Category: Prose

By Emma Condon (‘20)

I spent many summers in France. My mother is from a small town, Marchenoir, just two hours outside of Paris. The village has only a few notable buildings: the church, a single restaurant, a bakery, the butcher. There is a graveyard as well.

By Andi Grene (‘20)

Kala and Arvind’s house in New Jersey. Their lawn is sparsely decorated, and a large welcome mat sits outside of the front door on which about 8 pairs of sandals and children’s sneakers have been scattered. The inside of the house smells of jasmine and turmeric.

By Ama Anwar (‘21)

i. FROST COATED BODIES laid in the forest, breathing when they were surely thought to be dead. It was only the beginning of a long winter's wrath, and their small shaped limbs were slim to the bone, with only snowflakes scattered across hollow cheeks and wispy hair.

By Emma Kushnirsky (‘22)

The world was ready to die. And so it did. It stopped fighting, and from its death sprang forth beauty unrivaled by any before. A world that the old ‘uns would’ve killed for. They did.

By Emma Kushnirsky (‘22)

I put my everything into you. She mouthed this, her words forming a bubble in front of her that disintegrated in a manner of seconds, letting its contents escape and dribble down her chin, to fall onto the baby that she looked down at.

By Emma Condon (‘20)

The grand, old townhouse loomed before me. In my mind, the threshold between the street and the floor was some metaphorical turning point. The inside was everything I imagined it to be. Darkened by wooden walls, the place was musty.

By Jonah Frere-Holmes ('18)

When she heard the man’s bark, the old woman was in front of the TV, solemnly rocking back and forth as The Price is Right gave off its blue glow. She heard the man, assertive but too excited, jumpy or new to his job. She heard a chorus of primal, electrified shouts, the

By Victoria Siek ('18)

Miss Myra Stevens was a dainty girl of seventeen years of age with beautiful chestnut locks and a fair complexion. Many of the lads wanted to marry her, but she loved only one. And that was her dear deceased husband Harold Stevens. They had one beloved child, a boy,

By Lucy Brewster ('18) 

Nobody was surprised that Julie was lagging behind. Julie’s dad honked the horn and sighed, as her mom, Anne, screeched out the car window, “Juliette! You’re putting us behind schedule! Get in the car.”
Julie reluctantly strolled out of their two story white suburban house, already putting