By Tye Iverson PZ ’26, Pixie Klam PZ ’27, Willa Umansky PZ ’27, Oscar Ponteri CMC ’27

“Do you think they’re actually all fucking?” I whispered to my friend Margot while nodding at my cousin Leonard, his wife, and his wife’s best friend. They were both quite beautiful, one looked like every Rabbi’s attractive daughter who kissed a few too many boys in middle school. The other one had red hair, she smelled like cinnamon and wine, wore an almost soft gray sweater that came off as effortlessly elegant, and implemented a bit of a vocal fry at the ends of her words. The drawing out of final consonants was eye-roll inducing, but sexy nonetheless. Margot and I were talking in the bathroom about the fact that Leonard kind of seemed desperate to fuck the redhead. Turns out that’s supposedly just the best friend. W

I’ve been obsessing over us, as I’m sure you could’ve assumed. I’m stuck, wondering why it didn’t work out and one woman I talked to said it’s all about comfort. When you’re entirely compatible, you will always be comfortable. But I was always comfortable with you. So I don’t really believe that woman was right. I think it must be something different. Something similar to the ability to stand still with one another. Stand still without any wandering. Because our comfort was always there, at least for me. But I couldn’t keep still. I tried and seemed to drift.  P

Every few minutes, in a rhythm that Gwen tried and failed to predict, the room would swell with something ancient and deep, something that if you closed your eyes could be mistaken for holy. When Gwen felt hopeless about her ability to track the fickle tides of the melody, she took it upon herself to stare at the Hebrew characters, to try to excavate the sounds they signified. W

After waiting a few minutes to be sure, the now alone chick reached at its chest and pulled forward a small piece of swinging metal that unzipped its almost featherless skin. The entire body of the once disgusting duckling fell and a beautiful yellow chick emerged. It laughed for a couple seconds before waddling to the now empty nest of a far gone duck family. The chick sat in the empty space with a smirk on its face and a proud feeling in its chest.

MORAL: Wisdom wears a humble disguise.  T

You were sitting and drawing and so small that I bet your legs didn’t even reach the bar that marked the middle of the stool. There were no lines on the page, but if there were you were so little that you wouldn’t have complied with their constraints. Poppy was watching TV, drinking the singular shot of vodka over ice and eating the four potato chips that he allotted himself every day. Casual joys were important, but restriction is the only way that it can really work. That was the logic he employed later when your mom decided you needed to lose weight for middle school. W

I’d dribble a little glue on each hand, arrive at the venue, an X marked on each hand, and go to the bathroom to peel off the dried glue. Then I’d walk up to the bar, and stand waiting for someone to offer to buy me a drink. If ten minutes passed and no one offered I’d order a vodka tonic. If someone offered to buy me one, I’d let them pick.  P

Documenting her condo with my coastal elitist disposable camera like it’s a crime scene. O