LITERATURE

At least so I’ve heard 

By Harper Prescott '27

Have you ever tasted joy? 

Of course I’m certain you’ve felt happiness before, at least in some amount 

But have you ever been so alight with light that it tingles on the tips of your tongue?

And that your smile actually made you feel sweeter? 

Have you ever smelled laughter? 

Of course I’m certain you’ve had a laugh before, possibly a few times 

But have you ever just chuckled so much that the smell of glee lingered in the air? 

And you just couldn’t help but crack up again? 

Have you ever seen hope? 

Of course I’m certain you’ve heard ‘i’m hoping’ before, even if only in passing talks 

But have you ever told someone something so bright that their entire countenance opened? 

And their whole face filled with the belief in a chance? 

Have you ever touched warmth? 

Of course I’m certain you’ve felt warm before, perhaps from a hug or a blanket 

But have you ever felt a touch where someone held you, and your whole soul sighed in relief?

And where warmth just filled you, and you were at peace? 

Have you ever heard love? 

Of course I’m certain you’ve heard someone say “I love you”, though maybe it was just a phrase 

But have you ever heard some words that were so heartfelt that you shook when they entered your ears? 

And where it was so clearly true that you just rested in acceptance? 

No? 

Neither have I 

But I’ve heard it’s wonderful.

The 103rd Day of Summer 

By: Claire Ledbetter '24


Somehow, the day had managed to come. It was the 103rd day of summer vacation until school came along just to end it. This was the most important experiment of the summer we had faced yet. Post climbing up the Eiffel Tower, or finding Freinkenstein's brain. 

This, my readers, was it. 

We kept busy this summer with other projects, but I must say… nothing could amount to this. We were out to find the end of the universe. 

NASA would praise us, people would want to be us, and the president would envy our brains. 

After much debating with the infamous crafts store, Michael's, they agreed to invest in our spaceship. We went into the store with the $2,817 they had agreed to invest in us and let us use in their products and went to town. We grabbed anything resembling wood, silver, metal, or structurally sound items. After seven hours and 42 minutes spent in the shop, we got to crafting. 

Three hours and seventeen minutes had passed of things flying all around the backyard until we knew we were ready. Not only were we ready, but so was the spaceship. Picture this: a 2.7 x 4.5ft base, with 4ft high walls encapsulating where our bodies would be sitting for the journey, two huge windows cut out of cardboard on the side, and one even larger in front of us to keep an eye out for the end of the universe. Our seats were borrowed from our neighbor's three-year-old twin's car seats, they sat on the ground, so we were looking up and out to the universe. The outside was painted a coat of silver, and the wood was used as wings to keep us afloat—in space that is.

Our brother, Cayden, laughed in our faces (he always doubts us) when we presented the final presentation, but we didn't care—no one could stop the two best girls in the entire world, not even our mom. 

Well, maybe our mom could… 

She said that our very own spaceship... Was. Not. Going. To. Work. 

Yeah, all right. 

Then, the next day, there we were. Decked out in our space suits, backs back, feet up. It was time… 

Mom ran out the back door and screamed. She stopped us—oh… 

(When Michaels calls your parents telling you owe them $2,817, parents might have the right to be upset. Maybe "We'll charge your parents" really didn't mean they were investing.) 

Now we owe $2,817 to Michael's, NASA doesn't know us, and I envy the president. 

The spaceship sits sad, and school starts tomorrow.



In Augury

By Ella Curlin '24 


Behind the oaken branches

where the Sun meets curled leaves

and rigid branches, the light frames

an eagle taking high flight - praepes -

over the old forest.


The augurs, in their far temples,

never see the way his

brown-tipped feathers brush the

white-bright gold of the Chariot.


But that morning, a shepherd sits,

green hills white-dotted with his

wooled companions, coat drawn

tight against the pale cold morning,


And he glimpses, in the cold, in the

pale, in the empty field,

past the silent grass -

a single glimpse of feathertips,

like tavern lanterns

glowing, like the Vestal flame,

like his mother’s yellow hair -

an eagle, reaching praepes,

flying upwards, into light.