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Sofia Bobroff


Alexia Oltramare


Gia Fisher


"Can You See into Me?"

Skye Zweben

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Carter West -> 

Sunbathing on Concrete



I'm not very used to kindness in a lot of cases

In fact, as much as I long for someone to love me deeply and unconditionally, I tend to distrust kindness

To a certain extent

And I find myself asking

How deep does this warmth go

Trying to find the limit and wear out others' kindness

So that I can go back to where I've been, and rely on myself


Jessica Le

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 Isabella D'Amario-McShane



because salty lungs

could never become what

you promised

me under midnight-

blue flowers on a portion

of the tableau where my 

loss feels visible - eaten

by twilight sunrises sunsets

my ankles are cold

from the lack of knowing.


Please don’t leave me.

I can’t do this on my own - 

searching for the beauty in the brambles.



I beg you.

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River Grand 

Carlyn Cunningham

to Branson



you are simply

silk on

my cracked, fissured skin.


Please remember how we loved.

Because I love you.

But I understand

if we must be lonely for now.



Take off your coat.

Walk through lavender fields

with me. Or the creek.

it’s up to your discretion.

I’m the one who had to go.


i haven’t tasted

your fall leaves

in a long, long time

it seems.

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Paloma Rincon

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Gia Fisher


Alexandra Zak

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Charlotte Ng


Maddie Lowe 


This particular red drew her in and dried her tongue. It was the same shade of lipstick Nonnie always wore. The museum used to be her grandmother’s, Nonnie. Nonnie was not Italian by any means, whiter than a north coast abalone’s pearl, but she insisted on being called “Nonnie” since before Eleanor could form proper thoughts. Nonnie adored art because she thought it was the finest example of humanity: art was the subconscious voice of an individual's emotions, beliefs and thoughts. Nonnie even carried herself like a piece of art. Her bobbed hair always curled outwards like a Dr. Suess Who, and she wore extravagant colors, layered with silver jewelry. 

Nonnie ate a strict diet of dark chocolate, coffee and persimmons. Her excuse for any of these would always be, “Why eat anything I don’t want to? Life is yours to enjoy,” said with a grand lilt at the end of her voice as if she was declaring “Let them eat cake!” with her silver bands dangling. And just like asparagus and pears, Nonnie disliked sadness. 

“There is too much to enjoy! Why dwindle time away on other things?” She would often say while plopping a slice of persimmon in her mouth. She thought it was a waste and would often scold Elenor for crying when she was little. Nonnie thought babying children would result in giant toddlers who mope around in their own sadness. So, Eleanor stopped crying at 7 years old. But at night, Eleanor heard a muffled rattling and hushed sobs like a shy mouse stuck in a trap. 

Nonnie never mentioned how Eleanor’s parents had left and where they had gone. Eleanor grew up with her Nonnie and had never known anything else. They lived above a museum in a small sun soaked apartment with large windows in France. Before Elanor went to proper school, she learned all of the painters, histories and paintings. Eleanor could chart the art, like how an astronomer could track constellations. Every year, even after she moved out, she visited the museum three times a year to see all the paintings in the museum so it would never become foreign to her. 

Her teachers and peers always said that Eleanor was like a buzzing force of sun. She ran, tumbled, cartwheeled and freedove, seeing all of the happiness around her. Life is the stories people tell themselves, and Nonnie only told Eleanor fairytales. In her dizzy youth, Eleanor painted with princess lace pinks, dragon greens and unicorn lavender, projecting the dreams waltzing through her mind. 

However, sometimes, there would be a monster at the bottom of Eleanor’s heart that would sit and moan. She never told Nonnie because Nonnie would tell her that she was wasting time. So, instead, she did what she knew. She painted. She painted the monster’s poignant song: the haunting blues, ghostly greens, phantom reds, and midnight purples. Once the jitters were out and the voice was silenced, she glowed again. 

Nonnie died when she got the flu at 84 years old. She went out with a burst like a star slowly extinguishing. To Eleanor, it felt like a sun set on her world she knew. Who would tell her stories now? 

Elenor painted a lot those following days as tears cascaded down her puffed 17-year old cheeks for the first time in a decade. She painted kelp greens, porch sky blue, persimmon orange and one last bloch of red for Nonnie’s signature lipstick. Her mark on the world; her exuberant red splotch. Eleanor now told Nonnie’s story and started understanding the ones around her.

Jessica Le

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