Author: seaprepignite

Molly O’Donnell ’24

Jeffery Go ’23

Molly O’Donnell ’24

Grace McGowan ’26

There was an oak tree at the end of Azalea Lane. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember. Its branches were sturdy; the tree was strong and beautiful throughout winter and summer, storm and calm, night and day.

When it was warm, we would skip down the dirt road, hand in hand, while birds chirped and a breeze blew through our hair. We would have tea parties and picnics under the wide canopy of the oak tree. When it was cold, our boots would crunch in the snow as we trudged to the tree, our cheeks pink. We would wrap a scarf around its trunk and make snow angels a few feet away. We even ran to it in the pouring rain, coming back from it drenched.

The tree was where our best memories were made: huddling under a threadbare blanket, our backs against the trunk, staring up at the sky as it started to snow; hanging upside down from the branches, our hands clasped tightly together, hair hanging, the feeling of being slightly nauseous.

It was where our childhood was nurtured and protected in cradled arms. Laughter was plentiful among the branches, from small giggles to loud, suffocating laughs where you can’t breathe. There were lots of smiles, the kind that were like home.

There were tears too, the kind that only left emptiness in their wake. Like us, the oak tree held both the good and the bad.

We couldn’t stay there forever, but that’s not what mattered. What was important was that we were there, in the moment, laughing and crying and smiling, and most important of all, we were together.

We noticed the tree dying slowly, branches falling, leaves withering, and trunk graying. On the day the oak tree was finally cut down, we stood and watched, hand-in-hand. It fell. Our hands slipped from each other’s, and we went our separate ways.

Grace McGowan ’26

The candlelight reflected in her eyes as she pulled away, her breath still warm on his face. She smiled.  

She slipped out the door. He paused for a moment, then yanked the door open and raced down the hallway, his feet slamming against the floor carpeted in velvet. He narrowly dodged his younger sister, who had a book open and her eyes glued to the page as she walked. She looked up briefly and scoffed.  

“Sorry!” he called behind him.  

“Fool!” she shouted back.  

He paid her no attention, and kept barreling onwards.  

They thundered down the spiral staircase, the wood creaking alarmingly.  

Through the gallery and the dining hall and the library they ran, and then… he lost her.  

He stood in the doorway. He didn’t bother backing up; he decided he knew where she had gone.  

He walked to a painting hung on the wall, pulled it open, and entered the secret room.  

She brought her arms around his neck, resting her head against his, and then—

There was a knife straight through his heart.  

The candlelight reflected in her eyes as she pulled away, her breath still warm on his face. She smiled.  

Matthew Frosaker ’23

My dog sits on the couch staring out the window. Her eyes are pink and droop low with green goop on the sides. They look so human. 

 In the time my mom is out of the house, Bella enters a painful depression. Time stops, and she is left alone waiting for the door to open so she can live again. When that door opens, she experiences true love and joy; the pain was worth it. 

 If you graphed her happiness and sadness, then averaged it, the data would show no emotion: a simple stream of nothingness. This is the same for everyone; the heroin addict who spends half his life waiting, and the office worker who doesn’t feel much at all.  

The highs in our lives distract us from the truth: that there’s nothing and never will be. I often ask myself, do I want to be like my dog or an office worker. I could feel so strongly, then so terribly, in torturous swings, or I could feel nothing at all, and my life could blend into a lifeless grey.

When put like that it doesn’t really matter.