Mangrove Noa Garcia ’27
EDITOR’S NOTE Four years of high school go by faster than anyone warns you. Somewhere between the chaos and the laughter, you find your people, and suddenly the spontaneous ice cream runs and conversations on the senior deck that go nowhere, and last forever, are the moments you’ll hold onto the most. This year’s Inklings explores what it means to be rooted, and uncovers a different truth on every page. Inside, you will find writers sitting with homes they’re leaving, languages they almost lost, and the people and places that have shaped who they are, and who they are becoming. It is art that depicts the act of holding on: to memories, objects, and the earth that literally roots us. For the last four years, Inklings has taught me what it means to create space for others to share the most personal parts of their lives; this year, for the first time, that space extends to faculty as well. Because this magazine exists beyond any single issue, it records who we are, and were, preserved in the words and visual art of every community member who contributed their voice. None of it comes together without the people behind the scenes. Thank you to our faculty sponsors, Ms. Morgan and Mr. Stock, for their continued support, and to Ms. Arredondo for her help with publication. To the entire Inklings team, thank you for your dedication in bringing this issue to life, and a special thank you to our Writing Editor Lael Sanders ’26, Design Editor Patrick Keedy Brown ’26, and Art Editor Noa Garcia ’27 This issue is dedicated to best friends - to mine: you are my roots. To everyone who submitted, thank you for trusting us with your work. This magazine exists because of you. Welcome to Inklings 2026. Nina Galinsky ’26
Sunset Over London Sloane Mason ’27
TABLE OF CONTENTS A PILLAR OF NATURE Cole Durham ’29 [Photography] MANGROVE Noa Garcia ’27 [Drawing] SUNSET OVER LONDON Sloane Mason ’27 [Painting] ONE FINE MORNING Alexa Charouhis ’27 [Poetry] BACK POCKET Nina Galinsky ’26 [Painting] MYSELF AS GARDEN Ms. Kate Hamm [Poetry] PAPHIOPEDILUM Jasmine Zhao ’28 [Painting] WHITE ORCHID Charlotte Mark ’26 [Painting] MYRMECOPHILA Jasmine Zhao ’28 [Painting] PINK HIBISCUS Nina Galinsky ’26 [Painting] HAVANA AT NIGHT Noa Garcia ’27 [Painting] ROOTED IN SUNDAYS Constantino Peña [Poetry] ANATOMY OF A PEONY Eva Cunningham ’27 [Poetry] TWO BIRDS Zijin Liu ’27 [Painting] DIPTYCH Neva Illica ’28 [Poetry] NOT YET SETTLED Zijin Liu ’27 [Painting] Front Cover Inside Cover Editor’s Note 2 3 4-8 4-5 6-7 7 8 10-11 11 12-13 12-13 14-15 14-15
HYPNOSIS Neva Illica ’28 [Poetry] TEARING THROUGH TIME Alexa Umwiza ’27 [Painting] ON THE WAY HOME Riley Vento ’27 [Nonfiction] OUT OF REACH Abigail Pollack ’26 [Photography] SUNSET DRIVE Jane Perdigon ’27 [Painting] THE BEAUTY OF NATURE Idris Huggins ’29 [Poetry] MOUNTAINEERS ASCENDING THE PEAKS OF RUTH GLACIER Nelson Manstein ’26 [Photography] ROCKWEED Lael Sanders ’26 [Poetry] STORMY NIGHT Charlotte Mark ’26 [Painting] INTERGENERATIONAL POEM Gabrielle Heckler ’27 and Dr. Julia Clarke [Poetry] DENALI SUNSET Nelson Manstein ’26 [Photography] THE GIRL AND THE BIRD Sophie Wang ’29 [Digital Art] FIFTEEN LABELS ISN”T ENOUGH Anonymous [Poetry] RÊVES EN POINTE Charlotte Mark ’26 [Painting] MEMORIAL TREE Mr. Matthew Stock [Photography & Artist’s Statement] 16 17 18-21 18-19 21 22-23 22-23 24-25 24-25 26-27 26-27 28 29 30 31
MY GRANDMA’S NAIL POLISH Neva Illica ’28 [Poetry] SHEILA Nina Galinsky ’26 [Painting] BEYOND THE SOIL Veronica Puig ’28 [Personal Essay] GROUNDED Noa Garcia ’27 [Painting] FLORIDA SONG Patrick Keedy Brown ’26 [Poetry] VISCAYA BRIDGE Mr. Matthew Stock [Photography] LOVE, BABA Nina Galinsky ’26 [Personal Essay] WORKING HANDS Zijin Liu ’27 [Drawing] THE ANXIETY CYCLE Lily Merrick ’29 [Poetry] THE WEIGHT OF WATCHING Olivia Karp ’27 [Photography] MURMURS OF SILENCE (EXCERPT) William Phillips ’29 [Short Story] LOST IN THE HAZE Sophia Biss ’26 [Photography] TO GROW IS TO REMEMBER Sophia Biss ’26 [Photography] BETWEEN TWO WORLDS Noah Veras ’28 [Poetry] MEMORY BOX Veronica Puig ’28 [Personal Essay] FROM MY SHELF Noa Garcia ’27 [Painting] 32-33 35 36-37 37 38-39 40-41 42-43 43 44-45 44-45 46 46-47 48-49 48-49 50-51 50-51
TRANSFORMATION Alexa Umwiza ’27 [Painting] THE LIGHTHOUSE Noah Veras ’28 [Poetry] THE CREATION OF EVE Patrick Keedy Brown ’26 [Digital Art] WHAT YOU KNOW Lael Sanders ’26 [Poetry] HELD TOGETHER Emily Chen ’29 [Drawing] SHEILA NATASHA SIMROD FRIEDMAN AWARD STAFF LIST DEPARTURE JANE PERDIGON ’27 [Painting] COLOPHON GUARDIAN Cole Durham ’29 [Photography] 52-53 54 55 56 57 58-59 60 61 62
One Fine Morning Alexa Charouhis ’27 One Fine Morning… East Egg, West Egg, Aspen, Hamptons. It’s all just an Instagram illusion. Filter. Edit. Crop. Delete. Are we 21st-Century Edisons? Or just GenZ pretenders? Hermione, Barbie, Ariel, Taylor. One click, and I’m anyone I want to be. Digital masks and 80-character bios. Does it even matter who i am? BMW, LV, 24K, YSL. I want to be in the alphabet parade. Beat. Boats. Borne. Back. Outside Tiffany’s windowpane, the alliteration is searing. “Screens away! Lights off!” The only time I’m real is in my dreams. Pink suit. Green light. I’m penciling down the best of what I’ve got inside, in the hope it gets me out. 2
Back Pocket Nina Galinsky ’26 3
Myself as Garden Ms. Kate Hamm I didn’t plant a garden this spring Didn’t know how. Jonquil shoots cut through the crust Of left over snow, pushing Their buds toward the March sun I was at a loss. Should I have brushed away the frozen dirt? Cleared the path? Tiny green blades sliced through And then One beautiful afternoon, there was a Yellow cup framed in a white saucer I think it was a jonquil... maybe a daffodil? Like I said I don’t know much about flowers. In April the green bush that sits Trapped against the railroad ties Started to develop silver dollar spheres. If they hadn’t been green I could have sworn I was growing golf balls Or small hedge hogs on sticks. 4 Paphiopedilum Jasmine Zhao ’28
Puzzled, I watched them every day, Worried that the ants which crept and crawled and covered the orbs Would kill whatever was hidden within the green jackets. But low and behold, One cool and sunny morning I discovered Giant, magenta, puffs! Peonies, my neighbor called them “Put them in a vase and they’ll brighten your kitchen” And she was right. They did. But she didn’t warn me that the ants would make the journey too. Big black bugs trespassed my table Running down the legs, across the floor, to hide under the heat of the stove. I wonder where they are now. I mowed the lawn Gathered up the broken limbs that littered the yard I tried to keep things Pretty I really did But I did not plant a garden. I just didn’t know how. Late in May dark pink roses Blanketed the trellis. I didn’t do a thing! They just exploded out of nowhere 5
Color climbed to the top of the ladder and All I could do was marvel at the sight and pray That I wouldn’t kill them. After all, the jonquils didn’t last Neither did the peonies I didn’t want to destroy the roses too. They weren’t mine. I didn’t plant them. I just wanted to celebrate their beauty as long as I could. But flowers are living, breathing things That eventually die Like love I guess And that is exactly what the roses did. And then In the heat of July A vine began taking over my life. “choke weed” the neighbors called it. Better get rid of it Before it strangles everything left living But I couldn’t do it. The leaves were shaped like the face of a fox 6 White Orchid Charlotte Mark ’26
With pointy ears and chin. Tiny foxes curled around the white picket fence Grabbing hold and climbing, Twisting, swirling, Shooting their hair like tendrils Up toward the branches of the birch Entwining itself in the thickest part of the Privet hedge. I should have torn it out, Should have ripped it up by the roots. But then the little foxes would have shriveled up Brown and brittle. I just couldn’t kill, Not on purpose. And now? Now I find myself wrapped in a knit robe of green. Tiny foxes nip at my lips My arms locked in a verdant straight jacket My legs no longer dance through the tall grass. Slowly, I succumb; Give in to the curling, crushing shoots. And some day 7 Myrmecophila Jasmine Zhao ’28
Someday my neighbor will discover me there Rooted in the soil where I had always wanted to plant a garden But didn’t Because I didn’t know how. 8 Pink Hibiscus Nina Galinsky ’26
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Rooted in Sundays Constantino Peña ’26 Every Sunday, we gather again, plates clinking, voices laughing, a symphony of Spanish and English, chairs pulled closer until no one feels far. Parents, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, Four grandparents recently turned to three. One chair now stays empty, A quiet reminder of my grandfather. No one rushes to leave, These dinners hold us in place, help us reset. Week after week, we return, to food, to family, to remembering, to love that keeps us rooted at the table. 11 Havana at Night Noa Garcia ’27
Anatomy of a Peony Eva Cunningham ’27 Small fingers curl around the slim stem of a peony Plucking free from its sanctuary into threatening palms The bright-eyed child settled the flower on a nightstand Kissing its petals, one by one, for a mother partially blind Bees murmur questions into the adolescent’s hair About replacing her blood for another’s Soft truths spill sweet as nectar down her mouth Leaving the rest with a bitter after-taste As the child grows older, the peony decays Belonging: a word only for small, precious hands 12
The rooster screeches out into the golden sunrise. Where are you? It asks. Where am I? The child repeats: again, again. The rooster basks in the expanse of a clearless sky. Where are you? It asks. I am here. The child sobs: again, again. Two Birds Zijin Liu ’27 13
Two glassy striking orbs One sunk in Puffy with the creases Of laughter and quivering sobs Pitiful and genuine smiles A string pulling on the delicate eyelids Yet it knows too much Of the hunger that carves itself into Knots around the frail bones Of a child A child that deserves more than The scraps of relief it yearns for It’s seen too much Of the crackling fire that Scorches the fragile Stitches attempting to bind a teenage soul It remembers the aching sting Of unrequited efforts The thrashing about of doing When wanting to just be Muddled in days ruined Because of lost car keys grudges that weigh down and stain the veins black of a beating heart second place and the throbbing desire of wanting that taste of looking down at a tiny puzzle at the tip of a mountain of knowing it seemed like it was just there supposed to happen stripped away This hides in the crows feet that splits the skin into dry canyons and fault lines the stretch and bend of tracing over a topographic map Diptych Neva Ilica’28 14
She runs her fingers through Now coarse and brittle Slate coils That fall gracefully Upon her shoulders She lives in hours that blend Into one another Soft melodic cries That narrate the time And paint the past A round clear globe As she watches With a tender Reassuring gaze No fear of the day Her dainty corpse Will meld with the All consuming Lush brown bed Her life will not Flash before her eyes the light before her More like a slow waltz of frozen moments Not regret But a bitter taste Not of longing or remorse Yet a realization that comes In phases The urge to wrap her Young soul in the finest silk Caress her tiny pale hands And tightly interlock fingers Whisper gentle consolations Her last parting wish To not let the days Sift through between her fingers Fleeting like sand Feel the gravity of every split second The trapped glow of the firefly Doesn’t last forever Not Yet Settled Zijin Liu ’27 15
Hypnosis Neva Ilica ’28 the edges of my vision curl a circular blur that blinks white light bends straight and slits through drowsy waves traces the neat outline of crisp leaves a universe of fluttering and fractured pigments flow within the dense dew in the air taking heavy sighs in unison they shimmer in a reality of invisible walls not trapped but waiting to be seen Tearing Through Time Alexa Umwiza ’27 16
On The Way Home Riley Vento ’27 There’s a heavy silence in the apartment I’m about to leave. The empty floors once filled with furniture start to look cold. The echo that can be heard when you yell in the hallways shocks me because it was never there before. I kept on waiting for my parents to tell me that we were not really moving and that it was all a joke, but that moment never came. Everyone was telling me that this is a chance for a new beginning, but I was not ready for that moment to come just yet. I did not want to leave the place that holds so many memories: good and bad. This apartment was a map of my childhood, and now we are leaving it all behind. I was not just saying goodbye to an apartment, I was saying goodbye to my childhood. Very slowly after the move I started seeing the silver lining in this situation. I really was starting a new chapter in my life. I started to become accustomed to my house and finally living in a house for the first time in my life. I found new comfort places and discovered a whole new way of living. I began to take pride in my house, inviting family and friends over so they can see it. I started to find joy in decorating my new room and seeing new cars in the driveway everyday knowing that someone else was here to work on making our house look even better. Moving out of my childhood apartment and into a new house made me realize that change is eventually going to occur in life. As a sophomore in high school, in less than a year I am going to be preparing for the biggest challenge and change in my life: college. Just like moving from an apartment to a house after living in it for 15 years, people grow old, graduate high school, get accepted into college, and start the rest of their adult life. In a way, leaving my childhood home is just a tiny step towards the biggest change I am going to have to make in my life. This experience has prepared me for bigger obstacles I will have to encounter and for new environments that I will have to eventually adapt to. 18
Out of Reach Abigail Pollock ’26 19
When I first learned that my parents were starting the long journey of building their dream house, I could not wait to move in. The thought of a brand-new space that was completely ours felt like something out of a dream. I imagined my new room, pictured the layout, the color of the walls, and how I would finally have space to myself. I pictured our family gathered in a new kitchen, celebrating holidays, birthdays, and all the ordinary moments that somehow felt bigger in a new home. I started visiting the house every day, watching as the wooden frame turned into walls, then windows, and finally a roof. I would go through the unfinished hallways, imagining where furniture would go and how it would feel once we lived here. I constantly asked my parents when the move date was. But with every delay, I began to get more nervous. The uncertainty became frustrating, and I even started to believe that I would be off to college before I could get a chance to have one night in our new house. My apartment started to seem small and old compared to the brandnew house being built for my family right down the street. The paint on the walls didn’t seem as bright anymore. It felt like I was stuck in the past while the future was being built just blocks away. Little did I know those feelings would all go away as soon as I stepped foot in my new house, ready to be lived in for the first time after seven years. I started to appreciate my apartment in a way that I hadn’t done before. The memories came back, baking cookies with my dad in our kitchen, laughing with my siblings late at night. I started to get that homesick feeling that I would get on vacation, only this time, I would never return to my childhood apartment ever again. This moving experience has taught me many things, one being that emotions can change in a split second. One moment, I was eager to start the next chapter of my life by moving into my house, and the next, I was reminiscing on every little detail from my childhood apartment that I would never be able to encounter again. Another thing this experience has taught me is that you never appreciate something as much as you should until it’s gone. Although I did love my apartment, there are many things that I didn’t realize were a routine part of my life that are now gone after the recent move to 20
my house, like the sound of the front doorbell, the sound of my neighbor’s dogs in the hallway, or the sunlight that came in just right during the afternoons. I now understand that letting go of a place doesn’t mean letting go of the memories because those come with you, always. Sunset Drive Jane Perdigon ’27 21
Nature, the canvas of the universe, So simple, yet so diverse. From the first dot of paint that dripped from God’s brush, To the endless beauty we all know, oh so lush. The Beauty of Nature Idris Huggins ’29 From the dry tundras, cold and frozen, To the blistering deserts, absent of an ocean. From the plains, stretching far and wide, To the mountain ranges, with their tall cliffsides. 22
From the stars, larger than our comprehension, To the galaxies, which make stars look small in dimension. From the moon, dotted with craters across its spherical shape. To our planet, filled with vast landscapes. There is something that makes everything beautiful, And that is nature, the canvas of the universe. Mountaineers Ascending the Peaks of Ruth Glacier Nelson Manstein ’26 23
Rockweed Lael Sanders ’26 the beach is studded with pebbles discarded crab claws bits of coral and i can’t find my footing over the yellow-green seaweed my knuckles scrape against the rocks one last chance to hold on and the maine wind-chill is too grey for me strange i was made for this kind of weather standing on the boulder letting my hair frizz i, alone with the waves who do i need to impress? my mom stands still by the shore turned away there’s water in her eyes or maybe it’s just the sun 24
will it be this cold where i’m going? that far-off dreamy place? when i come home, will it still be mine? am i still anchored in the ever-changing sea? mom tells me i’ll learn how to stand up straight and the wind won’t be so cold and the boulder won’t be so high and maybe one day i’ll let go of the rocks and brush the sand off my hands but i think my knuckles will stay bruised even then. Stormy Night Charlotte Mark ’26 25
Intergenerational Poem Gabrielle Heckler ’27 and Dr. Julia Clarke I fly far from home Like the surface of Mars, Moab appeared on the horizon, Where the sun rises high above Overwhelmingly orange The orange surrounds me, the unfamiliar dome I was there for a wedding of two friends I met in a very different landscape– The arid breeze, an unfamiliar shove Gray buildings, imposing monuments, our nation’s capital “You have to see Arches–it’s required,” my friend’s sister told me, handing me her national parks sticker So before the ceremony, I drove to the entry point of Arches The heat surrounds differently than before And hiked to the famed Delicate Arch without enough water Natural curves are anything but an eye sore “I’m from New York,” I apologized to some other hikers, who handed me a spare, unopened water bottle I traveled so far just for them “I’m not used to this dryness.” I drank it in, not even feeling the hydration set in Wanting to see how it can happen 26
And looked at the arch above me, a rusty rainbow against bright blue sky, The blue-sky contrasts all as I look around Our tiny moon visible in the Daylight. Fond memories were made held in this place And suddenly, the foreignness felt familiar. These arches are a reverie, a deep reflection space. 27 Denali Golden Sunset Nelson Manstein ’26
The Girl and the Bird Sophie Wang ’29
History’s Mysteries Beatrice Hill ’29 We all ponder ‘bout the curious past about the legendary days of yore, and those drafted into history’s cast what their legacies are remembered for. If they wielded powers of intellect or led grand skirmishes, wars, and battles, on history, they’ve all left their effect as being one who copes, tries, and grapples. Whether their names are remembered or not, their impact shapes our earthly plane, all our actions, our surroundings, our thought and all that guides us in our grand domain. People attributed to history, were just living their life, their mystery. 29
Fifteen Labels Isn’t Enough Anonymous Ballerina baby. Picky eater. Dog fanatic. Light giver. Magic maker. Lipstick lover. Aspiring singer. Spring skier. Unexpected actress. Jewish leader. Lab partner. TikTok talent. Idolized sister. Precious daughter. Forever friend. 4Ds’ a dream-crusher. Two-word epitaphs are unintentionally insulting. Memories are assaulting. Five AM alarms and never-ending homework are gifts. Reels and in-boxes are escapes. This poem? It’s way too short. 30
Rêves en Pointe Charlotte Mark ’26 31
Memorial Tree Mr. Matthew Stock Memorial Tree, like the concept of Etz Chaim, is a tree of life. It is a tree of those who came before us and is a tree of those who will come after us. Local lore is that this tree is unlike all of those around it, and I believe that. Etz Chaim is a metaphor for a greater pursuit of understanding. My photograph “Memorial Tree” of a Taxodium distichum, or bald cypress, is the largest bald cypress I have ever come across in the various prairies, wetlands, and hammocks pursued in the quest of an emotional and photographic connection to the land. Memorial Tree is the informal, regional 32
name of this specific tree which stands approximately 50’ tall with roots spread nearly the same width across the wetlands. Its roots have stretched languidly over the centuries and over the ground, ebbing and flowing with the Everglades themselves. Local custom is to spread the ashes of loved ones at the base of the tree so that they themselves may become part of Memorial Tree. This tree has seen generations of Floridians, and generations of Floridians have become one with this tree. Memorial Tree is not static; it is everchanging, just as the nature of art, and life itself. 33
My Grandma’s Nail Polish Neva Illica ’28 An elderly woman sat next to me, On the bus yesterday, And usually I try not to stare, But I let my eye wander just this once, Because maybe it was a sign, That her deep maroon nail polish, Was perfectly complimenting her, Popping veins, That were not quite blue, But not quite green, Maybe it was a sign, Because the musical notes hidden in your innocent voice, Had started to feel distant and muffled in my mind, And that same night I was five years old again, Watching you paint over your nails in awe, With that same velvety rich crimson red, Maybe it was a sign, Because you hadn’t showed up, in my dreams in a while, and that same night, I was five years old again, 34
Wandering in the cosmetics aisle, Drawn to a small glass bottle, Holding in it a bright shade of pink It was the first time I had noticed, How crystal blue your eyes were, And your smile that could mend the deepest of wounds, As I placed the tiny glass bottle in the palm of your hand, Creased by the ruthless nature of time And suddenly, what was once your signature color, that mesmerizing firebrick red, Slowly shed its skin, To become the flushed bubblegum tint I would grow To know and love. Sheila Nina Galinsky ’26 35
Beyond the Soil Veronica Puig ’28 I grew up here. That’s the difference. Miami feels infinite to people who arrive. To me, it’s legible. Been there, done that. I know how the days unfold, how the endless heat flips from pleasant in the morning to oppressive by noon, how every season is just summer in disguise. I know which streets flood first. I even know where the strangers live: in Coconut Grove, I pass the same man walking his daughter to school, the same woman with a yoga towel draped over her arm, again and again. There’s comfort in knowing a place this well. There’s also a limit. Nothing here surprises me anymore. I’ve walked the same routes so often they’ve stopped asking anything of me. You can live inside its beauty without ever being challenged by it. You can confuse familiarity with fulfillment and never be corrected. I don’t think there’s anything left for me here—not because I’ve taken it for granted, but because I’ve finished it. I’ve reached the edge of what this place can teach me. Staying would be settling, not growth. I want a city that exceeds me. I want streets that don’t care how prepared I am. Buildings that make my ambitions feel small, then force me to enlarge them. I want to be surrounded by people who are faster, sharper, more committed than I am—people who make standing still impossible. I want a place where I am anonymous and must earn my presence. Where life feels taller, denser, louder than anything I’ve known. Leaving isn’t betrayal because staying wouldn’t be loyalty — it would be shrinking myself to fit something I’ve already outgrown. 36
Miami gave me a beginning: space, warmth, permission to imagine. But imagination, once exercised, wants adventure. It wants something bigger than comfort to lean against. Roots don’t only keep you in one place. Sometimes they show you exactly how far you’ve grown, and when it’s time to stretch beyond the soil that raised you. Grounded Noa Garcia ’27 37
Florida Song Patrick Keedy Brown ’26 God bless the Gatorland. It smells sweet - the dripping nectar of a tangerine sparkling against the peel. It is my own flesh, was, the prophetic perfect of which our bodies are made. The swamp knows no bounds. It is our stomach. I found a shark tooth beneath an inch of dirt at the bottom of a river. It is our teeth, then, too. Our angels take flight over the cypress sky, leaving feathers in the leaves below, turning into vultures, sunsets turning to constellations above the earth. God bless the Gatorland. Like a God without a temple, the ocean is our wrath. The storms that fester beyond the shore with darkling clouds suspended by an invisible hand. Listen to the hum of cicadas before a rain, and they will answer your prayers with rain, or morning dew, on window glass, the only proof that they were there. Do the cicadas speak with prophetic tongues? God bless the Gatorland. The Greek goddess of summer was Theros. When I search up the meaning of Theros, I find feral; beastly, characterized by a serpent. The summer beats on. 38
It presses its thumb into the soft places of the body, into the back of the neck, the hollow of the knee, and the flesh against the heart. Though feral, Theros held a sickle in her hand. She is our mother. God bless the Gatorland. A blessed angel came from the trees and spoke to me, saying this was the tribe of the blessed, and gave upon me an orange. Take this and eat, for it is my Flesh, given and shed for you, and said, No man shall see me and live, but I am no man. I am man-unbound, man-undone. At my feet lays the peel, undone. God bless the Gatorland. The land works slowly, like an ouroboros digesting itself. Nothing is held apart for long. The body dissolves into the loam and estuary, the root and the limestone alike. To live is to agree to be taken, eventually, by the falcons circling overhead, by the furious storm assembling beyond the event-horizon. To be pulled apart and redistributed in the most extravagant of ways. God bless the Gatorland. 39
41 Viscaya Bridge Mr. Matthew Stock
Love, Baba Nina Galinsky ’26 I sat on the edge of my bed each night as a child while my Baba tucked the blanket carefully around my shoulders, smoothing it the way one does when trying to keep something from unraveling. My room smelled faintly of linen and old books. The lamp beside us cast a small yellow circle onto my blanket, holding us inside its light while the rest of the room dissolved into shadow. Slowly, a Jewish woman born in Persia and her American granddaughter established a ritual. To my seven-year-old mind, many of her tales sounded implausible, ranging from the existence of aliens to her life in Iran before the revolution, though she spoke of both with equal conviction. Some of my earliest memories are not of myself, but of the stories Baba Maria told me before I fell asleep. She handed me books first - A Series of Unfortunate Events quickly became my favorite, though I suspect she appreciated the irony more than I did. The pages bent slightly at the corners from my fingers, and she would wait patiently for me to finish each chapter before turning off the light. When the lights went out, she told me about her own childhood instead. Growing up on Ferdousi Street with Mount Elbruz framed perfectly in her window gave her both beauty and uncertainty. “Women walked past our window in silk dresses and high heels,” she would tell me. She remembered sitting on the cool tile floor near the balcony, watching laundry sway in the dry heat, her mother polishing the silver candlesticks before Shabbat. She told me about walking to her convent-run boarding school, and I struggled to reconcile her childhood with the woman beside me. Iran had been different then, she said. Europe too. Everything had been. As time passed, my bed grew smaller, and stories gave way to conversation. Fairy tales were replaced by news articles. Her storytelling now arrives in my inbox, usually written the same way. Dear Nina, I have just sent you another article that may interest you. 42
Love, Baba. I read them before we speak. Technological advancements and campus protests takes the place of bedtime adventures. The subject matter changes, but the ritual does not. When my phone lights up with another message from her, sent over WhatsApp or Gmail, followed by a string of emojis she is still experimenting with, I think back to the stories she once told me and the ones I once read aloud, the chuckles that filled the room when something sounded too implausible for my seven-year-old mind. The ritual looks different now. I read carefully. I call her back. And somewhere between her questions and my answers, we are still sitting together inside that small circle of light. Working Hands Lillian Liu ’27
The Anxiety Cycle Lily Merrick ’29 Oh what I would do, To go back to May. When all my anxiety, Faded up, up and away. The crunch of the leaves, And the ashes that do come. The rolling down of sleeves, Trail far away with a click in my thumb. And Just like that, The flowers have bloomed. Your old gloves and hats, Lie far away just like the dunes. The calm summer days, Went by in a blur. The school bells have rung, And you feel a slight flutter. The last memory of peace, Suddenly slips from your heart. When flowers start to crease, Thudding down and apart. 44
The trickling cracks of thunder, Arise in your veins. left to wonder, Just worry that remains. But you have to realize, This isn’t what defines me. The problem that lies, Can be solved with one simple key. You’re the flame, Not just the flicker. Your anxiety is thick, But your skin is much thicker. With a deep long breath, In the midst of that grey. Your mind can turn around, And all is back to May. The Weight of Watching Olivia Karp ’27 45
The Murmurs of Silence (excerpt) William Phillips ’29 It had been five days since Billy Taylor died. Robert’s parents were still in a bad mood. Robert didn’t really know what to think of his grandfather’s death, all he knew was to not talk about it. The funeral had been a very humble affair, as there weren’t too many people in their district, and Billy wasn’t really a man known elsewhere. But he had he district’s best chickens, and Robert knew that was something to be proud of. The house had an air of foreboding, and the adults were too preoccupied bickering over the will to pay him any notice, so he had been spending the last few days out of the house. Now, as the shadows cast in the groves of peach and pecan trees began to shift and elongate in the late afternoon sun, he languished at the bottom of the hill in the shade of the mighty oak with his cousin Dick, rocking on the rustic tyre swing that had been there for as long as he could remember. As they talked, the gentle and soothing song of starlings floated along with the breeze. The sun would be setting soon. Then, he heard his mother’s voice calling him from up the hill, “Bobby, baby! It’s getting late!” “I’d better go,” said Robert reluctantly, with a look of disappointment on his face. The sky began to dim as the sun graced the horizon. “Alright,” said Dick, “see you at dinner.” Robert smiled and turned away, trotting up the hill to the farmhouse at the top. It had been a while since the grass had been cut; its long stalks tickled and itched Robert’s bare legs as he went. When he got to the top, his mother was waiting for him. She was sitting elegantly on the porch swing, her floral dress fluttering faintly in the light breeze. 46
47 Lost in the Haze Sophia Biss ’26
Between Two Worlds Noah Veras ’28 Spanish was the first cradle of my mouth, Rocking me in lullabies I don’t remember, soft as my mother’s prayers, bright as the island sun, Warm as afternoons on my grandmother’s porch, steady as the rhythm of waves against the shore, a language that wrapped me Before I even knew its name. To Grow is to Remember Sophia Biss ’26 48
The English swept in, louder, heavier, the language of homework, of teachers correcting, of fitting in at any cost. I tucked Spanish away, like seashells forgotten in a drawer, until silence replaced their sound. But the island calls me back. In the taste of mangú, In bachata pulsing from my cousin’s phone, In the salty wind of Santo Domingo streets, Spanish rises again. Shy at first, Stumbling from my lips, but alive, Like roots pushing through cracked cement. I am learning to hold both; the tongue I lost, the one I cannot lose. Between them, I grow half in shadow, half in sun, Yet wholly myself. 49
Memory Box Veronica Puig ’28 My house is like a memory box. The walls have been my archivists, holding every fragment of who I’ve been. A baby, taking her first steps across the marble floor I still walk on. A dancer, pirouetting through the halls on point shoes. A pianist, losing herself on weekends as her fingers drifted across the keys, the music rippling through the rooms. The pool where I learned to swim and soaked up the rays of sunlight. The winding staircase I sprinted down on Christmas mornings. The backyard where, when Covid hit, my mother and I took up yoga. 50
The kitchen where the sound of the smoothie blender always sung at early hours, and the scent of a warming recipe cooking on the stove intrigued me in the afternoon. I realize now that this house isn’t just a place I live—it’s where I became who I am. Even though I’ll leave eventually, I can feel its influence already, woven into everything I do. From My Shelf Noa Garcia ’27 51
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Transformation Alexa Umwiza ’27
The Lighthouse Noah Veras ’29 She met him by the salted shore, his lantern low with flame; he swore to guide her evermore, and let the sea take blame. His voice was smoke, his smile a snare, his words were ropes of rhyme; he bound her heart with sailor’s care, then left her with the tide. The lighthouse burned from dusk till dawn, its beam both blade and balm; it carved her name on cliffs of stone, then faded into calm. She waits where waves and whispers meet, a ghost in gown of white; his promise – keep her safe and sweet – still breaks against the night. Now sailors say the sea still sighs, her song beneath the spray; and every ship that passes by is led the other way. 54
The Creation of Eve Patrick Keedy Brown ’26
What You Know Lael Sanders ’26 I glimpse strange clockwork shining like water it began to grow vines in every direction, rising branches; moss ferns unfurling I see around myself for the first time uncertain, stumbling, unprepared. Magic in me, through me, free. 56
Held Together Emily Chen ’29
SHEILA NATASHA SIMROD FRIEDMAN AWARD Inklings is underwritten in part by an endowment to Ransom Everglades in memory of Sheila Natasha Simrod Friedman, a noted artist, poet, photographer, performance artist, and fashion designer. The mother of Natasha ’92 and Chloe ’95, Mrs. Friedman died on February 11, 1993. At her memorial service, Mr. Dan Leslie Bowden said, “Sheila was at once both poet and poem… she was a luminous, energetic star in whose presence smaller lights were not dimmed, but made to shine brighter.” The Miami Herald referred to her as a “walking piece of art.” Because creativity was so much of her spirit, friends chose to perpetuate that spirit and her memory through this endowment that will underwrite the long-term production of Inklings. In this way, we have an ongoing memorial to Mrs. Friedman’s imagination, ingenuity, and originality. The Sheila Natasha Simrod Friedman Award for Creativity in the Arts is given to a student who demonstrates outstanding achievement in writing and studio art, drama, or music. The recipient is chosen by the Fine Arts and English Departments. The Sheila Natasha Simrod Friedman Award is presented to Patrick Keedy Brown. - Ransom Everglades Humanities and Fine Arts Departments
STAFF LIST Nina Galinsky ’26 - Editor-in-Chief Noa Garcia ’27 - Art Editor Lael Sanders ’26 - Writing Editor Patrick Keedy Brown ’26 - Design Editor STAFF Sophia Biss ’26 Sophie Carey ’26 Bridget Mestepey ’26 Lily Poses ’26 Eva Cunningham ’27 Olivia Karp ’27 Henry Albanese ’28 Dylan Beyda ’28 Neva Ilica ’28 Veronica Puig ’28 William Stockman ’28 Emily Chen ’29 FACULTY ADVISORS Ms. Kira Morgan Mr. Matthew Stock
Departure Jane Perdigon ’27
COLOPHON Ransom Everglades Upper School 3575 Main Highway Coconut Grove, Florida 33133 Executive Printers of Florida 8001 NW 74th Avenue Medley, Florida 33166 Sales Representative: David Gardner Created with Adobe InDesign CC 70 pages Typeface: Kings Caslon This is a student-produced publication created by the Inklings staff. The content reflects the voices, perspectives, and creativity of students and does not necessarily represent the views of the school administration. We strive for accuracy and inclusivity, and any errors are unintentional.
Held Together Emily Chen ’29 Guardian Cole Durhman ’29
www.ransomeverglades.orgRkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTY4MTI=