Volume 8 Issue 1
Editors: Madeleine C, Jelena C, Ari H, Miles M, Kelsey P, Saturn T, Olivia T, Zina P, Maya P
Congregation – Hinke Y ’23
What I Remember – Madeleine C ’25
White cappuccino froth on your lip
White sunscreen
White mirrors in your castle
My castle has only windows with no glass
for sun and shadows.
You say,
there are more shadows with reflections.
I say true shadows only come from the sun.
I forget if you are right
It is only a minor re-write to
the play of This Life.
I rehearsed my lines for so long and
now I sit here after,
forgetting
But I remember the costumes.
The grand ones, The ones made of rags
from Itamar’s closet,
How you looked so pretty in all of them.
One time someone asked me and I said
The end of Heaven.
That is how he looks.
Like the end of Heaven.
The Descent of Grumplesnork – Sam C ’24
A Portrait of Her Room – Zoë S ’24
Often times you will
find the floor buried
under the clutter of
clothes, which she quite often
throws around.
The sheets
to her bed are
wrinkled and crinkled.
She spends most of her nights
tossing them aside,
wishing that time
would speed up.
Crumpled quotes cover
the white-walls.
Tiny motivations that
she easily breaks down
into silly blank pages when
a certain feeling rages.
In fact you may find
her whole room
carries the weight
of those same feelings.
Fleeting as they are,
the room still bears the scars.
Tattered pages,
to torn up Polaroids.
Cracked glasses,
to a snapped cactus.
Fraying sweatshirts,
to accessories strewn in the corner
that simply “won’t work.”
Door always shut,
She spends her days
in a cell handmade,
for oneself.
Locking the exits, then
throwing the key into her self-made abyss.
Excerpt from a short story in progress – Maya P ’23
My toes are cold, so I go out onto the back patio where the stones have been eating up the sunlight all morning. They spit it back up under my feet, and I look at the sky because it’s the thing my mother looks at most and I want to know why. A warm breeze slides through my hair and swishes the trees in the backyard, and the blue sky hollows me out. I don’t know why my mother looks at it so much. If I give it anything more than a passing glance, it starts making me feel things I don’t expect. I don’t really like it, but then I feel guilty. It’s beautiful—why don’t I make room to feel the beauty of the sky? It’s what it deserves. Maybe my mother does like it. Maybe she’s addicted to it, to the guilt of not wanting to feel or else to the act of surrendering to the inexplicable gutting feeling of the sky, her version of cigarettes or bad television or the other things people stick inside the place where love is supposed to go. I don’t know what mine is, but right now I wish I did. This little emptiness I’m carrying around is getting heavy.
The Eye – Zina P ’25
Ms. Angelou – Eavan B ’25
Strong Woman
Strong Voice
Did not detract from her battles
But faced them in stride
And shared with the people the knowledge of time
More than 50 degrees, gifted by people in awe
People who had never met her
But have through her, seen what she saw
A beautiful woman
A maker of change
Stood up for the people that needed a name
One lovely lady
Whose work spans the passage of time
From tales of her childhood
To poems, beautiful, strong; Poems that show, still she climbs
So rise up fair lady
To the height of the stars
And see all the people you have touched near and far
A beautiful person
A cage broken through
A model to all
Who sees all you still do.
Distant Frontier – Sam P ’25
The Hands of Eurydice – Madeleine C ’25
I always share the day’s glistening discoveries with
no one at all.
I chose this life.
because I went to a concert and
realized I could never be loved by
anything here.
and maybe that’s my fault,
but I wouldn’t take it back
I am unfeeling says my sister,
But I am not.
Believe me.
you – whose name I still forget.
You.
The god of real mercy.
And all the things I love-
those are for you.
Orpheus and I,
the dead we know.
Above all, do not plant me in your heart
Warns Eurydice, our shadow.
But you, whose face is full of portraits,
I do not listen.
Everyday I turn back.
I wish for blood and flowers in the street.
Sometimes, I look at my own hands and they are
wrinkled with age and I think,
We must have been happy.
Nevertheless,
I am aware I talk only to myself.
everyday I try again thinking
your curse of silence must have
been lifted.
On the way to the concert; a different one, earlier,
I am driving and my mother says, “this
is the alien way I would go if I was an alien”
I laugh and then think how sad and beautiful
life is here, as an alien
Untitled – Hinke Y ’23