Honor Killings
There is a stain on our wall in Wilson and we haven’t spoken about it for a few days, my roommate and I. Streaked and coarse, a stain ground into the whitewash like graphite. It’s not visible if you don’t look for it, not something Building Services would fine us for. A stain, the length of two bobby pins held end to end. The diameter of a champagne grape. It doesn’t come out with Windex or Seventh Generation dish soap or OxiClean, left instead as a perpetual effigy of my fury and my guilt.
by Rachel Stone on
Tons-of-Sex
My last name is Sexton. I started Kindergarten a year early, so I was always younger than my classmates. With an extra year on their side, most of my classmates towered over me. In fourth grade, we played kickball in gym class, and whenever I would sock the ball real well and it would soar far, my stubby nine-year old legs worked their way around the diamond fast, while a group of my classmates would begin to chant, tons-of-sex, tons-of-sex.
by Nick Sexton on
Leaving A Trace
Every muscle in my body tensed, and a knotted cocktail of fear and nerves pushed my stomach up into my chest. I wasn’t there to make a scene, but I prepared to transition to a sprint at a moment’s notice. I tried vainly to resist making eye contact, but neither of us could resist the strange magnetism of the other’s presence.
by Dayton Martindale on
London Revisited
Settling back into old routines once again in London this summer made me think about my relationship with my old life after a year living in America. Although I was catching up with friends in similar ways and places to during my time at high school, this time all of us had come back from new places and lives so different to our old ones.
by Guy Johnson on
It’s Not Chloe
“Clo? How you doin?” Luke says. I take a deep breath. “I’m okay, just getting ready,” I venture. “Where the hell are you?” he slurs. I am in Forbes’ dungeon-like art room in Princeton, NJ. Luke is outside a sports … Read More
by Isabel Henderson on
Strangers
How do great friendships form, exactly? Sometime between laughing hysterically at a joke about lizard sex and walking home together as the sun goes up. Sometime after you make an embarrassing purchase together at 7-Eleven. Sometime after you share a near-death experience. Somewhere down the line when your texts to each other loose all grammatical correctness and you start addressing each other solely with either pet names or crude profanities.
by Catalina Trigo on
Goldie’s Guilt
I learned my lesson long ago: there is no place for “Zahava” in Starbucks. For many years, in the overpriced land of hissing espresso machines and foamed upper lips and green-clad baristas, Zahava didn’t exist. Instead, for the ten minutes I spent each day ordering coffee, I was Zoe, or Sarah, or Lauren. It was easier that way. But I resolved recently to tell the truth about my name.
by Zahava Presser on
Notary Phone
Like any child of the millennium I’ve moved through several cell phones. Each served as a safety blanket, a confidant, a sort of external hard drive for my social life.
by Emily Lever on
What’s in a Dash?
Cemeteries are not really my scene. In my lifetime thus far, I have been blessed enough to not have to watch the body of a loved one be lowered down into physical oblivion. That is not to say that I have never been to a cemetery; I have gone with close friends for support. The ritual tends to be the same: find the place of burial, replace the wilted flowers with fresh ones, and reflect on the life that now lives on in spirit.
by Dominique Ibekwe on
Sinner Sticks
I could always count on Crackhead Preacher to make his grand appearance on Friday afternoons. Dressed in a red pleather suit and gold glitter shades with massive dollar signs on each lens, Crackhead Preacher would bust into the store and beseech the humble workers of Dominos to “GIVE to the LORD, so then the LORD will GIVE.”
by Hannah Srajer on
A Look at People-Watching
Driving back to campus from sailing practice a few weeks ago, I partook in one of my habitual pastimes: people-watching. No, it’s not that creepy lustful gaze, or the serial killer glare that people sometimes give. It’s just my face, watching.
by Bennett Alvaro on
The Mare’s Teaching
During breaks from Princeton, instead of lounging on the couch, I can be found somewhere on Route 95, clutching a Ziploc bag full of carrots and heading to northern Massachusetts with my mother. It’s our ritual—a necessary pilgrimage to visit the members of our family who are too big to live at home with us, but no less loved for it.
by Lauren Davis on