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Cover Image: Nameless Mushrooms by Ainsley Murray

Dew Diamonds

Zorah Miller


Mabel Chesnes

The perfect duo 

The perfect couple 

The moon 

And the sun

Oh how perfect they are together one

Shines and one glows

Both so amazing both so beautiful 

Yet we forget 

About the stars 

What should they do 

They twinkle 

All around 

They suffocate around a mortals neck 

The stars are destined to be on their own 

No matter what form they take on 

So beautiful so lonely 




Dew Diamonds by Zorah Miller

Ode to Black Trumpets by Solomon McKonly

Mia Painting 3 by Mia Deuter

Twinkle by Mabel Chesnes

The Silence by Zorah Miller

The Skrunkly Collection by Enso McNay

Vapor Trails Over Sea by Zorah Miller

Evil Spirit by Sam Robbins

Humorous Poem #2 by Saul Hirshberg

Untitled Collage by Ainsley Murray

Mia Painting 2 by Mia Deuter

IncorpAbrTiSiChange [24] (SpontHiHat/Octave) (ParadiddleManip) by Saul Hirshberg

Sleet by Mabel Chesnes

Concerning the Chromatic Colouration of Combusted Chemicals by Fallon Paxton, Ivan Harder, and Luna Petrovato

Nameless Mushrooms by Ainsley Murray

Mia Painting 1 by Mia Deuter

The Lone Floor Pierogi by Lucy McVey

Ocean by Tristan Feinstein

Music, What a Sensation by Saul Hirshberg

Still a Box by Robbie and Victoria Bagley

St Paul's by Zorah Miller

Charlemont Sunset by Zorah Miller

Forgotten Perfection by Vii Woodard

90 by Saul Hirshberg

Ode to Black Trumpets

Solomon McKonly

A staple of the wild pantry 

that expires in a week.

Black trumpet pizza for dinner 

by the firepit in the darkness.

Black trumpet omelet 

for an early breakfast, 

before hiking 

to find some more. 


I found one, I found them all.

Hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds 

all spread through the trees,

the love comes from the plenty. 

Mia Painting 3

Mia Deuter


The Silence

Zorah Miller

My grandmother had been the only resident of this small island off the mainland, and when she died, there was no one to keep the forest from reclaiming it. My arrival to the island was a surprise to none, other than myself. I had never known the woman. All I knew was from old newspaper clippings - they had advertised her as a promising young pianist with the world at her feet, and then a washed-up talent, resigned to this cottage. 


Through the years, I would ask about her, and my mother would say that some stones were better left unturned.

So, when I resolved to take the boat ride out here to retrieve my grandmother’s possessions, my mother was concerned, to say the least; but I was an adult, and someone had to do it. The next morning I departed bright and early. There was no ferry to the island, so I resorted to renting a motorboat from a rental agency on the shore instead.

I arrived around midday, and once I was docked, I began the climb up the island’s expansive hill. As I waded through the long, sun-kissed grass, I could see the ocean sparkle to my right. Straight ahead was the cottage, with the window’s gaping eyes and the door coming off its hinges - a crooked mouth. Ivy crept up the sides, twining its way into the brick and through the cracks in the windows, infiltrating everything that was once alluring about the landscape of the house.

I reflected on the real reason I came - it was not to keep the worms from making their homes here, but to discover the mystery behind the woman I was never allowed to call “Grandma.” I walked down the path beside the garden: an overgrown tangle of foxglove and nightshade, luring unsuspecting wanderers with their dark beauty, hiding poison in delicate veins.

Gingerly opening the door, I stood in the suffocatingly empty entrance, and noticed the deafening silence that rang in my ears. With it came the overwhelming feeling that I was not alone here.

A ridiculous thought, I said to myself. Still, I could see why my mother didn’t want me to come here; this isolation could drive a person insane. 


Walking down the short corridor, I peeked into the rooms on either side of me. The small kitchenette with a breakfast nook, the neat and comfortable living room, the bedroom with one double bed and the adjoining bathroom. It was small, surely, but seemingly perfect for a single person with few visitors. Or none.

I was surprised at the lack of decoration. The whole place was furnished, but minimally so. There were no pictures on the walls, no ornaments, no books on the shelves. No sign of a piano could be found. Stranger still, was the cleanliness of the place. Everything was spotless; almost as if none of it had been used before. As I ran my fingertip across a windowsill, I found there was no dust there. While the exterior had been turned ghostly from the elements, the inside had been as preserved as a bug in amber.


I began searching for the trap door into the attic. I quickly found it in the small house and, as I lowered it, a cloud of dust pummeled my face. Coughing, I began to ascend the stairs, my steps slow and deliberate so as not to disturb any more dust. As I reached the landing, I was met with a sickening sight; it looked like a tornado had ripped through the attic, sending junk flying against the walls. There were piles of papers and old clothes strewn across the floor under the glass of a shattered window pane. An old couch sat in the corner, torn apart with rat bites. They had chewed through stacks of musty sheet music and there were feces littered on the floor among an overturned ashtray. The floorboards creaked as I made my way through the room, disgusted at the sight before me. 

As I looked down, an old photograph caught my attention. A young woman stared back at me solemnly in a black dress. She was dressed in funeral clothes. Although I had never seen a picture of my grandmother, I knew this was her. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen when it was taken, but her eyes were just as my mother had described them: harsh and gray, like an iceberg in dicey water, waiting to swallow a ship whole. With a shutter, I pocketed the photograph, and looked up, noticing a large object in one corner of the room, shrouded in a white sheet. 

This must be the piano, I thought, hope rising in my chest. My heart pounded as I made my way to it slowly, and with a flourish, I ripped the sheet off. The sheet gave way to rotting wood infested with maggots, blackened keys covered in mildew, and pedals all rusted over. I could feel my eyes widen in horror and my stomach sink as I took in the ghastly image. 


Tripping over myself, I ran for the trap door. Climbing down the ladder as fast as I could, I nearly fell at the bottom. Blind to all but my fear, I dashed out the front door and towards the woods. Tearing through trees and catching my clothing on brambles, I kept pressing on. I could no longer see the ocean sparkle, or the grass wave, or remember what my purpose on this island was.

I ran until I reached a break in the trees. The summer sun streamed down on the clearing, and my world was illuminated. I knew what my mother was trying to hide. The fate she was trying to keep me from. 

As I stood looking on the face of my grandmother, I knew how dangerous the silence was.

The Skrunkly Collection

Enso McNay

Vapor Trails Over Sea

Zorah Miller

Humorous Poem #2

Saul Hirshberg

Evil Spirit

Sam Robbins

The parking lot is empty now,

I told the boys to go home.


We brought the Devil up from hell last night,

because we just felt so alone.


Now an evil spirit is everywhere,

the kind you read about in history books.


He put all the pictures askew in the living room,

because he likes them all sideways on their hooks.


He’ll kill you in the classroom,

with a child, a suit, and a flag.


Don’t be his hand, 

my friend

If only I possessed the intellect of a peanut,

As pondering over things is rather an inconvenience.

It simply makes you unhappy!


Remarking upon your liberal philosophy,

And how much you despise the conservative philosophy,

Is useless.


It’s unfortunate,

As to how much this happens!


If only I possessed the intellect of a…

Oh, perhaps not of a peanut,

They are relatively intelligent,

I suppose a walnut, or a macadamia nut.


If only my brain was rotten, 

That would certainly do it!


Oh, if only the controversial things were eliminated entirely from my intellect,

And what was left was that of a mere peanut.

Untitled Collage

Ainsley Murray


Mia Painting 2

Mia Deuter


Mabel Chesnes

It's so cold and dark 

let’s stay inside for a while before we go home to our lonely lives

Let’s watch the snow fall and our lust rise 

as I take your hand and place it on my chest. 

Copy of Untitledjgojgg - Stellar Saul Hirshberg
00:00 / 02:44

IncorpAbrTiSiChange [24] (SpontHiHat/Octave) (ParadiddleManip)

Saul Hirshberg

Concerning the Chromatic Colouration of Combusted Chemicals

Fallon Paxton, Ivan Harder, and Luna Petrovato

Featuring a conclusion written in the style of the heroic economic thinker, Adam Smith, and a genius sonnet of our own creation 

Prologue – Ponderings on the Natural World 

Alka-seltzer will burn bright orange, as it contains sodium bicarbonate and sodium burned bright orange. 

Book 1, Chapter 1 — Sonnet: On Fiddling With Bunsen Burners Until They Work 

1. First thou must soak thy splints in water cold; 

2. Next thou must set around the valve of gas 

3. That crystal tubing which shall fit its mold; 

4. Wait until the air has finished its pass, 

5. Then adjust base of thy burner Bunsen; 

6. Then thou must affix to that end the very same 

7. Length of glass-like tube through lots of futzin’ 

8. The namesake of that scientist of fame. 

9. Scoop thy chloride with the splint now soakéd, 

10. And place into lit flame thy sorc’rous salt, 

11. And note which hue the flame hath attainéd 

12. And write which powd’ry substance is at fault. 

13. And when ready for this journey to cease, 

14. Shut off the valve, and all things be at peace 

Qualitative Interlude

 Crystal                                     Color

   Strontium Chloride       Crimson, like the first drop

                                              of blood on a snowy battlefield.


   Cupric Chloride              Teal, a green like the shallows

                                              off the coast of an idyllic cove.

   Calcium Chloride           Bright orange, like a lone

                                              marigold in a windswept field.

   Sodium Chloride             Bright orange with a hint of yellow,

                                               like that of a perfectly ripe tangerine

                                               waiting to be eaten.

   Potassium Chloride        Lavender pink, like the first

                                               darkenings of the sky at sunset.

   Alka-seltzer                       The same bright orange as the

                                                calcium chloride. Another flower

                                                blooms, and the plants weather the

                                                breeze together.



Book 1, Chapter 2 — 

We can therefore ascertain three things; firstly, that the hue and saturation of those flames observed differs, not in any regard to amount of material, nor to the color of said material itself, but instead to the atomic composition of the matter placed into the fray; as such, materials with consistent chemical contents will burn in consistent colors; if one were to burn a sample primarily composed of cupric chloride, it would display the same bright teal as a wood preservative which contained that chemical; secondly, that the hue, therefore contained within the subject of our previously expressed hypothesis will most probably be that of it’s most predominant element, that is to say the compound which makes up the most influential majority of its composition, and, with a reference made to the wording thereupon, is identified to be that most noble material sodium bicarbonate, whose flame, upon testing in the manner described above1, burns with a bright orange tone; and thirdly, that upon further trial and examination, both in terms of the preliminary experimentation, and the subsequent formulation and verification of our hypothesis, revealed the hitherto established portions of this chapter of our analysis are both accurate and factual. 

1 See Book 1 Chapter 1 - Sonnet: On Fiddling With Bunsen Burners Until They Work


Mia Painting 1

Mia Deuter

Copy of Untitled Mushrooms 2023- Ainsley

Nameless Mushrooms

Ainsley Murray

The Lone Floor Pierogi

Lucy McVey


Tristan Feinstein

Lone Floor Pierogi

How you sit in beige despair

Awaiting foot squash

Music, What a Sensation

Saul Hirshberg

Music, what a sensation! The ingenious fellows who know how to evoke this pleasure. The inquiries that they might make: is there an algorithm that we might observe to compose; how might melodic perfection be perceived! The mathematical procedures that one might go about to play; for instance, abrupt time signature changes! It is all such fascinating stuff!

Such tremendous ideas: who might have thought up snare comping, for instance! Or who knew how to execute walking bass. And to think, music began as people making sounds out of unconventional materials! They would conduct experiments to see how one material might sound; and ultimately, they stumbled upon utter beauty. Similar to technique: for instance, manipulating triplets requires experimentation, and finding the infinite possibilities that exist requires perpetual experimentation.

Such a practical beat such as the Amen Break can be manipulated so much so that it incorporates entire rudiments that did not exist. These could be precise rudiments, or those that were just accidental! And electronic applications exist to accessibly implement ideas to a tune! Music is an art of infinite possibilities, curiosity, unconventionality, and brilliant experimentation!

The ocean's waves pound on the beach, 

crashing along the smoothed rocks.

It seems like they come from everywhere, 

making the crashing sounds follow you 

anywhere  you go. 


You leave it far behind.

The barking of seals, the cawing of seagulls, and the 

crashing of the waves.

They seem infinite, but they disappear as soon as the storm 

ends, revealing a beach of sand as far

as you can see.

The waves recede out 

to sea and peace comes once again.

Still a Box

Robbie and Victoria Bagley

I see the black outside.

I see the people trying to find me, even though I am right here.

“Please”, I beg.

I do not know for what.

Maybe for someone to hear me, maybe for someone to care -

Even though I know they do.


I’m screaming,

Or am I silent?

I cannot tell anymore.

I see things

Outside of this box.

I want to reach them but I can not.

I see the stars too;

I know that I see them.


But I’m still here.

And it’s still a box

That traps me here.

St Paul's

Zorah Miller

Charlemont Sunset

Zorah Miller

Forgotten Perfection

Vii Woodard

My consciousness lay in scattered pieces in the dirt, echoing the sharpness of the broken glass my body was made of. I cried without tears, since I had been emptied of them long ago. My life hadn’t gone where I had thought it would. I know there’s nothing left for me to do other than lie on the side of the road, hoping that I could somehow lose myself and float away, with nothing left to worry about, like the humans do at the end of their lives. They seemed to fear it, but now I welcome it, for I know whatever death may hold is better than any other potential future.

I was made in a factory, just like all of us, but I felt different. I knew I was destined to do something great. But I had been sent out to a store in the middle of a small town, left alone for weeks. No one wanted me. No one cared. No one seemed to like me anymore. I waited for ages, hoping someone would want me, but there was nothing. No one even considered me as an option. One day, I heard conversation outside of my freezer, and decided to listen to it when I realized they were talking about me! Maybe finally I would be chosen!  

“...they discontinued those weeks ago! Do you think this one has been here this whole time?”
“Probably. I mean, it’s not likely that someone put it here after the factory closed down.”

My emotions jumped up, and if I’d had a heart, it would have started beating faster. Discontinued? We had been discontinued? Why? Was there something wrong with me? Did people stop buying us? What happened?

My frantic thoughts were interrupted by the person who had been talking grabbing me off the shelf, and all worried ideas and feelings left me. I had finally been chosen! This was incredible! I started thinking about what would happen to me once I left that boring store. Maybe this man would save me and reuse me, or put me up on display since I was apparently a rare item now, maybe even auction me away since I was so rare, or perhaps use me as an art project. I was extremely excited for my future, knowing that whatever came next would be the best thing that had ever happened to me.

I was so naive. I had no idea what could possibly go wrong.

He drank me as he was on his way home and threw me out the truck window. OUT THE WINDOW! The absolute DISRESPECT of this man!

I broke into pieces as soon as I hit the ground, my beautiful curved green glass spreading out across the grass like an explosion of former perfection. I didn’t think anything for a few seconds, shocked by the selfish and destructive behavior of this terrible person who had just ruined my life. Then I began to scream silently, the walls of my sanity crumbling, letting a stream of madness out. 

And this has been my sorry existence for 27 years. Lying in the dirt, slowly being covered by debris, slipping in and out of consciousness, unable to function. Until now. I hear the sound of a van pulling up to a clearing below my resting place, and I hear the excited shouting of young children. What could they be doing here? Could they be going for a swim, or taking a hike?

I heard the voice of a calm adult, explaining why they were here, and my metaphorical heart leapt into my metaphorical throat. They were going to pick up trash! Did that include me? Would some kind middle schooler take me away and dispose of me properly, instead of being thrown out a window immediately after my use? I waited in anticipation, and finally it happened. One of the children was searching in the leaves near me, and said to their friend, “I found a lot of glass here! Do you want to help?” The two of them came over, and I finally felt at peace with myself as they lifted up my pieces and put them in a bag. My suffering finally over, I felt my consciousness leaving me for one final time, and my life was done.


Saul Hirshberg

In Memoriam: Jack Kushinsky



A wonderful number, perhaps.

A rather large number, undoubtedly,

But simultaneously the shortest possible number.


And to think, every loss has some sort of resemblance of that horrible day: June, 7, 2020,

You weren’t simply a great-grandfather. You were an infinitely great and extraordinarily grand father.

I remain grieving, as even your acquaintances are.


You brought goodness to anywhere you set foot upon, and despite the remarkable number, 90!

It is ridiculously small.


Your name should be perpetually written on the book of life,

And what idiocy is it to eliminate that name?


A recitation of your wonderful characteristics would send me far beyond my deathbed by the time it was completed.


I learned numerous things from you:

How to be modest (it worked remarkably well, but I remain boasting nevertheless),

How to remark upon your love of someone,

But, in spite of this, I have only accomplished 1/1,000,000 of your charm.


I learned several things from you:

How to make subtle jokes that are actually humorous,

How to inquire about another individual’s day,

But, in spite of this, I have only accomplished 1/1,000,000, NO, 1/∞ of your charm.


Oh, Poppy!

Yours truly, Saul!

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