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.