Reflections Literary & Art Magazine 2025

Reflections Literary & Art Magazine 2025

1

Inside Cover Art

REFLECTIONS

LITERARY & ART MAGAZINE

2025

Concord-Carlisle Regional High School

500 Walden St

Concord, MA 01742

Phone: (978) 318-1400

Concord. Boston. Massachusetts.

FROM THE EDITOR

These are more than just places on a map—they are spaces we

share, neighborhoods we know, homes that quietly connect us. Yet,

when we look inward, we each carry a different definition of home.

The landscapes of our minds and the architecture of our hearts are

uniquely shaped by memory, identity, and imagination.

As you turn the pages of this issue, we invite you to step inside

those inner worlds—spaces both familiar and strange, tender and

tumultuous. Every poem, every story, every image offers a window

into someone’s sense of belonging, longing, or becoming.

Welcome home.

Emmi Taylor, Editor in Chief, Class of 2026

Cover Art: Between Then and Now by Ava Hood Class of 2026

Inside Cover Art: Concrete by Kai Biddle Class of 2025

3

Reflections Club

Reflections Literary-Art Magazine is an annually published, studentproduced

literary-art magazine. The magazine features art, photography,

and writing created by members of the Concord Carlisle High School

community. Each issue is an open public forum for student expression

under the guidance of a student-led Editorial Board and adult faculty

advisers. Reflections began in 1961 as The Dial. Over the years, the name has

changed but the spirit of celebrating literature and art lives on as we revive

this publication for years to come.

Our Staff

Jamie Andrade - Faculty Advisor

Laurel Stuart - Section Editor

Natalie Vetro - Design Editor

Maya Ostrom - Marketing & Promotions

Emmi Taylor - Editor in Chief

Mena Sheth - Associate Editor

Linda Holt - Faculty Advisor

4

SPECIAL THANKS

We would like to give special thanks to the teachers and administrators who

have helped us grow and connect with out peers across campus, linking

literature and art across the curriculum.

Our Administrative Team

Katie Stahl - Co-Principal

Brian Miller - Co-Principal

Dr. Darius Green - Vice Principal

Megahn Maines - Vice Principal

Our Teachers

Dora Golding- English Department Head

Jennifer Bounts - NCTE Essay Contest and

Paula Sorois Contest Advisor

Joseph Pickman - Visual and Performing Arts

Chair

Untitled

Sophie Redmond, Class of 2027

5

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LITERATURE

Kindred Spirits: How Anne of Green

Gables Shaped Me...........10

Hana Baldini, Essay

The Itch...........12

Elizabeth Reiling, Poem

The Power Within The Pages...........14

Brooke Hosford, Essay

Violin...........23

Anyuu Fong, Poem

The Girl Who Was Made of

Sunlight...........27

Maya Ravichandran, Essay

Best Wishes, Clarice...........39

Claire Roeser, Essay

Wrong Place, Wrong Time...........49

Elizabeth Reiling, Poem

Gray Man...........50

Flora Lemon, Essay

Two Sentence Horror Stories..........68

Linda Holt, Marina Grein, Claire

Jennings, David Gu, Jeremayah Garcia,

Maggie Li, Dorina Enes, Katie

Dagenais, Mariana Cadavid, Isabel

Herrero

The Water, The Ring, and The

Machine...........73

Sonya Mellick, Narrative

Forgotten...........77

Harper Williston, Narrative

Amen...........82

Frannie Heh, Poem

Anxiety...........85

Caroline Eaton, Poem

Pomegranate...........88

Allison Sheppard, Poem

Dandelions in the Sidewalk...........96

Sonya Mellnick, Essay

Maritime Forest...........60

Evan Hultgren, Poem

Celestial Remedy...........62

Lucy Frank, Poem

6

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ART

Stationary...........9

Adam Feilds, Photograph

Untitled...........13

Elizabeth Cooke, Ceramic

Untitled...........16

Eve Dayton, Ceramic

Gold Key...........16

Roman Lin, Ceramic

Chasm Dawn...........19

Kai Biddle, Photograph

Reveal Your True Nature...........22

Allison Lu, Traditional Art

Let Fish Fly...........24

Oliver Dayton, Cordelia Egorova, Henry

Gaasch, Caroline Haskell, Elijah Hupe,

Ruby Kong-Pickman, Allison Lu, Elise

Overbay, Jay Perrotta, Polly Rivero,

Calista Wong, Elenor Yoshida, Asta

Shajenko

External Light...........31

Elijah Hupe, Acrylic

Untitled...........36

Calista Wong, Digital Art

Film Works...........37

Claire Roeser, Jackson Comperchio,

Theo Carey, Destiny Pires, Adam

Foulds, Elizabeth Thyne Film

Untitled...........38

Paulina Rivero, Acrylic

Mingyu...........42

Jamie Fu, Digital

Number One...........43

Agata Podolska, Alcohol Marker

Study...........46

Agata Podolska, Alcohol Marker

Sofia’s Collections 2...........47

Sofia Foster, Alcohol markers

Sofia’s Collection 4...........48


Bright Life 3...........55

Sonya Mellnick, Photography

Bloodborne...........59

Natalie Vetro, Digital

Homage to Gamepiece with a Dead

Heron...........60

Yvan Lipson, Watercolor

Unititled...........61

Jay Parrotta, Traditional Art



Fae of Fading Fancy...........64

Tessa Huston Fuller, Watercolor &

Color Pencil

7

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ART

Sofia’s Collection 1 & 8...........65

Sofia Foster, Alcohol markers &

Gouache

Shrek the Musical Flyer...........66

Calista Wong, Digital Art

Untitled...........68

Maya Ostrom, Digital Art

Orange Thoughts...........68

Elijah Hupe, Acrylic

Transparent Admiration...........69

Mahiya Bharath, Photograph

Framed Reflection...........70

Mahiya Bharath, Photograph

Untitled...........71

Maya Ostrom, Digital

Untitled...........72

Maya Ostrom, Digital

Bright Life 2...........76

Sonya Mellnick, Photograph


Sofia Foster, Alcohol Markers



Bright Life 1...........84

Sonya Mellnick, Photograph

The Hidden Mountains of

Beaverbrook...........86

Solon Murphy, Photograph

Untitled...........87

Gwendolyn Muno, Paint Pens

Statue Study II...........89

Tessa Huston Fuller, Watercolor

Stature Study I...........92

Tessa Huston Fuller, Japanese Ink Block

Bugs...........95

Gwendolyn Muno, Alcohol Markers

Untitled...........105

Elijah Hupe, Fibers

Untitled...........105

Sam Brock, Fibers

Untitled...........105

Heloisa Camargo, Fibers

Ping Pong Club Logo...........106

Pedro Nachbin, Digital

Chinatown: A Love Story...........107

Ava Hood, Photograph

Guardian...........81

Kai Biddle, Photograph

8

Stationary

Adam Foulds, Class of 2025

9

Kindred Spirits: How Anne of Green Gables Shaped Me

by: Hana Baldini, Class of 2026

Throughout my childhood, adults always told my parents how bright

and lively I was. I was bold and made my existence known to everyone. I

wanted to know everything about the world and everyone in it. One of

my parents’ favorite stories involves me approaching a girl my age and

asking to play, but her mom telling her to “stay away from the pushy

little girl.” My dad once told me that my mom cried over that event.

While I was a pathological liar, I was extremely open and honest with

everyone. I had a wild imagination and was unafraid to be me. I even

wore tiaras and princess dresses to the mall.

Growing up, I was a huge reader, which aligns with my curiosity at that

age. One thing I prided myself on was how avid and advanced a reader I

was. One of my favorite things to tell people was that my Kindergarten

teacher told my mom that I had the reading level of a 2nd grader. So, by

the time I reached 4th grade, I assumed that meant I had the reading

capabilities of a 6th grader. A middle schooler! And what do middle

schoolers read? Grown-up books. So I sat down at quiet reading time,

forcing myself to get through Little Women. Eventually, I called it quits. I

was a 9-year-old trying to read classic literature; I don’t blame myself.

But I’m too stubborn to give up. Frustrated by my shortcomings, I asked

my mom to buy me more classics, hoping one would click, which is how

I ended up reading Anne of Green Gables by L.M.

Montgomery, the only classic I've ever read outside of school. It was so

different from anything I had ever read. It felt modern, yet it had been

published over a century ago. I suppose that’s why it’s a classic, though.

I connected with Anne Shirley-Cuthbert instantly, as two kindred spirits

do. We’re both loud, lively girls. We’re passionate and love deeply. We

both share a favorite month of the year: We’re “glad [to] live in a world

where there are Octobers” (Montgomery 166). We try to be as nice as

possible to everyone, but we make it known when we think people are

mean.

10

Elementary School doesn’t last forever, though. By the time middle

school rolled around, tween years had hit me like a bus. Suddenly, I

wanted to be cool. I wanted boys to think I was cute. I wanted to have

cool friends and get invited to parties. This phenomenon wasn’t

exclusive to me either. Kids around me became self-conscious and

mean. We all started to worry about how others perceived us. Will

people think I’m cool if I wear my favorite shirt? Maybe not. As Anne

says, “It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are

fashionable” (Montgomery 320). I thought it would be easier to make

“cool” friends if I wore “cool” clothes and acted in a “cool” way.

Unfortunately, this ideology had the opposite effect on me.

By the time I entered 8th grade, the period in my life when Anne and I

had connected felt so distant that it was almost a dream. In the 4 years

it took to get from 9 to 13, I had traded my princess dresses for big

hoodies, my tiaras for ponytails, and my happy outlook on life for a quite

miserable one. That was easily the worst year of my life. It didn’t last

forever, though: “one can't stay sad very long in such an interesting

world” (Montgomery 190). There was one good thing about the hole I’d

crawled into: I had much time to read. While 8th grade was the

loneliest I’ve ever been, it’s also the most books I’ve read in a year: 98.

One of the books I read was Anne of Green Gables, and once again, I fell

in love with Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. I fell in love with the idea of being

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. I decided I wanted to live as she did: Amazed by

and appreciative of all the little things. Stubborn and True. I didn’t want

to be shackled by other’s opinions any longer.

It didn’t happen overnight, but I found myself again. Not every day is

perfect, but every day is a good day. While I don’t wear princess dresses

and tiaras to school, I’d say that I’m closer to the person I was at age

nine than I am to the person I was at 13. I love life. I love my friends. I

love my family. I love the world. I’m more mature than I was when I was

younger, but ultimately, “I'm not a bit changed--not really. I'm only just

pruned down and branched out. The real ME--back here--is just the

same” (Montgomery 383).

Hana Baldini, Class of 2026

11

Elisabeth Reiling, Class of 2027

12

Untitled

Elizabeth Cooke, Class of 2025

Untitled

Elizabeth Cooke, Class of 2025

13

The Power Within the Pages

By Brooke Hosford, Class of 2026

Step. Step. Step. Step after step- that was all seven year old me

understood about the Rwandan Genocide Remembrance walk. My

family and I had been staying at the Maranyundo Girls School in

Rwanda for about a month now and were walking with the entire

school to downtown Nyamata to commemorate the 22nd anniversary

of the Rwandan genocide. We sat for a service and went inside the

Church in Nyamata where 10,000 people had been massacred. As a

seven year old surrounded by older and wiser minds, I knew

something sad had taken place but I did not understand the

magnitude of the event we were remembering. I did not comprehend

that we were honoring the mass killing of nearly one million Rwandans

only about twenty years prior. Two months later, I was in Germany at

the Holocaust Museum learning about another mass killing and

remembering those who had died. For a long time after that,

“genocide” was a word in my head that I associated loosely with

destruction and death but I had no perception on the magnitude and

extent of the term. My experience with literature later in my life

allowed me to excavate my complicated feelings on these experiences

and historical events.

At seven years old, I was exposed to these awful events in history but

never unpacked what they meant. My seven year old mind was left to

grapple with the implications and impacts of these museums. Six years

later, I was handed The Sunflower in my eighth grade English

classroom. The Sunflower is an intense narrative about the author

Simon Wiesenthal’s experience at a concentration camp. For the first

time, I read about the Holocaust and the complex emotions that

brewed from that time period. Reading The Sunflower opened my

mind up to an array of important questions: I wanted to know how and

why Germany had gotten to that state and if there were other

moments in history that replicated those circumstances. The book also

challenged my preconceived notions about good and evil as it

proposed the question of forgiveness to those who committed crimes

under the Nazi regime because they were conforming to their orders

given to them by their government.

14

This debate forced me to widen my perspective on good and bad and

conveyed the truth that humans are universally dual creatures. I was

captivated by this topic and wanted to learn more, so I chose to read

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak for our independent reading unit. The

Book Thief tells the story of a young girl growing up in Germany under

the Nazi regime. The young protagonist, Liesel, steals books from a

mass burning of literature by the Nazis and teaches herself to read,

finding knowledge and power within the pages. The Book Thief piqued

my interest as I could see myself in the young girl in the story. Liesel

was an ordinary child who loved to read and was interested and

compassionate. However, her life circumstances restricted her ability to

learn and be a kid as she had been sentenced to a childhood of death

and destruction. I shared Liesel’s curiosity and willingness to learn, and

yet our entire lives were shaped by different backdrops that sculpted

our individual views of the world. While I was living in the “Concord

Bubble” and able to go to school every day, Liesel’s story was narrated

by death and her entire childhood was dictated by the actions and

discrimination of a fascist regime.

I felt an immense amount of empathy and curiosity while reading both

books which led me to my eighth grade Civic Action project in social

studies class. The topic of my project was genocide education,

specifically in the more modern genocides that do not get the same

amount of attention that the Holocaust does. I video called with girls at

the school in Rwanda we had visited to hear their perspectives on the

genocide and what steps could be taken to spread awareness of this

historic event. I became extremely invested in this project as it was no

longer an assignment to check off the list but a connection to students

across the world and to my past. If I had not read those books in eighth

grade, the topic of genocide would have still been a planted seed in my

mind fighting to sprout.

The literature gave that seed the water and light it needed to bloom

and grow and it sprouted a new curiosity and passion within me.

Brooke Hosford, Class of 2026

15

Untitled

Eve Dayton, Class of 2027

Untitled

Roman Lin, Class of 2027 - Gold Key

16

Those books helped me to understand the confusing and conflicting

messages I had received as a seven year old in a lens easier to digest as

a child and adolescent. Without the powerful tool of knowledge I

would have never unpacked those poignant moments in my past and

acknowledged my passion and interest in the topic.

On a broader scale, literature is an imperative weapon for the weakend

a formidable tool for all. Books are gateways to all kinds of worlds and

perspectives: some similar to one’s circumstances and more

importantly others that are vastly different. Literature heals in ways

that cannot be lost or dismissed. Books help children and adolescents

comprehend the world around them and instill empathy in one’s heart.

Knowledge is the ultimate class-breaker, and it provides healing and

hope for those born into challenging life circumstances. Those who do

not have the ability to get on a plane and see the world or afford a

high-class education can go to their public library and learn through

books. Throughout history, the theme of literature holding power has

remained true. Abraham Lincoln, one of America’s greatest presidents,

was born into horrible life circumstances and was entirely self-taught.

Lincoln did not have access to a formal education and lacked the

money to travel, but he had access to books, and in a sense it granted

him access to a whole new world: the world of knowledge. Lincoln

never stopped reading and he saw the true power and magnitude of

what one can learn from books. In the Civil War, Lincoln acted as a

military strategist and personally conducted the Union troops as he

struggled to find aggressive and passionate generals to carry out his

strategy. Lincoln had no prior military experience, and with the fate of

the Union at stake he turned to books. Lincoln read and studied the

history of military strategy and taught himself the art war. The United

States of America still stands today because of an uneducated person

who taught himself through literature: literature was the backbone

behind the Union’s preservation and the healing of our nation. Lincoln

is one of many who was able to break class barriers and succeed

through books and this power needs to be held in the highest regard.


17

The healing and powerful characteristics of knowledge reach across

class and country barriers to the entire world and it is imperative that

access to literature continues to increase.

Books instill power in the powerless and empathy in the apathetic. An

author can emote through words and the reader can then understand

and access all of these emotions. Reading moving stories teaches

readers how to feel and widens their perspective of the world. Hatred

often stems from ignorance and the implementation of literature into

one’s repertoire can remove such ignorance. The danger that modern

society faces is the threat of literature censorship. If one does not have

access to emotive literature, they lose the empathy gained from

reading and their perspective on the world narrows until they are only

fed one opinion and story. This single story life is dangerous: if a child is

only taught one side of a story they will never be able to understand

where the opposition is coming from and they will begin to generalize

and hate groups of people and places based on single actions in

history. If children are only ever taught that one thing is true and are

stripped of the important lessons of duality in humanity, future

generations will lose empathy for those born into differing life

circumstances. This dangerous resentment has already begun to brew

in our society as the country is divided on almost every issue possible:

one side refuses to agree with legislation or an opinion simply because

the other side supports it. Our judgments have become superficial and

American society has begun to make decisions based on party

affiliation and general opinion rather than analyzing the actual content

of the situation. If our society continues to censor powerful and

emotive literature from succeeding generations and only feed

students the single story, intense hatred and apathy will continue to

steep deeper into the roots of America. Censoring books not only

brews apathy, it also crushes the foundational American ideal of

breaking class barriers. The act of censorship destroys the very premise

of being an American: freedom of expression and the American Dream

that one can break social classes. If one is deprived of literature and

knowledge, they are restrained from a powerful class breaker crucial to

our country’s foundational values.


18

Chasm Dawn, Kai Biddle Class of 2025

19

Knowledge heals through its power to break the shackles of classes

and provide equity in broadening perspectives, but the censorship and

removal of literature damper this important power.

Widespread censorship has not just happened in America, it has

occurred throughout history especially when those in a position of

power want to control their people. The Book Thief is all about

censorship as Liesel steals books from a fire that is blazing because the

Nazi regime was attempting to censor German society. The Nazi

regime was burning all books that conveyed individual liberties and

any stories that they didn't want Germany to know about because the

knowledge lying within the literature would be too powerful in the

hands of citizens. Shi Huang Di acted similarly when he came to power

in China as he burned all Confucian texts because he wanted Chinese

society to conform to his ideals and not those of philosophers. Shi

Huang Di and the Nazi regime, among many others in history,

recognized the power that lies within literature, the power for hope

and healing, and they recognized that power was too great to give

their citizens when the government wanted extreme conformity to

their fascist values. The danger of censorship is timeless: censoring an

individual’s expression and access to knowledge is suppressing one’s

individual liberties and true identity. Books give hope to the hopeless

and this must not be taken away by the ignorant belief that censorship

will make America a better place. Students need to be exposed to the

harsh reality of the world that literature conveys in order for those

generations to be equipped to then go lead the world. As the world

continues to evolve and the stakes for keeping peace grow higher and

higher, the message of universal empathy and compassion is critical.

Through reaching across class barriers and poverty lines, literature

heals in unique ways that cannot be replicated by other forms of

media. Books hold timeless power and knowledge that if given to the

weak, it not only heals them it also grants them hope that cannot be

lost in the whirlwind of the modern world.

Empowered by the knowledge I gained from literature, I returned to

Rwanda last year at age fifteen. Returning back to the same school and

the genocide museum, I saw the scenes in a whole new light.


20

I was no longer a simpleminded seven year old walking down the streets

of Nyamata. I was armed with knowledge which allowed me to deeply

empathize and understand the exhibit and the struggles of the time.

While I am in no way experiencing a time or life paralleled to those

Rwandans in 1994, literature compelled me to feel for them on a level I

could’ve never imagined I would reach at age seven.

,Throughout my life, literature has constantly healed my anxiety and

piqued my curiosity. Books are a place I can escape to and allow myself to

relax for just a moment in the crazy world we live in. I read comfort books

every night in bed to help calm my mind and relax from the day.

Literature heals my anxiety of the day and upcoming week and allows me

to escape into a comfortable place. Simultaneously, books provide me

with the knowledge and capacity for empathy imperative to leading a

good life. Both The Book Thief and The Sunflower forced me to look

outside of my world and prompted hard moral debates that I have

grappled with ever since. Literature universally challenges one to look

beyond themselves and put themselves in the perspective of the story

and through this technique the author can powerfully convey a message

that fails to be delivered through other forms of media.

In our ever-changing world, we must not forget the healing and

grounding powers that literature holds. Books are not an object of the

past, they are not the zeitgeist of another time period, they are imperative

here and now. We all must fight the attempts to censor children and

future generations from certain literature as that only limits their capacity

for empathy and knowledge. The single story that results from censorship

is dangerous and destroys instead of heals, but if censorship can be

overridden the healing and hopeful power of literature can prevail.

Literature holds a prolific power to reach humans from all walks of life

and socioeconomic classes. We as a society must keep this light of books

alive and fight the forces that attempt to diminish it because as long as

the timeless flame of literature flickers, so does the hope and healing

power within its pages.


21

Reveal Your True Nature

Allison Lu, Class of 2025

22

Violin

By Anyuu Fong

Carved smooth.

Varnished gold.

Four pegs.

Four strings.

Sometimes, when the light reflects the fingerboard,

The smooth black surface reveals secrets, weathered by fingers,

Droplets of music, leaving dips on the fingerboard, marking every shift

Made from the rhythmic tapping of fingers against strings.

Fingerboard.

Sometimes, when the light streams into its hollow body,

You can see a glimpse of its father’s name engraved within.

Rarely do you get to see its heart - a marble-sized dustball

Rolling inside, containing echos of melodies

Made of rosin, woodchips, and dust.

Each layer made through vibrations of strings, a testament to its age.

Dustball.

Sometimes, when the light reflects its hourglass figure,

The varnished gold betrays, and the surface gives way to a handprint,

Faded from the years, as fingers and palms skim across wood.

Pale lines marking the impressions owners left as they cradled it.

Violin.

These marks on the violin are like memories.

Even after the creators themselves fade to dust, the recollection lingers.

And each time fingers begin to tap the strings, the heart hums

Resurrection.

Like how the music itself breathes life back into the ancient melodies,

And continues to leave its impressions within us as musicians on

Violin.

Anyuu Fong, Class of 2025

23

24

Mural detail

25

Mural detail

26

The Girl Who Was Made of Sunlight

Maya Ravichandran, Class of 2027

Hazel

It was a dismal afternoon, to say the least — although this was nothing new

for Hazel Belrose. She was slouched in her vinyl chair with her legs crossed,

wiry fingers drumming on the desk in front of her in a slow, monotonous,

syncopated rhythm. It was English, and also 2:00 on a dreary Monday

afternoon. The bodies of her classmates were lolled out like discarded

puppets, heads bumping against wooden desks, and legs sprawled

outwards. The boy in front of her was nestling his head closer to the table,

sandy-colored hair veiling his face, and the girl to her far left was gnawing at

her nails — which looked like they’d once boasted an ombré coat before

being nicked at the cuticles. At least seven students were dead asleep, and

the air was heavy with lethargy. This was a rare moment, where Hazel’s

classmates were inundated with her same anhedonia. But it was one

moment. For them, happiness and relief were one hinged classroom door

away. Hazel was trapped, not knowing exactly what had brought her into the

dark chamber she’d been in for so long, or why. Hope dwindled day after day

as she searched aimlessly for an escape.

She chewed on the end of her pencil, twirling it between her hands. Rain

gushed outside, saturating the gravelly, fossil gray concrete, and clinging to

the windowsill, before losing its hold and trickling slowly down the vitric

glass, like teardrops, like it had chosen to let go. There was one escape, she

reminded herself. Gazing back at her classmates, the dozers, the clusters of

girls giggling under their breath, phones tucked in their jacket sleeves, she

realized she would never be like them. Even her table was seated in a

desolate corner, as if fate – or maybe a teacher who had given up on her the

third week her homework was “lost” – was reminding her that she was alone.

In the past year, she couldn’t remember a single happy afternoon, any

fleeting moment when she had been happy. She probably never would.

Maybe it was time to let go.

27

Alright class, eyes up.” Hazel jerked out of her thoughts, fixing her glassy

verdant eyes on the source of the command. Her teacher, Mrs. Holland, a

petite woman with russet hair wreathed into a tight dutch braid stood at

the front of the crowded classroom, a cheshire-cat grin plastered across

her face like she was entirely oblivious to her students' ennui.“Today, I’d

like to do something a little different.” She tread across the room to her

plywood desk, and retrieved a worn paperboard box, adorned with a

sticky note reading: “Anonymous Letters, Healing Through Literature.”

“As you all know,” she began, clutching a handwritten note. “I announced

this program last week. Students can submit anonymous notes or pieces

of writing expressing important aspects of their lives, and we can discuss

them together. After all, literature is a form of healing. And it looks like we

have our first piece!”

She unfurled the paper, her sienna eyes glittering with anticipation. She

recited:

“There is a girl who is made of sunlight. Her eyes gleam with promise,

and her words are devised from warmth, each a ray of comfort in the icy

iniquity of life. She is a painter, transforming a velvet black canvas into a

tableau of color and effulgence. She has an inner spark, fire flowing

through her veins in the place of blood. She’s the beacon who guides all

those who struggle in the shadows, parting their sorrows like dark clouds,

and revealing a cerulean sky. From tears welling in eyes like rain, she crafts

a rainbow. From tempests of worry, she offers solace, the sun after the

storm.

There is a girl who is made of sunlight. However, her eyes are dull and

careworn, light concealer gingerly applied beneath the lids to obscure the

rain-tear stains and shadows. When she gazes at her reflection, her words

are cold, each piercing through her already fleeting self esteem like an

ice-coated dagger.


28

Her persona is a painted-on charade, she is a full-time actor who hides

behind a smiling mask. Her thoughts are as dark as dusk, depression and

self-reproach creating a state of mind like an endless night enveloping

any true flicker of joy. But no one provides the sun with light.

Every day, it struggles in solidarity to rise as night descends around it,

fueled by sole duress. The sunlight girl knows that if she fails, she’ll leave

all those who rely on her in the same unbearable blackness.

There is a girl who was made of sunlight, but her warmth has been

depleted, exploited by those around her. All that remains is an empty,

soulless shell with nothing left to give. Her eyes are coals, devoid of

emotion. She no longer has the energy to paint or to act, she no longer

has the strength to halt the cyclone of her thoughts, or withstand the

frigid brutality of life.

There is a girl who was made of sunlight. Unable to hold her place in the

sky, she lets herself plummet downwards, streaking towards the rough

earth below like a falling star.

Now, the sunlight girl’s only escape from her pain lies in darkness.”

As the words settled in the air, Hazel felt a tugging in her chest, and a

sting pricking at the corners of her green eyes, the first genuine emotion

she’d experienced in what felt like a lifetime. Tears streaked her cheeks

like the raindrops staining the glass.

In this mausoleum of a mind, she’d only been sure of one thing: she was

alone. No one understood the dark thoughts haunting her like

apparitions and scrutinizing her every decision. No one else felt as if they

had a dark, cavernous pit carved out of their stomach, consuming every

flicker of emotion and leaving her with only the rippling chill of

emptiness. No one else knew what it felt like to live a fabrication of fake

smiles and false affirmations, the truth behind “I’m fine.” She fought a

painstaking battle every day in solitary against her own mind, and no one

understood the unbearableness and monotony of every moment, how

she prayed night after night for it all to end.


29

But here – scrawled across one insignificant crinkled paper was a

negation to those unrelenting thoughts, although slight, a tugging at the

harsh beliefs embedded into her mind. Not everyone was perfect. Not

everyone was happy. Someone else in her classroom, one of those

chattering students, or ducked heads understood.

She coughed out a soft laugh, ignoring the stare of the auburn haired girl

across from her. It felt absurd that literature, of all things, where she had a

plethora of missed assignments and vacancy of enthusiasm, would cause

such a stir, a maelstrom of questions and inquiry in place of her looming

self deprecation, that it would reveal a trickle of sunlight.

Staring back at the window, she realized the raindrops hadn’t let go out

of courage or autonomy. The world hadn’t given them a choice. But

maybe, it was giving her one.

She traced a finger in smooth circles along the surface of the tainted

glass, once again observing the raindrops as they adhered tightly to the

windowsill. This time, she noticed they were still trying to hold on, despite

their only sanctum being slippery and undependable. Maybe, she’d been

waiting for something – any small thing that she could cling to, even one

prospect that would convince her she had something to live for.

To say that poem was enough to heal her was a pipe dream, but, in that

moment she clasped the idea close to her heart, a thread that could hold

her above this capacious inner abyss if she held on tight enough.

Hazel didn’t know if this feeling, this inkling of understanding would

relinquish. Probably not. This couldn’t be enough to secure her future,

and she still felt dubious about the words. She wasn’t sure that they were

enough, that she was enough. She was splintered at the edges, glass

already shattered.

But, the words had evoked a sense of purpose. Maybe, she could find a

way to help this person – to see if they were someone willing to help her.

In that moment, for one fleeting moment, she let herself hope. In

something as mundane as a poem, she’d learned she wasn’t alone.


30

Eternal Light

Elijah Hupe (Class of 2025)

31

Kristi

Kristi had never witnessed her English class so quiet. There was always

some burst of sound, the uncoordinated symphony of clicking pens,

converse skating on the linoleum floor, voices prattling, and laughing, and

gossiping, but it was as if the poem's words were hanging in the air,

casting shadows over the cluttered classroom.

Even her teacher, Mrs. Holland was speechless as she stared down at the

crinkled paper in her hands, brows knitted together, and mouth hanging

slightly agape.

She suppressed a scoff, scanning the wide eyes, and concern seeping

into the expressions of her classmates. A girl in the far corner was even

crying.

Annoyance prickled like thorns under her skin. How could everyone be so

blind? The ‘poem’ was obviously a ploy for attention.

All her life, Kristi had been forced to cram herself into the receptacle of

her parents expectations. The golden child with a flawless reputation,

every teacher’s favorite, soaring grades. In her home, there had been no

latitude for excuses, and here was the most elaborate, melodramatic,

pathetic excuse she’d ever heard splayed across a tattered page,

beguiling the class as if they were under a spell.

Mrs. Holland began to rant about mental health resources, and utter

meaningless affirmations, but Kristi’s mind was swirling, judgments

overlapping each other like intercepting winds. This student didn’t

recognize the value of diligence. They didn’t even try, but here she was,

expected to dote on them.

She was incarcerated in a world that stipulated perfection, where

vulnerability equated to inferiority, and the words of one pettish poem

weren’t going to resonate with her.


32

Jaden

Jaden sprinted out of his English class, his heart pummeling raucously in

his chest as if trying to escape. The poem echoed in his thoughts, a

spectral reminder of his own demons, the ones he’d so prudently shut

away. How did someone know? How could someone articulate the

feelings he worked so listlessly to bury?

His breathing became erratic and it felt as if the walls were caving in

around him, as he pressed his back roughly against the plywood door of

an empty classroom. It felt like the poem was ridiculing him. No one else

was as weak and pathetic as he was. It had to be a jest.

It didn’t matter that the words offered a potential solace, a promise he

wasn’t alone, because his thoughts were caged in a cycle of shame and

fear. He was a prisoner, subjected by his mind to be barred from any

source of expression.

Asher

Asher’s throat felt as coarse and dry as sandpaper, and it felt like the air

was being siphoned out of his lungs, as Mrs. Holland concluded the

poem, the words reverberating through his mind. He recognized the

author from the first stanza. He caught her glancing at him from behind

a veil auburn hair, her dark eyes vacant, and downcast, but also as if they

were searching for something – something she expected from him. She

knew he knew.

He slouched deeper against his smooth vinyl chair. Mrs. Holland had

begun to speak, but her words fizzled out into background static.

Esther had sent him several poems, and vents, always thanking him for

listening, for being there when no one else had been, but her constant

need for reassurance was a weight pressing down on his shoulders, and

he’d ghosted her for weeks.


33

;Hearing her words again, and the rawness plaiting each stanza, guilt

gnawed at him. But he was just a teenager. How was he supposed to

support her while barely holding himself together?

Mariana Holland

Mariana couldn’t rid the poem from her mind. It replayed as if on loop as

she navigated through boisterous city traffic on her way home that day,

and through dinner as her husband ranted about a work secretary. The

poem was a shadow that trailed her, an echo of her past.

Her high school years had been laden with depression, her voice stifled

by fear of judgement, and words evaporating on the tip of her tongue.

She’d loved literature and aspired to be an English teacher to finally

express herself, but in that poem was a reflection of her high school self, a

girl who’d felt like a problem, petrified of her future, and believing she’d

never see the light.

She knew she needed to help that student in some way. She pondered

throughout the evening and until the sun dipped like an aurelian

teardrop against the horizon. But amidst the guilt pressing down heavily

on her chest, and the pain-riddled memories, she felt a twinge of pride.

She had a student with the courage to express herself like she never

could, whose words ignited a blaze of emotions she’d long extinguished.

As she drifted into sleep, the pride dwelled in her mind, a healing balm

soiling over the wounds of her childhood.


34

Esther

I didn’t expect to be so vulnerable. In fact, it’s as if my seclusion is

predetermined. My name, Esther, has Hebrew roots meaning “hide.” I

wrote the poem before a suicide attempt, and planned to draw those

words into the grave with me. But, sharing the poem felt like another way

of letting go, an act of defiance against the suffocating darkness. As Mrs.

Holland uttered my poem, my skin didn’t crawl with humiliation, and I

didn’t feel exposed. It was like the poem had captured a fragment of my

sadness, and hearing them now was a release, a sense of peace I’d only

imagined would intertwine with death.

My name also means “star” which I thought was a dramatic flourish,

especially if the poem had been my last. Shooting stars are always the

most vibrant before they streak across the sky and fade away, before they

can no longer hold their place in the sky and settle into the refuge of

velvet darkness. We wish on those shooting stars, often when they’re

falling, when it’s already too late.

Even in those dark times, literature and writing have always been my

escape, a way to articulate the muddled storm of despondency flurrying

in my mind. As I gaze around at my classmates, my few friends, all I can

do is wish upon a star that my writing will resonate with them. Maybe, it

will have the impact of one star flickering out in thousands, insignificant

and unnoticed. But maybe, someone will be more understanding to their

struggling friends. Maybe, someone will feel less alone. Maybe in the

starry array of perceptions, and constellation of opinions, I’ll shift one. I’ll

leave an impact like an imprint in the sky.

Everyone has their own stories, their own adversities they often keep

veiled away in a pitch, dusk-like facet of their mind. But maybe, just

maybe, my poem will encourage someone to bring their problems to

light, to cling to faith, to recognize there is always a dawn waiting to break

through the darkness.


35

Untitled

Calista Wong, Class of 2025

36

Scan

QR

Codes

to

Watch

y o u t u b e . c o m / @ C C P i x e l A r t S t u d i o

CCHS

Filmmak

ing

37

Untitled

Paulina Rivero, Class of 2026

38

Best Wishes, Clarice

By Claire Roeser, Class of 2026

I spent my childhood clawing through men to get what I needed, or else,

I’d have lost myself. I have always had two options: being the loser or victor

over male peers. I chose the latter for every woman who had come before

me. I’ve been a difficult girl to work with since childhood. The adults

around me noticed, too; my preschool teacher had told my mother, “These

qualities Claire has, she has strong opinions, she knows what she wants,

they’re wonderful in an adult woman- but they’re very hard to deal with in

a preschooler.” I’ve always had a strong sense of self and never let anyone

get in the way of it- until I entered adolescence. I spent the start of my

teenage years trying to explore my identity while editing the less

acceptable parts of myself to become more palatable to others. I lost sight

of my teacher’s words, “We don’t need any more squashed girls,” some of

the most profound words spoken to me in my whole life. Clarice

Lispector’s work came to me when I needed it most- the summer before

my Junior year.

In early August 2024, I noticed Clarice Lispector’s The Complete Stories in

a local bookstore. The sheer breadth of the book and its heavy cover posed

a literary challenge for me, so I put it on the hold shelf at a nearby library.

Lispector’s first published book was released in 1943, Perto do Coração

Selvagem (Near to the Wild Heart), and she continued to publish her work

until the late 1970s when she started ailing from ovarian cancer. Her

existential and introspective themes helped her solidify herself as a writer

and stand the test of time 5 decades later. I had gained a habit of reading

to fill up the long summer days. Between my lengthy reading sessions, I

made art, played guitar, and talked to my boyfriend, my zeitgeist, to find

Clarice. I had met him a few weeks prior at a precollege program, and he

seemed phenomenal.

The qualities I strive to find are a sense of humor, philosophical thinking,

and someone who adores others as much as I do- all of which I found in

him, to a degree. I even remember that before departing to my precollege

program, I would pray before bed to find a cute, smart, and kind

boy to like me.

39

Once I arrived, it seemed that my prayers had been answered. I had always

wished for an amazing boyfriend, and it felt like a waiting game of getting

what I deserved.

The validation of his interest helped fuel my desire to become more

intellectual, which I pursued by reading. I wanted to show him I was smart

and see how smart he could be, a mutual admiration I hadn’t had before.

When I spoke to him, I felt intelligent, charming, and coherent, many of

which I didn’t see myself as. This new sense of self-assuredness flourished

when it was clear that he took a liking to me. However, when we returned

to our homes a mere 15 minutes away from each other, the contact grew

less frequent. A part of me knew that I was unsatisfied with our

relationship, but I didn’t speak up out of fear of being abandoned. I

couldn’t fathom trying to change him when he would talk about how he

was busy. The more often my suggestions to make plans were rejected,

the less comfortable I felt with myself and the more burdensome I felt it

was to him. If he didn’t value me, I had no metric by which to quantify my

worth. After speaking to my mother about these feelings, I realized my

boyfriend's monopoly on my self-worth. Clarice’s words rang in my head

for a day: ‘“Either I destroy him or he’ll destroy me’” (Lispector 58).

Many of Clarice’s protagonists struggle with similar issues. The first story I

read, “O triunfo (The Triumph”), follows a young woman named Luísa who

is abandoned by her lover during a fit of his and her journey of grief the

day after he departed. When I read this, still early in my relationship, I

found myself uncomfortable while reading. I didn’t want to acknowledge

that I felt an unknown connection to Luísa, another woman unfortunately

abandoned despite “[begging] him to stay, with such pallor and madness

in her face” (4). I was aware of my relationship’s impermanence, but I was

quick to dismiss it, similar to the realization that the men in Lispector’s

stories acted similarly to my boyfriend. They showed themselves as cold,

nonchalant men, too occupied with extraneous tasks to acknowledge their

female counterparts honestly. When my boyfriend and I split in October, I

was reminded of these men again.

Claire Roeser, Class of 2026

40

My boyfriend had sat me down at my house and told me he didn’t have

enough time to be my boyfriend. A familiar feeling of dread washed over

me, the same seasick feeling I had when Luísa’s unnamed lover screamed,

“‘You, you trap me, you annihilate me! Keep your love, give it to someone

who wants it’” (4). I “[pushed] it away, though, stubbornly” (4) because I,

like these characters from before my time, couldn’t fathom what life would

be like without the person who embodied my purpose in life.

As a young girl, I was conditioned to think that if I could make myself as

small as possible, a speck of dust, barely noticeable, a boy might catch me

on the cuff of his sleeve by accident.

I was acutely aware of what I wanted. I wanted a boy to like me, but stating

it plainly would have made me less interesting. If I had laid out everything

in front of me, a deck of cards splayed across the table, there would be

nothing left for him to excavate.

Entering my first relationship, these misnomers about romance

permeated my anxious brain once again. When my boyfriend had to ask

something of me or tell me I was “too much” at times, I would stay “silent,

before him” because I had deified him as “the refined, superior

intellectual” (4) in the relationship. Only now do I realize I was doing myself

a disservice. Some nights, I would grow so anxious about reaching out to

him that I felt like I was on the brink of vomiting. It pains me to know that

millions of women would instead push their bodies to nausea rather than

state their opinion; I am making it my mission never to go back to that.

Even though suffering and heartbreak are prevalent in Lispector’s work, it

felt cathartic to see a woman like me represented. By a “woman like me,” I

mean a girl who was soul-crushingly devoted to a man who was just a

man. It’s a shared experience not just among young girls but all women;

you grow to idolize a man and put him on a pedestal, thinking that you’re

indebted to him because of his mystical presence, and then he says the

wrong thing to the wrong people. You can nearly watch the plinth

crumble under his dead weight. In light of these frequent shortcomings, I

was still plagued with melodramatic thoughts such as “if he leaves, I’ll die,

I’ll die” (2).


41

Mingyu

Jamie Fu, Class of 2028

42

Number One

Agata Podolska, Class of 2027

43

Reading about a female character suffering from these same

uncontrollable thoughts gave me hope. Girls can talk to their married

mothers about feeling utterly worthless without a man and receive

empathy, but it is particularly striking to have it presented in writing. Even

though these themes seemed daunting to me, every story offered a small

glimmer of hope. When I first read the passage in “Interrupted Story”

where Clarice mentions the words “Eternity. Life. World. God.” (61) and their

frighteningly endless meaning,

I took comfort in them. The only person who could determine what

“Eternity. Life. World. God.” (61) meant to me was myself, and therein lay a

special power that no man could revoke from me. When I grow old, it

wouldn’t matter if “everything seemed fruitless” (59), no matter how

incessantly I worked for his approval, because chances were he would be

gone by then. I was able to turn “my boyfriend” into an abstract concept

rather than a person in my life, helping alleviate the pain of his impending

departure.

The most profound part of Lispector’s writing is that her female characters

usually experience better circumstances towards the end of their story. In

“El Triunfo,” Luísa starts as heartbroken and humiliated by her lover but

later realizes she is just as strong as he. This hopeful philosophy was

unheard of since I believed I was burdening my boyfriend by simply

existing. However, how could that be possible when a character that

harbored my same feelings notes that “‘he’d be back, because she was the

stronger one’” (8)? I could pull myself out of this disconsolate thinking by

comparing myself with Luísa and the other unnamed female protagonists.

We are all women who take a dreadful interest in “sad and tall” (57) men; in

my eyes, the only things that separate us are sheets of paper and 50 years.

Reading Clarice Lispector’s short stories felt like simultaneously reading a

mirror of my feelings while getting a window into the love lives of women

who came generations before me- it only now dawned on me that the

inferiority women felt from men had plagued us for decades. This

torturous cycle preceded my creation, and I find that knowledge

incredible.


44

That realization helped me connect my experiences to the other women

in this book and to every woman across the globe.

The Complete Stories by Clarice Lispector was invaluable in helping me

realize my worth as a woman. Her beautifully woven stories taught me

that I wasn’t an accessory to any man and that one single boy couldn’t

harness the true profundity of womanhood. Fittingly, Lispector is now

regarded by authors such as Benjamin Moser to be “the greatest Jewish

writer since Kafka” (Esposito), not only due to her international acclaim

but also the harrowing existentialism in her work. This collection of

stories has deeply informed my sense of self and my idea of a woman’s

worth outside of male validation. Now, I’ve taken a hiatus from men to

focus on myself and the things that fulfill me completely, like my

artwork, relationships with friends, and reading.

After reading this text, I found that my threshold for male misbehavior

started to dwindle, and my confidence has been improving consistently.

My interpersonal relationships have changed, too; for example, when my

female friends slip subtle comments about their “flaws” into casual

conversation, I make a point to correct them immediately or counter the

statement with something incredible they’ve done. I’ve transformed

into the same little girl with the convictions of an adult woman, ruthless

in her pursuit of exactly what she wanted. As I told my ex-boyfriend

when we broke up, “I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be so, so

palatable to so many people, and I think you were the last person I was

trying for.”

Best wishes, Clarice, for I hope you rest peacefully.


45

Study

Agata Podolska, Class of 2027

46

Sofia’s Collection #2

Sofia Foster, Class of 2027

47

Sofias’s Collection #4


48

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Elisabeth Reiling, Class of 2027

It’s a big world, kid

When I grow up, I wanna be happy.

Lotta things I could do

and for that I am grateful

but there’s nothing I am sure will fulfill me.

I was put on this earth for a reason I don’t know.


Real Renaissance behavior.

Little bit of everything.

maybe I was just born

in the wrong place

at the wrong time


I have no deed to this land

yet I know I have a duty.

Maybe there is no perfect option

after all.


And it’s only getting bigger.

49

Gray Man

By Flora Lemon, Class of 2026

A cold semblance of power is where I live. Stone cold gray with mauve

sunshine is where I rest. But this is not my story; no, this story is about

her. She who runs across the green fields in her frivolous delight, so

meaningless in the face of her hardship. She knows not of my cold

cage; she knows not of pain; she knows not of me, Death. One who

has seen has felt, and no longer wishes to and would rather bask in

the simple glory of she who is oblivious to it all, she who is a simple

creature with simple delights and a simple mind that does not see the

dark at the end of the tunnel. So I follow her. Follow her through her

fields, through her tears, and through pain. But never touching it and

only stepping with heavy feet into her world so untainted by the

realization that she, too, will one day become like me.

Strands of wind collect themselves in her amber hair that falls just

below her shoulders and hangs about her eyes in waving bangs that,

in the summer months, reflect the light into ropes of gold that snare

my eyes to her face and green eyes flecked with gold. Her smile, thin

but wide, spreads across her face often, accentuating her pale skin

dusted with brown and tan by the sun's rays. I look at this face often.

Every day, I see its sweep run along the curves of her face. Everyday I

try to touch it. Every day, I fail.

I have learned through trial and error that I may be able to step into

her world but never seem to touch it. Never seem to run my long

trailing fingers through the honey of the morning day or the ribbons

of wind that lace through her hair. She holds her head up in the rich

day and lays her eyes upon Mother Earth's surface, her bare toes like

roots to the ground. The simple white linen dress that flows around

her knees is the only thing shrouding her frame as she looks, looks,

looks at the broken world before her in its fallible glory. I flinch back at

the unwavering green gaze, cold yet placid. It runs cold hands over my

soul. How can she, so warm, bright, and full of life, have such a cold

stare? Have such unwavering determination? My world is dark, dank,

and cold.

50

Cold like her stare. Cold like her eyes. It has no beginning and no end,

no place of light except the strands that seep through the door into

her world. Her eyes feel like home.

She walks. Walks along the ridges and mountains of the earth

through the green trees and broken lands. Through oceans, rivers, and

pools of decay. Through the flower fields and simple leaves. All the

while, leaving footprints in her path.

“Pat, pat, pat,” goes her feet along the earth.

“Stomp, stomp, stomp.” I go after her, trailing her through her travels,

capturing each moment those cold eyes glance my way. I can not feel

the same things she does. I can not feel the dirt between my toes or

the grass beneath my feet. I can not feel this world. “I think she may

see me,” I say one day on her travels. She was walking through a

swamp, her bare legs covered with sludge and grime. But she did not.

She looked past me to the water and trees far beyond, and there, in

the distance, stood a deer. I could only see its white tail through the

opening connection between our worlds, the rest of the animal's lean

body shrouded from my view from the black that surrounds me. As

she walks towards it, I shift my view to the creature's face. Its big black

eyes stared at her as she came closer, tracking her every move. Her

eyes followed it as did mine to hers. The cold gaze was no longer so icy

in the face of the tiny creature. Her gaze softened as she saw the

fellow animal, and her lips spread into a thin smile. She took a sharp

object from her pocket and threw it into the doe’s head. Her smile

faltered as the eyes of the deer widened.

I am mad. I am angry. I am sad. I want to hurt her the same way she

broke the doe. She looked at it with love, and it was the only time I had

seen her eyes soften, and then she proceeded to kill it. Its blood was so

red, so warm under my fingers as I stroked its long face when she

turned away from the crumbled corpse. She bent over the water, her

pale, slender fingers cleaning the sharpened rock she used to kill the

deer.

Flora Lemon, Class of 2026

51

As she turned back around, I slinked away from the deer, its blood crusting

around my hands. She took its crumpled body and threw it over her

shoulder.

“Are you coming?” she asked with honey-sweet patience.

My feet froze in place. She could see me. How could she see me? I am no

one. I am an intruder in her world. I can't even see all of it; the limitations of

the opening impair my vision. She asked again.“

Gray man, are you coming?” Gray man. What about me is gray? Suddenly

offended and confused, I walked forward. She turned back around and

stepped forward without saying another word. When did she see me? Just a

moment ago, she looked through me, but when she killed the deer… the

blood on my hands flaked off as I followed her. My feet were wet, and my

legs were covered in swamp sludge. I was feeling. I was touching this world.

I was in this world—no longer a spectator but a participant. I stumbled after

her, my feet catching in rocks and sludge-covered roots. We walked far out

of the swamp to a green field covered with blue skies wrapped in fresh air

and sunlight. She stopped, let the deer off her shoulders, and slid to the

ground. Her white linen dress is no longer the color of her teeth but the hue

of cut rubies.

“Gray man, what is your name?” I was startled by her voice, so unused to

being directly addressed. With my head still down, I responded,

“Death. My name is Death.”

“I do not know that word.” She said as she got to her knees before the deer.

Her knife drew across its stomach in a quick slash, and she plunged her

hands into its abdomen.

“You do not know that word? But how when what lies before you is just

that?

“I know that word now.” Her quiet voice whispers between the squelching

and squishing of the deer's intestines being pulled out in preparation for

cooking.

Flora Lemon (Class of 2026)

52

Smoke rises around us. The little fire between us, pieces of the deer

above dripping fat into the little flames, make an aroma of hunger.

Her hair caught the fire glow in a beautiful brilliance and almost took

on the faded red of her newly stained dress. The light had faded now,

and the moon smiled down to me in her cape of midnight blues and

glittering stars.

“Do you not eat?” her voice brought me back to the ground, the grass

beneath my fingers, the world I now feel.”

Something that is not alive can not eat. Like what's in your mouth

right now. That doe will never feed on Mother Earth’s green glades

ever again.” She stared, puzzled, at me. Those cold green eyes gazing

into my own sight. I am still mad. The deer did not deserve to end. Did

not deserve the cold, I feel. She killed it so quickly, without thought

over her own needs.

“More for me then.” She said as she took another piece of the fire,

blew on it, and slipped it into her mouth; no remorse for the animal

that would never do something similar again.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I gave you my name. What is yours?” A quiet breeze slipped through

the air, wafting the fire to a steady glow.

“You may call me Hue.”

“Hue? Peculiar.”

“Says the thing that's followed me and now condemns my choices.”

We stay silent, looking at one another. I am still mad. But it is hard to

feel anger at something that is not aware enough to understand its

actions.


53

“Death, have you ever seen love?

“Love?”

“Yes, love.”

“I do not know that word.” Her laugh broke through the silent night. Its

crisp joy is not beautiful, not grateful, but warm.

“You do not know her? Oh, she is a joy! She lives atop the clouds you see,

watching, waiting for the perfect time to strike.”

“She kills, you mean?” I guess alarm rang through my voice, and she broke

out into another fit of laughter.

“ No, gray man, no. I guess you really are so gray as not to know love. She

watches from the sky and gives light to others' hearts.”

“I do not know if I have a heart.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Everyone has a heart.” I did not know what to say

back. I have never heard of the word “love” or “heart” before. The cold

power of black is what I feel in my bones, not light in whatever this “heart”

is. But before I can say another word, Hue has laid down next to the fire,

her hands under her head and eyes closed.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to sleep.”

“What is that?” Her eyes flew open, and she propped herself up on an

elbow.


54

“If you ask me one more thing, I will put you over the fire like that deer and

roast that gray skin off your black bones.” She sighed before flopping back

down on the ground and rolling to her side away from me. I don't think I like

her when she’s like this.

As time passed the warm air soured, and the cold rushed in. The sweet

green grass became yellow, then brown, and then covered in a blanket of

white. The sun no longer showed his face as often, but the moon, oh the

moon, I saw her more each day. She looked down upon me and Hue every

night, gracing us with long lashes of moonlight. Hue is different than I

thought she would be. All the time I had followed her, she seemed perfect,

happy, and innocent, but as days stretched to weeks and weeks to months,

she was anything but so.

Her vibrance is everlasting,

but her actions are confusing.

I have learned more about

her now. She is funny, her

broken a laugh our music

we listen to most nights.

Her soft snores are a

symphony I relish every

night. The way her eyebrows

are scrunched together

when she focuses makes up

the fine art I stare into

every day.

Though today, those eyebrows

seem like they’ll touch with how

much her face knots together.

“What's wrong with it?”

Hue’s exasperated tone warns

me not to ask more questions.

The Bright Life #3

Sonya Mellnick, Class of 2027


55

“Maybe..” I reach toward what she toils on but am quickly slapped

away.

“Don't touch it.”

“Why not?” There, I did it. I asked a question. But how could I not

when she looked like a child protecting sweets, innocent in every

way?

“Because it's mine. Get your filthy hands away.” She clutched

whatever she was holding close to her chest. I couldn't see it behind

her fingers except for a little puff of fur.

“You promised you wouldn't kill anything else unless you needed to!”

And then I heard the squeak and then the crack of bone. Of a necksnapping.

“Unlike you, some of us need to kill for survival.” Her hand unfurled to

reveal a little creature no bigger than her palm. Its eyes were wide,

and its body limp. We had spoken of this. I did not like to feel the hurt

that killing brought. And she wanted to hear its neck crack and to eat

its flesh. “You wouldn't understand. You don't even belong here.” She

kept holding the animal in her palm, now the same color as her faded

red dress, as the animal's blood pooled. My chest felt like it was doing

the same. I thought I could forget all the time we had spent with one

another. Forget I did not belong here. She reminded me of this every

time I became angry with her, and every time I would feel the same

bottomless pit open beneath me. I would have to leave this world of

sunshine and green grass. Of “hearts” and where “love” lived.

She started away from me, snow coming up to her bare knees. “Death,

why aren't you following?” she asked, looking behind her shoulder.

Why wasn't I following? I followed her when she couldn't see me; I

followed her before I could see her, before I knew she was “Hue” and

not just the mysterious glow from above. She walked back to grasp

my hand with her empty one.“


56

What do you plan to do with that animal?” I say as she leads me along. I

do not know where we are going.

“I am going to eat it because I am hungry, and winter is not as kind as you

may think for those of us who need to eat.” She settled us at the edge of a

forest; the trees bows heavy with fresh snow.

“When did you see me?” I ask as she crunches down on the raw animal.

“I always saw you. You are always there.” She licked her lips and leaned

against a tree. I am right. She is much different than I first thought. Her

world is much different. I am now different.

Water drips off leaves and falls to the melting ground, thawing with each

breath the sun takes. Hue still eats, so she still kills. But she has taken to

something she calls “farming.” The word is odd on my tongue, so I don't

speak it, but I watch as she takes plants from other places and puts them

back in rows. I carry water for her. I carry the plants for her. Sometimes, I

carry her when she is tired. We walk day and night, hand in hand, as she

explores the world, I, a ghostly shadow after her. This new “farming” took

up much of her time to the point where we had stopped roaming the

earth and instead built a structure to house her from the rain and snow.

“Where do you think Love goes when the sky is clear?” I asked her one

night to sit in her new home.

“Oh, she never leaves Death. She’s always there, just sometimes out of

sight.”

How do you know she is real when you can not see her on a clear day?”

Those green eyes slid to mine. They seem warmer than the first day I saw

them.

“You say you have no heart, but you must feel warmth in your chest. When

you do, that's Love. Though even in the clearest of days, you might not see

her when the rain pours when I sniffle and wail, she is in those rain clouds.

Protecting me.”


57

““From what?”

“Myself.”

I don't think I can stay much longer. The grass grows farther away, as

does Hue. She still wears that red dress, no matter the season. She has

started to wander less. But she does not stop wondering about the

world. Although, I think I have. I understand the hurt, the opening that

fell through into her world. I understand why she grows sad and calls

upon Love and her promises. I understand what a “heart” is. My chest

feels warm when she holds my hand, when she looks at me when I

look at the moon. I feel light there. I feel what Love imparts. Though as

these revelations come to me, I fade. Fade away to where I once

harbored in my brooding black. But I don't think it is black anymore.

Black It is a quiet color. A hue of solitude, of peace, and yes, maybe

hurt at times, but not always. Just as Hue was once the girl of glamour

I saw through the opening. She is no longer that but instead Hue. My

friend and one who lets me feel my heart and understand “farming”

and what it means to be wrong, to sacrifice. However I still have one

more question.

With heavy feet, I walk into Hue’s home. She sits as still as a statue upon

what she calls a “chair” , a new fangled thing she made with the broken

limbs of the forest.

“Death, you do not look well.” Her face was laced with concern, sorrow,

and knowing that this day would come.

I can not stay any longer. As you told me many times before, this is not

my world, and I must leave.”

“I'm sorry. I never meant those words.”

“I know. But I also know I will see you again.” The green eyes found mine

as I said my last words before returning home. “I have one more question,

though. What is your real name, Hue?”


58

Her mouth broke into a thin smile as she said, “My name is Humanity… I’ll

see you soon, Death.”

Why aren't you asleep yet! Get your head out of that book. I'm not driving

you if you wake up late and miss the bus!” Mommy’s yells reach me through

my closed door and cotton sheets pulled over my head. I don't know how

she knows I'm awake. I think she just likes yelling like Daddy did. But he

can't yell anymore. We buried him yesterday.

I reach to dim my headlight, but before I can, I look down to read the last

page of my favorite story again, now blotted with fresh tears. Mommy used

to not yell as much; she used to read the story with Daddy. But since he’s

gone now, she doesn't do much of anything. I wish she would read it again

and find that Death has Daddy in good hands. That he’s not so bad after all,

like Mommy first told me. That Daddy will find love in Death since even he,

too, has a heart.

I unwrap myself from the soft sheets, put my book on my nightstand, and

click off the headlight before resting my head on the pillow. I don't try to

fight back the tears that threaten to pour down my cheeks. I let them

stream down, knowing I'll dream of Daddy’s heart full of light in Death’s

peaceful hands.

Bloodborne

Natalie Vetro, Class of 2028


59

Maritime Forest

By Evan Hultgren

The rushing ebbing

Ocean is fading away

A murmur, silence.

Homage to Gamepiece with a

Dead Heron

Yvan Lipson, Class of 2028

60

Untitled

Jay Perrotta, Class of 2025

61

Celestial Remedy

By Lucy Frank, Class of 2026

Once, a girl was forgotten

A dandelion seed unable to ride Wind

Water, motionless, never crafted into a wave by Moon

She lay alone in the mist

Yearning to weep

But Earth denied her even this

The girl was unexpected

A solitary birch in a Forest of pines

She arose from a daydream, searching

And stumbled upon a book

Time watched as she crafted a shelter

Made of spines, covers, pages, stardust

Wind, Moon, and Forest watched

As she read about dandelions, water, birches

The girl unearthed spirits parallel to her own

The letters were the symphony of her soul

The words were honey flowing languidly through her veins

Beams of gold emerged from her nooks and crevices

Liquid light dripped from her every surface

She wept

Teardrops of serendipity

And around her, a sea of starlight swelled

She rowed her boat into the perpetual ocean

And found islands built from the prophecies of gods,

Mountains crafted with the writings of poets,

Rivers shaped by ancient folktales,

Planets created from the whispers of angels,

Time, Wind, Moon, and Forest watched

As the girl became Sun

62

Sofias’s Collection #5


63

Fae of Fading Fancy

Tessa Huston Fuller, Class of 2026

64





65

Shrek: The Musical

An Interview with Maya Soto (Donkey)

By Emmi Taylor

Shrek the Musical Flyer

Calista Wong, Class of 2025

Emmi: What made you want to participate in CC theater?

Maya: I did theater in middle school and I really enjoyed the community it

provides, and getting to perform on a stage is really fun. I enjoy exploring

new characters.

Emmi: What have you learned from your experience performing in theater?

Maya: I have been a part of a bunch of different departments. So, I have

done set construction, march management, so financial and logistic skills.

There are a lot of opportunities to try different things.

Emmi: What was the process of choosing roles in the musical?

Maya: So basically there are multiple steps: you do a vocal audition, of any

song you want. I did “You’ll Be Back” from Hamilton. And then if they think

you fit a particular character, they “call you back”, it's called a “Call Back”. We

did a dance audition too, so they also look at that, there is a whole panel [of

people that choose roles]. There are also blind readings and chemistry reads

with other people. So I read with Ben and Nicole [Shrek and Fiona].

Emmi: Is there an actor/ actress, Broadway show, play, that really inspires

you?

Maya: I really like In the Heights which was written by Lin Manuel Miranda.

As a latina woman, I really felt a lot of representation in the show. I also

remember watching Mary Poppins with my mom. That was probably the

first musical I watched.

66

Emmi: What were the characters you auditioned for and what about them

called to you?

Maya: Well when you do the audition you are not technically auditioning for

a specific role but you give [the panel] a sense of what character you want

with the song you pick. So I have a deeper voice, so I sang a “guy” song, You’ll

Be Back, which has the same range as Donkey, so I got a call back for that as

well as Farquad.

Emmi: If someone is considering theater, what advice would you give them?

Maya: Do it. In the wise words of Nike. Just do it. My freshman year, I

auditioned for a part in the play and I didn’t get a part, so I did construction

and I did the tech element of it while I waited for the next show. I also found

a lot of friends and community and I gained different skills and found things

that I love to do. So even if it doesn’t work out, there’s still so many

opportunities to be a part of it. And you don’t have to be on the stage to be

contributing to the show.

Shrek, The Musical

CCHS Musical Theater Production

Photography by Linda Holt

67

Two-Sentence Horror

Stories

To celebrate the spooky

season, Chicken Scratch

Club held a school-wide

two-sentence horror

story contest.

Students and staff

submitted their original

stories.

Here are some of the

scariest (and funniest) of

the entries.

Orange Thoughts

Elijah Hupe, Class of 2025

Sun shines off the

drooping red berries

and glossy green leaves

of the mulberry tree,

casting shadows on the

muddy white bones

poking out of the earth.

Digging holes is hard; I

guess I did not bury

him deep enough.

Linda Holt, Faculty

Untitled

Maya Ostrom, Class of 2028

68

My nose was running. I

looked down and it was

halfway across the room.

Marina Grein, Class of

2027

I tapped my pockets. I

couldn't feel my phone

.

Claire Jennings,

Class of 2025

I started studying for the

biology test. When I got

the test, I realized I

studied the wrong unit.

David Gu, Class of 2026

I opened the fridge.

It was empty.

Scholastic Silver Key,

Transparent Admiration,

Mahiya Bharath,

Class of 2028

Jeremayah Garcia,

Class of 2028

69

"Don't look back," I'd said to her before she entered the cave.

"You shouldn't've looked back," I'd said when she tripped and fell through

me, right into the pit and right into the snarling jaws below

Maggie Li (Class of 2027)

Framed Reflection - Mahiya Bharath, Class of 2028

There was a strong gust of wind that shook the entire house and blew

open the front door. I knew right then that death had come for me.

Dorina Enes (Faculty)

70

Far below the abysmal deep, where strange things

crawl in sleep. Dark and silent lies their keep, and

still the faceless weep. Katie Dagenais, Class of

2028

I danced with her, her smooth arms—like porcelain—

swinging around as I twirled her, as if she were flying.

Who’d have thought the sound of chains clanging

together would prove to be such perfect waltzing music!

Mariana Cadavid, 2025

The room went black

and the only thing I

could see was the

occasional flicker of

the torches; every

time one lit up, I could

see it: a glimmer in

the blackness of an

eye, or a tooth, or its

black skin. I felt

something crawl up

my leg and opened

my mouth to scream

but couldn’t, the

thick, inky darkness

was in my throat and

lungs, choking me.

Untitled, Maya Ostrom, Class of 2028

Isabel Herrero,

Class of 2026

71

Untitled, Maya Ostrom class of 2028

72

The Water, The Ring, and The Machine

By Sonya Mellick, Class of 2027

Eerie clouds rolled along the deep azure sky. I'm on sand that giggles with

the wind. With the cerulean ocean- among white foam flowing out of its

tips, I loved it here. This place, a small beach underneath an interstate

bridge- was peaceful. Some black sand stained the ground underneath as

the waves pulled back. I took a few steps into the sea. I liked feeling the blue

ocean rub against my skin, gently caressing my hair and turning it salty. The

beach felt gentle, even now, when I knew the end was here.

I clipped my lips together and closed my eyes. I never wanted to grow up as

a kid—too much pressure. Even though I'm a grown-up, I still feel the same

way. I find myself exhaling my weight. This way, maybe I won't die with

dumbbells on my shoulders, forcing me to tears under this load many

nights before this one. But there are no tears tonight.

The highway still bubbled with cars and trucks, utterly oblivious to the

beach below them. This place was my refuge. I took a deep breath, feeling

the cool air refresh my throat despite the car exhaust from the highway

above. Usually, I can focus here, but tonight, I'm having trouble. Instead, I

listen to the carefree yells of several people in a car on the highway, but the

car zips by fast enough that I can't distinguish what they say. But I noticed

one of the passengers threw something off the bridge, something they'll

probably regret when they wake up tomorrow morning. It's shiny and plops

into the ocean with only a droplet of water coming up. My hands dip into

the cold water, sending a shiver into the parts of my body that haven't gone

numb yet. My fingers latched onto the slippery metal, and I pulled it up to

my face—a ring. It was expensive: a Black Opal with a shiny silver lining. Who

would get rid of this? I traced the article and felt something ingrained on

the inside. Initials, D and H. Lovers. Most likely, it was a relationship someone

didn't care about anymore. A careless connection someone could throw

away and never look back on.

73

Throw away. What have I thrown away? I should be with friends. Why am I

not? My feet take a few steps more profoundly into the water, squeaking and

squishing my shoes. I was never an outgoing person. I never told anyone

about my issues. They had never asked, and I never thought it necessary to

point them out. But I relapse on this thought now. I'm waist-deep in the

water. Would things be different if I took the chance to talk to someone?

What did I throw away? I threw away my friends, my family, my joy. I could

have spoken to someone, and if they had talked to me back, I could have

been better. I could have been worthy. I could have given myself more life!

My neck is the only thing sitting above the water as I sink. The ring is still in

my hand, and I let it fall into the water with newfound tears. Curse me! I

never understood my fear, but I do now. I was never afraid of the public, but I

feared living. Fearful of myself. I should rise and clutch onto my life with

gripping arms.

But my arms sink heavy, with the rest of my burdensome body.

I look around and notice the water isn't the cerulean I saw it as. It was inky,

with gray foam stripping its insides. My head sinks in the oil. How had I never

noticed this color before? I remember sometimes black streaks would wash

up on the sand; before, I ignored them and focused on the bright blue

instead. That's what you're supposed to do.

Focus on the good? I spent the years focusing on the good, escaping my

darkness. For what reason? To sink!? Angry tears drop from my eyes, but the

water swallows them with everything else. It fills my throat, my nose, and my

eyes. But I can still see. I choke as my eyes float around aimlessly.

Sonya Mellick, Class of 2027

74

Regret fills my pores. If I talked, if I cried, if I acknowledged my dark, maybe I

wouldn't be submerged now. I know how I'll die now. I'll drown, asphyxiating

under tar. I can do something and rise- but it's impossible now. Too much

has enveloped me. I wish I could go back to the beach, back to my home,

back to my heart, and reach it, squishing the heart's skin against its flesh.

The sea had affected me much more than I realized. I needed revenge

against myself. I feel vindictive. I feel as if I'm dying.

I see the delicate ring. It's the only thing glistening in the mud. I hope

someone else will see it, dig it up, and hand it to someone in need.

Someone in need.

I dive and feel my ears pop under the crushing pressure of the water. My

fingers struggle against the current, but they find the ring, and I seize it. My

body shudders from the pain the water breathes. I reach the surface and

gasp as polluted air breaks my lungs. Relief gushes through my

bloodstream, but it's all short-lived. I'm still in the physical world. And my

limbs are tired. My body convulses, but I really can't swim anymore.

Fear overtakes my head, and it pounds. The ring slips from my anesthetized

palms. I know what I need to do! I can fix it! But now, it is too late. I sink and

flail, but I can’t get back up. It’s the same process again. I focus on the ring,

hoping, praying for it to somehow lift me and save me, but it doesn't work.

The ring sinks itself until I cannot see it anymore.


75

Bright Life #2


76

̮͍

̋

̾

̒

̍

̾ ́

ͅ

Forgotten

By: Harper Williston, Class of 2026

[Transcript of A̶̘̳ ͝m̷̦̞̾a̴ ̍͗ n̶͖̜ ̆ḏ̵ ͎ắ̴ ̬ ̵̦̎J̸͍̕ö̴̦ ͓̈ń̸̳̖ ̓e̷̫̞ ̓ŝ̷͍̓'̵͖̀ ̆

̇ ̉

s̴ ̳͠ statement, taken at an A̸̢̛͔͚ n̵̡̿͜ą̷͔̌̆̔

ḧ̴̟ ̣e̵̢̡̨

̨̒i̵̫̇͂͝m̷̧͔

̃ ͑ mental

health facility]

Interviewer: Now, what did you say this was about again?

Amanda: Well… it’s kind of hard to describe. It feels like a weird…

dream? Except, I KNOW it isn’t. You can’t know you’re in a dream

without waking up right? At least not for long. But I haven’t. That

wouldn’t have been the case if this was all just some messed up

nightmare, right?

Sorry, haven't really talked to anyone in… a while. What was your

question?

Interviewer: Let's… just get to it.

Amanda: It was a few days before Halloween and my friend group was

planning our annual party. We have- had this tradition of making every

Halloween party we threw last longer and longer. I mean, I say “we” but

I was the one who originally came up with the idea. It was my way of

keeping us close through the years. My house was always the obvious

choice for a venue. I’m far from rich but I had gotten my grandparent’s

enormous house when they had died a few years ago. Not only was it

more than ideal for the sheer amount of people we hosted every year,

we were also easily able to pass it off as a “haunted house” of sorts.



77

Anyway, the day came and everyone was having a blast. My partner, Eva,

and I had decided to dress up as an angel and a devil, really cringy, I

know, but we had fun. I remember I had looked out the window a few

times throughout the party to check if anyone had arrived late and

there was this… fog. This was honestly pretty normal, especially for the

season, but for some reason it left me with this uneasy feeling every

time I looked too hard at it. I managed to ignore it, however, and after a

few hours I had forgotten all about it.

I don’t really know how long I managed to last in that mess of loud

noises and bright colors, but I eventually found myself with a splitting

headache and needed to get away. I found an excuse to leave whatever

conversation I had been in at the time and stepped outside. The fog was

thick at this point and I could barely see a foot in front of me. That

uneasy feeling came back almost instantly, and I considered going back

into the party. However, the throbbing pain piercing my skull seemed to

strongly oppose that idea, so I walked straight ahead, reasoning that a

quiet walk away from the blaring noise of the party might do me some

good. Besides, I could just turn around once my headache had fully

gone.

As I walked, it was like the world was paused. The woods around me that

were usually full of all sorts of different animals felt… empty. The only

sound I heard was my own footsteps and I was really starting to get

freaked out. But just as I was about to turn around and go back to my

house, the fog cleared enough for me to see that I was already standing

in front of it. I keep telling myself that I must’ve got turned around by

the fog or something but… deep down I know I hadn’t. I calmed a bit

walking up to the house, hearing the same music from when I had left

it, but when I walked inside I immediately felt that something was

wrong. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint it until a clawing realisation wormed

its way into my head.

This isn’t my house.

Harper Williston, Class of 2026

78

But that can’t be right. This is my house. I know this is my house. I have

years worth of memories living in this house. However, when I tried to

think of my time there I… couldn’t. I knew I had memories there but it

was like they had just been taken from me. I went to find Eva. I thought

that even if she didn’t have an answer to this, she’ll at least be able to

bring some sense of normalcy back. I found her in the crowd but as she

turned around, her eyes just seemed to pass right over me. I grabbed

her by the shoulders, and as she seemed to finally notice me her

expression was just, wrong. Her eyes that had, just a few hours ago,

looked into mine with so much love and understanding were now

staring at me with absolutely no semblance of recognition.

I think something inside me snapped then.

I stumbled back feeling heartbreak for someone who didn’t and had

never known me, and somehow knowing for certain that this was true.

No one noticed me as I sat on the floor of the house that wasn’t mine

and sobbed, or maybe they did but just didn’t… care? I mean, why

would they? None of them had ever seen me before. At least not

anymore. Fog began to cloud my vision and my mind felt hazy. I

must’ve gotten up and walked off at some point because when the fog

cleared, I was in front of my parent’s house. I walked up to the door

almost mechanically, and knocked on it. The people who answered had

never been my parents, even though I so desperately needed them to

have been. But I knew, even before the woman who had never been my

mother and the man who had never been my father opened the door,

that they were going to hold that same lack of recognition on their

faces that Eva had. Surprisingly, I only felt a faint ache of sadness as I

walked away from the home that I hadn’t grown up in.

And so, I started to wander. Getting essentials is easy enough, almost

easier than when I had been… known. People never seem to notice

when I take things from stores without paying, and any security sensors

seem to follow suit.

Harper Williston, Class of 2026

79

Finding shelter is easier too, it’s surprisingly easy to get a free room in a

hotel when nobody can notice you stealing the key. But, I would give all

of this up for my old life back. Or, not even my old life, just a life. I can’t

make a meaningful connection with anyone without them forgetting

me the second they leave, look away, or even blink. Even a simple

conversation is hard to start without having to physically hold the other

person in place while speaking to them. I’m surprised you’ve even

managed to stay knowing me for this long without…

Emotions are hard. It’s like I remember the feeling, but I can’t quite

reach it. Or I know something’s supposed to be there but I can’t figure

out what. Memories are fading too. Usually I can’t even get through this

whole story without something being different, or wrong, or… gone. I- I

can’t forget my name. I’ve come close and that’s not- I don’t want to

lose myself. The fog has stayed with me. It wants me to forget to just…

let go into ignorant comfort. But I won't let it win. So I keep reminding

myself, “My name is Amanda Jones and I don’t want to fade.”

So yeah, that’s my story. Don’t even know if this thing will even keep this

recording but, I needed to tell it to somebody. And thank you for this, it…

helped.

Harper Williston,

Class of 2026



80

Guardian, Kai Biddle, Class of 2025 - Guardian

81

Paula Sirois Poetry Contest Winner 2025

Amen

by Francesca Heh

We bolt through the church's kitchen doors,

swiftly strapping on aprons we all agreed to replace last month,

still somehow proudly sporting Auntie Pao’s chow mein stains.

Once a month, we battle—not for souls,

but for who gets to hear

“Wow, you outdid yourself!"

“Oh no,” we laugh; "All for the glory of God!"

(Humility is extra hard when it comes to potlucks, but we try.)

While soothing hymns drift outside,

the kitchen pulses like an emergency room:

pots clash, oil hisses, voices rise,

feet shuffle in a well-rehearsed dance,

spices scatter like confetti at a wedding.

Spoons clink against simmering pots,

loud sips of samples in rapid beats,

hands deftly altering flavor with rhythm,

until furrowed brows of concentration

relax into subtle smiles of approval.

“Five more minutes!” someone calls.

Drinks slosh into paper cups, bread cracks,

The beloved Kung Pao chicken sizzles just in time.

Each of us mutters a prayer under our breath:

"Jesus, please make Pastor Li talk slower."

Francesca Heh, Class of 2026

82

Doors suddenly swing open,

The church family floods the hall,

Our uncle's laughter rumbles against the ground,

Beloved aunties' chuckles ring a gentle tune,

While sisters glide in flowing pastel dresses,

And brothers hold each other's shoulders firmly—

Each corner is drenched in love.

"Quick! Everyone grab a dish!"

Flour and sauce mark our bodies,

Aprons now a spice-streaked canvas,

no longer only sporting Auntie's chow mein,

A testament as we emerge from the kitchen battlefield.

With a humph, we carry out our plates,

revealing juicy meat buns wrapped in bamboo leaves,

their steam still playfully dancing with the air

sticky white rice in two child-sized metal pots

embraces the room with the smell of creamy butter,

and the adored sago soup that flies memories back home,

soft tapioca pears float peacefully in lush coconut milk.

Each dish unfolds the story of a childhood in China.

"wa sei!" "Mei wei!"1

the church exclaims with delight,

the room fills with glimmering eyes and broad smiles,

but before appeasing our taste buds, we must satisfy the soul.

With bowed heads and open hands,

we offer a prayer that sings with the grumble of stomachs:

"Thank you, Lord, for food,

Amen!"

1 "Wow!" "Tasty!"

Francesca Heh, Class of 2026

83

Bright Life #1


84

Caroline Eaton, Class of 2025

85

The Hidden Mountains of Beaverbrook

Solon Murphy, Class of 2027

86

Wolf in Sheep's Clothing,

Gwendolyn Muno, Class of 2025

87

Pomegranate

By Allison Sheppard

Allison Sheppard, Class of 2027

88

Statue Study II

Tessa Huston Fuller, Class of 2026

89


90


91

Statue Study I, Tessa Huston Fuller, Class of 2026

92


93


94

Bugs

Gwendolyn Muno, Class of 2025

95

Dandelions in the Sidewalk

An essay on the existence of nature’s oracle.

By Sonya Mellnick

What is a Dandelion? The Dandelion is an oracle. An oracle, which is

nothing but the future, nothing specific, simply, future. The Victorians

had a system of code using flowers, which was a brilliant idea because it

was something you couldn’t pinpoint or understand if you didn’t know

the code. Still, if you did, you knew the message someone wanted with

exact precision. I think about all the plants with those special

connotations as I walk from my house along the paved road, the only

path most people in my area know.

I ponder code when I see a plasticky red rose decoration in the local

Cumberland Farms- on sale 50% off after Valentine’s Day-. Is that also

code, just making itself known in the new age, the new industrialized,

plastic world? So, instead of being gifted a pure red rose, it’s a dashboard

keychain hanging from the car you drive to work daily or off the backpack

where you keep your subway card. In both an untouched and

technological light, I find a transitional something. Because that real red

rose will die, turning from a passionated vibrancy to a dried yellow, the

sun will bleach that keychain, resigning simultaneously to that paleness.

So, in reality, both do the same job spiritually. Because the Victorians also

coded the colors of flowers. As that red changes to yellow, so does the

love that pushed someone to gift it; a yellow rose is the decrease of love.

And yes, while the plastic initially lasts longer than real fauna, it will still

‘die’ and become just as useless as a deceased rose from the soil. Both

ever change, ever flow, and one day, I will throw away that tattered

keychain and the dead rose; I will find another flower to buy commercially

or gift naturally, and the cycle will start over.

96

Then again, the interconnections between nature and material strike me

as odd. That anomaly became evident last week when I watched the first

dandelions spring up between the cracks in the sidewalk as I walked to

my local bus stop. Dandelions are fascinating organisms, and after this

incident, they caused me trouble and deep thought for some time. They

smiled at me with their bright yellow tops and bright green stems. They

looked like the painter painted them on a sad, gray painting simply

because the painter deemed the piece too miserable and melancholy

otherwise. My brisk walk slowed as I approached, and something about

them struck me hard in the chest. I was immensely captivated and

fascinated by their mere presence, which only implored me to get to

know them better, to get to know them personally. But I would be late for

my bus if I made small talk, so I picked my pace back up and trotted past

them. But I didn’t forget them. I’m afraid that I might, though, something

else will distract my feeble brain, and this emotion will become just

another tumbleweed in the back of the mind. So I immediately wanted to

encapsulate that feeling, and as a consequence, here I am.

I am not alone in my interest in the Dandelion, and I can see why. Many

people find their existence captivating because they are simultaneously

involved in material yet separate. They take so much time to sprout slowly

from the ground, watching a world not made for them and carrying on

with it. They remain in a natural purity despite how industrialized we as a

human society have turned our world. Because of that, I admire the

Dandelion. Despite being unfairly surrounded by it every day, they don’t

care about the bustle of human life. They take their time sprouting and

using their meager resources, and we all walk past them, ignoring the

gentle words they will say if we stop to listen. Sooner than later, the

Dandelion could decide that we would never hear them, so they would

turn from vibrant yellow to muted gray and be blown to spread words

elsewhere, where people would listen. So when the Dandelion stands

strong and obstinate, it can recognize a losing battle and moves very

mindfully. But at the point I write this, the Dandelion keeps standing,

facing the sun daily, finding its bright path in a cityscape world not made

for them. They are resilient and know the world well enough to know

when to stop being so. The Dandelion is so very intelligent.


97

While writing this piece, I came across an article describing the

Dandelion as the actual flower of America. The reasoning for the

Dandelion is so involved; it is borne everywhere in the country, and it

journeys onward to attempt to live its life to the fullest, regardless of its

circumstances, which is traditionally an American value. But that

testimonial also doesn’t take our physiological naturalistic life either.

Because the Dandelion stands independent and quite powerful, it also

stands mindfully because, with it, it spreads its seeds into prophecies all

over. So they want to spread their proper work, not tie themselves to

what should conform. Our society, meanwhile, keeps running towards

our work and school, so perhaps we forget to ‘stop and smell the roses.’

But roses, so commonly found out, whether plastic or a silky petal,

display themselves outward and make the work easy for humans. I think

we undermine the power of Dandelions, so really, it would be more

beneficial to ‘stop and smell the Dandelions.’

The Dandelion is a weed, and weeds are invasive. They insult the pristine

Nuclear Family with a clean car, lawn, and family tucked away in a tight

knot. The Dandelion rises against that; it flourishes despite the Nuclear

family’s attempt to destroy its merit. The Dandelion stands tall against

the mundane green lawn because it knows those suburban landscapes

need a burst of color. The Dandelion has a reason for its existence and

won’t back down until they finish the job, regardless of what others

think. Even if they are plucked and weeded out, the Dandelion is still

rising, still spiritually immovable. They don’t fear the perfect; they don’t

fear the machinery of absolution. A reason why I wish I had the attributes

of a Dandelion. Despite seeing myself as rather stubborn, I am nowhere

near the stubbornness of a Dandelion. Because if someone were to weed

me out, I’d probably leave and move on to a different place, somewhere

nicer. Dandelions don’t do that. Dandelions stay put and spring up year

after year because they are not afraid to take up space; unlike much of

our society, they don’t care about public opinion, even when the

Dandelion is bluntly not wanted.


98

We have quite a bit to learn from the Dandelion. Walking to the bus stop

now, I pay close attention to those Dandelions so I don’t make the same

mistake I did last time. Thinking about the Dandelion and why it exists,

the Victorian code gets me again. I’ve heard that in the Victorian code,

Dandelions represent oracles. This connotation suits them well.

Blooming, they must be trying to tell us some visionary. What could they

possibly want to say to me? I do not know. The Dandelion lays quiet, and

it will not show you its meaning so bluntly, like the rose. Or perhaps the

Dandelion has been staring at us straight in the face. Regardless, the

Dandelion’s message is still unclear. The Dandelion is mysterious

because if I paid attention to the flower code, I could see what the Oaks,

the Birches, the Pansies, and the Pines are all telling me, but the

Dandelion is an oracle; it still makes you do extra work to get its wouldbe

captivating message, a simple human code cannot break it apart. It’s

very respectable.

I hope one day I’ll be able to stop for those bus stop Dandelions, like how

they do for me, and listen to what they are trying to tell me, and I hope

they will forgive me for every time I’ve ignored them before. They may

push away from the cracks in the cement and move to another person

who needs an escape from materialism, and the Dandelions will

continue doing their good work. The Dandelion will transform from

topped yellow to gray fluff, eager to spread its words to others in need

again. It may speak to me. I hope that when I lay down my pride and

listen, I can hear what the Dandelions tell me. And when that time

comes, I will finally put down my human ego and hear nature’s message

through the Dandelion. I will leave our connected moment without

caring about what I missed. I will just listen and find their oracle of life,

oracle, forevermore.


99

REVERB and an

interview

with

F-WORD

(Sophia Ferreria “Phi” performing at IQH fest 25')

Untitled by @gregorye.productions on Instagram

100

AN INTERVIEW WITH F-WORD

By Laurel Stuart (28') and Maya Ostrom (28')

Origins of the name F-WORD?

In past school years, there were

designated lunch blocks. We all had F

block lunch, so that’s why it was F-

WORD.

A well-known CCHS hardcore

band, this interview dives into

their story and how the REVERB

club guided them on their

journey to build both a

community and a band.

The band started sophomore year

for Sophia Ferreria “Phi” (25’) on

vocals and Theo Collins (25’) on

bass. They later recruited David

Rennert (23’) on drums and

Wilbur Moffit (24’) on guitar.

Senior year, their final lineup is

Sophia on vocals, Theo on bass,

Lucas Barlett (25’) on guitar, and

Carter Hack (26’) on drums.

Story behind the album cover of their EP “F-WORD”

“That [the background] came from a magazine page that showed a factory,

like a smoke stack. Then I [Phi] came up with he casket and upside-down

American flag. You know, when veterans are killed in battle, they put the flag

on the casket? It’s a commentary on America and asks: what are we really

fighting for?”

What do some of your songs mean?

“Sinister Influence is about capitalism and corporate greed—you can see that in the

lyrics.”

“Domination is about sexual assault and how people, especially women, are taught

to be afraid of their own bodies. One of my coworkers was told she should be afraid

of her body because it was ‘too much.’ That stayed with her for a really long time.”

101

What is Reverb?

“Reverb is a space where people can form bands and play music. It’s a

community. It's also about creating opportunities for students to share

their music, connect, and express themselves. Everyone deserves a shot.”

How has Reverb and the community helped develop your character?

Phi: “Oh my God—everything. I wrote my college essay about it. It

taught me resilience and how to be responsible for others. When I was a

freshman, I was super nervous and unsure. Reverb gave me a place and

a purpose.”

Theo: The biggest thing I learned is that if you want something to

happen, you have to make it happen. No one else will do it for you. It

taught me self-advocacy and the importance of speaking up.”

Lucas: “I transferred here and didn’t know anyone. Reverb was a

welcoming space that helped me find people and learn music. I picked

up an instrument like 3-4 months before joining, and now I’m in a

band.”

Carter: “My first memory was being ambushed by Theo and Wilbur

How asking has me access to join to F-WORD. Reverb’s tools It felt helped amazing you to grow be invited as musicians? in. That started

Lucas: everything “Playing for me.” with other people teaches you things you can’t learn from

YouTube tutorials. The studio helped me grow so much.”

Theo: “Having access to so many instruments and people who are

knowledgeable and supportive changed my life. It showed me that music is

what I want to do.”

Phi: “I did choir as a kid, then nothing during COVID, and it was depressing.

Reverb gave me the chance to do what I love again—on my terms. It’s a

more freeform approach than band or chorus. No pressure. Just creating

what we want, with who we want. That’s beautiful.”

(F-WORD at IQH fest 25') photo by

@gregorye.productions on instagram

102

Has music and being in bands helped you find who you are?

Phi: “Yes. Hardcore used to be super white and male-dominated. But now

you see queer people, people of color, women of color. Seeing someone like

me screaming their lungs out on stage—it changed my life...Being in shows,

surrounded by people who are just being themselves, is overwhelming in

the best way. It’s love and connection. It’s family.”

Lucas:

“As a trans person, seeing bands with queer members was huge. Like

Destiny Bond—seeing a trans woman perform with that energy showed me I

could express myself that way too. That visibility is so powerful.”

How would you describe the music community at Concord-Carlisle?

“Way better than when we were freshmen. Back then, there was like

one band. COVID really killed the scene. But we’ve rebuilt it. This year,

seven bands signed up the day after the call for the upcoming show

went out. There’s more collaboration now, more excitement.”

Any last thoughts or advice?

“Listen to hardcore. Go to small shows. Support basement venues.

Don’t waste money at Fenway when you could be at something

real.

You don’t have to only like hardcore. You can like jazz, reggae, folk

—whatever. Hardcore itself borrows from everywhere. Just explore.

Join Reverb. Start your band. Be in 15 bands if you want. There’s no

limit.”

REVERB is in room 145 near the

black box and practice rooms.

There is a variety of

instruments simply for student

use including guitars, basses, a

drum kit, etc. the official meet

for the club is Thursday

afterschool, but our doors are

open anytime from 9-5 school

days.

Scan to check out F-WORDs

Music!

@fword_ma on instagram

103

104

Elijah Hupe, Class of 2025

Sam Brock, Class of 2025

Helosia Camargo, Class of 2025

105

COLOPHON

This magazine was produced using Canva

Pro. Font for headings - Framhand Serf,

font for standard text - Montserrat.

Purpose

Reflections is the 2025 edition of Concord-

Carlisle Regional High School’s Literary &

Art magazine, illustrating student

achievement in the creative arts. The

magazine started back in 1961, originally

named The Dial. At the time, the

magazine was primarily a literary

magazine with line art and photography

supplementing its articles. Today, it shows

a robust variety of literature and art across

various mediums and forms. Teachers

may also submit works, but the priority is

for student produced writing and art. This

year has been a reboot of sorts for the

magazine. The club started from scratch

this year, with new members, new

advisors, and a new direction. Together,

we have created this digital publication.

Next year, our goal is to print.

As with any publication, the views

expressed are not necessarily the view of

Concord-Carlisle Regional High School,

the editorial staff, advisors, or Concord

Public Schools.

Submissions

Submissions are sent to the

Reflections Club via a Google Form

submission link. Works are also

provided by the Paula Sorois Poetry

Contest Advisor and the NCTE Essay

Contest Advisor, Mrs. Blounts.

Additionally, club members scout art

from different displays on campus.

CCHS Reflections Magazine

embraces every opportunity to

publish works of any student

submissions, regardless of format or

length.

Rights

All writing and art submissions are

considered by the Reflections

editorial staff, which chooses based

on quality, appropriateness,

relevance, and overall impact. Staff

maintain the right to edit works for

clarity and correctness. Original

artists retain copyright of their

submitted works.

Above: Ping Pong Club Logo by Pedro Nachbin, Class of 2027

Inside Back Cover Art: Chinatown: A Love Story, Ava Hood, 20276

Outside Back Cover Art: Between Then & Now by Ava Hood, Class of 202:

106

107

Reflections Literary & Art Magazine 2025

Cover Farmhand Back

Serif

Reflections Literary & Art Magazine 2025

Transform your PDFs into Flipbooks and boost your revenue!

Delete template?

Save as template ?