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2025 Fall Contest Winner: Hug It Tight
Bella Burnett '28 I asked you, when will I know? When will I be “that” person? When will I be the one with those brilliant ideas, The kind that rush out of people so strongly and quickly, But yet are still so detailed, and meticulously perfected in a blink of my eye. My eye that struggles to see, but still wants to try, I put on my glasses but yet I still find myself asking, When will I be proud? Time blows away, The wind carries what could have been, It’s off somewhere with
Oct 10, 20251 min read
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POETRY
The End
Emmeline Chiang '26 The gates creak open with dusty fervor, stale earth wafting from scrawling, sprawling lines. You touch fingers to your lips and breathe the rustling paper of once-crisp leaves. Forty two sentences seated you fall is like a flaming mockingjay perched atop its green pining for a green light across the bay window. Beware, it says, a shadow runs this gladed maze not unlike the buzzing whisper of indolent horseflies— all those who wander are lost. You, however
“Not beauty as in beauty but”
Giah Sharf '26 Not beauty as in an exclamation from the man on the other side of the street, As in the illumination of my sister’s eyes while she shares about her day. As in joy. As in walking through a gallery the bright light creating a piercing contrast between the work and the pristine white walls. Not as in the low chatter from others, discussing how beautiful , as in the way the colors interact, as in the heart, weighed down with rocks and boulders of sentiment,
Untuned
Sylvie Harrington '26 Guitar, its skin scarred with paperclip cuts, that hole of soft darkness in the center beckoning warmth like a nest. Birds sing there, ringing out their tunes from the hollow. They grow in volume, their sweetness a crescendo. Stoic white daylight invades this room and I hear Folsom Prison Blues, smell cream chipped beef and coffee. Guitar, its long dark neck etched with flaxen gold bands, shining bangles on someone’s tan arm. Hair flips and spins,
A Waltz With The Beast
Arden Silver '27 The strange little teapot says: he’s not truly like this, that there’s beauty underneath. She must see deeper than I. For who finds beauty in whetted claws, bristled fur, pointed fangs? Beauty, is in the books in the grandiose library the beast hides away. Beauty, is in the ethereal rose bushes confined in the walls of the castle gardens. Beauty is my name. The beast perplexes me. Invites, no– demands me to dinner, a
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