Category: Fall 2025 Edition

Caroline Doering, ’26

“So that’s it, then?”

My voice was stark against the pleasant drone of the stereo. Every so often I could hear the soft click of the CD restarting to the first track. This must have been the second, maybe third time it’s replayed.

She kept her eyes steady, looking out at the rolling hills instead of straying toward me. Her leg hung out over the lip of the trunk. It dangled in the air, and the tall grass rose up to meet her.  Weeds kissed her ankle.

“I don’t know how long you expected this to last,” was all she murmured. “It was just for the summer, anyway. Who cares if he found your letters? It’s not like he’s going to be finding any more.”

The CD skipped again. It always did at this song. A long scratch slivered through its center. We had been out driving one night when a rabbit had darted across the road. She yelled at me to stop, and I had hit the brakes so hard the CD case came flying from the back seat. We had spent the next hour pulled over, collecting the disks that had fallen out, taking inventory of those damaged. She wanted to throw them out, pay for new ones, but the scratch never bothered me. Even as the stereo tried to power its way past the scratch, even as her lips pursed at the sound of it, I closed my eyes to listen.

“Don’t be like that.” I could feel her gaze at my temple. “Don’t tell me you thought…?”

“I don’t know what I thought.” I shifted, bringing my knees up to my chest. “It wasn’t as if I thought too hard about how this would end. Not exactly something I wanted to think about.”

“They never would have accepted this. You know that. You know my parents. You knew this from the beginning. It was fun while it lasted, really. At least we get to think back on that.”

I opened my eyes to look at the long stretch of hills. This place had been beautiful in May. Now the colors were fading to the dull hues of autumn. Dandelions lost their vibrant yellow petals, replaced instead with ghostly puffs of white. The bluebottles had become scarce. The little that remained were wilted, their stems bowing at the weight of their petals. 

“Hey.” Her foot nudged mine. “There’s still some summer left. Maybe August will be kinder.”

Shawn Galligan, ’26

1.
It’s dark here on the second floor
My fingers slide against the sweat on my drink
You are telling me that a law career
doesn’t have to make you sad
because they say that money doesn’t buy happiness
but in real life it actually does.
So then when my friend and your friend
begin to really go at it against the pillar
I don’t bother saying anything because
it is only proper and fair and right
that we do the same.
2.
The stage is alive with bodies
In turns each of us are almost pushed off
I am having a dilemma and I explain it in your ear:
Are we both too gay to platonically make out?
You really have to think about it and seem
to have an extensive argument with yourself.
So then when that is settled
your shoulders kind of shrug
and it’s good that we’re kissing because
the song is rather terrible
and I think we were both bored.
3.
In the smoking area the air is cool
And I could go for another drink
You’ve been arguing with me for fifteen minutes
about the merits of Texas and your pride,
and you are proud, red-blooded, unafraid
to rear up against the haughty Yankee.
So then I am sick of it
and ask if we are regular arguing or sexy arguing

and you spend another minute mad
before I am pulled into you
and pushed pleasantly back into the brick wall.
4.
The coat check is alive at this hour
I am overly conscious of our aloneness
A plan is forming and I explain it in your ear:
How do you feel about making out in the coat check line?
You nod, which thrills me, but then we only shuffle
forward, not wanting to stall any progress.
So then you see how expectant I look
and you say Well, you have to start it
I consider myself an obliging sort of man
and the challenge presented to me
really does not seem difficult at all.

Isabella (Izzy) Portante, ’28

You were born underground, in an unnamed darkness. From underneath you crawled up, dirt and rocks and roots, a tiny piece of clay taking form, forming you. Outwardly you flourished, your clay heart being bound by stone, sand, and mud, until you became you, with eyes to chart your path and fingers to dig, a fully formed human being, an individual. Out from the mud and into the river, you tumbled and grasped at hanging branches, hoping to gain your bearings. Those branches swept you up and laid you down in the sunlight where you were dried, fed, and wrapped in clouds. They called themselves “mother.” 

As your eyes adjusted to the light, you found yourself surrounded by unfamiliar things. Within your little cradle you grew, and as you blossomed, you observed all that was around you.

“Not now, my child,” your mother said. “Soon, you may wander. First, you must grow strong for the dance.”

You were taught to drink water from the river, eat mushrooms growing on trees, and rest on thick moss and leaves. After a time of great play and joy and growth, you could see over the bushes, and a bursting curiosity began to root its way into your clay heart, bound by stone, sand, and mud, and spread through your brain until, when your mother was asleep, you held your head high and found your way out of the cradle and into the thick of it.

The darkness of night was a suffocating burden, the fire in your palm lighting the way in front of you, letting the trees behind you fade back to black. A fear settled within your heart, chasing away that terrible curiosity, and though you so desperately wished to turn back, the only way you could see was forward.

You stumbled in that darkness; the fire in your palm was extinguished by your tears as you fell to your knees and cried, overwhelmed by all that you did not know. Then, you heard a monotone voice speak to you.

It said from above, “Poor child; you don’t know anything and you wandered off without telling your guardian.”

“Who are you?” You asked.

“I am the owl, and my eyes see all. Child, allow me to shed some light on this place.”

And so it did: not with fire, but a little sun that shone brightly. The owl watched you rub your sore eyes and chuckled, “A little one like you cannot possibly stare at this light; until you are older, you may only use it to guide your way.”

With slow and careful steps, you let the little sun guide you back home. In your cradle you collapsed, exhausted and fearful. You explained everything and cried in your mother’s arms as she chided you, “You must not leave this place without me. My child, a borrowed light disappears after a while. You must remain in my sight at all times, at least until you gain your own light.”

Relying on your mother, you held her hand tightly as she guided you through the forest, helping you memorize the paths until you could find your way home by yourself. The sun began to rise and, though your mother cried, she held you and said, “You have become strong, my child. Wander some more, until you find the dance.”

Flowers bloomed in your wake as you walked toward the sun that rested above the horizon. You passed through rivers and ran through trees, your laughter ringing in the air, the joy of freedom burning in your heart. Watching the seasons change, you swam in fallen leaves, golden-brown and inviting. Snow fell upon your lips as you found warmth in the hollow of a tree, and when spring came, you picked flowers and put them in your hair.

Your journey ended when you came upon a curious, yet beautiful scene: animals of all kinds had gathered in one place and were laughing, crying, howling, hissing, dancing. Around the fire they went, hand in hand. As you inched closer, you saw things clearer, and to your horror, the animals were dancing upon the bodies of the dead. 

“What is this?” You asked a wolf. “Why do you trample on the bodies of your brethren?”

With pity, the wolf replied, “Look beneath your feet, and pray tell me where I could go without trampling on them?”

The sun rose higher as you looked beneath you, behind you, all around you was death, and a great darkness was cast over your vision until your eyes bled. 

“All this beauty, all this wonder, was built on the foundation of death. What is the point of seeing these things, of knowing anything?” In your despair the sun set, and a moonless sky gave you no comfort. You felt that, in this darkness, anything may come to consume your clay heart, and for the first time you felt true fear.

“Poor child; you’ve discovered what it means to live, and you cannot accept it. Once again, you have descended into darkness.” It was the owl, who had come to observe you at your darkest hour once more.

“Owl, I don’t understand, what is the meaning of all this? If I am using death, and I cause the deaths of others, then what am I, if not despicable? I thought I knew a great deal, but now I know that I know nothing.”

The owl tilted its head and replied, “You have been born from death, became life, and eventually, will become the foundation of life. The world asks nothing of you, other than to live, and then die. Do not let the fire in your heart disappear. How else will you find your way home?”

Drying your tears, you asked, “Then what is this dance for? Why do they all dance together?”

“Silly child,” the owl said, “is it not better to die with those you love, rather than die alone?”

Freya Crawford, 28′

When Puck blinds the fairy queen’s eyes with the love-in-idleness flower, the first creature she lays her eyes upon is an ass. That is all it takes for Titania to become entirely besotted. She cradles its furred snout in her hands. She lets it lead her back to its ramshackle apartment in Brooklyn and makes sweet love to it on the pullout couch.

Afterwards, it smells like the subway, and sex, and flowers, because Titania always smells like flowers. The donkey hasn’t deflowered her, though– she’s already slept with all of her fairy ladies in waiting individually and collectively. The donkey hasn’t deflowered her, but sex has never been quite like this before for Titania: it’s never smelled like the subway.

“This is special,” she decides. She’s lying side by side with the ass on the couch, on top of a comforter with a suspicious stain on it. 

The ass turns its great big head to look at her. “Really? Wow…”

Titania slides her fingers along the comforter, fingering the stain curiously. “It’s never been this way before, so. ” 

The ass’s ear twitches, tickling her cheek. It tentatively asks her, “Do you, would you. Want something to drink?”

Titania hums, “Do you have nectar?”

“Um,” says the ass, “let me see.” Then it shuffles off from the mattress, into the tiny kitchen, which doubles as both the living room area and the pantry. 

Titania waits for the ass to return for a while, then stretches her long, graceful legs and gets up to poke around the bedroom. It’s entirely unlike her enchanted bedchamber back in the forest. There are papers tacked on the walls bearing blaring messages like SEX PISTOLS and DIARRHEA PLANET. Titania smiles when she spots bits of rolled parchment filled with dried weeds. She has smoked sacred flowers with her handmaidens, Peaseblossom and Moth, trading the smoke between her mouth and theirs. She’s imbibed magical elixirs, too, and potions that made her mind go lax. The other things in the room she hasn’t experienced whilst entangled with fairies, but she finds herself liking them anyway. They belong to the ass, after all. 

There’s a window that opens to a very small iron terrace. Titania imagines it’s a nice place for the ass to smoke. Imagining it reclining there brings her simple pleasure, and she wants to share in its pleasures, so she sits on the ledge herself. She tucks her legs under her body and becomes a small, compact shape. She looks out at New York City.

The ass returns bearing nectar contained in a little box. It shows Titania how to poke a bendy straw through the top in order to drink it.  It has its own little box of nectar so that they can sip together while admiring the view. 

Titania is relatively new to the concept of cities. To industrialization and neon lights and boxy panoramas. She likes how it looks at night. She likes how it smells and how it sounds too. She likes how it makes her feel: as though she’s spent her whole life in a dream, and now finally she’s waking up.

Katie Jordan, ’29

“Chapter 3: Acts of Vampires”
There was the crackling hum of a Bel Air outside. A yelp. A tray of roasted vegetables hit
the ground, the metal sheet making a crash that reverberated through the cramped kitchen like
a smack.
Betty’s palms were on fire, red and stinging with what would soon become ugly welts
that crept to her wrists. The engine outside cut. Clicking around the kitchen in her baby blue
kitten heels, Betty grabbed two dish towels from the cupboard, wrapped each around her hands,
and picked the tray up to plop it unceremoniously on the stove. The too-hot oven had burned
the assortment of once-frozen carrots and broccoli florets so that they were just a bit too charred
and blackened for most palates. She sniffled, and then again, and then composed herself with a
smoothing of her apron and a smile to nobody.
A car door slam. Betty slid plates of meatloaf and vegetables and mashed potatoes to
their spots on the table. She blew out a breath. Dinner was served.
A shadow graced the landing. A hat on a hook. A coat shed. A briefcase dropped. A huff.
“Hello, dear,” said Betty with a red-lipped smile, her hands tucked behind her back.
The shadow stalked into the kitchen past its wife. The shadow inspected its dinner. Betty
stood behind it, wide-eyed and ready.
Its eyes caught the vegetables, then her unguarded hands. Betty cautioned a step back,
a baby blue click.
“Dear, why don’t you eat?”
“You are too hysterical for cooking.” The shadow set for his home office.
Betty clicked cautiously after it. “I can put something in the microwave-oven for you!”
The shadow closed the door on her beckoning fingers.
There was the crackling hum of a Bel Air outside. It harmonized with the antennaed TV
set, a murmuring soapy program of dramatics and intrigue and romance. The oven beeped.
Betty’s arms were leaden on the sofa, her eyes open a sliver. Manufactured calm swam
through her veins. The engine outside cut. Her baby blue heels were in a heap by the sofa. A
little glass jar of tablets sat open, the color of her microwaved mashed potatoes. She smiled a
soft smile at the television as the program encouraged her laughs.
A car door slam. Betty sunk into the cushions. The oven beeped again. Dinner burned.
A shadow graced the landing. A hat on a hook. A coat shed. A briefcase dropped. A huff.
“Hello, dear,” Betty hummed to nothing, a sleepy smile coating her face.
The shadow stalked into the living room. The shadow inspected its wife. Its wife smiled
back.
Its eyes caught the aluminum foil container, the mashed potato tablets. Its wife blinked
up at him.
“There’s a mighty fine dinner for you in the oven, dear,” said its wife.
The shadow receded to the kitchen, its eyes darting to the burning oven and its welted
wife, whose blistered hands have bled, whose red lips have carelessly smudged.
“Is everything all right, dear?” The shadow’s wife called tranquilly.
The shadow retired to its office as its wife slipped into slumber.

by Lauren Mueller

My best friend was a great fashion designer because of me.

Brinn Hart- her name, and her brand’s. It was an honor to have attended the same institution as her. She and I have known each other since middle school. Though back then, I resented her. 

I have always liked to fancy myself avant-garde, though in middle school this meant poorly caked mall-goth powder, drugstore eyeliner, plastic-y replicas of stainless steel chokers I wrapped around my throat like a noose. Brinn didn’t like me so much back then. Or, at least, I resented her enough that in my own self hatred I reflected my own sentiments onto her. I would lie in bed and imagine a world where I was in her inner circle. I’d have nonconsensually shiny dreams where the two of us were friends of the closest sort. She’d hug me smelling of nauseatingly sweet vanilla mall perfume, sporting busted uggs with sequin charms I’d scoff at. For a moment I would not be left alone in my own chronically glamorized nihilism. There would be two of us. 

Around high school, this resentment faded. I was not beautiful yet, but she was. As we grew closer as friends, I also began to notice the glances she constantly drew. This was another thing about Brinn I envied, she toed that line between strange and charmingly artistic. Her skirts were short and pleated, her eyes framed with robin’s egg shadow like a doll’s. She wore dainty white headbands in her blond straight hair like a cheerleader in an eighties movie. I adored her. And somehow, by the grace of the shared common interest of fashion, she adored me back. 

We’d pour over the same magazines, admire the same models, and gush over fabrics online at school. She was the Marilyn to my Audrey. The Amades Wolfgang to my Metallica. We even applied to all the same colleges.

I remember Brinn and I working on our portfolios for months. I remember standing with my old Canon camera as Brinn meticulously adjusted an iridescent A-line skirt she had sewn. The hem had a sort of uneven ruffled edge, like the waves of a lake, or a petal. All of Brinn’s clothes looked like they belonged on a barbie or a porcelain doll. They had the same very unique affect about them that made her look like she was possessing herself; This pristine, clean, quality. It was as if by holding them in your hands a small piece of their perfection might just seep into your own presence.

Our top choice for college was The Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT), based in New York. I had known I would be able to attend, filled with 16-year-old hubris that my pieces were more unique, more cut-throat and innovative than anyone else’s. 

Somehow, my leather slips and iron-tipped tulle skirts slid in along with Brinn’s silk and cotton pleats. Somehow, our paths continued to align. 

I remember the tears in her eyes when we’d gotten our letters, her voice had been pitched high and squeaky with excitement. Usually, it was  smooth like the transatlantic actors from old Hollywood. It could be intentional, a purposeful inflection to complete her aesthetic, but I could easily believe it wasn’t, that this was just another inexplicable piece of her. 

“Margot,” she’d breathed, as she’d fluttered her hands delicately with excitement, “Margot, we’re gonna go to school together! We’re gonna be shiny and perfect, just like Coco!”

I laughed with my own put-upon effect, rolling my heavily lined eyes. But deep down, I was thrilled. 

We were going to be just like Coco. Donatella. Westwood and Prada. 

She would be the Vivienne to my McQueen, and all would be well. 

Until she stole my dress. 

There is a competition every year at FIT, which doubles as a yearly partnership with Vogue. Whoever has the best piece will be featured in their autumn spread. In other words, you won a guaranteed job at Vogue as long as you played your cards right. Naturally, Brinn and I had been trying out for this challenge every year. 

My first piece had been black cargos, embroidered with silver thread in the shapes of trees and animals, my second a detailed corset, lined with a plastic substance which resembled bones. 

By my third year I decided to try something different. A simple slip with a black créme bodice. The cut was unoriginal, yet timeless. My coupe de grace, however, was that I had found some old beads Brinn had gifted me, back when we were fourteen. I remembered that ethereal effect she’d had– her, and everything she made. So I sewed the small beads –most likely purchased from some old toy store– into the lining of the gown. I stitched little strawberries, flowers, and stars. As I worked, I looked at the bleakness of the fabric, admiring how it seemed so empty, like a void simply waiting to be adorned with sparkling stars. 

When Brinn had seen it, she had gasped with joy. 

“Margie, It’s gorgeous!” She pouted. “Almost makes me wish I’d tried again.” 

I smiled back, tasting Marshall’s black lipstick on my teeth with a laugh. 

“The whole thing is a crapshoot, anyway.” 

But I couldn’t help but agree. The dress was gorgeous. 

On the day we were meant to meet with our models, (Naturally, I had chosen Brinn) I woke up with a headache. I didn’t want to miss the photoshoot, but when I’d stood up, the room spun and I’d had to grab the corner of my nightstand like I was a swooning maiden in a movie

Perhaps it had been all the sleepless nights up stitching and sketching, perhaps it had been the habit of smoking we had both developed, or perhaps it had been the college slop I had been turning up my nose to (Donatella Versace mustn’t have eaten such things!). Either way, I could not leave my bed. I phoned Brinn, despondent, and she had been instantly sympathetic, kindly offering to take the photos herself. I got off the phone –after Brinn had promised to bring me soup later in the day– feeling slightly relieved. Brinn would do the photoshoot  and submit the photos in the morning. Brinn is nothing if not an amalgamation of contradictions. All was well.  

–Until I saw a small “Brinn Hart” typed out in the list of designers next hitting the upcoming issue of Vogue. 

This was shocking for more reasons than simple betrayal. I had always been the jealous one, the lurking shadow, the artist stalking her muse. And now our roles had been switched. 

My muse had taken my work. She had submitted it as her own, pinned carefully between charmed nails. She had signed her own name in her perfect Barbie script where it should have read mine. 

The resentment toward my best friend had never left, but I found it did not even increase upon finding this. Rather, a sick sort of obsession began to take hold of me. 

When had she begun to admire me? Had she known I would win, found my dress perfect enough for her shiny ideals? Or was I just another shadow for her to flick away with her touch, unmatched by her own effervescence?

I realized then I needed to be near her. To look her in the eye and match this girl I had once hated, who I adored, with my betrayer.

Now here we sit, reclined against the roof of our dorm building, the expanse of New York City spread out below us. So high up, the rushing taxis look like gold buttons ready to be placed upon a gown in adornment. Everyone feels like bugs. 

I take a drag of our shared cigarette and pass it to Brinn. My lipstick leaves an imprint as she places it between her lips. 

She is vibrating, either from excitement or nervousness. The cigarette shakes between her fingers. Watching her smoke has always felt like watching a child cuss, perversely entertaining and oddly wrong. She steals a glance at me, does she know I know? 

She must, I think, as I watch the ember burn. Closer and closer to the end of the filter. Closer to her porcelain doll fingers. 

I take it from her before it can burn, bumming the rest of the cigarette in one go. I blow the smoke out of my lips harshly in a thin stream like a bullet.

“You made it to Vogue,” I breathe out. No use hiding it any more. I flick the singe-ing paper from my fingers, wondering if it will burn some unsuspecting pedestrian. 

Brinn Hart is silent. I grit my teeth and study her. Her eyes are clear and her lips are wobbly, and she looks like she might cry. 

“You made it to Vogue with my dress, Brinn.” But it tumbles weakly from my lips. I don’t like watching her cry, even after this. She doesn’t answer, just presses her face further against her palms. I think of all her clean, sparkly makeup smearing against them. 

“Brinn!”

Answer me. See me. For once, see me how I see you.

I imagine all the words she could say to me, I was intimidated, You’re just so amazing, any placating phrase or compliment that might fix this situation. We could go to the editors. We could call it a mistake. 

But Brinn just looks up at me with her wide, doe-like eyes, “I-I just.” She looks away, biting her lip. “I knew you wouldn’t stop me, Margot. I knew in the end you wouldn’t mind.” 

She looks at me, hopeful, naive, entitled. She knows she is right.

I think of all the beads she has given me, all the hugs, all the lunches she has invited me to, all the tiny pieces of kindness she had given me when I was not on my knees begging. 

I try to count the times this girl has studied me, has thought of me as something close to perfection, and come up with next to nothing. 

I examine my muse. Today she is wearing a long, blouse-like dress. The white ruffles flutter on the windy rooftop. 

Very carefully, I wipe a tear from beneath her eye. Her skin is warm, not like a doll’s at all. Brinn begins to stutter.

“Margot, there’ll be next year. With your talent, we could both-“

I lean closer. Brinn falls silent as I breathe my tobacco breath over her face. It seems no matter what I do, Brinn will always be the muse. The apple of the public’s eye. If only I could touch her, squeeze her hard enough to get even an ounce of her untouchable perfection. 

And then I push her from the rooftop to land amongst the yellow beads of taxis.