By: Peyton Grebinar ’27

After finishing Kafka’s classic novella The Metamorphosis, World Literature students were asked to reimagine the iconic opening sentence. Peyton Grebinar’s humorous take on Kafka’s dilemma resonates with every Hebron student struggling to wake up early and make it to class on time! 

When Peyton woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, she found herself changed in her bed into a monstrous tortoise. After waking up to this new form, Peyton was extremely startled. Most people would freak out and call 911,  but she could not because she did not have fingers. Instead of freaking out, Peyton climbed onto her bedside table, then onto her desk, then took a leap of faith onto the ground, landing with a thud. Being a giant tortoise meant moving a lot slower than normal, but it also saved a lot of time. As a giant reptile, you do not need to spend time doing your hair, makeup, or picking out an outfit. Peyton decided the smartest thing to do would be to get an early start to her day, so she had the idea of leaving to go to class at 7:45. Just as she began her crawl to the door, her roommate Beccy woke up from her sleep. Beccy climbed out of bed, eyes still not fully open. She grabbed her toothbrush and headed towards the door when she caught her foot on a large solid object, and BOOM! Down went beccy. 

After getting up and pulling herself together, Becy gasped as she looked at what Peyton had become. She started laughing out loud uncontrollably for at least five minutes. Once the hysterics were over, Beccy realized Peyton couldn’t do anything on her own, so she grabbed Peytons bag and put it around her large turtle shell, opening the door for Peyton. Beccy watched Peyton waddle her way to the stairs, and begin her walk. While making her time down the stairs, Peyton felt determined to have a good day even though she was now an animal. 

By the time she made it to the last step of the dorm, and out the door, Peyton was famished. To this she decided to stop and grab a bite to eat. She found the most beautiful, scrumptions, tasty looking grass! When she got to the grass she began to nibble, and ate until her belly was full. She then carried on and made it to the sidewalk. At the side walk there were many cars zooming by, but none of them could see little Peyton, only a few inches off the ground waiting to safely cross the road. After a little while there was a break in the line of cars. Peyton decided to be brave and cross quickly. She stepped into the crosswalk and made it about half way when all of a sudden, a giant eighteen wheeler came barreling down the road. In this moment she went into sheer panic mode, wondering whether she should turn back and try to make it back where she started, or to get across to the other side. In all of this time she wasted thinking, the truck had gotten up to her, and she hasn’t moved an inch. What Peyton forgot was that she was now a tortoise. A tortoise with a big strong shell on her back. She used her shell, hiding her body into it and shut her eyes, hoping for the best. 

Peyton waited a moment before sticking her neck back out to check if she was safe. When she looked, she saw the coast was clear, so she wasted no time and quickly crossed. Peyton now began to hurry on her way, still frazzled from what had just happened. She walked across the mile long senior path, smiling at everyone she passed, until she finally made it to the school building. She waited for a group of students to walk out, slipping in the door behind them. Once inside the building, Peyton looked up and saw her arch nemesis: The stairs in the school building. She bravely began her trip up the stairs, looking up as if looking up towards the top of a mountain. When she made it to the landing she stopped just until she caught her breath, then she carried on. She climbed for what felt like forever, passing by many of her fellow friends and teachers. She looked up and realized she had made it up all of the stairs. She hobbled towards Ms. Watermans door, only to realize it was shut and all of the lights were off. Peyton also realized the building was extremely quiet. She pushed open the door to the fire escape only to see the moon smiling back at her. Peyton then heard the bells of the clocktower ring. One ring, Two rings, Three rings, Four rings, on and on until she counted ten rings. TEN RINGS!? That was when Peyton realized how long it took her, and that she had missed her entire day of school because she was turned into a tortoise. 

At this point, all that Peyton could think of was how she was going to explain this to Ms. Teske, and the attendance office. Peyton was in big trouble but hey, at least she got to be a tortois for a day!

By Alex Vogel ’26

I am truly honored to have the opportunity to be here, to even just breathe this air in front of me. But I am even more blessed to be able to speak on a matter that is very near and dear to my heart. A matter that binds us all, a challenge that knows no borders, no class, no creed, no social hierarchy. A matter that is taking one life every eleven minutes. 

When nations wage war, it is one versus another. War is hell. War is publicly condemned because of its capability to steal human lives too soon. When nations wage war, there are protests, demonstrations against it, and pleas to make it end. The act of war itself is hell. Those in war can attest that being caught in the crossfire of a war…is hell, being in the frontlines of war…is hell, being on the sidelines of a war, witnessing untimely death…is hell. Battling against a war is hell. Yet in almost every national conflict, there is a group of people that come together to fight this hell. Soldiers in war murder the enemy.

This dreadful matter I speak of is one of self-murder. Suicide: the seemingly only answer when the struggles of the mind win the war.

I have hope that the silent battles of the mind will one day be welcomed and not discussed behind closed doors. I see a time when a chorus of empathy and understanding will ease the weight of depression, anxiety, and despair rather than being carried alone.

I have a hope that one day, people who fight behind closed doors would no longer feel ashamed and will instead stand tall in the light of acceptance, surrounded by people who say, “We see you, we hear you, we are with you.”

I have a hope that the stigma that suffocates the soul will crumble like ancient walls, giving way to a society where mental health is not a secret to be hidden, but a truth that is unanimously accepted. 

I have a hope that instead of demanding that peacefulness be sacrificed for work, workplaces would become shelters to the artillery that is mental hell. Shelters where everybody will feel appreciated and complete.

I have a hope that our hospitals will treat not only broken bones but broken spirits, that our leaders will legislate not only for the economy but for the emotional well-being of the supposedly free people.

And so I say, let us rise from the commentary and judgement of others. Let us rise up with the courage to speak openly, for there is no solution in silence. Let us rise up and embrace each other, for there is no shame in struggle. Let us rise up and create a world where mental health is no longer a war that one must fight alone. Let us rise up and fight this war that is more lethal than total war. Let us rise up until every soul knows the joy of being cared for and looked out for. Let us lead in love and acceptance, not judgement and belittlement. Let us rise until the day this war against the mind is put to a permanent ceasefire, where society is the victor, and suicide is the defeated. Only then we may sit down in contentment.

That is my hope…it is your duty to carry this hope with you until all of us do, so that this no longer remains just my hope, but all of the souls of this beautiful world we can make. Turn this hope into a reality, so that when the war of society and mental health is discussed in future history classrooms, the teachers and students can say with a smile–a real smile–that “society won”.

By Laura Zarko ’26

Chameleons are animals who change their color depending on different factors such  as light, temperature or emotions associated with anything that happens around them. They  are frightened easily and very often are a target of predators. Chameleons are very small and  harmless animals. However, these skills very often save their lives. It is weird to compare  yourself to a chameleon but if you think about it, we function pretty much the same way. It is  important to always stay yourself and don’t let other people affect the kind of person you  want to be. But sometimes I find myself in situations where it’s hard to be myself. Many  things go through my head. Should I fit in or should I be different? Should I be better or just  let them take the lead? Sometimes I don’t even think. I just pretend to be someone else without  even noticing it. How can I make them like me? That is the main question I used to ask  myself. The question that was causing my duplicity and sometimes still is.  

The last time I was asking myself this question, I was on a plane. It was August 27th  and I was flying to Boston. It was the start of my year at Hebron Academy. I was alone on a  plane flying to another continent where I didn’t know a soul. It was like that question was  stuck in my head and it wouldn’t leave until there was something or someone to just make it  disappear. Just like that word on the top of your tongue that you just can’t remember, that one  embarrassing moment that you can’t get outside of your head. As we were landing the  question started to get even more annoying. At this point it was getting crazy, jumping around  my head not letting me think. When I first started talking to everyone at the airport I was 

smiling, shaking hands and introducing myself. But as I started to get to know everyone, the  question was taking over. I agreed to everything anyone said and never said what I thought. “I  love rock music,” somebody said. “Me too!” I agreed even though I have never listened to a  single rock song and rock was my absolute worst genre. I started to question whether I was  doing the right thing by listening to the question because nobody really seemed to care that I loved rock music. They all just smiled. I thought maybe they would do the same if I told them  I actually like classical music and pop. Maybe they would even ask questions and be  interested in it. But what if they just thought I was weird for liking it. I didn’t want to take the  risk of them not liking me, so I just stuck with being a rock music lover. The rest of the night  at the airport I continued listening to the question and, in addition to being the rock music  lover, I also became a Formula 1 fan, a poetry lover and my favorite color became brown.  That one really hurt. 

Later that night we were in the bus driving to the school. It was late at night and the  drive was long. A lot of people were sleeping, but I was wide awake thinking about the  question. I was sitting in the front part of the bus by myself looking outside at the night sky.  My attention was caught by one of my favorite constellations, Cassiopeia. As I was looking at  it I remembered how good it felt to think about something I truly love, which for me is  astronomy. I got lost in my thoughts the second I looked up at the night sky and the thought  of all of those things I said I liked and people I pretended to be that day made the question  disappear just a little from my head. I realized I made some really good friends that day but if  that friendship is based on a lie, then it doesn’t really mean much. However, even that  realization didn’t make the question completely disappear from my head. 

The question was there until one thought that came to my head. I thought of a  chameleon. A chameleon changes its colors depending on its surroundings. That’s what I did  that day. I changed my colors. I changed who I am so people wouldn’t think badly of me just 

like a chameleon changes colors so it wouldn’t be eaten. The thought of that made me feel  bad, like all the friends I made that day weren’t really my friends. But then I realized that  even when a chameleon changes its color and you can’t see it, it is still there and it is still a  chameleon. So even though I sometimes change who I am, even though I act differently in  front of different people, I am still a human. A human that makes mistakes. And when I feel  safe enough around those people, I will change my color back to the original one. I don’t  think the question will ever completely disappear and that is okay. Humans are social creatures  and being a part of a group is in human nature, so sometimes we simply do what seems the  best in that moment even though we might regret it later. It is just important to remember that  sometimes it’s okay to be a chameleon but it is never okay to lose your real color.

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.