By Louisa Strong ’26

We were crouched in the grass, kept neatly trimmed by her mother, rotting twigs and strange flowers littering our feet. Lilies, ferns, and unruly shrubs threatened the border of this upkept backyard, in constant rebellion to my aunt’s pruning. Our laughter, reaching to the blue above, tangled with that of the gulls on their way to the nearby sea. With the sun on our backs and the afternoon ahead of us, Audrey and I prepared to build. It’s been a while, but I still know the ritual well. The perfect fairy house is constructed by two essentials: the right materials and the right mindset, the right mindset being believing in the existence of fairies. I never struggled with the first part, but since I had stopped believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny at five, at eight, fairies didn’t seem very realistic to me either. But if Audrey believed in them, that was enough to at least make me play along.

My cousin and I would run too fast and too far down the road in search of the ideal fairy house materials. So determined in our adventure, we hardly noticed the pavement callusing our feet or the inevitable thorns tearing at our legs while we searched for the most fantastical ornaments nature could provide. Audrey and I spent many days like this and by the end of these summers, I wore every scratch and bruise as a trophy of the summer now gone. But right now it was still summer and there was still a fairy house waiting to be made. 

As we began to construct, the disproportions of the house started worrying me. If Audrey saw how absurd it was that the chairs were twice as big as their acorn table, would she then see the absurdity of the whole bit? I was sure that if Audrey realized that fairies couldn’t exist, our quiet sanctuary of flowers and forest would be gone. After a minute, I asked her if she was sure that all of the makeshift furniture would work for the fairies, and she assured me that because they were magical, all of the furniture would be just fine. Audrey and I continued on until we could barely see our creation by the dimming skylight. She told me that the fairies were going to love their new home and that we’d better get inside so they could move in in peace. 

Her imagination far outstretched my own; while I wished that there was magic in the world, Audrey already believed it was there. Building fairy houses on those hot summer days, salty breeze knotting our hair and strawberry lemonade on our tongues, I never once saw a fairy but I shared in Audrey’s belief of magic. Because there, in those moments, I could feel it. I held on tight to Audrey’s imagination, hoping that if I pretended enough, we would stay children forever. 

Summers passed quickly and soon Audrey and I were eleven and twelve. The summer’s dull fog clung to our clothes and gathered on our skin. Rain clouds lingered in the corners of the sky. Having exhausted water balloons and spilling secrets, we sat on her front steps throwing pebbles on to her driveway. With each throw, the contrast from this summer to the ones still sharp in my memory seemed to grow. The past summers spent unafraid and imperfect had been weighing on me, taunting me with the fact that I could not go back. It was then that Audrey suggested we build a fairy house. All of my worrying had been for nothing; summer was still here and Audrey still saw the magic in it. 

We set out in our familiar routine, looking for the best flowers and most creative decor for the fairies. It was just like it had always been or at least I tried to make myself think that. In truth, it didn’t feel like magic. It felt like forcing a sequel to something that could have wrapped up beautifully a long time ago. This feeling that fairy houses seemed so ingenuine now forced me into a confession. 

“You know I never believed in fairies, right?” I asked her. “I just pretended for your sake”. For a moment I didn’t know what she was thinking. Our sweet summer seemed to rot in front of my eyes. Then she laughed.

“That’s funny,” she said, “because I was always pretending for your sake”. With that, we left our flowers and twigs scattered on the tar and returned home.

And, somehow, it was still summer.

By Vaughn Ross ’27

Sit down and take a moment of your time to listen to something other than the bustle of the town. 

One could call this a rhyme, others may call these words of wisdom, others may just call this a waste of time. 

But before you run away I have more to say that may stay with you until the end of today. 

Ones that understand the way of life, may also understand the constant hurrying of life, which almost appears to be catching a dropping knife, but how come when others come together they still seem to be under the weather

Can the man with the plan please stand to tell me the story of this boy who ran just to escape the drama of his land. Language changes like a strain of a virus to adapt to the constant change of life. I keep running out of time, like people with power who seek to devour. 

People spew the hate to which brings up the pace I don’t know if you could last, but of course you can laugh when left to decide between do or die I think that’s just a lie, but keep sputtering and muttering we’ll see what it’ll be, let’s see to the tea like bloody backs in the back, is it just me or have we forgotten just that. But keep spreading the scuttlebug like disease under your rug. 

Though now there are cheats that try to play you at your game, all they care about is the money found at the end. Here comes the pay that’s what they all say, will they ever change at all, I’m not one to say. 

One last thing before you leave to join the bustle of the town once again, why oh why, do people continue to lie about things that seem to fly like leaves with the wind. Am I the one who is speaking on a whim or was this mind always here along with the constant plea to subside to the side to observe from a distance as the sphere begins to erupt into flames, but this does seem lame. Will you stop and burn out or will you continue to go, until you grow old with an afterglow that indeed will blow this sky away.

Now you can stand up and hurry outta town with a frown that seems 

to bring everyone down, just turn it around to hear this sound. Farewell to this town. 

By Quinn Doyle ’26

Two eyes opened like flowers to behold the newborn daylight. Starved, they were, of their food already. In a vigorous leap without legs, the body jumped, and the bright sun illuminated the trees and held the calm birdsong in its warm breast. The body stretched in the kind rays, but the mouth was frozen stiff, no longer able to chant its daily hymn to the natural beauty beyond the window. The stickers on the chiffarobe prompted a twitch of a grin in the mouth, with their weirdness and history captivating the head. As the legs shifted the body out of bed, the little baby blue blanket, the one that the child had nestled into since they were a babe, returned the favor that day, with a tight wrap around the shoulders almost in consolation. 

Sliding onto the little smooth pale feet came slippers lined in soft plush that banished the pain of stubbed toes in times of need. The walls gave wide berth to the child as they practiced their rituals, and seemed to make faces of pity in the creases of the rough plaster. Friendly beings of the wood, stalled in their movement, laid pasted to the walls, playmates for the head in its peaceful deep dreaming. On a regular day, the great many smiles held welcome and the attached limbs almost danced in the light filtering through the tree branches outside, but on that morn, there was an anxiety in the stripes of their faces that brushed a blackness over the stickered murals. 

The buff colored carpet gave way to crisply cool finished wood that came in the marvelous orange-brown which dominated the house’s floors, and the child beheld the hypnotic patterns of the grains for a while, melting into the hot hue of the boards. The small unused switch next to those for the lights flickered on and off with its blood red glare as it always did, but this time more menacingly. 

The swirls and shapes in the bright foam mats on the floor across the hall called attention to the toys beyond, trucks and trains and Legos and Lincoln logs. As the child took a step forward, the hall began to grow into a passage of dark liminality. The welcoming shapes of the playsets sat on a table that came into view, the child’s prized police station, garbage hauler, and gold mine, all beckoning with their promises of imaginative enjoyment. But the creek of the soft slap of flesh on planks disturbed the scene. 

“Quin. Come here.” A lecture proceeded that confirmed their sense of dread which had built over the months. The death of faithful Bode, chieftain among beasts in the house. Gentle, smooth haired sun-colored Bode. The news came like a phantasmal force to the heart, and the spectral militant then grappled the brain. It had been just a year prior that the child had experienced their first loss, Stanley the goldfish. That day at school, they had to leave class to cry. That night the child pondered and finally allowed themself to understand that while their inanimate companions would never pass, save for by future mistreatment, the days of a living being are ever numbered. 

By Alex Hounsell

Now lets do a countdown,

And let us be still.

For the earth is always moving, and yet is never set and fixed.

And the grass has no goals, except to only keep growing,

And the wind has no destination, even though it is always running.

Let’s do what the earth does, if just for a second.

If the concrete jungles momentarily stopped their growing,

If the fires that are the world stop glowing,

 Maybe only then can we truly see,

see what lives have come to be.

And yes, the clocks won’t stop moving,

 and the sun won’t stop revolving, 

but perhaps instead eye the bearing of time,

 us not always evolving.

For I don’t mean death, 

There is no call for a hearse,

No lost souls,

No Blackened hearts,

No funeral flowers,

No skulls.

Perhaps laced in the unusual

 is only when united souls can see,

The fabric of time shifting, 

And the tide is whisked back to the depths of the sea.

And maybe life isn’t found in the textbooks,

And maybe life isn’t found on a life-threatening journey,

But the moments of peace,

But the moments of zen glee,

But instead as united as could be,

Where the only thing you can hear is the earth and your heart,

Where the only thing you can feel is the understanding of others,

Where the only thing you can remember is the carelessness once in your head, and the people currently with you, 

but not always journeys ahead.

Now the countdown is done, 

and I’ll be as still as still can go.

By Jacinto Quintela ’26

When Jacinto Quintela woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous hybrid of man and tree. His limbs twisted and contorted, resembling knotted branches reaching out into the small room. Leaves sprouted from his skin, rustling softly with each movement as if whispering secrets of his transformation.

Jacinto’s metamorphosis sent shockwaves through the boarding school in Maine where he resided. His roommate, Cliff, stumbled backward in horror at the sight of Jacinto’s diabolical form, his eyes wide with horror. The other students gawked and whispered as rumors spread like wildfire throughout the halls, painting Jacinto as some sort of botanical aberration.

His friends, Mateo, Romeo, Sophia, and Vicky stood by his side, their expressions a mix of concern and fascination. They tentatively approached Jacinto, their voices trembling as they asked him what had happened. But Jacinto could offer no explanation, for he was just as confused by his transformation as they were.

He went to the health center to see if they could help him in any way, but when he saw the horror in Mrs. Judd’s eyes, he knew they couldn’t do anything. After thinking about it for a while Jacinto decided to go to class, despite the confusion and fear he had underneath his thick and bumpy skin. 

After 5 hours of classes, the first day of school as a monster had finally ended. He ran to his dorm, thinking what to do and what would calm him, and he saw his lacrosse stick. Despite his monstrous appearance, Jacinto’s love for lacrosse remained undiminished. He attempted to wield his newfound attachments like new arms, clumsily dribbling a lacrosse ball as he stumbled across the field. His teammates watched in awe as he moved with an otherworldly grace, his arboreal form bending and twisting in ways that defied logic.

But as the days passed, Jacinto’s transformation took its toll on those around him. His world literature teacher, whom he adored, struggled to come to terms with the sight of her once-promising student now trapped in a body that resembled something out of a nightmare. She wrestled with conflicting emotions, torn between pity and revulsion, unsure of how to help Jacinto in his time of need.

Despite his best efforts to continue attending classes, Jacinto found himself increasingly isolated from his peers. The other students whispered and pointed whenever he passed by, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Even his closest friends struggled to look past his monstrous exterior, their once-strong bond strained by the weight of his transformation.

But amidst the chaos and confusion, there were moments of beauty and wonder. Jacinto found solace in the quiet moments spent among the trees, their branches reaching out to him like long-lost friends. And though he may have been changed in body, his spirit remained unbroken, a testament to the resilience of the human soul in the face of adversity.

In the end, Jacinto’s metamorphosis served as a reminder that even in our darkest moments, there is still light to be found. For though he may have been transformed into something monstrous, he remained, at his core, a boy with dreams and aspirations, longing for acceptance and understanding in a world that often seemed indifferent to his plight.