Author: seaprepignite

Hope Luebbe Davidson ‘25

Looking out the window just as you’ve woken up, everything is covered in a blanket of white. For a minute, the world around you is silent and still. But all your memories triggered by the sight of the snow are loud and colorful. Waking up on the first snow day is like a trip down memory lane; a smile comes to your face without you even knowing it, recalling all the fun you’ve had in previous years.

Snow holds memories—so many of them, each very different from the next. Articulated by the famous Disney snowman, “Water has memory”—and snow has memory too. Water vapor in the atmosphere freezes into tiny ice crystals. Beautiful and unique snowflakes are formed. Their intricate structure is destroyed shortly after, as millions of tiny crystals are packed into snowballs. As the snowballs multiply faster and faster, ammo is being created.

The tricky part is finding a hiding spot for the substantial number of snowballs. Making snow forts is the best way to prepare for the annual snowball fight. At first sight, snow seems soft and beautiful, but it can get quite chaotic. Fun is always had in the snow, but in your adventurous and fun-loving family, chaos is always evident. As the snowballs are packed together tighter and tighter, they are thrown harder and harder as we get older.

Once your day of fun is over, you go inside and thaw from the inside out with steaming hot chocolate. The warmth seeps into your fingertips as you cradle the mug, and your ears and face are still red from the cold outside. As you settle into the cozy indoors, the snow outside fades into the background, but the echoes of laughter and the sight of rosy, smiling faces remain vivid, transforming into cherished memories that leave behind nothing but warmth and smiles. It’s funny how snow transforms from a battleground to fun memories surrounded by white in a matter of moments.

The top layer of snow melts in the winter sunshine during the day and freezes in the chill of the night. Waking up to the driveway turned into an ice rink. Falling and slipping, but most importantly, laughing and smiling. Snow brings the coldest winters but also brings the warmest of hugs, smiles, and laughs.

Mia Boltz ‘25

           Snow. Snow is quiet, gentle, fragile, soft. Snow is magical.

           Through the eyes of my younger self, snow has not only been gorgeous, but it’s been a gateway to other imaginative wonders. Each snowflake has a place where the Whos sing, the Grinch attempts to steal Christmas but is stopped by his growing heart, and dreams come true.

           Snow has never just been frozen precipitation falling from the sky; rather, it’s been a universe surrounding me. Worlds containing the lives of people with feelings and thoughts slowly drifting towards the ground, towards what I assume is their end. Each moment a snowflake reaches the ground, another one is made, representing a new beginning.

           Everything comes to an end. Just like my imaginative belief of being in the middle of a universe when it snows down on me. Although as I age and my imagination fades, the magic of snow will stay with me forever. Maybe I won’t hear Whos singing or the Grinch laugh as he steals Christmas. But I will always appreciate the beauty and mystery that snow provides.

Jack Kurtz ‘25

I think I’m being haunted—

As I walk through the newly fallen leaves

Hearing the crackle of every footfall

I hear a familiar set following behind

I whip around, trying to catch it in the act

Nothing

I think I’m being haunted

As I stare at the full moon

Listening to the silence of the night

I hear a familiar sound, from far off in the dark

I close my eyes, praying to hear it again

Nothing

I think I’m being haunted

As I slumber in my room

Surrounded by trinkets and memories

I wish I could have made one more

I try to reach out

Nothing

I wish I was being haunted

And I wish I could at least say

Goodbye

One more time

Christopher Nicolás ‘28

           It was the day of the year when I felt happy (apart from Christmas, when we celebrate someone’s birth). It was the day I felt a connection to other people apart from my mom.

           It was Día de los Muertos.

           My life was monotonous and disorganized.

           The sky was orangish and dark, and the sun was about to disappear.

           I started grabbing the tamales and setting them on the ofrenda. I grabbed a lighter and lit the candles.

           My mom set some drinks and a plate of steaming hot black mole on the table. She also put up the last piece of papel picado. She put more cempasúchil on the table.

           The completed ofrenda was beautiful. There was a photo of my abuelo. The table was decorated with a simple but beautiful cloth. The food was hot and looked appetizing on the table. There were tamales, tacos de lengua, atole, a glass bottle of Coca-Cola from Mexico, and other small Mexican treats. The cempasúchil flowers stood on the edges, decorating the edges. The candles were everywhere, and a cross was set in the middle, above my abuelo’s photo.

           Era hermoso.

           My mom turned off the lights.

           The ofrenda didn’t lose any of its beauty. In fact, the darkness only made it even more beautiful. The darkness contrasted with the lit candles and the vibrant colors of the ofrenda and papel picado. The darkness made it better.

           The ofrenda was like a light in the darkness. It never turned off, never lost any hope. It only grows and becomes more powerful. It would not succumb to anything. It looked beautiful.

           My mom looked at the ofrenda.

           I saw a deep sadness in her eyes. I could tell the ofrenda gave her bittersweet memories.

           “¿Cómo era mi abuelo?” I asked my mom.

           Every time this day came, I asked her this question.

           “Era como tu, pero mucho más maduro y menos serio,” she said.

           I looked at her, her brown eyes exposing a rich sadness.

           My mom was from Oaxaca, but she immigrated to the US to find a job and help my grandparents. She ultimately found a job and worked enough for us and our grandparents.

           She then met my godly father, and soon, they were about to have their first and only child.

           But my grandfather was always drinking sugary drinks, and he lived with diabetes for thirty years. The disease was taking over him, and he was lying down on his bed, ready to die.

           My mom wanted to go to Oaxaca and yearned to hug my grandfather for the last time, but she couldn’t. She was pregnant, and my godly father didn’t want to risk it. She couldn’t legally leave the country, and if she did, she would be temporarily locked out of the US.

           I was born as a blessing to my mom.

           But my godly father left my mom, and my abuelo succumbed to diabetes, dying in his sleep.

           My mom was happy about my birth, but she couldn’t stop crying after hearing the news about my grandfather. Every time I was asleep as a baby, she would cry alone. Cry alone for a week after my grandfather’s death.

           But she also felt abandoned because my dad had abandoned her. She was barely nineteen with a child in her hands, alone.

           But she soon recovered, and she was now happy again.

           “I know it’s hard,” I said. “But let’s celebrate his life. Today is Día de los Muertos,” I said.

           “Es cierto,” she said. “Eres lo último que tengo, la última persona que mantendrá con vida a mi abuelo.”

           “Tal vez,” I said. “But he’s also alive in your heart,”

           “Gracias,” my mom said.

           “De nada.” I looked at the ofrenda.

           The ofrenda meant a lot to me, but it meant even more to my mom.

           While my life was horrible—it was a constant mess—my mom lived a worse life. She had no one but me to help her. She was lonely. She had to work to get a decent apartment.

           Meanwhile, I found a new home with other demigods. But my mom was alone. I had something to do. I knew I would one day decide the fate of Olympus.

           “Go to sleep,” my mom said. “I need you to go to school; we’ll eat pan de muerto tomorrow.”

           “Okay,” I said. “Buenas noches.”

           I was in my room, pondering about how my mom felt.

           “Tal vez, I have luck,” I said.

           But my head wasn’t in the right place. I felt like I wasn’t okay.

           I looked at the candle on my desk. I would let it burn until the morning in honor of Día de los Muertos.

           While other kids were out trick-or-treating, I was here, having a good time thinking.

           Usually, I would be enjoying Día de los Muertos, but today, I didn’t feel as happy.

           Maybe it was because I was still adjusting to my new demigod life.

           My head started to hurt.

           A green aura started to appear, and the candle lost its flame.

           “Qué—?” I got up and looked.

           My whole room was masked in a green aura. The place seemed frozen.

           I wasn’t in the mood to be attacked by some god. I was about to turn my watch into sword mode, ready to defend myself from whatever monster was lurking in the shadows.

           “Elias, your mom is like me; I am trying to protect my daughter.”

           “Who are you?” I asked.

           “You’ll know. Tell Zoe that I’m coming for her soon.”

           I looked around.

           “I don’t know what you want with Zoe,” I said. “But if you work for the Time Lord or my friends—then you are playing with fire!”

           “I don’t know if that’s true,” the female voice said. “But I know you will try to stop me, and you should enjoy your useless holiday. Enjoy the moment before the world you know is over.”

           “Don’t dare to call this holiday useless!” I shouted.

           “But this is just the beginning of a new era,” the voice said. “You’ll see me again. Soon.”

           The green light disappeared, and time resumed.

           I instantly ran to the ofrenda, making sure it wasn’t destroyed.

           It stood there as if no one had touched it.

           “¿Qué pasó?” My mom asked.

           I looked at her and told her what happened.

           “Eso no es bueno,” I said.

           “Relax, it might be a coincidence,” my mom said. “Meanwhile, enjoy the moment.”

           My mom was too calm. Maybe she wanted me to relax.

           But I knew this had to do with it. It wanted me to tell me something was coming for Zoe. I don’t know what, but it was not good.

           I might not have much time left. I had accepted my destiny.

           “Bien,” I said, but with a bit of worry.

           I looked at the ofrenda. Its beauty allowed me to relax.

           Maybe my mom was right.

Annabelle Bowman ‘27

In autumn’s crisp embrace, the leaves descend,  

A dance of orange and red.

With each gentle flutter, they whisper and sigh,  

Reminding us softly of how we must try.  

A child, carefree, runs through the scattered gold;

She trips on a root; her laughter turns cold.

But she gathers her breath, brushes dust from her knee;

With a heart full of fire, she rises passionately.

Like leaves on the ground, we all sometimes fall; 

In seasons of struggle, we hear the faint call.  

Yet persistence is strength, a promise we keep; 

In moments of silence, we sow what we reap.  

The days grow shorter; the nights stretch and yawn, 

But from every fall, new dreams can be drawn.  

For winter will come, and the world will grow still,  

Yet spring will awaken with hope’s thrill.  

So when life’s autumn winds cause us to sway,  

Remember the leaves, how they dance their way.  

For each stumble we face is a part of the song;  

With courage and heart, we can rise;

We belong.

Lily Stella ‘25

           In the heart of a small village nestled among mountains, there lived an old man named Ivan. Ivan was a man of many mysteries and talents, but his most remarkable skill was crafting clocks. But his clocks were no ordinary clocks; they were made to track a person’s lifespan. Every clock was unique, a handcrafted piece of art that ticked with a peculiar rhythm, a reflection of the person’s life. Each villager had their own clock. Some wore small timepieces around their necks, while others hung grand clocks on their walls, each ticking steadily, guarding moments long past or yet to come. Ivan worked tirelessly each day from dawn until dusk, carving, shaping, and setting the delicate mechanisms in motion.

           One day, as winter’s chill crept into the village, a young girl named Mara came to Ivan’s shop. Ivan, who was seated at his workbench, heard a soft knock and went to answer. He opened the door to find Mara shivering on his doorstep, her cheeks rosy from the frozen air. Her wide eyes were fixed on him with a gaze that was far too serious for a girl her age.

           “Mara,” he greeted warmly, for he knew everyone in the village. “What brings you here today?”

           Mara took a deep breath, clutching the edges of her coat tightly. “Mr. Ivan, I need your help.” She didn’t miss the hint of surprise that passed over his face.

           He opened the door wider. “Come in, child. The wind’s far too cold to be standing outside. You’ll freeze.”

           Mara stepped into the shop, gazing at the shelves lined with countless clocks. 

           “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Ivan asked, settling into his chair.

           Mara hesitated, twisting her fingers together nervously. She cast a glance at a large clock with a glass face staring down at her from the wall. Behind the glass, small silver stars ticked around a crescent moon that marked the hours. It was mesmerizing, just like the rest of the devices that lined the shelves.

           Finally, she spoke. “It’s about my father… he’s very sick. The doctor says he may not get better.”

           Ivan’s face softened. He knew Mara’s father well, Tomas—a kind man who had once been strong and lively but had grown frail over the years. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mara. Your father is a good man.”

           She nodded before reaching into her coat and pulling out a small pocketwatch. He recognized it instantly as Tomas’s clock. “That’s why I came to you. I…I think his clock may be running out soon. Please, Mr. Ivan…” She took a breath. “Can you change it?”

           “Change it?” he repeated, surprised.

           Mara’s voice grew more desperate, looking at him with pleading eyes and forcing the clock into his hands. “Just… turn it back a little. Give him more time. He’s not ready to go yet.” She paused. “I’m not ready.”

           Ivan looked down at the pocket watch, a pang of sorrow in his heart. He ran a hand down his face, sighing softly. “Mara, life and death are beyond my control. These clocks reflect the time given to each of us. I don’t decide how they tick.”

           “But you make them!” Mara argued, her voice breaking. “You’re the one who sets the time. If you made them, can’t you change them?”

           Ivan shook his head. “It’s not that simple, my dear. Tampering with time itself can be dangerous.”

           Mara’s eyes filled with tears. She looked down, her small hands clenching her coat as though it might protect her from the hurt inside. “Please,” she whispered softly. “Please, Mr. Ivan. I don’t have anything to give, but… he’s all I have.”

           Ivan’s heart ached at her words. For years, he had been the custodian of time in the village, watching the lives of each person pass: some swiftly, others slowly. But he had always abided by the rule he had set for himself—never to interfere. Time was sacred, and to meddle with it could bring unforeseen consequences. Yet here was Mara, so young and so desperate, pleading with him to save her father.

           He sighed. “Stay here,” he said finally. He crossed into a different room, examining Tomas’s clock, seeing the faint, golden light that pulsed within it. It was true—Tomas’s time was running low.

           Ivan took a deep breath.

           “Mara,” he said softly, “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

           Her face lit up with a mixture of hope and relief. “Thank you, Mr. Ivan. Thank you.”

           Ivan carefully lifted Tomas’s clock and placed it on his workbench. With a precision born of years of practice, he opened the glass casing, revealing the delicate gears and springs within. He took a small tool and Mara watched, her breath held, as Ivan gently turned back the hands of her father’s clock.

           “Thank you,” she whispered again when he was done.

           Ivan closed the clock and handed it to her carefully. “Now, take this home. And take care of it, Mara.”

           She closed her fingers around it as if it was the most fragile thing in the world. “I will,” she promised. She held the clock to her chest, and with a grateful smile, she hurried out of the shop, disappearing into the evening mist.

           Weeks passed, and soon, word spread through the village that Tomas was recovering, much to the astonishment of the villagers. One cold evening, Ivan found himself walking through the cobblestone streets of the quaint town. It was nearly Christmas, and a soft snow had begun to fall in the past few days. As he walked, he caught sight of a familiar house.

           Through the small, warmly lit window, Ivan saw Mara and Tomas sitting together by the fire. Tomas, looking stronger and livelier than he had in years, laughed heartily with his arm wrapped around his daughter. The fire painted their faces in soft shades of gold, illuminating Mara’s smile, which was wide and full of joy. Ivan watched them, feeling a mixture of pride and melancholy. They had been given more time together—a gift that he knew was rare and precious. As he lingered by the window, he could feel the warmth of their happiness reaching him even from afar.

           Satisfied, he turned and began the walk back to his shop, the weight of what he had done resting gently in his heart. As he stepped inside his shop, the familiar ticking of the clocks enveloped him. Ivan reached up to the high shelf where his own clock rested—a simple, unadorned piece, one he’d crafted for himself years ago.

           He lifted it down carefully and cradled it in his hands, listening to its steady ticking. His eyes traced the hands of his clock, and he noticed something that he had felt but not yet acknowledged: the hands had shifted ever so slightly. His clock was just a bit lighter, the ticking a touch faster than it had been before.

           He gave a small smile. “So, I gave a little more than I thought,” he murmured to himself, yet he felt no regret. “It seems that time asks for its own price, even from an old clockmaker.”