The Rough Draft

Table of Contents

Ode to the Department of Education

My Dead American Girl

Sleep’s Sweet Abyss of Nothing

Sukaia Valley

Ukiyo

Getting a Call

Dementia: Ballad of the Breaking Mind

The Tail (Tale) of Fury of the Furry Tyrant

and Darkness Surrounded by Nothing

Claire Wu

Claire Wu Claire Wu Olivia Phelps

Coates

Chugh

Jacobsen

Brewzcak

Ilaria

Nguyen

Chen

Weed

Miller Nicky Ilaria Nicky Ilaria Ryan Choi

Phelps

Award Winners

Winner of the Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize

If a Doll Screams Inside Her Doll House Does She Make a Sound?

Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Prize for Prose

If It’s a Triple Dog Dare

Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Prize for Poetry

Juliet and Thisbe

Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize for Poetry

These Homecoming Rituals

Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize for Poetry

Dementia: Ballad of the Breaking Mind

Letter from the Editor

Dear Reader,

The creation of this year’s edition of The Rough Draft has been just like any other, yet we have developed the purpose behind the process. In past years, we have always approached this publication with previous feedback at the forefront of our minds. While this pushes us to strive for constant improvement, it also removes some creative control from the hands of our fantastic team. This year, we moved away from that frame of mind.

This year, our creative process lacked the sort of structure that set boundaries. Since the beginning, we were never beholden to a particular theme. We sought to allow the voices of the students who submitted to determine the direction of the work. This more adaptable and relaxed approach allowed us to execute a greater measure of creative freedom over the production of this work and the choices it involved and make the choices that we wanted to. While this year’s cover captures both the simplicity and simultaneous depth of this edition, it was chosen first and foremost because everyone thought it looked cool. The visual design team was allowed to utilize color and control the design without restriction. Decisions were made to spark joy, which I believe to be the big “why” behind what we do.

Our wonderful team of passionate people has worked together over this past year to produce an anthology of the Flint Hill community’s very best of the best writing, art, photography, and design work that we can. We hope that reading this year’s edition of The Rough Draft can offer you even a morsel of the joy that we felt while creating it.

Communion

Camilla Perrelli

Judas gutted Jesus as he hung on the cross

And as wine spilled out through his fingers

Staining like a child’s fingers as they squeeze a rose petal

An autopsy uncovering nothing but meat and love and guilt

He fears that the perfect man is just that

The cheek once kissed has lost its color

And the traitor curls into himself limply like in the womb

He wonders, was Mary scared?

Did she stand before the man in fear of the love she holds

Just as Judas does?

Lord, I think that love is human

One day, someone will uncover these bones

The blade used for the crime

And they will gently brush them and care for them

History cradled in calloused hands

Soul inflamed by discovery

Nursing reality and life under the beating sun

Lord, I think that love is divine

Promise, Reflection

What births civility from the cradle of stars,

And drives humanity through the bounds of stagnation?

As unsullied marble upheld archaic veneration

Do stifling monoliths of smoke, ours:

That sprawl across impenetrable skies

As if to turn away His ‘watchful eyes’

For is this not our promised entitlement:

Dominion over the oiled rivers and adulterated seas; Carpeted skies of the foul air and smothered trees.

Does He grin as burdened waters churn?

Or do we laugh in the face of Inevitability,

Asking Time concede and bend the knee,

Watching idly the forests’ fall; the coals’ burn?

Will we be cleansed by the fire, or retch in its smoke--

As we embrace the very words He spoke?

FROM SCALE

Amber Li

Split the universe and you’ll find galaxies, split the galaxies and you’ll find the Milky Way, split the Milky Way and you’ll find the solar system, our solar system. Look closely and you’ll find the Earth, this Earth. Look closer and there’s water and land and shore. Tear the beach open and you’ll find tiny grains of sand, dig through the soil and you’ll find roots intertwining with each other across ecosystems, take apart these ecosystems and there’s a web of flora and fauna, predator and prey, delicate partnerships, organisms living in fragile balance, Cut the stems open, and there’s the water. Examine the innards, you’ll see sunlight becoming sugar, maybe rocks to get ore, split fruits apart to take seeds, plant them down

the stem will be picked by a girl

Picking flowers—split the girl open and you’ll find lung and heart, muscle and nerve, a brain wired to see color–those lilies were white, weren’t they?--and learn Names– snowdrop, rue-anemone, queen-anne’s-lace and lily-of-the-valley—her favorite—and send the signal back and forthlong the neurons of her mind so that she can pick from this field of thousands—her fingers light, skin cells falling—split one of us open and there’s grief and love and sadness and hope, all the pain and joy

sentience ever gave us. Split it open, rearrange the gears—split

rocks to get ore, split fruits apart to take seeds, plant them down to harvest more and more, split space into quadrants, animals into parts, peer into the dark sea, there are things we weren’t supposed to see. The blue whale cruising, split it. See the blood spilling over the shore, guts that once supported a microbiome of its own, blubber that we burn for lamps, the fatty stuff—is it pain, or grief? Love? Greed?— sustained by— you would not believe it— the smallest things in the ocean— krill

smaller than a fingertip, smaller than the whale’s eyes as it spies, its jaw split open in a colossal, magnificent gulp, splitting, grinding down its body from scale to wiggling leg, from organ to tissue, Olivia Phelps

tissue to cell, cell to organelle that floats in a soup of jelly and membrane, made up of molecules, of push and shove, of waves against a rocky shore, of eat and be eaten, swarm and swallow, of chemical action and reaction, all flushed down a gargantuan throat, mother of voices—can you hear the singing?—all of it, down to the atoms whose neutrons and protons move like Earth around the sun, sun around the center of the Milky Way, the Milky Way around something else, somewhere else, someplace you would not believe, split the atom, just one more half, a city razed, a body, then ash.

Little Empty Wells

On the bathroom floor I curse and praise your name, howling with the neighborhood dogs cracking glass and darkening streets as the Arctic sea multiplies within me. Trembling hands clench r e l e a s e clench r e l e a s e around your phantom knuckles, held between my bruisers of bone, and splash–knock the small glass of cloudy water over on the floor. In the wet glass sheet on the tiles the little dark pools of my eyes s i w m with the ripples made by your absence, your specter, my screams, and my tears falling from my little wells. empty

Mountain Poetry

The sun rises over the American North-East after the wailing thunder of a pounding summer-night rain. Dew rests on blades of cool grass, and thick, misty fog swells from the ground up into the treetops. Her hunger for revenge exhausted, the forest heaves a great sigh, and her breath rustles the hair of early risers in a swirling attempt at reconciliation. On a small, elderly mountain in Massachusetts, a cluster of square buildings, tall libraries, and tired eyes rests in the only clearing for miles, like a furious blemish on the face of the mountain.

In the parking lot of the blemish, the forest fights for dominance, weeds bursting through cracks in the gray pavement. The curbed edge of the asphalt is a line finer than an infant’s hair. A few yards deeper into the wood, there is a wide circle of mushrooms and fallen leaves. They sprout, victorious, from soil fertile and moist from rain and river spray. The wide brook gurgles and shudders east across the campus, passing under three bridges, one newly scarred and broken, toppled by the thunderous fury of the wounded Earth. It slithers around classrooms and dormitories, reaches its naiad fingers towards the dining hall, which stands buzzing with moist heat, black wasps, and the stench of frying oil.

In the brutalist lecture halls, the writing students and the professors gather, quiet, thinking, the plainess broken by the trickle of the nearby stream. Once the walls and old black chalkboards are covered in prose, they take vacations to the library, where one tree grows triumphant in the center of the room, and stacks of archaic books gather dust that seems to glitter, the ripeness enticing.

When walking from one end of campus to another, they pass by the music hall. Rich vibrato echoes through the chapel and out the colorful windows, serenading them as they hike up gravelly hills. The opera students are not ignorant to the monotony of their steps; to them, every noise, every cricket’s buzz, every bird’s chirp, every patter of rain or rush of river water is the mountain’s metronome. They let it guide their undisturbed melody and sing the song of the Earth.

This is not to say the writers’ role on this mountain is less precious than that of the melodious, or that they have abandoned the Mother for bricks and paper and French documentaries. When the sun decides it is bored with beating down relentlessly on the poet, falling into a dream-filled sleep below the horizon, she will emerge from her stuffy dorm room, step into the evening chill, and finally understand all that lies before her. It’s dinnertime; the noises of metal silverware and hard plastic plates clang in the dining hall as she ducks under the shade of a dormitory building, then charges, her feet quiet as bubbles grazing the grass, into the forest.

There is a rock in a clearing, smoothed by time and the bottoms of generations of storytellers. The moon tentatively emerges from the clouds, shining pale light on the wide stone. She walks past it, feather-like fingers grazing the mineral, then down to the bed where the stream becomes a river, and lays her body on the cool earth. The mountain whispers wisdom of eras past into the poet’s ear, though to anyone else it is merely the soothing tone of a churning brook. The Earth’s reverent scribe, she puts pen to starlit paper and scrawls the mountain poetry.

romantic

“Isn’t it romantic how your book is loved?”

“No. It’s just a book.”

Hold it up to the light, where you see webbed creases dragging through the cover. The author’s name printed in Austin Medium, bold white, stretching across both top and bottom. This author won’t know it’s your favorite thing to read. They will go their whole life without knowing.

Open it up, and feel your eyes run down the first page. Cracked at its edges, corners worn into a tired cream yellow. It rustles like a wet leaf, the paper thin and slightly translucent under the pink of your fingertips. That familiar stain, spilled back before you quit coffee. Hold it up to your nose, but the bitter smell is long gone. Replacing it is the tartness of wood and smoke. It’s a lovely smell. It reminds you of an earthy candle.

You part the pages with a thumb and flip to the very last chapter. It’s your favorite. Remember how it reached to squeeze at your heart the day you first read it, under the harsh light of your tableside lamp. Remember your feet pressed into your thighs, the book sitting on your lap as you pored over it with wide eyes. A knot of remembrance forms in your chest, and it’s a memory elicited from the words of a page, a shadow of an old emotion. It feels like a hug from an old friend, just as cliché as it sounds. Sit very still now, the book on the floor and by your knee. Let the old emotion’s shadow reach over you before picking yourself up and putting the book back on its shelf.

Turn, and watch the book tucked into place. It’s nestled comfortably.

“Isn’t it romantic how the last line of a book can make you feel?”

“Romantic how?”

“Fluttery. Think about it. You’re not even supposed to reason with feelings. Just feel.”

“Right.”

Calming our stresses, as curiosities wondering about the life below

Serene, surge, mesmerizing, their arms rising and falling, with a shimmering allure, they beckon and tease, their beauty captivating, a symphony on the seas. In their rhythmic dance, they hold secrets untold, a serene spectacle, appealing to all young and old in this vast sea, they ebb and flow

The Dance of the Ocean

Sunday Morning on a Fisherman’s Dock

Throw the windows open to a bustling morning young fishers weave through a cobblestone trail flash smiles so effortlessly charming as they transport fresh halibut and yellowtail.

Birds sing on the sills as you enjoy the hot air the morning sun carried through a breeze its fingers comb your tangled hair laden with the scent of cold salty seas.

Your shallow breath releases into the sunrise melting into goldened clouds luminescent in pinky skies waves reach out desperately for the skyline a jaded sea foam scar as pale as white wine.

The Assault of the Bitter Orange

Grin up at the scorching sun, it burns Your pale skin through the scarred hymen

Of the virgin ozone layer. In your memories, Mama says, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade!”

So savor the faux heat, cook a pale egg on the scorched Sidewalk. Flavor it with soy, imported. Soy here doesn’t taste

Right. A picky eater from age five. Age five, Read a book about farming tactics and “GMOs.”

Age fifteen, try to read it again, but your eyes Burn, burn! From the smoke. Breathe in vaporized cigarette.

Close the window that lets in the summer breeze. Read the book and remember, lemons are an invention,

A child of expert breeding of the citron and bitter Orange. In your memories, you say, “Mama,

Life never gave us lemons. We made those Ourselves.”

The White Crow

Amber Li

Snow feathers,

They mocked him. Blank as blind eyes, bleached coral, seafoam, dead and beat on the shore, just as dead as your skeleton, they said as they pulled his eyes out of their Sockets, the optical nerve, stretching, snap.

Descending like a swirl of ash, a Swarm of ants, a dance of death, a waltz of murder black and black Feathers and feathers spinning everywhere, croaking and creaking and Cawing, ebony beaks tearing into snow feathers, white.

You are a black swan, they cried, venom dripping from their eyes, frost from their nostrils,

You are the arctic fox hung in red fox jaws. The eclipse of the sun, The infected and the insane, As they plucked him bare.

White feathers soon filled the air

Like stuffing from a plush

First the intestines came out, then muscle

Chords, more flesh, wet globs in Every shade of red: crimson, ruby, cerise and strawberry

Spilling and spraying, spurting,

A surgery

Not meant to save a life.

Soon the feathers settled like snowfall

Among soot. He lay there, on a field of white

In a perfect puddle of red. He was just

The wrong color, how could he ever fathom

The reason for this?

The winter came and the blood froze, crystallizing

Across his heart. The flock watched him from afar with beady eyes, quiet with judgment, brimming with

Rejection. Yet something in him still beat: a pounding,

A sticky, tar-like darkness, a void

Blacker than any of their feathers, and it burned.

He leaned into the darkness, let it stain him

Inside and out. It embraced him, clinging

To his down, seeping into his insides, opened up

To let it in (kill them, kill them, kill them)

It singed, stung, stabbed, consumed

Him, until he opened his beak

And screamed

And screamed

And screamed

Ejecting and ejecting and ejecting,

Until he filled the whole world

With black.

Two Men in a Snowy Wood

Two men struggle through a snowy wood, names inessential. One is bound by the other, the binder standing behind, the bound-man’s hands in front. The bound-man is silent as the binding-man shoves him through the snow which falls heavy and thick and white. Their feet crunch in double pairs. The binding-man charts their course. He justifies it thusly: I feel that I know where I am going, so I must be going the right way, and so I shall go that way. He knows such logic has never yet failed him.

They stumble beneath the ice-strewn trees, spindly yet numerous, towering like rigs in an endless pure-white oil-field. The bound-man wears a single cloak. The binding-man is heavily swaddled. Both of them feel the frost. The snow ebbs and flows. The ebbs make the flows vicious, and the flows make the ebbs precious. The two men only observe the former.

The binding-man looks around now and then. Snow speckles his beard, seasoning the unruly hairs, then encrusting them with harsh crystals. He licks his cracked and bloodied lips and does not feel it, and saliva freezes on his face. His eyes flicker, side-to-side. Determinedly he presses on. The bound-man accedes. He is a shivering mass of bones.

The woods are unsurprisingly barren.

The bound-man’s eyes search the ground for some semblance of a trail. He does not find one, much as he tries to imagine it, for it does not exist. The binding-man notices the behavior, and feels offended, but says nothing. He is too busy following the road.

Though the binding-man does not notice it, his movement is slowing. He moves in a straight line. He checks his compass, which has not shifted for several hours. He thinks about how cold he is. He kicks the bound-man, just for something to do. They walk on.

Both men have been numb for some time. It has turned their skin tender. Their skin begins to crack, pain sensually slithering about their bodies, slowly stinging, sharp-red blood leaking out. It freezes on their skin.

The binding-man is moving slower and slower. He pushes on, pushes them both through the snow. Boots crunch.

The binding-man comes to a stop. He looks around. The road is no longer visible to him. He releases a sigh, a hideous sound. The bound-man looks at him. The binding-man’s face is suddenly weary. The bound-man’s eyes, once perfectly sociopathic, are fearful. Their bodies are racked with pain.

“Well, now you’ve got us lost.”

“You’re here too, aren’t you?”

One of them attacks the other. He tears at his skin and bites him. The skin rips like paper. Gore wells up. The defender falls. The attacker stands, wavers, stumbles on. He journeys with all the human strength he can muster. Within a few feet, he falls.

A few perspectives. The wolf sees raw red-stained meat, wrapped in flapping garments, unmoving, thoroughly encrusted. The bird sees footprints stumbling through the snow, extending, ending in a scarlet splatter. The good Lord sees white. The men saw nothing.

It’s cold today, but not too cold; March in Virginia has that sort of effect, where jackets are just barely too hot but Mom and Dad make me wear one anyways. The sun blazes and glares, cutting through the chill, and sweat pours from my skin underneath my bright turquoise fleece. I feel sticky, like someone has dumped soda pop down my shirt and left me to deal with the consequences. I hate it. The fleece is left discarded in the grass.

While I’m drawing lopsided flowers in yellow chalk, Mariam runs over to me from the slide. As usual, she’s clad in purple lip gloss, heaps of “Silly Bands” that reek of rubber factories and watermelon candy, and a ponytail so high and tight her hairline visibly recedes right in front of my face. I’ve always thought that she couldn’t be cooler.

“Kate! Kate! Stop drawing!” she says as she scampers to me.

I drop the powdery chalk without question. “Howdy, Mariam,” I respond, standing up and wiping the dust off of my hands on my navy blue tights. I heard someone in a movie say that last week. I think it makes me sound cool.

She stares at me for a second, blinking with confusion, then sighs and jogs towards the monkey bars. As the wind stirs my hair, she beckons me to follow her. She tells me, quite matter-of-factly, that she’s going to teach me how to use the monkey bars. “Really?” I exclaim. She nods, and I practically float with delight. Although my skin is laden with goosebumps summoned by the chill, excitement and a giddy sense of fear calls beads of sweat to the surface of my skin. I grin wide, wide, wide.

Soon enough, I’m hanging from the first bar, my fingers slightly sliding with a biting, exhilarating pain. As I squeal, she instructs me, over and over: let go with one hand, throw it out in front, and grab. My progress is slow but definite. Mariam chants encouragement, propelling me forward with stainless confidence. The thought of looking fearless or even admirable in her eyes motivates me, numbs the fear of falling, numbs the pain of scratched metal on my palms. I’m so close to the last bar. As I reach the final stretch, someone calls out Mariam’s name. It’s Grace, the girl who trades hair bows for handfuls of pennies

or trading cards. She’s crouched on the other side of the playground, one hand holding a giant pink bow and the other waving at Mariam.

Without a thought at all, Mariam darts away from the monkey bars, hand deep in her coat pocket in search of spare coppery change. Suddenly, I’m left dangling, slipping, terrified, alone.

I call for her to come back. No response; apparently, the call of a new fuschia hair accessory is enthralling enough to turn someone deaf. I wince. One hand slides with an ear-splitting screech, my skin catching painfully on the peeling metal. Despite my frantic cries, my hand slips completely and tumbles down by my side. I try to raise it to catch hold once more, but the pain in my sticky palms is too much to bear. On my other hand, my fingers, one by one, begin to slip. I know I’m supposed to jump off here. Land on my feet, risk a skinned knee, protect my arms and collarbone and skull. But, when I look down, the ground seems to retreat from me, tunneling my vision, stirring up vertigo in my eyes and nausea in my gut; all I can think about is not reaching that ground. Jumping down now would be a death sentence, at least, it seems that way. I yell for a friend, a teacher, anyone, fear racking sobs from my gut, the cold wind scorching my throat, until my fingers finally give out, and, in one swift motion, I fall directly on my face.

My lip bursts in an explosion of pain and heat. I lay on the ground for a few moments before I hear someone call out my name, and then feel hands pull me up and lift me into their arms. Time moves slow and yet whirrs by in a blur. I am sat down in a chair and the stench of rubbing alcohol fills my nose. Heads crowd around me and block out the light, casting shadows on my tear-stained face. I should feel anger, fury at my own abandonment, but I can’t. All I can feel is hot blood on my lips and cheeks and nose and neck; even when it’s wiped away by frantic hands and cold towels, when my lip is numbed by wet ice packs and the soothing words of the school nurse, the ache remains—a pink scar on my lip, a stain lingering on my memory, and on my mind.

An exciting dream about brushing my teeth

I woke up at five

Got ready for school but then I woke up at six

Whispers in the Velvet

Crouching in the smooth velvet silk padding

The golden light shines on the sheer curtain

Spurn catching shadow of the light fading

Paws scratch satin but never ask pardon

Kissing the wind with gilt flowing feather

Free and soft like willows on April night

Eyes aglow, whiskers twitch, fiddle heather

O, but watch out for the ferocious bite

Two eyes wink like blue amber, softly glow

Reflect the stars traverse in universe

O, Sitting still like the tranquil ice floe

Yet, tail wagging, spilling ink on blank verse

In silence, it responds to moon’s embrace,

Now, lying down again in the velvet grace.

A Restless Night for Louise Fonte-Helmers

Jennifer Kim

Doctor Leides’s office was big and sat in the corner of a branched-out hallway. Stacks of colored files were piled orderly on his desk and every shelf lining the room, making the otherwise ample space seem strangely small. Unlike the rest of the building, his office smelled vaguely fragrant, a tart and verdant blackberry scent that replaced the smell of sandalwood and vanilla. The lights were dim and the floor-to-ceiling windows covering one wall boasted a beautiful ocean view. Under the cast illumination of the moonlight, Isa could see Doctor Leides poring over his work, his thick brown eyebrows slanted into his face at a comical angle. One of his hands cupped his chin.

Doctor Leides had always been many things. Eccentric, kind, composed, or tired? It varied by the day. Even with all that strangeness, the students at Louise’s boarding school loved his friendly nature and the signature smile that never left his face. On any normal day, Isa would also appreciate his presence and his odd smile. But it was night, and she was tired after recently recovering from a cold, so her bed seemed infinitely more appealing than his book-stuffed, berry-smelling office.

Despite this, she stood at the door frame in awkward silence, waiting for him to look up and notice her. His lack of response to her presence made her feel as if she were encroaching on a private space although she had been the one summoned. What an odd feeling. She raised her hand and tapped her knuckles on the door. He noticed her standing there.

“Louise. Come in, come on in.” Leides let out a long yawn and straightened, his grey eyes dull with sleepiness. He tucked his pen into its wooden case while she closed the door and took a few steps into the middle of his room. He offered her his famous grin. She noticed once again that it was invariably

large and friendly, like something that would appear on a children’s tv program. “I know it’s late. I apologize for calling you in at this time. I’m away the whole day tomorrow, but I wanted to create a time for us to talk beforehand.”

Isa nodded slowly. She couldn’t recall the amount of times she’d asked for him to call her Isa and not Louise. Louise, however pretty it sounded, did not suit her much.

There was an awkward, momentary silence. The waves rumbled aggressively in front of her, but it was so dark that despite the large windows, there was barely anything to see but dark mass pushing up against the sandy shore, and a myriad of stars poking through the sad black of the sky. She twisted her fingers around the edge of her large shirt, leaving it stretched when it was released from her grasp. Waiting for him to speak again.

“You’ve enrolled and ordered room and board for another year here, yes?”

Isa nodded again, watching him sift through a pile of paperwork in his left drawer. Realizing he wouldn’t be able to see her, she cleared her throat and said yes, as loudly as possible. He jerked his chin in acknowledgment.

“I’ve just gotten off the phone with your parents. They’ve expressed concerns about your lack of contact with them, and would like you to call them tomorrow morning, no later than nine o’clock.” Leides opened a manila file and tugged several sheets out of one pocket. He hadn’t stopped smiling. Isa wondered if the sheets were for her, about her, or nothing related to her at all. He did not hand them over or offer to show them. Whatever they were, he pulled a different pen from one of his many drawers and started to scribble on it as he spoke. “Of course, I first asked if it must be at nine, sharp. I would hate to have you wake up so early. But your mother insisted.” His eyes raised to Isa’s as he spoke, and they were brimming with so much warmth that it was slightly unnerving. “Though your parents are just looking out for you, of course.”

Isa cast her gaze at the white ceiling and then back down to meet his eyes, ruffled by the pity she was sensing from him.

The color of his irises was a startling shade of grey, so bright they were almost blue. She drove her toe into a break in the floorboards, wanting to speak her mind, but there was really nothing she could say that wouldn’t make her look like a scolded child, so she just blinked and nodded slowly, for the third time. This time, she didn’t remember to verbalize her response. There was somewhat of an itching desire to tell him about her parents back home and the fact that they were not looking out for her at all. But, of course, her mother would call her ungrateful if she did, and her father would yell, and Doctor Leides would only be able to offer sympathy and a piece of candy at best. He had no control over the parents who were paying to keep his school alive.

The silence was loud and only interrupted by the occasional sound of a page flipping and a pen scratching on paper. Remembering that Doctor Leides was waiting for some kind of verbal response, Isa blurted a quick, “Okay. I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“Wonderful, Louise. Thank you.” Leides momentarily stopped his writing and shot her a cheerful wink. Isa wondered dubiously if he was ever tired of acting so jauntily, and whether he slept with that smile plastered over his face. He spoke again. “I’m sure you are tired. You may go. See you at breakfast, I believe there are pancakes.” This seemed to signify an end to their short conversation, a kind way of telling her to please leave and do so quickly. He yawned again and stretched his lanky legs out from under the desk as if she had already walked out. Isa did leave quickly, but the sleepiness had long left her body, leaving her buzzy and overflowing with energy. She could hear the housekeepers cleaning off the last of the dinner plates in the downstairs kitchen. Their special dish soap floated from the stairs, containing the oddly medicinal tang of cherries that was surprisingly fragrant. Whether her senses had been heightened from her fatigue or she was just beginning to imagine things was unclear, but the feeling was vaguely familiar and enjoyable. Isa was reluctant to return to her room’s unpleasant silence, but it was a long time past dinner and the hallways were chilly and

empty. Unwilling to risk running into anyone who would strike up a conversation, she clutched her arms, feeling goosebumps rise from under her thin skin, and hesitantly turned her stride back towards the dorm wing.

The first thing Isa heard when she entered her room was the annoyingly loud buzzing of the air conditioner and Maya’s shallow snoring. Both sounds faded distantly into the back of her head as she crossed the room and cracked the window open to stick her face out, enjoying the breeze running its fingers down her face and through her hair. Her mind spun with things to say to her parents the next morning, and how the conversation would unfold. It would certainly be awkward, full of lectures, and maybe even a surprise screaming fit from her father.

And so what if Isa hadn’t called her family in a little while? She’d thought it would be inconsequential, with how her family chooses to treat her. She’d thought the boarding school was a gift, an opportunity for them to spend some time apart without having to put up with each other’s noticeable discomfort with each other. After all, her parents had Delaney, their precious daughter by blood, and that was enough for them to drop any real paternal concern for Isa, who wasn’t planned, yet taken in out of pity that would eventually turn to exasperation.

Isa didn’t mind. At the house, she felt as if she were a television viewer watching her family through a screen, but at the school, where she had her friends and her classes to pay attention to, there was barely enough time to remember their existence. There was no need to tiptoe around the dining table to eat in her bedroom because she hated the awkwardness of eating with them. She didn’t have to sit in bed and listen to her mother talk long with Delaney in the next room about everything, just as if Isa had been forgotten about. In her youth, it bothered her that she wasn’t loved like Delaney was loved, a case of a small child’s heart wanting the family’s attention and adoration. Over time, she had acclimated to the favoritism of the other sibling, and grown almost understanding of it… sometimes.

A fat drop of rain hit Isa’s nose, startling her out of her

short daze. Thunder, rich and resonant, rumbled down on the school, filling her chest with an unpleasant vibration she could feel in her stomach. She looked up, watching the stars darken under sudden rain clouds, and suddenly missed the warmth of the sun. The storm seemed something out of a movie, sudden and unmentioned on the forecast— which she checked daily. But the only warmth available was her bed, which was now appealing to her exhausted limbs, and that would have to do.

It seemed to be another restless night for Louise Fonte-Helmers, as she kicked back her covers and climbed into her four-poster. The room was cold and sad, and now unsuitable for sleep with the onslaught of raindrops attacking the roof and sides of the walls. With her head propped on the headboard and her feet tucked under her, Isa closed her eyes and began to think. Maybe she would mention her exceptional grades to her parents tomorrow. At least that way, they could praise her before they got angry about the missed phone calls. Or not get angry altogether. Who doesn’t like a straight-A report card?

As she contemplated, the rest of the students in the dormitory were also wide awake under the downpour. Those who had been sleeping were now sitting up in the dark, rubbing their eyes in confusion. Those who had been studying leaped up to check their windows. The thunder did not cease until dawn, and Isa continued to think under the crashes and sparks of the violent storm.

If a Doll Screams Inside Her Doll House, Does She Make a Sound?

Dolls are… toys for little girls, something one grows out of, made of plastic by the thousands and delivered in a box. Dolls are designed for a set purpose, but with a little imagination can do anything. Dolls do not conform to society’s standards. Few people choose to break the status quo, but many dream of a different world where they can be who they want to be. Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House and the movie directed by Greta Gerwig, Barbie, are stories about women finding themselves in one world and choosing to live in another. A Doll’s House was written in the 1870s, before women could vote, and long before women were fully integrating themselves in the workplace. It is impossible to not acknowledge the accomplishments that women have achieved since then, and the brave female leaders who fought and worked hard to advance the opportunities for and image of women. The shocking part is that these same ideas are still prevalent today and portrayed in the 2023 movie, Barbie. A century and a half later the message of A Doll’s House is just as relevant, if not more, in the way it showcases the pervasive struggle that generations of women have faced. This does not apply to women alone. Members of the LGBT community can feel closeted by homophobia amongst their friends and family forcing them to be somebody else. Men, too, can feel like they don’t want to be the stereotypical “man of the house” and choose to be a stay-at-home dad or second-income earner. The heroines of these two works, Nora and Barbie, realize that they have choices in their lives and, in the end, welcome the change that comes with venturing into the unknown. Ibsen and the writers of Barbie compare womanhood to the life of a doll who seizes her untold power in order to show that women must empower each other to uncover the individual potential that every woman contains.

Nora and Barbie are accepting the identities that society has sanctioned and are reclaiming some of their power from civilization. Society puts women in a box, much like dolls come in a box. There are thousands of boxes identical to each other and the dolls inside can only perform certain functions. In A Doll’s House Nora refers to herself as a “skylark,” a “squirrel,” a “spendthrift” (6), and several other demeaning names that show how she views herself. Society thinks women are inferior to men, and that they provide no further purpose than a housewife. It is evident that, like many other women, Nora has internalized this thinking, yet she uses this persona to do what she wants. There are all these rules and regulations that women must follow based on the ideal image of what a woman should look like and how she should behave. “You couldn’t know that Torvald had forbidden [macaroons.] I must tell you that he is afraid they will spoil my teeth.” (Ibsen 17). As her husband, Torvald sets rules for Nora, so she can stay beautiful and continue to be the ideal wife. However, Nora chooses to break those rules and sneaks a macaroon or two, but not before wrongfully accusing her friend Mrs. Linde for giving her the treats. Nora may feel confident enough to break rules behind Torvald’s back, but she is too afraid to directly defy him. Small efforts to invoke her own free will mark Nora’s individuality as a woman. Nora plays the part of a devoted loving wife and keeps secrets from Torvald because she loves him. No one suspects anything from her which is why she can hide things so well.

Similar to Nora, who embodies the name she is given, Barbie travels to the human world when she believes that something is wrong with her because she is different. “I’m not Adventure Barbie, I’m Stereotypical Barbie” (22:42). Although Barbie is very confident in her epithet as Stereotypical Barbie, she does not think herself capable of such an adventurous task. Due to the label she has been given, Barbie believes that she cannot accomplish anything besides what she was made for. Despite being a relatively inconsequential Barbie, she has unwavering confidence in her identity as Stereotypical Barbie. After arriving in the human world, she intends to talk to a middle school girl named Sasha, who Barbie is warned not to approach. “Don’t worry, everyone really likes me, and thinks I’m cool, and pretty” (39:13). Stereotypical Barbie might not be able to fly a plane, but she knows who she is and has confidence in her ability to make friends with anyone. She might seem powerless compared to some of the other Barbies, but in reality she finds her own power and wields it well. In this way, Nora and Barbie are powerful, but they do not feel empowered because they have bought into the limitations set by society.

Change does not come quickly or easily, but it starts with a bunch of little people raising their voices until they are heard. Breaking down barriers begins with one woman deciding she will not let society dictate who she is and she can stand out in a multitude of ways. Nora defies society’s stereotypes, but she does so in secret. Nora is working many odd jobs to pay off a loan from the bank without her husband knowing. “Many a time I was desperately tired; but all the same it was a tremendous pleasure to sit there working and earning money. It was like being a man” (14). A married mother of a middle-class family would not usually be found working, and most certainly not without her husband’s consent. Nora is able to keep her side hustle a secret from Torvald because no one expects her to be capable of such a feat.

In a world of idealized standards, it is difficult to step outside of one’s box, and it is usually not received well by the rest of society. The Barbies and Kens are having an awesome party with planned choreography when Barbie voices her irrepressible thoughts of death. “It is the best day ever and so is yesterday and so is tomorrow and so is the day after tomorrow and even Wednesdays, and every day from now until forever! Do you guys ever think about dying?” (13:27). Barbies are not supposed to think about the fragility of life, but Stereotypical Barbie does. She brushes it off, and the party continues, but Barbie feels uneasy. The next day, everything in Barbie’s life goes wrong as she starts acting outside her box. Rather than accepting her new self as normal, the Barbies decide that Stereotypical Barbie must be fixed, so she can return to her conventional image. Nora and Barbie both took a step away from their box, but because Nora hid it well she was not forced back into conformity like Barbie was. It takes a great deal of bravery from women to shatter the mold before she can be free to be whomever and do whatever she wants.

Although Nora and Barbie are powerful in their own spheres, they do not comprehend the full reach of their abilities and are wary of leaving their worlds. Women must empower each other in order for all women to recognize their freedom since men do not see the need to change a society that is built to suit them. Like any suppressed group, women can only endure so much before they reach their tipping point. It is at this point where women must rely on one another. In each of these stories there is a female character with experience in the world each heroine is apprehensive about. For Nora, it is Mrs Linde, a widow who has supported her family by herself for the last three years and is now looking for a new job at Torvald’s bank. When her husband needed an expensive treatment for his ailment, Nora took a loan from the bank by forging her father’s signature. Torvald had no idea where the money really came from, and Nora had no intention of telling him for fear of ruining their harmony. Mrs. Linde recognizes Nora’s fear but knows that Nora will be better off when Torvald hears the truth. When he does, Torvald lashes out at Nora for being so ignorant. He yells: “No man would sacrifice his honor for the one he loves” to which Nora responds “It is a thing hundreds of thousands of women have done” (66). Sacrifice is a word that many wives are too familiar with as they move where their husband’s job takes them, or they have to halt their career to raise a baby. Nora finally grasps that Torvald will never love her the way she wants him to, so she embarks on her own to her new life.

Even though she yearns to play a more significant role in her society, Barbie continues to love Barbie Land, and above all, she is afraid to change things. “I’ve only ever wanted for everything to stay exactly as it is” (22:02). Change is scary because it is impossible to know what the future will bring, and it is easier to stay with what you know. Barbie prefaces how being a woman is impossible because in order to appease everyone, she has to tie herself into knots but never complain. She has to be grateful for everything she is given, but cannot ask for money or help. Barbie has already fallen in love with the human world during her visit and wants to live a life full of emotion and love. Once she helps to save Barbie Land, she is unsure of what her ending is supposed to be, and that is where Ruth comes in, the creator of Barbie. She gives Barbie the freedom to decide who she wants to be and tells her that she always had the power to become what she wanted. “I want to be a part of the people that make meaning, not the thing that’s made. I wanna do the imagining. I don’t want to be the idea.” (1:43:04). All along, Barbie had the ability to choose who she is, but she did not know it. Ruth opens Barbie’s eyes to the endless possibilities of the human world but, in the end, allows Barbie to decide where she wants to go. After spending her whole life living out a story that someone else designed for her, having a choice is more impactful than any love story ending.

Nora and Barbie are dolls used as toys for show, but dolls, too, grow tired of being played with, of being a replica on a shelf, and most importantly, they become too big for their box. Men and power have been synonymous for millenia. One by one, leaders of tomorrow like Mary Wollstonecraft, Elizabeth Stanton, Gloria Steinem, Emma Watson and so many others have come forth and created power of their own. Women have always been strong. One hundred fifty years ago, Ibsen’s Nora graced the world with her determination and will, and in 2023 Barbie exposed a variety of stereotypes that women have faced. Though this journey has most certainly come at a cost, today, women in all corners of the world have countless opportunities, international support, and diverse representation. There is always a choice to be made or new changes to discover, and although it is not easy, by supporting one another women truly can be anything. Every woman wants to see her mothers and sisters achieve untold greatness and will be there every step of the way. She needs others to believe in her in times when she cannot find the strength to do it herself. She must be taught to hold herself to a higher standard and find comfort in her self-worth. Lastly, she must be free to grow, love, and, above all, choose the path that feels right for her.

Works Cited

Barbie. Directed by Greta Gerwig, produced by Margot Robbie, Warner Bros. Pictures, 2023. Ibsen, Henrik. A Doll’s House. Global Classics, 2014.

If It’s a Triple Dog Dare

Autumn nights in Mittman were notoriously hot and humid, but Jeanette’s basement was perpetually cool and just barely damp. It felt like a cave made out of poured concrete flooring and unfinished drywall, with the model airplanes that Pastor Dave collected hanging from the ceiling instead of bats. Sitting underneath Jeanette’s dad’s planes, there was an ancient TV with a VHS player and a tired couch. Next to the TV was a pile of VHS tapes, mostly recordings of Jeanette’s dad’s sermons with a few Disney movies mixed in. We were too old for them, but that was all that Jeanette’s mom would let us watch.

“If there’s a world record for having watched Snow White, like, the highest number of times, we should have it,” I said, stretching my legs out over her lap.

“We should write to Guiness and get that put in,” she said.

“Do you get, like, money or something for winning a record?”

“I don’t know,” she yawned and sunk further into the couch. “It’d be cool to be in one of those books though,”

“Yeah,” I wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders. It was impressive how cold it was down there. I asked Pastor Dave about it once and he said something about how the temperature worked underground, but I was still convinced that it was some kind of basement magic.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

“By somewhere do you mean 7-Eleven?”

“Maybe.”

“Didn’t your mom, like, bar the window after last time?”

Jeanette grabbed a rusty screwdriver off the coffee table, “Yeah, and she left this behind.”

After a little bit of messing with it, she got the window open and we climbed through. I helped her get over the fence, she opened the gate, and we were off. While we were on the walk, we decided on getting strawberry ice cream, Jeanette’s favorite. I didn’t really care what we got. I just liked going to 7-Eleven with her. Everything about it was so familiar, from the walk along quiet, sidewalkless roads of the suburbs to the rusty jingle of the bell when we opened the door.

“Hey Brian!” she waved to the cashier. “Oh my God, I love this song!”

Her sneakers squeaked across the sticky linoleum tiles as she danced through the aisle. I knew it was dumb, but I couldn’t help smiling at her. It was like a cliché scene in a cheesy movie. She looked like a Hollywood actress in the dirty convenience store, spinning around under fluorescent lights to a pop song she didn’t know was overplayed.

“Are you ladies paying in cash or card?” Brian asked, pulling me out of the movie scene.

I shook myself out of the daydream and felt around in my pocket, “Cash.”

He took the crumpled bills that I had pulled out of my long shorts and handed us the carton in a plastic bag. He thanked us for our business as if there were any other greasy convenience stores within walking distance from Jeanette’s house we might go to instead, and we nodded as if there were. The bell jingled us a familiar goodbye and we walked home through the hot and cloudy night.

I was getting ready to go over to Jeanette’s house on a Friday afternoon when she came. Jeanette’s mom, the preacher’s wife, the terrifying Mrs. Mallory. She was the angel of death and I was a first born Hebrew of Egypt who had forgotten to mark her door. I let her scream at me until her lungs had poured out their unbridled rage on me and she had declared that I would never see her daughter again. She finished her deluge of insults off with a rough slam to the rickety door of my townhouse and left me wondering what I had done to upset her. I climbed the creaky stairs up to my room and curled up in a ball on my bare mattress, trying to figure out what I did wrong. I always

followed Mrs. Mallory’s rules. I walked myself to their church every Wednesday night and Sunday morning, I wore kneelength skirts and shorts through the summer swelter, and I watched PG movies on their couch, even at sixteen years old. I was sure I had marked my door. What had I done?

I was still wrestling with that question on Monday morning, during Mr. Jenkin’s social studies class. I was fighting the urge to look back to where Jeanette sat when a hand tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to Aiden and he slipped me a piece of paper. I noticed the pink gel pen and familiar handwriting before I did Jeanette’s name. I whipped my head around to the back row and Jeanette gave me a small, scared smile.

“Lucy,

I know that Mama told you you’re not allowed to see me. She says that we’r I need to talk to you. Can you meet me at that bus stop off Danver Street after school?

-Jeanette,” the note read.

My shaky left hand scratched out a single word of messy scrawl on the back of the neatly folded lined paper, “Yes.”

Tears were already clouding her eyes by the time I made it to the bus stop. As soon as I sat down next to her, she broke down crying onto my shoulder. I didn’t mind her salty tears stinging my neck or even the snot that got stuck in my hair. I had missed her so badly.

“Lucy, my mama said,” she swallowed hard, “Mama said we’re cursed.”

I held her head in hands and spoke gently, “You’ve never listened to a word that came out of her mouth.”

“It was a prophecy though,” she glanced nervously at the sky, “from God.”

“Oh, Jeanette,” I sighed.

“I’m afraid,” her voice cracked, “I’m afraid that we may die.”

“So what?” I managed a weak smile. “Everybody’s scared of that.”

We practically lived at that bus stop for the rest of the

week. Every day after school, while Jeanette was supposed to be at book club, we sat under the glass shelter with our knee-length shorts protecting our thighs from the fiery heat radiating from the metal bench. Sometimes we talked about our big plans for the future, how we were going to move to L.A. one day and, one way or another, get famous. Sometimes we didn’t talk about anything at all, sitting in a comfortable silence with sunburnt scalps and sweaty hair and a tacit understanding that we needed each other. But it couldn’t last forever.

“Mama’s starting to get suspicious,” she said, slinging her backpack down next to her. “She’s all ‘I don’t reckon how a young lady could get so sweaty at a book club meeting’ and I don’t think she buys that we’ve been having this many outdoor meetings, especially in this heat.”

“Are we going to stop hanging out?”

“No, never,” she said quickly. “We just need to be more careful. Or maybe Mama needs to be less up in my business.”

“Or maybe we should just go somewhere she won’t find us.”

“You aren’t actually saying we should run away,” she was trying to figure out if I was joking.

“My dad’s still doing that trucking job in California and I haven’t seen my mom since she went off with that guy from the bar back in August. I don’t have anyone to run away from.”

“So you’re saying I should run away?”

“You’re like, literally always talking about how you can’t deal with your mom and how you’re pretty sure your dad might be stealing from his congregation.”

“Jesus Lucy, don’t say that so loud,” she looked around but there were only cars whizzing past us.

“I’m sorry, it’s just like, you don’t seem like you really like living with your parents.”

“Where would I run off to?”

“We could live on your family’s boat.”

“Mhm, and survive how, exactly?”

“Well, you were a girl scout,” I said. “So you know how to start a fire and stuff. And I can catch us fish to eat.”

“You’re very convincing,” she smiled. “Maybe I will run away.”

“Just a maybe?”

“A very firm maybe.”

“What if it was a dare?”

“Just a dare?”

“I triple dog dare you,” I pointed at her. “To run away with me.”

“You’ve got me there,” she laughed. “I’ve got to do it if it’s a triple dog dare.”

Jeanette and I sketched out our plan in my notebook. On Saturday morning, I would go over to Jeanette’s house to unlock the gate for her. We would walk over to the 7-Eleven for supplies and then we would go over to the car she said she had waiting for us. Her family’s boat was docked at Anchorage Marina, an hour from Mittmann, so we wouldn’t have to drive far. Once we got to the boat, we would sail around the coast, stopping in towns when we needed more supplies. The plan seemed perfect to me.

Things started off going according to plan. Jeanette was ready for me on the other side of the gate with her backpack. I opened the gate for her and we went on that familiar walk to the 7-Eleven.

“I got the batteries and the jerky. Did you find the electric tape?” I asked.

She shook her head, “We can go without it though. I’ll check us out. I want to say goodbye to Brian one last time.”

I stood outside and waited for her where she took me to a junker lot.

“Okay,” she said, approaching a beat up Ford. “Naomi said I could take this one.”

She set her backpack down on the ground and fished her hand around in it. She retrieved a screwdriver, a putty knife, a clothes hanger, and a pair of scissors.

“Wait, what are you doing?” I asked.

“She didn’t give me the keys,” she said. She jammed the putty knife into the car door.

“Does her dad know about this?”

“I don’t know,” she said as she slid the hanger into the

gap she made. “I didn’t ask.”

“What’s he going to do when he, like, finds out it’s gone?”

“It’s a junker, he’s not going to miss it,” she heard a click. “There, it’s unlocked now.”

“And what, you’re going to hotwire it?”

“Like I said, I don’t have the keys,” she swung the door open and reached for the screwdriver.

“You don’t know who Lindsey Lohan is but you know how to hotwire a car? Where did you even learn how to do that?”

“A few weeks ago at VBS.” She knelt in the car and started messing around with something under the wheel. “Someone’s dad had to break into his own car when he lost his keys in the church parking lot. Can you pass me the scissors, please?”

I handed her the rusty sewing scissors, “You’re sure Naomi’s dad isn’t going to call the cops?”

“Naomi wouldn’t let him,” she stripped the wires with the scissors. She twisted them around each other. The dash came alive, with the radio playing the late morning news. “We’re almost good to go. Could you pass me the tape?”

“We-”

“Sorry, I forgot. It’ll probably be fine,” she said and tucked the wires out of the way. “Can you help me with this?”

I helped her twist the wheel until we heard the lock break before I walked around the front of the car and stepped into the passenger seat. I slung my backpack onto the backseat while she connected the final two wires and revved up the engine. Jeanette pulled us out of the lot and on to the street.

I had a feeling that we were going to make it. It felt so right, sitting in a dented ‘96 Ford Explorer with the whole world ahead of me and the person I loved most next to me. I watched us pass the little road trip towns by and wondered if the 7-Elevens there were also frequented by pairs of teenaged girls who snuck out of basements and secretly met at bus stops. Jeanette was focused on the road and the radio, listening to weather reports and Billboard hits she’d never heard before.

I was alarmed by a sudden concern, “It’s still the same boat as before, right?”

“My dad might be double dipping in the church funds, but not, like, new boat level double dipping.”

“I was worried for a second because it’s the only boat I know how to, like, drive.”

“You’re not supposed to call her ‘it,’” she said in mock outrage.

“Oh, whatever,” I said, wrinkling my nose at her. “Where should we run off to first?”

She thought about it for a second and said, “There’s a marina in Charleston that we go to on vacation a lot. I know the route pretty well and it only takes a day to get there.”

“And after that?”

“I don’t know, where do you want to go?”

“I guess I’ve always wanted to go to—”

The blur of light was pierced by a sound that was almost inhuman, like the sound a dying animal would make. I had never heard Jeanette scream like that. She was crying and I was trying to reach out to her, to tell her that it would be alright. I managed to wrestle my seatbelt off and put my hands around her bloodied face. I was hit by a jolt of deja vu as I remembered doing the same thing at a bus stop, her face sticky with sweat and tears then, not blood.

I have tried a million times since that day to reach into my mind and find some other memory after that, but I can’t.

Anything that happened after that must have been unimportant enough to forget, or maybe too important to remember.

When the police investigated the scene, they called in a mechanic to find out what happened to the car. The untaped wires had melted some of the other electronic stuff and that made something else happen that I didn’t fully understand. The police also told me that by the time the ambulance came, Jeanette was already dead and I was unconscious. I guess Mrs. Mallory was right all along. We were cursed.

My dad came back from California a week after the accident. He didn’t understand that Mrs. Mallory was the angel of death, so he just slammed the door in her face when she tried to come in. She shouted something through the door, a word shaped like “sorry” or “cocky”. I wanted to shout back at her and find out what she said, but I let fear force me into a silence that felt like holding back vomit. I sank deeper into the unfeeling plastic chair under me and tried to stop wrinkling the photo in my hand. I was feeling something strange. There was grief, yes, but also something else. A wave of relief that I didn’t want to feel came crashing over me. There was nothing worse that could happen now.

Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Prize for Poetry

Juliet and Thisbe

Kiss my acne ridden forehead

Under fake ivy we hung on your bed

Constellations of string lights

Twinkling over our sleepless nights

It’s not safe in the afternoon

So we’ll build a world in your room

We’re always going to be

Juliet and Thisbe

I called your parents sir and ma’am

But they already decided I was damned

The stars say that I’ll be the death of you

But I’m not sure I think that’s true

Your laugh never lost its magic

I won’t let this story be tragic

We were destined to be

Juliet and Thisbe

We didn’t have a friar or a plan

We packed up the car and ran

You broke down when your mama called

The car broke down and the engine stalled

100 miles was so much more than we thought

But you stepped on the gas like we’d never get caught

We were bound to be

Juliet and Thisbe

Do you think about our high school years

Like dreaming could make them reappear?

But I’m too tall, I’d hit my head

On the canopy of your teenage bed

And once you’ve seen stars, they’re just string lights

And we’ve settled into sleeping through nights

When we drove off that cold afternoon

We destroyed the world in your room

I am Juliet, the well-kept secret

You are my Thisbe, the white lie who kissed me

You scare me

You scare me with your smile

I get goosebumps when I see you

Teach me how you do it

Mother had said once

There are those who squeeze life for all it’s got

A dirty rag being wringed out

Every last drop into the sink

You squeeze life like it’s a lemon Lips to the flesh

Every last drop on your tongue

And then you cut up the peel

For compost

And grow gladiolus in the sun

I hate him so-

We Are Not the Same

-so much of her to hate. I can’t escape her-

-hurting him is constantly on my mind-

-mind you, I’ve never been anything but nice-

-nice to say we get along but we most definitely don’t-

-don’t get your story twisted, she’s the one to blame-

-blaming people doesn’t get you far in life, but he makes it so necessary-

-necessary to say, that years of rivalry have led us to this hatred-

-hatred is a strong word, but he suits it so well-

-well I’m sick of people saying we’re alike-

-like we’re so different! We don’t talk the same-

-same school, different friend groups-

-different friend groups say we would get along-

-along with my hatred of her, I also find her simply annoying-

-annoying is an understatement with this boy-

-boy, I would hate for her to be like me-

-me and him are so different.

My friends say we are alike, but I don’t see it. I am not like you!

-I hate when I am compared to you-compared to you, I feel so different. Well, I love the color yellow-

…color yellow. I AM NOT like you!

I am not... like you. We are not the same…

Oh.

conundrum

Morgan Weis

Cast of Characters

EMOTION: This is the side of PARIS that thinks emotionally. A total love-sick fool. No concept of personal space.

LOGIC: This is the side of PARIS that thinks logically. Has street smarts unlike above.

PARIS: A college student who was just chilling when they spotted THE PROBLEM of their dreams.

THE PROBLEM: Goes to the same school as PARIS. Was just there at the wrong place. A non-speaking role. Scene

It begins in a coffee shop/school setting. There are 2 tables laid out across from each other. PARIS is sitting at the one on stage left and looking around. The scene begins when THE PROBLEM enters stage left.

Time The show can be set at any point in any place at any time. But for the sake of this show it will be set in this time period during the late morning hours.

(PARIS sits on the stage left table looking around while twirling a pen. THE PROBLEM walks in and PARIS accidentally throws the pen into the air. They struggle to catch it in an impressive display of reflexes. THE PROBLEM gives PARIS a thumbs up and PARIS returns it nervously. THE PROBLEM collects their drink and goes to sit down on stage right. PARIS stares longingly at THE PROBLEM, the crush obvious on their face. EMOTION appears from somewhere near PARIS. The lights adjust. EMOTION makes a noise like a jet engine.)

EMOTION

Look at them, the hair, the eyes, the charisma, the—

(EMOTION squeals with excitement)

Oh My GOSH, you never find people like this they—

(EMOTION sighs and stutters, trying to find the words to describe THE PROBLEM)

Hurrmmm…I wanna go talk to them right now.

(LOGIC appears from behind PARIS’ table.)

LOGIC Ahem.

(No reaction from EMOTION) Ahem!

(EMOTION finally looks up)

We are not doing that.

EMOTION

Pff! Like your logic is going to stop me.

(PARIS begins to rise from their chair)

I said no.

LOGIC

(PARIS sits back down again)

But whyyyyy?

EMOTION

LOGIC

Just think for a second. What are two things we know about this person—

EMOTION

They—

LOGIC —that doesn’t have to do with how they look?

EMOTION

But—but just look at them!

(EMOTION drags LOGIC over to show them THE PROBLEM)

Hurmmm…

LOGIC

They do look like they’d make a nice partner...

EMOTION

Now you’re feeling it, look at that smile!

LOGIC

But, for all we know, they could kick puppies in their free time.

EMOTION

I bet the puppies enjoy it.

LOGIC

What?

EMOTION

What?

LOGIC

Have you been hanging out with intrusive thoughts again? I told you they were a bad influence.

EMOTION

They’re funny though.

LOGIC

That’s a little concerning. (groans) Don’t you remember the last time we judged somebody entirely on looks? We ended up dating a psychopath for over a month.

EMOTION

He had pretty eyes... Sam Jacobsen

LOGIC

Jesus Christ.

EMOTION

Come on, please, please, pretty please!

Just look at their hair. If it looks dangerous we can leave! Pleasssseeeee—

(EMOTION continues while LOGIC is speaking)

LOGIC No.

EMOTION —eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

LOGIC

No.

EMOTION —eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

LOGIC

Fine, just be quiet.

(Despite being told they can do what they want, EMOTION doesn’t speak and doesn’t budge)

Hello? You’ve just been told you can go talk to them...

EMOTION

No, no, no, no…

LOGIC

So I was right.

EMOTION

I mean, what if we make a fool of ourself? And in front of the only chance we may have to meet somebody? I would die. I would literally perish if they hated me.

LOGIC

Oh crap, you’re right.

EMOTION

I know, I know, you can see why this is too dangerous and we should leave now. Right now.

LOGIC No, you’re right. This could be our only chance to get a partner.

EMOTION

Nooooooooo! What if they’re actually really mean?

LOGIC

Most people aren’t that bad. Plus, we’re in public, so what’s the worst they can do?

EMOTION

What if we have coffee on our shirt? What if we say something stupid?

LOGIC

We don’t have coffee on our shirt and we won’t say something stupid.

EMOTION

What if they are rude to waiters? What if they never pay the bill? What if they have a bad attachment style, what if they don’t listen to our music, what if they can’t communicate, what if they are lazy, what if they don’t think things through, what if we hate them and then they won’t let us go? Or what if we break up and they get together with my sister or cousin or—or, what if they smell awful? What if they run away or mistake my walking up to them as a red flag? What if they won’t talk to me? Won’t care about me? What if I get friend-zoned? What if they don’t listen, what if they use me, what if they cheat on me or leave me or are rude or not like me. What if they are taken or—

(LOGIC covers EMOTION’s mouth with their hand)

LOGIC

Do we want to get to know this person or not?

(EMOTION looks ashamed, but they nod)

LOGIC

Then, problem solved.

EMOTION

(trying to speak) Mmhm.

LOGIC

What?

EMOTION

(trying to speak louder) Mmmmmmmm!

(LOGIC removes their hand)

EMOTION

What if they sit backwards on toilets what if they—

(LOGIC puts their hand back)

LOGIC

Ok. What’s going to convince you we should approach them?

(LOGIC removes their hand, but EMOTION refuses to speak, looking indignant)

How about…

LOGIC

(A white board is pushed on stage)

…We do pros and cons?

(LOGIC writes pros and cons in black marker, then switches to red to write. EMOTION picks up blue. LOGIC writes: “What if I meet the love of my life?”)

LOGIC

Pro: what if we love them?

(EMOTION writes: “What if they eat kit kats sideways?” LOGIC rubs it off)

Hey!

EMOTION

LOGIC

Don’t write every possible scenario. Simplify it, please.

(Grumbling, EMOTION writes: “What if they’re a bad person?” LOGIC wipes it off again)

EMOTION

It doesn’t get any simpler than that!

LOGIC

Think about it in a more personal sense.

(EMOTION writes: “What if I can’t love them?”)

LOGIC

There we go. Now you’re getting it.

(LOGIC writes: “What if they love me?” EMOTION writes: “What if they can’t?”)

EMOTION

I don’t want to get hurt. I don’t know if I could take it.

LOGIC

But what if we don’t get hurt? What if they make us feel wonderful and worthy and loved? EMOTION They won’t.

Sam Jacobsen

LOGIC

They might. EMOTION

We are not going over there.

LOGIC

Yes. We are.

EMOTION

No, we’re not.

LOGIC

Yes, we are. It’s our best chance to—

EMOTION

No.

LOGIC

Yes. EMOTION

No!

LOGIC

Yes! EMOTION No!

LOGIC

Yes! EMOTION

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

LOGIC

(Speaking at the same time as EMOTION) Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!

(EMOTION pulls out a lightsaber)

EMOTION

No!

(LOGIC also pulls out a lightsaber)

LOGIC

Yes!

(a fight ensues between EMOTION and LOGIC. Throughout all this, they do not stop saying yes and no. EMOTION knocks down LOGIC)

EMOTION

Yes!

LOGIC

Yes?

EMOTION

No!

Yes…

(EMOTION hits LOGIC one more time with the saber and then drops to the floor next to them. There’s a long silence wherein they both appear dead)

LOGIC

I’m just gonna do it.

(the lights change back to how they were before EMOTION and LOGIC arrived. PARIS goes to sit next to THE PROBLEM)

PARIS

Is this seat taken? END SCENE

You Are a Beautiful Person

The essence of your soul is riddled with honey and pink You speak words that are intertwined with poise and kindness

You carry yourself with a confidence that is contagious to others

I hide behind my sharp words and false confidence I seek to destroy the happiness of others

Your honesty with your emotions is textbook perfect Your friends seek to be around your eyes that ooze warmth and energy

You wake up happy to greet the morning and feel the brightness of the sun

I share my emotions with invisible ink I hide behind my artificial joy

My beauty is a mere imitation of yours, cracking each day under the pressure of your unyielding shine glaring down at me

Hope

A fragile Perilous weapon

Veiled in sight

Took me by the hand

And flew me too close to Helios

So I only saw it when I fell:

Your space was filled up by Her

So much that

In the distant cracking

Of my heart

Its resonance thundering

You couldn’t even hear it

Green Eyes

Esma could feel the bass of sub-par pop pulsing inside of her gut as she stepped into the frat house. The smell of weed, sweat, and, grossly enough, something like pee swam into her nostrils. Esma uncomfortably made her way through the crowd of dancing bodies, looking for any sign of her roommate Vanessa.

“We’re over here!” Vanessa shouted, violently waving both hands above her head.

“Oh, thank god.” While walking over she noticed someone new amongst her usual crowd, a beautiful girl. Vanessa politely introduced the two of them.

“Esma, this is Irene! Irene, Esma!” She shouted over the music.

“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you!” Irene smiled, her voice somewhat like a rhythmic cadence to a familiar melody. Her bright smile seemed to be shining even now in the dark living room of the frat house as if her teeth were lined with the mirrors of a disco ball. A simple yet beautiful black dress adorned Irene. It was form-fitting and flawlessly complimented each of her curves. Speckles of little red hearts adorned each of the sleeves that fell just below her wrist bone. But the most eye-catching thing about her was her eyes. They were greener than anything Esma had ever seen before. She thought briefly of the magnolia trees outside her dorm, and even they shied in comparison to Irene’s eyes.

“Nice to meet you too!” The two girls acknowledged each other. Esma felt Irene scan over her appearance, her eyes stopping at the pendant below her collarbone. If she liked the necklace, she didn’t say anything. But Vanessa did.

“Oh my god!” She screamed over the bass. “I love that necklace. Swarovski?”

“Thank you! Yes, it is.” Esma smiled. She felt the eyes of onlookers on her neck as they took in her new jewelry. But it was the piercing green eyes that lingered the longest.

“C’mon!” Irene spoke, stretching out her perfectly manicured hand. “Dance with me?”

“Yeah! Sure.” Esma blushed and took it. She felt soft skin gripping hers. Irene glided through the crowd, as though they stepped back as they saw her coming. She carried herself with the utmost grace and confidence, she glimmered under the attention of others. When they had found a comfortable spot, the girls began to dance. It was hesitant at first, but under the lead of Irene, Esma felt more comfortable than she ever had before. She had never been much of a dancer, but now Esma was seriously considering enrolling in a class. Irene’s green eyes stared into Esma’s and they leaned into one another. Together, they moved to the pulse of the music in perfect stride.

“You’re a good dancer!” Esma shouted.

“It helps to have a pretty girl to dance with.” Irene teased. Esma felt the heat creeping up her neck and the sweat forming on her back. Irene spun her in a circle amongst the crowd.

“Well you’re the prettiest girl I’ve—” She fell silent as Irene closed the gap between them. To Esma, it felt like they were the only two people in the room. Irene’s arms wrapped around her neck while Esma settled her hands on her waist.

“Close your eyes,” Irene whispered. Esma did as she was told, smiling. When she opened them, Irene was gone. And so was her necklace.

Invisible Cracks

I thought I was special until I crumbled under the existence of myself. My judgment was clouded with overconfidence of my strength, but my mind is just as perceptible to gloomy and permeable thoughts as anyone else. I soon learned that my mother’s comments about my stubbornness proved to be wrong in the realm of mental health. I am weak, but I am grateful for that.

I am no longer perceived as an unbreakable force that can survive through any affair.

I am a mortal being with pain, scars, and anguish, just like all of you. Though I may not cry in front of a crowd, I am capable of melancholy.

But what a diagnostic of our society that a human can only be proven to be human at their lowest.

That I, at the mere age of 16, was only seen as young and weak when I visibly suffered.

seventeen-year-old melancholy

Torrential thunder against the windows of my soul

Entices bitter tears like fat rain, yet

They remain absent—in the face of an empty room, In the face of limbs chained to the dust, In the face of birthday candles melted to stubs, Wax fused to buttercream.

I wish on those candles to lay on fresh soil

And melt into the soft grass hydrated from a summer storm

Speckled by pink and periwinkle blooms,

And the sky will be a deep deep gray

Yet the light still evermore bright

Will cast an orange gleam across my face.

But I cannot lie, peaceful, within the earth

For her body has perished through my youth

And all that is left behind by the aluminum fire

Is burning asphalt and close-cut lawns

Blessed by the occasional yellow flower

Donned a weed and set ablaze.

For now I wear the weed in my hair

A crown of blooms upon my being

As I sit at the head of a scratched up table

The fire on the cake burning away the year,

Burning away the devil’s tears

Burning away the path back home.

It leaves me no other way forward

But deep into the gloom of age

Down an artificial, man-made road

As giggling children watch through eyes glazed,

Laughing off the terrors of a life unlived

As a sixteen—no, seventeen-year-old melancholy.

These Homecoming Rituals

Once September burns out and all that is left are the cool cigarette-butt evenings no longer sizzling with languorous summer stone-beams, As the shrewd harvest moon and eclipsing monolith moments of the summoned October make lines of thought twist in the way of a cobra under a snake charmer,

People flock like starving geese to water except it’s blazing bonfires and sleazy parties littered with tear-wet corsages meaning nothing and everything.

Picture book scenes of hot chocolate and fires and red-leafed wind-gusts are played by as winter’s crooked fingers start to hook down from the new shadows,

Thickening the campfire smoke heavy with the ashes of the summer’s flimsy failed flings clearing lungs but fogging heads to clear the way for heartbreak,

As the gray nights start to harden and the inevitable emptiness of glowing summer stubs comes stalking quick and quiet, everyone seeks those mortal lanterns.

When getting ready for the blackening nights of blind cavorting and plastic decor every rib and eye-wing and slipshod cocktail drink is sharper,

A flurry of deals are made under the gilded table for everything tantalizingly forbidden that makes stomachs heave and memories blur with glittery flashes,

Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize for Poetry

And all yellow caution tape is blasted away in the heat of the crowd’s collective breaths revealing a minefield landscape embarked upon by the leathered suicidal.

Bothersome troubles are forgotten on the gold-sticky floor of someone’s mansion while rings twirl on fingers and float wispy under the ceiling fan,

The atrium is completely open while the rooms above full of diaries and undergarments are shut and locked to the uninhibited masses breaking mirrors below,

As plastic cups and hearts are filled to the brim and spilling on the marble floors only to be wrung dry by the next morning by hungry mouths.

The tortured youth of America can’t stand the consequences of their star-studded actions blazing across their collective conscious after being launched with fanfare,

Only to be shameful shotgun shells buried under azalea bushes in manicured backyards avoided like plagues until next season brings more reasons to drown,

When once again deepest connections are made under the blue-tinged witching moon only to be ignored afterward in accordance with these feverish homecoming rituals.

Imaginary Woman

Walking as straight as I can tossed and turned by the force of the crowd, my feet unstable. A shoulder shoves into mine somebody shouts an apology one I cannot respond to for their backs are already fading into the myriad of people in front of me.

I think of personal space bubbles we learned of in kindergarten, and how mine feels broken into, encroached upon.

A head full of tawny hair thin-set shoulders and freckles on the back of the neck

I study the woman who walks in front clutching her small bag as if it were a child to be lost any second. Ha.

I imagine her face, how her eyes would be a deep coffee brown shimmering and intelligent and her cheeks would be fleshy and round like apples youthful and red. She would be frowning her lips pressed together in a cute and contemplative way her mind elsewhere as she braved the hot stuffed roads of New York.

The woman turns her eyes are a striking grey and her cheeks are sallow and dotted with blemishes. The woman is smiling brightly, her lips stuck to her upper teeth in a lovely grin. Something has delighted her.

The woman halts her step looks up at the building on our right large and old. She has stuffed her phone deep in her back pocket, leans forward to read a sign on the door. I hear the grumbling of a child’s whine wheedling in my left ear the mother shushes aggressively and I continue down the sidewalk which has started to smell. Away from this stranger, away from my imaginary woman.

Steady & Chickadee

September 7th, 2023

To My Steady One,

It’s been a while since I’ve called you that, hasn’t it? I wanted to reach out to you, although, the last thing I want is to be a bother. So please, don’t feel pressured to respond to this letter. I just want to know if you’ve tried it because I have.

I went to see her today, she is bright and brilliant and grinning from cheek to cheek. It feels chilly, I’ve forgotten how cold Michigan can be compared to Florida, oddly enough. She is so happy to be three years old, she is so precious and beautiful. Her hair is drawn in pigtails and she’s wearing her little flower power dress—I nearly cry when she hugs me. This moment smells of September’s autumn leaves and her bubblegum shampoo. You snap a picture of us on your camera, and I ask you to take another one because she was sticking her tongue out. You smile that charming smile of yours and tell me you’re going to frame the photo anyway once you develop the film. You say it captures our daughter too authentically not to. She is jumping up and down next to me, anxious to get to school. We wave goodbye to you, and you wave back, grinning vibrantly with admiration. Her tiny fingers grip mine and we make our way down the windy sidewalk shaded by oak trees turned orange on our way to her first day of preschool. A few yellow school buses pass by, except they’re not yellow—they’re lellow, she tells me. The lellow buses lollygag their way down the road and she eagerly chases after them on the sidewalk. She kindly waits for me to catch up and takes my hand. I look in her eyes and I see you.

I wonder if you ever think about me and our sweet one, Steady. Or if you’ve already burned our memories like the way you used to burn our toast. Whatever choice you make, I want you to know that I love you and that I have never loved anyone else.

September 20th, 2023

Happy Birthday To My Chickadee,

Although I don’t know if it will still be your birthday when you receive this letter. Seventy-eight years old, where have the years gone? Do you remember your eighteenth birthday? My goodness, we were so broke! Living in New York City was no cheap thing.

We had only been going out for a month but I knew even then that I wanted to marry you. We ate street hotdogs covered in mustard. Then we walked to Central Park, it was quite chilly and I gave you my hat. Do you remember when I told you that I loved you? And you held me like I was a flower against your chest? I remember it just fine.

Thank you for reaching out. I have yet to try what you speak of. It feels strange to do so, to tamper with something so delicate. And yet here I am thinking about you and what used to be. I miss your birdlike laugh and your blonde hair. I miss our youth and the way it felt like the city was ours. But most of all, I miss you with her. You two were always meant to be. It’s a shame things have turned out the way they have, because if I could turn back time, I would. But that wouldn’t be right.

Don’t be a stranger, Chickadee. Continue to write, and I’ll continue to read.

- Yours, and Forever Steady

November 23rd, 2023

My Steady One,

Thank you very much for the birthday wishes, I miss you dearly! I will continue to share, but I ask you again to consider trying this. It can help you as it has helped me. This new technology they’ve come out within the past few decades is really no joke. I mean is it really so bad to just–Remember?

Today is sweetie’s ninth Thanksgiving. We are painting finger turkeys for the families in Sunday church. Her little brows are strained with concentration, hunched over the dining room table with the determination of a bee and its honeycomb. I smell turkey and cornbread wafting from the kitchen before I see you. While you taste a sample of gravy over the stove, I watch. You, who is as concentrated as she is. As though I am looking at mirror images of the same person when I glance between two different corners of the room. You are both so passionate about your individual tasks, and at this moment I know who she’s taken the most after. I love this feeling, the warmth in my soul, realizing I’ve made it. I am home.

I was home. I want to go back, Steady. One of these days you have to come back with me. It may not be a permanent solution to our problems, but it could help us. I want you to experience what I have, I need you to know what it’s like. You’re the only one who understands. No—you’re the only one that has ever understood. You’ve always been my rock, an anchor keeping me grounded in the largest of storms. Steady. I need you back. We can gather around the fireplace and admire the photographs on the mantel. We can watch our daughter grow. You can make dinner for us every night and we’ll never get too caught up in the moment like we used to. This time we can cherish each one. You know as well as I do that nothing lasts forever. But now there’s a possibility that everything can. Here’s your chance to turn back time.

- Your Chickadee

November 30th, 2023

To Chickadee,

The day is almost a month away. You want to experience the good things until it comes to the bad—and that’s exactly what’s wrong with this whole thing. Life doesn’t work that way and it never will. What has happened will never be undone. No amount of “neurological rewiring” can change that.

I remember we were dancing in the street days before our wedding. Do you? You sang in tune with the songs of the city and spun me around like no one was watching. We were like herons in flight. And as quickly as the memory became something sweet, it quickly soured. The red Chevy Camaro ripped past, a puddle of gutter water painting our clothing and face with grime. It was disgusting. But it sure as hell didn’t ruin our night. It brought us closer together, united in filth. We laughed down the street on the way back home.

And I’m not saying what happened is comparable to something as minuscule as that night. I’m also not suggesting that what tore us apart can just as easily be “laughed off.” I just want you to try and see things the way I do. That night in the street was fun for both of us, good and bad. Don’t you think our lives can be the same way too? We can acknowledge and remember what has happened and still continue to live on anyway. With you by my side, Chickadee, we can dress the wounds that damaged us so deeply all those years ago.

Please come see me, - Your anchor being drawn

December 4th, 2023

To Steadiness,

I will come to you on one condition—you go and see her. I genuinely believe that after you see our daughter’s face and brush strands of fallen hair out of her eyes, your mind will be changed. Until then I will wait, and fill my moments seeing her.

She’s being adventurous today. We’re ice skating and she’s lapped us multiple times! I realize how glad I am that we enrolled her in those lessons, she’s taken to it so quickly. We joke about her being the next Olympic champion but it feels real to us. The chill of the ice fills my nose, I can smell the cinnamon and hot chocolate from distant food stands. It feels good to be celebrating winter. I can’t remember why this season used to feel so solemn but it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is watching the sweet one go; only twelve years old and she’s already managed to learn how to jump on ice? Insane! We cannot wait to see what else she will accomplish. Remember?

December 25th, 2023

To My Love,

I waited until the time was right and then scheduled an appointment. I want to visit her on Christmas. And I’m sorry it took me so long to realize how much I’ve missed you. But something I will never do to you is lie. There’s no guarantee that this experience will change the way I feel about this procedure.

The doctor’s office is cold and sterile, and I have to admit that I’m scared. I’m scared that I remember the wrong day. I can’t go through that twice. The doctor takes me back into her operating room. She lies me down and tells me to relax, then administers the gas into my nostrils.

It smells like plastic gift bags. Our daughter is smiling ear to ear. She’s opening the gift I prepared for her, a pair of jeans. They’re the ones she’s been wanting for months. The dark wash flare jeans with pink butterfly detailing on the pockets, the ones she said every thirteen-year-old girl needed. They’re the pants she was wearing when—

It smells like pine trees. My sweet one is playing in the snow. We watch her with mugs of peppermint hot chocolate in both of our hands. She looks so happy playing, even by herself. I draw you against me and sip my cocoa. Now she’s doing cartwheels in the snow, my goodness! I tell her to slow down, but she trips and falls onto the ground. Careful sweetie! The snow can be slippery! I say. She smiles and climbs to her feet, continuing her gallop around the yard. I need to warn her—

It smells like popcorn. My sweet one is asleep in my lap and you’re sitting next to me. We tried doing a Christmas movie marathon but she fell asleep before the first film was five minutes in. We watch anyway, holding hands under the blankets. I kiss your forehead and you smile. We’ve raised the happiest little girl. I look down at her blank expression, features unmoving in her state of unconsciousness. It looks oddly familiar.

My heart is pounding when I wake to the doctor’s eyes looking down into mine, confusion written across her face. There’s blonde hair spilling out of her braid. In another universe,

I think she could’ve been our Amy.

I hope you forgive me Chickadee, for I’m just being honest when I say this. It will never be the same. Come to New York.

I love you, - Steady

P.S. Central Park, New York, New York 12:00 pm

The day is December 31st; Steady waits on their bench in the park. When Chickadee arrives there is silence until Steady stands. They fall into each other’s arms, rattling one another with their shared sobs. Words cannot describe four decades of loneliness and regret, so they don’t even try to speak. After what feels like years, the pair sit on their bench. They wipe stray tears off of one another’s cheeks and prepare to address the inevitable. Today was the day they lost their daughter forty-one years ago.

“I have something for you,” Steady says, breaking the silence. A picture is drawn from Steady’s wallet, and Chickadee recognizes it immediately. It’s their sweet one on her first day of preschool, sticking her tongue out toward the camera, the picture definition of toddler spunk. Chickadee stands beside their baby, holding her little hand, and smiling with pride. Below the photo is a date, scrawled in black marker. September 7th, 1972.

“Oh, my precious girl,” Chickadee says, her voice breaking under the pressure of grief.

“It’s ok.” Steady whispers, gripping Chickadee in support. “It’s all going to be ok.”

“I want to remember here, not in some sterile doctor’s office anymore,” Chickadee says, sniffling softly. “I’m ready to talk about her now.”

Sunsets

Liliana Mahdi

dear friend, i look to the horizon, sunsets of orange, blue, and you a beautiful palate

dear family, to come from the same womb does not mean we are congruent i am an orange in an orchard of apples

dear friend, puzzle piece found laughter always around never leave me

dear family, entangled in sickness and health in darkness or enlightenment the sunset can’t change entrapment

dear friend, are you lost?

colors don’t light up the sky night is here

dear family, he closed his eyes for the last time, who knew dad cries too? the orchard weeps

dear friend, my white eyes are laced in red it has been night for months shine for me please, he’s dead dear family, apples, i didn’t expect, shine in the dark

dear friend, i stare deep, praying the sun rises, for it to set to see blue or orange or you what is left…

The night sky, will come when my friend goes down in the west, and if the sun never rises or sets, who is left..

i have my orchard in sickness and in health,

dear friend, Your sunsets were a blessing but sunsets do not stick around for death

Ending

Last week

My Eyes turned on me.

They used to observe a kind and intelligent mankind

They used to shut and sleep obediently

But now

My Eyes puff and swell, I almost can’t see They cry from sights grim

And at night, They lie wide open I begged Them not to turn on me

Today

I think They sent a message to me

My Eyes showed me that They were tired of leaving sights unseen.

Ignorance in the sake of peace, was not the goal They wanted to reach.

Then,

My Eyes showed me something that I’m afraid I can’t repeat The message They sent Can only be seen

Since you really want to know, I’ll paint a picture with 1000 words.

But you’ll have to use your imagination and envision my picture painted with diction.

Think of your people

Your family, your country, your society

Or even people who simply speak your language

(For My Eyes and My Life this could be the Middle East)

Open instagram,

Now see the girl, she’s your age

Hair curly, eyes brown, فلسطیني

But from the bombs, she is covered in dirt

You watch her uncle attempt to console her

She’s crying because her dad died trying to get water and bread

And $14.3 billion work to prevent them

From living

Next,

She begs to God and pleads

So that maybe she could see

Her mom

But her mother is dead too

Now,

She’s an orphan,

Her parents lay under collapsed buildings

(Is it weird that girl looked just like me?)

It’s time to close instagram.

Life goes on,

And you need to get to history!

You got lucky,

Sit in your seat, not marked tardy

And the teacher puts on a movie

It isn’t what you expect

This is a documentary

About a struggling family

An immigrant family, they are refugees from Syria

(Is it weird that’s where my parents are from?)

The eldest daughter of the family is describing

The missile that destroyed her home, the bombs that demolished Aleppo, and now she’s crying

Mourning the tragic loss of her country, her society

(In this moment,

My eyes began to weep

But maybe that’s because I didn’t need to read the English subtitles

To understand her language,

Or maybe because

I know my cousins suffered the same loss,

Or maybe because my dad was born in Aleppo,

Or maybe because I have empathy.)

You look around the classroom

Your classmates are fine, you can assume

Most of them tried to ignore the TV,

Because the suffering of Syrians to them was a bore

Because one kid is playing minesweeper

And another is shopping for clothes that are prettier and cheaper

They don’t care about the blood or the violence, it’s just the American procedure

To never give a second thought to people who need a second home

To never give a second thought to people who don’t bleed red, white, and blue

School is almost over anyway,

And afterwards you’ll go to your grandparents

To eat yabra and shawarma

When you arrive,

You see a white sheet

Covering a long lying body

You’re watching your dad cry

Think of the girl on instagram,

Wonder how she did it

Dealt with the loss

All she knows is war and strifes, and her mother and her father are dead

Your grandfather lived a long life, yet tears are all you can shed

You observe the nose

That protrudes the linen that covers the body. And imagine they ask you to leave. And the only thing you can do is read Quran

(The body under the white sheet Fought in فلسطین In 1948 and the 1970s)

So,

That is what My eyes see

When they turn on me

I beg Them to go blind

It hurts so much, I don’t want to watch anymore

But My Eyes are simply having sympathy And suffering from comprehending these atrocities

Because I wanted peace of mind, I received My Eyes’ cold shoulder

But My Eyes are rogue soldiers

Who fight against violence and lies

Last week, My Mouth turned on me

Its color used to be a rosy red

And It used to respond with wit and laughter

But now,

As I focus and decipher messages from my eyes, It lays slightly limp and open

And It is chapped and hopeless

As if It died a sudden death

My mouth lies under a white sheet

Quickly, my limbs and my head began to follow

My muscles were filled with sorrow

I was sore and I ached and I bled

And My mind was clinging onto its last thread

They aren’t turning on me

They are comprehending

The world ending

The people ending

The humanity ending

I am comprehending

The world ending

My world ending

My people ending My humanity ending

Ode to the Department of Education

Does truth bring forth an eager light?

Or, rather, do those paltry few

Who see it, recede into

The cracks of a history they wish to rewrite?

What of the children, dichotomous words nourishing Jefferson’s ‘tree,’

Only falling together as each branch is adroitly pruned

And, now, as a symphony, their accordant voices in tune

Until it has become foreign to be free.

There is no gift unto life; no life unto birth

Where tempered steel is pressed against the throats of children

Their unquestioning arms outstretched, emaciated and thin

When the ‘meek’ have inherited the Earth.

When, row upon row, their facsimile faces are lined

Against the galvanized steel wire of a chain link fence,

And when they say: “No foot was placed nor arm braced in their defense,”

Are they to write we invisible few were resigned?

Would they lay flowers upon your grave?

Or would their dull, dismal eyes foresee,

That they, too, would wither into the same dejected obscurity

That shrouds the unwritten history of the brave—

The brave who looked past the veil, unto Liberty’s silhouette;

And tried to cast light unto the dark void before

The cold iron’s burn and the jester’s laugh implored

Their shackles, thought acast, to drag them further yet.

Whose hand will bring ink to the vacuous pages—

The meek’s eager grin and our prideless fall—

Who among us will be remembered, if any at all,

If we bring no light to our children’s cages?

Gipson Brown

Today I woke in a damp back alley tasting of salt and blood and regret and freedom ripping away at the flowering white weeds growing in the sidewalk crack.

I thought about how strongly she hated me and loved me and kissed me and beat me and sucked me into the swirling vortex that was her—doomed and endless.

I thought about every time I saw her brow pinch and her lips bleed as she puzzled endlessly over the bills and recipes and how her wrists bled a month later.

I thought about how she lost her lock-jawed father deep in a foreign desert where his time-ground bones haunted her frequent feverish dreams. I thought about how she loved babies and children—how in each one she saw an unbroken version of herself to feed and love and take care of.

I thought about her worn stack of records—Springsteen, Croce, Taylor, and Petty all cradling her softly when she cried and was suffocated by her fears.

I thought about how she broke her back daily and nightly under the feet of two bosses to free herself from the iron debt that cost her wide-eyed innocence. I thought about how she would laugh and cry and grip my face in passion after reading more of Ginsburg and Bukowski—her other lovers.

I thought about how she liked to paint her nails red—cherry, wine, bloody red that hid the dirt and gore always under the tips of her quick fingers.

I thought about how she shone when she moved away from her resentful mother and moved home with me into a dusty, leaky, and hopeful apartment.

I thought about how all her life her mother made her grow her honey-blonde hair far past her wineglass-stem waist, and how she shaved it after leaving.

I used the last of my coins to play Blue Oyster Cult on the neon bar jukebox.

Today I bought white flowers for a funeral—a girl I loved who decided 19 years was enough for her and carved her wrists to darken her claw-foot tub. That night after another amber drink in a clean-cut glass—scotch, her favorite—

My Dead American Girl

Content warning: suicide

Sleep’s Sweet Abyss of Nothing

“I’m tired”

Sleep is the woman who shadows me. She is the only one who sees my exhaustion, Omnipresent and dragging me down, Dragging me into her tight embrace.

The bags that sit under my eyes grow deeper every day. I feel her weighty hands grab at me, pulling me down. Gripping each of my limbs, I feel like I’m sinking down into the earth each day, With every new burden piled on my shoulders, Closer to her.

My bones have become so heavy. I struggle to lift them, To find a reason to lift them

To move, every day. Her coaxing whispers of rest, Assurances of an absent mind entrap me.

I try to resist, I really do, But I am unsure if I can keep it up.

She’s too enticing, Promises of ease gnaw at my bones until I am too tired to object.

What if I succumb?

My eyes flutter closed. If it all goes away, Would that be so bad?

Sukaia Valley

A valley lies between two mountains--on one side, the city; the other, their graves. They call this rift Sukaia, where a veiling sea of fog hangs between two worlds, the present and the gone. Within the fog, lilies bloom in blackened shades, and their petals whisper death. Yet these flowers do not reside in soil cracked and stale, but nestle in silent groves of lush green. Here, men go to greet death with open arms, their spirits having been broken, minds conquered by their laments.

Life beat me down--day after day, time after time. Mother’s embrace no longer awaited me once she lay beneath the other side. The glossy bottom of a bottle was the only companion I had, but coffers drain and bottles break. I truly was alone now. With no relief left to guide me, I turned toward Sukaia Valley. Through its fog I would find the other side, where a mother waited for her son.

They say there is a village called Chōetsu, perched on a riverbank and shrouded by the weeping trees, that lies within the valley fog. It emanates a particular silence, one which lets men meet their end by the sovereignty of their own hand. You enter with a mind that’s gone, and, in peace, your body may join it. At the entrance of the valley, a lone stream is birthed, and winds into the forest wall--through the clasp of which none have returned. One must take a raft and guide it through the flowing road, where finally, they will come upon the banks of Chōetsu and find their peace. They say that in Chōetsu, you live until death takes you, going through the blissful tranquility of mindless days until the fog carries you unto the other side. And so, with ax in hand and raft in tow, I departed toward the valley. I do not know how much time has passed, gentle waters breaking calmly against the rough sides of the slipshod vessel. It could have been minutes, hours, days; time was lost as all else to the impenetrable fog. Even the river’s banks have long since disappeared, leaving me suspended in the middle of this tranquil void.

A slow creak breaks out beneath me, and my raft drags to a stop. I must have hit a shallow patch strewn with rocks. I take my ax and depart, wading across the water until I reach the hazy shore. Each direction seems equally aimless, so I walk deeper into the trees, leaving the river behind.

I come upon a clearing nestled deep within the soundless trees. A lone doe stands in the center, next to a lily darker than her dusky eyes. Her eyes settle onto me as I come through the periphery of the clearing. She remains calm, unafraid. Fog hangs over the clearing, sealing us into our own, isolated world.

We are not alone; a second set of eyes breaks the fog behind her, and the shroud reveals a mass of rugged fur bolting forth.

The doe is brought to the ground, the wolf’s bared fangs plunging toward her throat. My ax falls faster, a yelp resounds against the trees, and he falls beside the heaving doe. Soon the fog will carry him toward his peace, and he will be forgotten. She tries shakily to bring her legs beneath her, but quickly collapses back to the earth.

“Death is a gift here,” I say to the quivering doe. “I’m sorry.” I turn back toward the river, where I can escape this despondent scene of life.

A voice calls from behind me, “No.”

The doe is gone, a woman stands in her place. Black hair flows from translucent skin, a shimmering hand reaches toward her son.

“You call it a gift?” Her features harden, ink rivers of hair whip around her. “Death is no gift; it is a shackle. It is a bond you cannot break, but still you must fight.”

“I’m done fighting. I’ve fought every day of my life and it hasn’t made a difference. The only way there was for me to have control over my fate was to come here, and now I must let it take its course. It’s too late to turn back.”

“You say you are resolute to die, yet today you have fought for life. Today, you fought back the icy claws of death.”

I could make no reply to her, so I turn away. The figure is gone and the doe returns, quickly bounding off into the forest.

The fog begins to dissipate, I feel the warm rays of sun breaching through the thinning haze. Light embraces the forlorn lily, catching the drops of dew that dance within its blossom.

Content warning: child trafficking

Ukiyo

Literally, the term ukiyo means “Floating World.” However, it is also a homophone (a word that is written differently but sounds the same when spoken) with the Japanese term for “Sorrowful World.” -ThoughtCo.

I was stolen from my home when I was five. It was rainy the day they came to the house. My mother was chopping Enoki mushrooms, a broth boiling over our old, archaic stove. Papa was outside and rushed in, his straw sandals and samu drenched from the rain pounding on the Cyprus roof, churning the muddy Earth just beyond the threshold of the ajar front door.

“Someone is here. I think it might be for her.” Papa looked at me, and the spoons I was playing with went still. I didn’t understand much, but I understood that something was wrong.

My composed, sure-footed, mother, who never yelled, never hurried, suddenly flung into action, her eyes wide, an animalistic rush coursing through her. Her composure torn from her, she whispered to me, “Hide, Hikari. Hide.”

I ran to the only bedroom in our small Minka, and I bolted to the big oshiire and I slid the door shut over me, the only perceivable light dim, and a sickening orange glow coming from beyond the sheer closet door.

From beyond the bedroom door, I could hear the muffle of voices, talking to Mama and Papa. A man and a woman, speaking too quickly for me to catch much.

“–don’t have a daughter.” Mama’s voice was level, and calm, but it was sharper than usual.

“You wouldn’t be lying, would you, chīsana Kaori?” The woman spoke quietly, slickly, her voice was soft, easy, and smooth as a sanded-down board.

“I have nothing to hide, Masako. Your threats don’t scare me. You don’t own me anymore.” Mama spoke clearly. Unafraid of the smooth-voice woman.

I could hear the woman scoff. “If you are so sure you have nothing to hide, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I had a look around.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“You will not have a look around.” Mama’s voice quavered ever so slightly, I could imagine her just barely breaking face.

“I wasn’t asking, chīsana Kaori.” I then heard a squabble, bash, and dash of feet, falling chairs, and shattering plates. I heard a small cry come from Mama, a grunt from Papa, and some more falling plates and pans.

I heard footsteps walking back through the Minka, slowly clicking across the tatami mats leading back to the bedroom. I held my breath as I heard the steps grow louder and the crashes in the background die down. I was afraid.

I heard someone break the silent sanctity of the bedroom, a being filling the space with a noxious, deadly thickness. A dense syrup I could almost swim through if I wanted to. I felt suspended, crouched behind the thin pane of the oshiire door. I could see a shape form outside, a silhouette of a woman, tall, daunting, an impending edifice of doom.

The door slid open, so quietly, barely making a sound. “Hello, little one.” A woman, around the age of fifty, with porcelain crisp pale skin, reached down to grab me, her arms outstretched in a crooked embrace.

I screamed. Thrashing my arms, shaking my head, kicking my feet in every direction, feeling that if I was loud enough, she couldn’t touch me. That she wouldn’t touch me. I was sorely mistaken.

She whisked me up like air, effortlessly caressing me against her bosom. As easy as taking candy from a baby.

Still, I shook, screaming incessantly. But she remained unfazed, a blissful, serene smirk plastered against her face. She had won.

We walked out of the bedroom and down the hall where I saw my parents sprawled on the floor, my father, unconscious, lying face down by some of the counters in the kitchen. Mama lay curled in a ball by the small cushions and overturned chabudai. Smears of blood painted the oak floor a warm crimson.

I screamed louder at the sight of Mama on the floor. Tears rolled down my face, my eyes burning.

“Take me instead, Masako. Anything. Just don’t take her.” Mama whines from the floor, stretching her arm to try to touch the woman’s leg.

The woman kicks her hand away. “No one wants you anymore. No one ever did.” “Please.”

The woman laughed, “The house always wins. You know that, chīsana Kaori.” The woman started walking toward the door, me still in her arms, “Make sure you clean this up before leaving, Isamu.” She nods to the man standing above Papa. He nods in return.

“I will find you again, my Hakami.” I hear Mama whisper from her place on the ground.

That was the last time I ever saw my parents.

I lived in a paradise. In an Ukiyo.

I lived in a paradise of red. Of blossom parasols, sakura, and bonsai trees. I lived in a paradise of okobos and oshiroi, in a glimmering, gleaming, Eden of ecstasy. I lived in a sea of whites, florals, and flush kimonos, hakamas sprinkled like firecrackers within a motley. Girls walked the streets, their obis tight, drawn close, sealing them like a present, almost too delicate to unwrap. That’s what the first man–Minato–told me.

“I don’t deserve a present like you.”

“You do, Masutā Minato.” I spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. I was afraid.

“You are like a moth. Harmless, quiet, delicate. That’s what I’ll call you. Ga.” He ran his large fingers over my porcelain-painted skin. Shadows from the andons danced around the ryokan room, the herbal smell of green tea intermingled with the lingering smell of soba and onigiri. I felt sick, the feeling of thick, unclean bile in the pit of my stomach, climbing up the walls of my esophagus and lower throat.

He got up, uncrossing his legs, and walked over to the andon to blow the candle out. I could hear a storm outside, the crash of thunder, the whip cracks of lightning. The room went dark. The shadows stopped dancing. It was my cue to start.

“Take your kimono off, Ga.”

The clouds are even more beautiful when you understand what their stories are.

I’ve grown to learn them over time, over the years. They have been my friends, my compatriots of a sort. Their bumbling, endearing obtuseness, and blissful simplicity, all too surreal to be from a world as concrete as our own. They come from their own Ukiyo. A private world above the demeans of our lives, transcendent of our trivial troubles.

But I have also come to learn that an Ukiyo isn’t always as straightforward as it seems.

The clouds, however soft, delicate, perfect, there is always another side to see, another angle to view, a narrative to inspect. The clouds aren’t always so beautiful, so glistening and gleaming, all high and mighty in their floating Ukiyo. Sometimes it storms. Tempestuous, temperate, tumultuous trysts of thunder, strikes of lightning, caustically out of character for the harmless, quiet, delicate clouds. I hate it when the lightning cracks the sky and the sun hides its porcelain face behind a powdery mask of soot gray storm. But yet the storms come, and they pass. Then they come again stronger. Again, and again, ceaselessly persistent until the storm eventually wins. I have come to learn the storm always wins.

Now as I sit on a bench, high up high, atop a mountain just West of Yamanakako, I look at the clouds, confronting the faces of my friends. I hopefully won’t ever have to see them again. Meet their eyes, feel their pain. It’s hard living in an Ukiyo all on your own.

It looks like it might storm, but for some reason, I’m no longer afraid.

Maybe this time, it will be the last.

Getting

a call (I’m going to die.)

I’ve never seen my mother cry like this. Normally, it’s only a couple tears that slide down, following the garden path of her wrinkles. Despite this, I’ve heard this sort of sob, behind closed doors, at church, and in fading memories of my childhood.

Once, when I was much younger, I cut all the hair off a chubby blonde baby doll. I still remember the way the doll’s spiked hair looked like a bunch of toothbrush bristles. I have a memory of hiding beneath a bed in the bathroom, but there was no bed in the bathroom, so I don’t entirely trust my recollection. What I know for sure, though, was that I was crying, and she was crying, even harder than me. She was upset because it was one of her childhood dolls, with the blonde curls, hair she must have brushed with kind and controlled hands at my age.

I was crying because I knew she was upset, and I felt ashamed. And I think I was crying, at least a little bit, because I didn’t know why I did it.

Now, in the car, I am struck by how young her sobs sound. They whine and fill her nose, making her sound like she’s underwater. Even more, I start to realize that her sobs sound exactly like mine. And when she pauses, breathing hard to speak, I have never felt the grief of another person so much, as if it was mine.

“Momma, I just wanted to let you know that I love you and that I’ve always been so grateful for the life you provided, before and after Dad—” and then she just continues to weep. We are parked outside a college, and I’m supposed to go inside for an interview, but I instead contemplate the way I am doomed to repeat this scene, but instead of watching the phone call, I’ll be having it. It’s too much to bear; I’ve never been good at emotional vulnerability, but our twin sobs fill the car. My mother, because her mother is dying, and me because my mother’s mother is dying, but even more than that, because one day my mother will follow and then I will follow and the cyclical nature of life looks me in the eyes.

Dementia: Ballad of the Breaking Mind

“Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, And naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord.” – Job 1:21 And blessed be the cross, Perched not upon the vacant casket, But in the arms of one who still may clasp it, As if a bulwark against the very loss.

Yet we mourn a death regardless, The death of the still-living, Who breathes yet; speaks yet; Meets your eyes with her own yet Is stripped of all perception.

The Lord giveth our governance, But lose the yesterdays and morrow, Lose yourself—not to sorrow, Not to pain nor mind astray, But the drag and ebb of numb decay.

To the unseen, viperous sting, Of memories that persist in other minds Than the one they belonged. In death delayed a life prolonged, And all the anguish lucidity can bring.

So meet every bated breath, moan and sigh And watch, disarmed, the long goodbye. Winner of

An Old Kind of Love

Callie Snow

April 9, 2003

The day they became Emilia and Benjamin Woods. Not separate, never apart, named as if they were one. 70 and 68.

She with her sun-kissed, soft skin, nails bitten too short to scratch.

He with his calloused palms, face hard-set in a frown from years of use. They were so different. They had lived lives that were so distant.

Yet, they loved each other so. Despite their flaws, Wrinkles, Saggy skin, Bad hearing, Worsening sight, Their eyes still shone with passion for everything the other said and did.

He looked at her like she was the only one in the world. She looked at him the same.

She told me of his quirks, How his left eye has two more crows feet than the right And when he smiles,

An old scar Caresses the corner of his mouth.

Even as her eyes grow foggy, She remembers all the details that make him, him.

He told me how he saw her studying him, how attentive she was. Her eyes following patterns of him that She knew by heart. She gazed at him and he gazed back, No matter how much he aged and his memory started to fade, he can never forget. He will never forget, for she is unforgettable to him.

Emily and Ben believed it was never too late to love, so I believed it too.

Colophon Masthead

The Rough Draft is a student-led extracurricular.

Volume 23’s 250 copies were created using Adobe InDesign CC 2024. The magazine was printed by Allegra Print • Signs •Design. The fonts used were Adobe Caslon Pro and Miller Headline. The photograph featured in the cover is by Claire Wu, and the cover was designed by Delaney Miller.

As in previous years, the publication received submissions in two waves—the first deadline being November 17, 2023 and the second being February 16, 2024. The staff selects work based on the quality of the piece, overarching thematic harmony, and a diversity of authors; furthermore, every piece is evaluated blindly by replacing author names with two-letter codes, stymying reader bias.

The Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize is open to students in grades 11 and 12. The Creative Writing Awards are awarded in upper and lower divisions, as the contest is open to all grades. These award winners are determined by the English department faculty. Each submission is blind-read and voted on in a series of rounds.

All work must be published with the author’s name and must adhere to the Flint Hill School community standards. Pieces are edited for grammar, and formatting is standardized throughout the publication. If the staff see fit, content warnings will appear with pieces that depict difficult themes.

Thank you to the writers, poets, photographers, and artists who contributed to this year’s edition. A very special thank you to our faculty advisor, Dr. Christine Allred, whose endless support was crucial to the creation of this year’s edition.

Editor-in-Chief

Delaney Miller

Senior Editorial Board

Andrew McKee

Katherine Nurik

Olivia Phelps

Layout & Design

Cormac Kaplan

Delaney Miller

Olivia Phelps

Copy Editing

Andrew McKee

Katherine Nurik

Editorial Staff

Isabella Bloom

Meissa Islam

Jennifer Kim

Saanvi Lamba

Amber Li

Liliana Mahdi

Maya Manghat

Grace Semko