Synaptic

By Alex Gast ’26

“I’m sorry son, there’s just no way around it. We need to ask you a few more questions. You need to come back to the station when your round’s over.” Kurt read the lanky white letters of his father’s text message in a numb sort of trance, then shoved his phone back into his bag. He exhaled strongly, flared his nostrils, and thrust his feet into the moist earth.

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By Emma Carlson ’23

Holly Markle had a baby. I was seven. I didn’t care until Mom touched her for it. First Sunday service of the year. I wasn’t tall enough yet to see over the pews. Dad dropped me onto his lap. He always did before leaning his forehead into my back.

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By Mattie Francis ’23

I’m shocked awake. The siren blares with its high-pitched morning scream. Red lights at the corners of our small apartment whir, casting bloodstained splotches on the bare white walls. I groan. The nights are never long enough.

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By Grace Helgeson

The doors open and the flight attendant’s voice rolls over the intercom, “Boarding now first-class passengers.”

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