy and girl looked to one another. Their father had always told them never to talk to strangers. Still, the last rays of the sun were turning orange and gold as they faded away in the distance, and the trees around them were becoming spindly shadows with branches like claws in the dark.
“We- we aren’t supposed to talk to strangers,” stammered the little girl.
“Well, little children aren’t supposed to be in the woods at night.”
“We’ll go with you,” said the little boy, finally finding his voice.
The girl glared at her brother in shock. “Hansel!--”
“I’m glad you’ve come to your decision,” said Rowan. “Now, we’d better get going before it gets too late.”
The little girl gripped her brother's hand tightly as they made their way through the winding forest trails, making sure to study Rowan for signs of untrustworthiness. Rowan walked with the confidence of someone who had been this way many times, holding a lantern before her to illuminate their path as the night sank its fangs into the day. She guided them around clusters of gnarled old trees and through clearings where fireflies floated peacefully in the cool air and the stars were beginning to glow on the indigo tapestry of the sky up above.
The little girl began to relax, but she did not let go of her brother's hand yet.
Suddenly, there was a noise from behind them. A rustling of leaves, a hungry low growl, and then silence.
Rowan spun around and shined her lantern where the sound had been, but there was only dust and dead leaves. Still, she peered into the darkness, moving her lantern around, trying to catch the creature that had made the noise. She moved with a fierceness and an anger that frightened the children.
It seemed as though monsters of this kind were an old enemy.
Suddenly, the little boy ran up to Rowan and tugged on her sleeve. In response, she took her eyes off the path for only a moment and listened intently.
"That's the thing that was eating our breadcrumbs," he said.
The snarl came again from another corner of the clearing. Rowan took something from her satchel-- it happened too quickly for the children to see what it was --and dashed toward its source, leaving the boy and girl alone in the dark.
Once more, they held each other's hands tightly, watching their protector’s small light dart among the shadows.
It was then that Rowan’s light fell upon a terrible beast. A wolf as big as a bear snarled at her in its malice, saliva dripping from its snow-white fangs. Its eyes were as silver as the moon and its fur was the color of blood.
The children shrieked, but Rowan's expression was stoic as ever. She held up the object she’d taken from the satchel before. In the lantern-light, the children could see now that it was a witch’s wand, right from the kinds of stories their father would tell them. It was carved from an old, twisted branch, studded with gemstones that had a dim supernatural glow.
The enchanting beauty of it made the children forget their fear entirely, if only for a moment.
She shouted some strange incantation, and a great shimmering blast of magic shot towards the beast. There was a flash of light, and the wolf let out a whimper as loud as its growl had been, falling to the ground with a powerful thud. It glared at her for a tense moment from its place on the forest floor, its red fur singed at the edges and its eyes filled with all the hatred and evil of the night. Still, she stood her ground, looking down at it with equal parts bravery and fury. Finally, it scrambled to its paws and retreated into the darkness from whence it had come.
Rowan returned the wand to its place in her satchel and ran to the children’s side. Her stoic facade dropping from her face, she embraced both of them, her eyes glittering with tears.
"Was that... magic?” the little boy asked with wonder in his eyes.
Rowan wiped her tears away, struggling to tame her sorrow. "You could call it that,” she said, “but don’t be too amazed. I am only an apprentice, and such power comes at a price.” Her tears began to fall again, and her face contorted in melancholy. “All things do.”
“Don’t cry, Rowan!” said the little boy.
She sniffled quietly as her last tears fell. Then, she breathed a deep sigh. “You’re right.” She stood back up, brushing the dirt from her fine red cloak. “There is no time for tears. Now hurry along, and we’ll be at our destination soon.”
They continued on their path through the woods. There were no more snarls or rustles of creatures in the bushes. There was no sound at all, except for their boots upon the soil and the hushed song of the wind that sent chills down the children’s spines.
After a moment, the little girl spoke. This time, her voice was calm and clear. "Where did you get it?” asked the little girl. “Where did you get the magic wand?”
Rowan was silent, stepping over a patch of thorny bushes and leading them around a bend. There, the children gasped in delight to see a house made of shimmering, sugary candies.
On the doorstep, a grinning old woman appeared, wrapped in a fur cloak so large and dark that it seemed to swallow her up. She smiled at Rowan with crooked teeth, but the girl refused to meet her gaze. Then, she looked to the children, who were too enthralled by the sight of the candy house to notice the evil hunger boiling in her eyes like a cauldron. In her wrinkled hands, there was a magic wand, crackling with power enough to defeat any wolf.
Though a grimace crossed Rowan’s face, the little boy and girl could hear her reply as clear and true as the fresh water of a forest creek: "From my grandmother, of course.”
Katelyn Puglia '23
The little boy and girl looked up with a start at the stranger who had spoken. They had not noticed her, for they had been too caught up in bickering over which paths to take. They were silent now, however, as they peered up at the girl who stood before them.
In the ever-fading light of the evening, they could see that she was much older and taller than both of them, with hair falling in ink-dark curls around her face. They could see, too, that she wore a cloak made of red fur, which trailed in the dust behind her. Whatever creature the fur had come from, thought the little boy and girl, must have been enormous. They each nodded their heads very quickly, unable to find their voices.
Finally, the little girl piped up. "Our father sent us away, and we were trying to follow a trail of breadcrumbs back home," she said, her voice as small as the squeak of a rat, "but something scary ate them up, a-and we don’t want to be in the woods after dark!”
"I'll bring you to my grandmother's house," said the girl in the red cloak. Even though she was a stranger, the sureness of her voice comforted the children. "You will be safe there, and I can help you find your way back home once the sun has risen. You can call me Rowan, by the way."
The little boy and girl looked to one another. Their father had always told them never to talk to strangers. Still, the last rays of the sun were turning orange and gold as they faded away in the distance, and the trees around them were becoming spindly shadows with branches like claws in the dark.
“We- we aren’t supposed to talk to strangers,” stammered the little girl.
“Well, little children aren’t supposed to be in the woods at night.”
“We’ll go with you,” said the little boy, finally finding his voice.
The girl glared at her brother in shock. “Hansel!--”
“I’m glad you’ve come to your decision,” said Rowan. “Now, we’d better get going before it gets too late.”
The little girl gripped her brother's hand tightly as they made their way through the winding forest trails, making sure to study Rowan for signs of untrustworthiness. Rowan walked with the confidence of someone who had been this way many times, holding a lantern before her to illuminate their path as the night sank its fangs into the day. She guided them around clusters of gnarled old trees and through clearings where fireflies floated peacefully in the cool air and the stars were beginning to glow on the indigo tapestry of the sky up above.
The little girl began to relax, but she did not let go of her brother's hand yet.
Suddenly, there was a noise from behind them. A rustling of leaves, a hungry low growl, and then silence.
Rowan spun around and shined her lantern where the sound had been, but there was only dust and dead leaves. Still, she peered into the darkness, moving her lantern around, trying to catch the creature that had made the noise. She moved with a fierceness and an anger that frightened the children.
It seemed as though monsters of this kind were an old enemy.
Suddenly, the little boy ran up to Rowan and tugged on her sleeve. In response, she took her eyes off the path for only a moment and listened intently.
"That's the thing that was eating our breadcrumbs," he said.
The snarl came again from another corner of the clearing. Rowan took something from her satchel-- it happened too quickly for the children to see what it was --and dashed toward its source, leaving the boy and girl alone in the dark.
Once more, they held each other's hands tightly, watching their protector’s small light dart among the shadows.
It was then that Rowan’s light fell upon a terrible beast. A wolf as big as a bear snarled at her in its malice, saliva dripping from its snow-white fangs. Its eyes were as silver as the moon and its fur was the color of blood.
The children shrieked, but Rowan's expression was stoic as ever. She held up the object she’d taken from the satchel before. In the lantern-light, the children could see now that it was a witch’s wand, right from the kinds of stories their father would tell them. It was carved from an old, twisted branch, studded with gemstones that had a dim supernatural glow.
The enchanting beauty of it made the children forget their fear entirely, if only for a moment.
She shouted some strange incantation, and a great shimmering blast of magic shot towards the beast. There was a flash of light, and the wolf let out a whimper as loud as its growl had been, falling to the ground with a powerful thud. It glared at her for a tense moment from its place on the forest floor, its red fur singed at the edges and its eyes filled with all the hatred and evil of the night. Still, she stood her ground, looking down at it with equal parts bravery and fury. Finally, it scrambled to its paws and retreated into the darkness from whence it had come.
Rowan returned the wand to its place in her satchel and ran to the children’s side. Her stoic facade dropping from her face, she embraced both of them, her eyes glittering with tears.
"Was that... magic?” the little boy asked with wonder in his eyes.
Rowan wiped her tears away, struggling to tame her sorrow. "You could call it that,” she said, “but don’t be too amazed. I am only an apprentice, and such power comes at a price.” Her tears began to fall again, and her face contorted in melancholy. “All things do.”
“Don’t cry, Rowan!” said the little boy.
She sniffled quietly as her last tears fell. Then, she breathed a deep sigh. “You’re right.” She stood back up, brushing the dirt from her fine red cloak. “There is no time for tears. Now hurry along, and we’ll be at our destination soon.”
They continued on their path through the woods. There were no more snarls or rustles of creatures in the bushes. There was no sound at all, except for their boots upon the soil and the hushed song of the wind that sent chills down the children’s spines.
After a moment, the little girl spoke. This time, her voice was calm and clear. "Where did you get it?” asked the little girl. “Where did you get the magic wand?”
Rowan was silent, stepping over a patch of thorny bushes and leading them around a bend. There, the children gasped in delight to see a house made of shimmering, sugary candies.
On the doorstep, a grinning old woman appeared, wrapped in a fur cloak so large and dark that it seemed to swallow her up. She smiled at Rowan with crooked teeth, but the girl refused to meet her gaze. Then, she looked to the children, who were too enthralled by the sight of the candy house to notice the evil hunger boiling in her eyes like a cauldron. In her wrinkled hands, there was a magic wand, crackling with power enough to defeat any wolf.
Though a grimace crossed Rowan’s face, the little boy and girl could hear her reply as clear and true as the fresh water of a forest creek: "From my grandmother, of course.”
Katelyn Puglia '23
Unbroken
you listen, you love
you never ask why
and your spirit, it soars
above the cloudless blue sky
your boundless heart
it’s so much kinder than ours
you’re a beautiful soul
that belongs to the stars
you taught me to trust
to fall and to fly
that it’s better to fail
as long as I try
I told you my fears
but you taught me to learn
I gave you my worries
for your wings in return
and without a word spoken,
you have made me Unbroken.
Grace Brenner '21
you never ask why
and your spirit, it soars
above the cloudless blue sky
your boundless heart
it’s so much kinder than ours
you’re a beautiful soul
that belongs to the stars
you taught me to trust
to fall and to fly
that it’s better to fail
as long as I try
I told you my fears
but you taught me to learn
I gave you my worries
for your wings in return
and without a word spoken,
you have made me Unbroken.
Grace Brenner '21
Wispy Darkness
Madaket Rzepka '22
A Hill to Die On
It’s not tall
er than Everest
‘s ribcage
It’s not green
er than circles of corn.
It’s not gold
er than wheat
When it cries in the breeze
To be melted
And turned into stone.
The flowers are weeds
From the garden.
It rolls fine
like her day
(not like silk).
The grass isn’t soft
er than satin
When she’s tired
And just wants to sit.
It is nothing between
The large hills to the sides.
It is nothing
To unfocused eyes.
The tiny golden buttercup
Is glowing in her mind.
In the curve of her gaze it enlarges
Grown to twice its size.
Her hair is like roots in the earth
Embracing the clovers of three.
She waits not for luck’s permission
To love the dirt-stained green.
Her arm falls like night on the hillside
Dragging her deeper to home.
Her blood plants orange dand’lions
In iron-strengthened loam.
Not tall
er
Nor green
er
Nor gold
er
Nor pretty.
No steps can be carved in its side.
But it is her hill and she loves it.
And by God, it is where she will die.
Abigail LeBovidge '23
er than Everest
‘s ribcage
It’s not green
er than circles of corn.
It’s not gold
er than wheat
When it cries in the breeze
To be melted
And turned into stone.
The flowers are weeds
From the garden.
It rolls fine
like her day
(not like silk).
The grass isn’t soft
er than satin
When she’s tired
And just wants to sit.
It is nothing between
The large hills to the sides.
It is nothing
To unfocused eyes.
The tiny golden buttercup
Is glowing in her mind.
In the curve of her gaze it enlarges
Grown to twice its size.
Her hair is like roots in the earth
Embracing the clovers of three.
She waits not for luck’s permission
To love the dirt-stained green.
Her arm falls like night on the hillside
Dragging her deeper to home.
Her blood plants orange dand’lions
In iron-strengthened loam.
Not tall
er
Nor green
er
Nor gold
er
Nor pretty.
No steps can be carved in its side.
But it is her hill and she loves it.
And by God, it is where she will die.
Abigail LeBovidge '23
Blurred Lines
Grace Brenner '21
Through a Monochromatic Lens
Madaket Rzepka '22
Golden Times
Smritha Srnivasan '22
In Timeless Tears
In Loving Memory and Honor of Supreme
Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
against the winds of purple fire
and those who said don’t try-
I love the way You chased Your stars
until they lit the sky.
amidst the sea of those who sat
and wondered if You would-
I love the way You rose above;
I love the way You stood.
a rose, You were, in Winter
blooming nonetheless-
before the crowds of suits and ties
You wore your scarlet dress.
I love the way You beat the odds
Your thorns, a gift of time-
I love the way your petals fell;
their beauty like a crime.
today the world feels much colder
our hearts a little lost-
today I miss the way your sparkle
always numbed the frost.
but today I’ve learned My Purpose
It’s clear, now, in my mind
that those who love conformity
are always left behind.
today I’ll make my Promise
to You, In Timeless Tears
today I’ll fight for all the justice
You defended in Your Years.
Tomorrow I will dust the Embers
From your Golden Crown-
And I will Stand, like You, Before
The Ones Who Say “Sit Down.”
Grace Brenner '21
Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
against the winds of purple fire
and those who said don’t try-
I love the way You chased Your stars
until they lit the sky.
amidst the sea of those who sat
and wondered if You would-
I love the way You rose above;
I love the way You stood.
a rose, You were, in Winter
blooming nonetheless-
before the crowds of suits and ties
You wore your scarlet dress.
I love the way You beat the odds
Your thorns, a gift of time-
I love the way your petals fell;
their beauty like a crime.
today the world feels much colder
our hearts a little lost-
today I miss the way your sparkle
always numbed the frost.
but today I’ve learned My Purpose
It’s clear, now, in my mind
that those who love conformity
are always left behind.
today I’ll make my Promise
to You, In Timeless Tears
today I’ll fight for all the justice
You defended in Your Years.
Tomorrow I will dust the Embers
From your Golden Crown-
And I will Stand, like You, Before
The Ones Who Say “Sit Down.”
Grace Brenner '21
Reaching
Smritha Srnivasan '22
When They Met
The first time they met, they were both toddlers. Alwyn, with their pale blue skin and tufted white hair, stumbled out to the edge of the forest, too young to know to stay away from the outside world. Caden, pudgy and pink with a mop of curls like straw in the sunlight, stumbled up the hill and into the trees when his mother was busy with housework and his father was working in the field. The chances of them meeting were but one in a million, but the universe loves coincidences, and fate is easily bored.
When they met they were toddlers, and they did not realize that their friendship was unique. Caden offered Alwyn the small wooden horse he gripped in his small hand, and Alwyn gave Caden a colorful doll from their pocket. Neither had seen the likes of the other’s toy, and they played for hours, laughing, each babbling in a language the other did not understand.
“Horse,” Caden said, pointing.
Alwyn shook their head. “Equus.”
They parted ways in a fever of glee and discovery.
✦✩✦✩✦
The second time they met, they were children. Alwyn had wandered off during play, and Caden had finished his chores early. They saw each other and remembered, remembered laughter and toys and a friend. There was a voice now, a warning from parents and a memory of anger, but they pushed it down. The universe smiled with them, and they met at the edge of the forest.
Caden showed Alwyn his pigskin ball, and they tossed it back and forth for hours.
“It’s called a ball,” said Caden.
“Ball,” repeated Alwyn. “Dictur a pila.”
“Pila,” repeated Caden.
The ball flew over Alwyn’s head, and they ran into the forest to fetch it.
Alwyn showed Caden to climb the trees and pick their fruit, and the two sat in the branches, faces covered in pink juice, as the midday sun shrunk their shadows.
They parted ways, glowing with joy and contentment.
✦✩✦✩✦
The third time they met, Caden was a teenager. He was taller, and his golden curls were cut close to his head. He had wandered towards the forest following the scent of rebellion and the hint of a memory. He carried no toy but his energy and his dreams for adventure.
The third time they met, Alwyn was a child. If time had passed for them, it was visible only in their straight white hair, which had lengthened from their ears to near their shoulders. They had snuck away from chores to play amongst the trees and birds, and had found themself in the same spot they had met Caden years before.
This time, they both knew that they should not be there. Whispers of fear and overheard fragments of conversations tainted the innocence of their friendship. Still, they could not let go of the memory of laughter, of a horse and a doll and a ball and some fruit. The universe guided them, and they stumbled together once more.
Caden had not climbed a tree since the last time he had seen Alwyn, but he was taller and stronger now, and climbed nearly as fast as they did. They sat, hidden by the leaves, cutting fruit with the knife Caden had tucked into his belt. They talked, sharing words, not caring whether they would be late for dinner.
They parted ways, holding on to a hope that no one else shared and that no one else could know about.
✦✩✦✩✦
The fourth time they met, Caden was a man. All day, he worked in the fields, and every night, he returned to his wife and his children. He was happy, but every time he looked to the forest, he could not forget. When his neighbors bought muskets- “To protect against the fey,” they said- he reluctantly bought one as well. He kept it in a chest, in the bottom of an unused dresser. Some nights he could not stand it, and he ventured to the edge of the forest to rest against the trees.
The fourth time they met, Alwyn was a child. They could not sleep and rose from their bed to explore the sleeping forest. They saw Caden leaning against a tree trunk, and they ran over. He smiled and followed them up a tree, where they lay amongst the leaves and watched the stars traverse the sky.
They would learn to read them one day, when they were grown, Alwyn told Caden, and he smiled, though he could not understand them.
They fell asleep under the eye of the moon. Caden woke before dawn and returned to the village, his mind peaceful, his heart heavy.
✦✩✦✩✦
The fifth time they met, Caden was old. His hair had lost its color, and his tanned face was etched with wrinkles from work and from laughter. He walked slowly to the edge of the forest and waited. He held a wooden horse, carved with a word.
The fifth time they met, Alwyn was a child. They ran to the edge of the forest, laughing and out of breath, as part of a game they were playing with themself. They saw Caden and ran over.
They pointed to the trees, eager to climb, but Caden shook his head. It had been too long, and he did not have the strength. Alwyn climbed up anyway, picked two fruits, and returned to the ground to sit with their friend. They pointed to Caden’s hair, holding their own up to it, exclaiming that they matched. Caden did not know their words, but he understood them. He laughed, and they laughed with him.
He held out the wooden horse he had brought with him. “Friend,” he read, and gestured between the two of them.
Alwyn blinked and grabbed the toy in awe. Then they reached into their pocket and pulled out another wooden horse- the one Caden had given them when they were both toddlers.
“Cultellus,” they said, holding out a small hand.
Caden gave them his carving knife, and they etched a word into the worn wood.
“Amica,” they read proudly, and pressed the small horse into Caden’s hand.
They parted ways, ignoring the world and the people who ruled it, listening instead to the voice of the universe.
✦✩✦✩✦
The seasons cycled once, then twice. Alwyn was deep in the forest, weaving branches into a crown, when a feeling of dread overcame them. Something is wrong, the universe whispered, and branches clacked together in foreboding agreement.
They ran to the edge of the forest, their bare feet pounding against the ground, their white hair flying out behind them. They scanned the tree line for Caden, but he was not there.
Below, the village loomed, empty of trees and distrustful of the likes of Alwyn. They hesitated, uncertain. They should not go. They should not even be this close.
Caden, whispered the universe, nudging Alwyn forward.
They ran.
The rocky dirt gave way to grass, and the grass gave way to a dusty dirt road. The street was lined with wooden cabins, and a few people milled about. One gasped, and yelled a word that Alwyn recognized.
“Fey!”
They ran faster, breath entering their lungs in burning gasps, panic clouding their head. The universe grabbed their hand and led them farther into the village. Open doors slammed shut as they passed. A few people stepped out of houses, holding long objects of wood and metal.
This way, the universe screamed through the rush of air in Alwyn’s ears as they ran. It led them to a house on their right, its door ajar.
One of the villagers holding a wood and metal object pointed it at Alwyn.
They were almost to the door.
A loud bang echoed off the houses, and Alwyn’s back burned. They looked down. There was red blooming across the front of their shirt. There was pain, pain everywhere, and dizziness. The door before them was still ajar.
✦✩✦✩✦
The last time they met, Alwyn was a child. They forced themself forward, one unsteady foot in front of the other, and pushed the door open to reveal a small room, dimly lit, with a bed in the middle.
The last time they met, Caden was an old man. His tired eyes lit up when he saw Alwyn, but his face fell when he saw their wound.
“Come here,” Caden said softly, and Alwyn crossed the room, collapsing to their knees beside his bed. He shifted himself to be closer to them, and they hugged him, their blood staining his sheets crimson.
They did not play, or climb trees, or trade toys. They did not eat fruit, or share words, or watch stars.
They parted ways, together.
Abigail LeBovidge '23
When they met they were toddlers, and they did not realize that their friendship was unique. Caden offered Alwyn the small wooden horse he gripped in his small hand, and Alwyn gave Caden a colorful doll from their pocket. Neither had seen the likes of the other’s toy, and they played for hours, laughing, each babbling in a language the other did not understand.
“Horse,” Caden said, pointing.
Alwyn shook their head. “Equus.”
They parted ways in a fever of glee and discovery.
✦✩✦✩✦
The second time they met, they were children. Alwyn had wandered off during play, and Caden had finished his chores early. They saw each other and remembered, remembered laughter and toys and a friend. There was a voice now, a warning from parents and a memory of anger, but they pushed it down. The universe smiled with them, and they met at the edge of the forest.
Caden showed Alwyn his pigskin ball, and they tossed it back and forth for hours.
“It’s called a ball,” said Caden.
“Ball,” repeated Alwyn. “Dictur a pila.”
“Pila,” repeated Caden.
The ball flew over Alwyn’s head, and they ran into the forest to fetch it.
Alwyn showed Caden to climb the trees and pick their fruit, and the two sat in the branches, faces covered in pink juice, as the midday sun shrunk their shadows.
They parted ways, glowing with joy and contentment.
✦✩✦✩✦
The third time they met, Caden was a teenager. He was taller, and his golden curls were cut close to his head. He had wandered towards the forest following the scent of rebellion and the hint of a memory. He carried no toy but his energy and his dreams for adventure.
The third time they met, Alwyn was a child. If time had passed for them, it was visible only in their straight white hair, which had lengthened from their ears to near their shoulders. They had snuck away from chores to play amongst the trees and birds, and had found themself in the same spot they had met Caden years before.
This time, they both knew that they should not be there. Whispers of fear and overheard fragments of conversations tainted the innocence of their friendship. Still, they could not let go of the memory of laughter, of a horse and a doll and a ball and some fruit. The universe guided them, and they stumbled together once more.
Caden had not climbed a tree since the last time he had seen Alwyn, but he was taller and stronger now, and climbed nearly as fast as they did. They sat, hidden by the leaves, cutting fruit with the knife Caden had tucked into his belt. They talked, sharing words, not caring whether they would be late for dinner.
They parted ways, holding on to a hope that no one else shared and that no one else could know about.
✦✩✦✩✦
The fourth time they met, Caden was a man. All day, he worked in the fields, and every night, he returned to his wife and his children. He was happy, but every time he looked to the forest, he could not forget. When his neighbors bought muskets- “To protect against the fey,” they said- he reluctantly bought one as well. He kept it in a chest, in the bottom of an unused dresser. Some nights he could not stand it, and he ventured to the edge of the forest to rest against the trees.
The fourth time they met, Alwyn was a child. They could not sleep and rose from their bed to explore the sleeping forest. They saw Caden leaning against a tree trunk, and they ran over. He smiled and followed them up a tree, where they lay amongst the leaves and watched the stars traverse the sky.
They would learn to read them one day, when they were grown, Alwyn told Caden, and he smiled, though he could not understand them.
They fell asleep under the eye of the moon. Caden woke before dawn and returned to the village, his mind peaceful, his heart heavy.
✦✩✦✩✦
The fifth time they met, Caden was old. His hair had lost its color, and his tanned face was etched with wrinkles from work and from laughter. He walked slowly to the edge of the forest and waited. He held a wooden horse, carved with a word.
The fifth time they met, Alwyn was a child. They ran to the edge of the forest, laughing and out of breath, as part of a game they were playing with themself. They saw Caden and ran over.
They pointed to the trees, eager to climb, but Caden shook his head. It had been too long, and he did not have the strength. Alwyn climbed up anyway, picked two fruits, and returned to the ground to sit with their friend. They pointed to Caden’s hair, holding their own up to it, exclaiming that they matched. Caden did not know their words, but he understood them. He laughed, and they laughed with him.
He held out the wooden horse he had brought with him. “Friend,” he read, and gestured between the two of them.
Alwyn blinked and grabbed the toy in awe. Then they reached into their pocket and pulled out another wooden horse- the one Caden had given them when they were both toddlers.
“Cultellus,” they said, holding out a small hand.
Caden gave them his carving knife, and they etched a word into the worn wood.
“Amica,” they read proudly, and pressed the small horse into Caden’s hand.
They parted ways, ignoring the world and the people who ruled it, listening instead to the voice of the universe.
✦✩✦✩✦
The seasons cycled once, then twice. Alwyn was deep in the forest, weaving branches into a crown, when a feeling of dread overcame them. Something is wrong, the universe whispered, and branches clacked together in foreboding agreement.
They ran to the edge of the forest, their bare feet pounding against the ground, their white hair flying out behind them. They scanned the tree line for Caden, but he was not there.
Below, the village loomed, empty of trees and distrustful of the likes of Alwyn. They hesitated, uncertain. They should not go. They should not even be this close.
Caden, whispered the universe, nudging Alwyn forward.
They ran.
The rocky dirt gave way to grass, and the grass gave way to a dusty dirt road. The street was lined with wooden cabins, and a few people milled about. One gasped, and yelled a word that Alwyn recognized.
“Fey!”
They ran faster, breath entering their lungs in burning gasps, panic clouding their head. The universe grabbed their hand and led them farther into the village. Open doors slammed shut as they passed. A few people stepped out of houses, holding long objects of wood and metal.
This way, the universe screamed through the rush of air in Alwyn’s ears as they ran. It led them to a house on their right, its door ajar.
One of the villagers holding a wood and metal object pointed it at Alwyn.
They were almost to the door.
A loud bang echoed off the houses, and Alwyn’s back burned. They looked down. There was red blooming across the front of their shirt. There was pain, pain everywhere, and dizziness. The door before them was still ajar.
✦✩✦✩✦
The last time they met, Alwyn was a child. They forced themself forward, one unsteady foot in front of the other, and pushed the door open to reveal a small room, dimly lit, with a bed in the middle.
The last time they met, Caden was an old man. His tired eyes lit up when he saw Alwyn, but his face fell when he saw their wound.
“Come here,” Caden said softly, and Alwyn crossed the room, collapsing to their knees beside his bed. He shifted himself to be closer to them, and they hugged him, their blood staining his sheets crimson.
They did not play, or climb trees, or trade toys. They did not eat fruit, or share words, or watch stars.
They parted ways, together.
Abigail LeBovidge '23