Category: 2023 Ignite Publication

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Freedom

Will Lain-Hedden ’26

I carry my skis not just in my hands but in my identity. Their vibrant blue color and orange highlights stand out like a beacon of light while being slayed across a blanket of cold white snow. They are bold, and yet they can’t even speak. Their still, however, say many words. They’re wide, stiff, and heavy enough to feel their presence whenever I throw them into the back of my car, but yet, when I use them, that weight disappears. They allow me to float like I have wings, flying above the noise of the city and stress of school. They carry me into a place much quieter and open. They let me flow down a run with the wind rushing through my helmet, clearing my mind of all negative thoughts. When I ski, those bright, clunky pieces of wood become a beacon of freedom. I didn’t just walk into a shop and pick them out like any pair of skis. I earned them through years of hard work. A discount followed with a sponsorship, but more importantly, it allowed me to recognize something in myself. That I was no longer that scared, hesitant, and unconfident kid. I’ve grown into someone I’ve hoped to become. Proving to myself that all my hard work was worth it. Even though they only get used for part of the year, they live with me always. Even when the light closes on the season, they still shine like a light in my room. In a hot, stuffy classroom during the middle of spring, when school feels like it is coming to a close, I carry the thought and imagine them shooting up snow and allowing me to fly in the air. When the first snowfall lands on the mountains and the cold wind travels through the air, I see them rise and create colors similar to a brisk sunrise. My skis travel with me everywhere, in my car, on a plane, down the run, and in my mind. With them, I feel like I am not just another person in life, but instead, I have a true sense of identity. They carry me through thick winter storms and steep lines, and I carry them with pride. They remind me that something small can be the most powerful form of light. That something heavy can still set you free.

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Lyric Essay

Win Chandler ’26

Being at the mountain is its own kind of serenity that serenades you in its own simple sounds: the the click of your boots, the zipping of your jacket and the indescribable clap of your skis hitting the snow. The cold settles deep in your chest and makes every breath feel like a refreshing sip of your favorite drink after a long day. You push off and gravity does the talking

Skiing demands a kind of trust and faith that doesn’t come from thinking, but reaction. You lean and continue forward even when all you see is the hill dropping away. Mistakes are expected, the mountain teaches through failure and motion. Falling is brief. Getting up is instant. You correct, push off, and keep moving forward.

High in the mountain, the world simplifies. The sky, endless and pale. Problems fall on the hill and to the to the size of the next run, the next turn, the next breath. Time passes, you forget. You forget everything except balance and speed and the way the snow sprays as you come to a halting stop just reaching the bottom.

Up on the mountain, your mind ad body are disconnected, relying on muscle memory, Fear fades into instinct, and every turn becomes a balance between control and letting go. When you stop, heart racing, you realize the mountain didn’t overwhelm you, it cleared everything else away.

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The Oak Tree of Azalea Lane

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.

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Pursuit

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.  

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Bella

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. 

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