Bridgewater College Digital Commons

Kreiger, Sam

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 34 
December 2024 
Silvered Palace 
Sam Kreiger 
Bridgewater Colege, skreiger@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Kreiger, Sam (2024) "Silvered Palace," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 34. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/34 
This Fiction is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Silvered Palace
By Sam Kreiger
She was startled and blinded by the sudden gleam under the noon-day sun, spots flittered across her
vision as she squinted to see it there, a massive palace, like those in the deserts. It shone silver, the pounding
cascade of sand and water beating down on the building keeping it in pristine polish. It was almost deafening,
even at this distance. She stuffed her ears with cotton and trampled forwards through the remaining jungle.
Within her remaining approach, the many walls and crevices flickered with warped and horrid
reflections of herself: her glaive merging into fang, horn and tooth. No ordinary mirror would make such
monstrous visages. She leapt back as one of the many mirrored claws swept towards her, reaching outside the
shining walls to tear a small chunk off of her sabatons. It writhed angrily at its failed attempt, flailing back and
forth hoping for her to come back within range. She brought her glaive to bear, bringing it down upon the
limb, but it cracked on the cobble below instead. Swinging it back up, it cut through, leading her into a
stumble as it passed through. The limb wavered and vanished without a trace.
As if on cue, a monstrous, crude facsimile of a boar charged out the mirror and trampled through
her, leaving her gasping for breath. She swiveled, turning to face it, and what stood there was a creature of
twisted features, something so unreal she simply couldn’t believe it. The beast charged again, she stepped to
the side and swung, but yet again it cut through the air as it crashed into stone. She whipped the butt of the
glaive around to hit the creature. It made no sound as it contacted, the boar rippling as it disappeared just like
the last. She whirled about as twisted beasts burst forth from the walls, but they were different. You could
almost call them animals, bears, moose, boars, if not for their pale blue glow and somehow a lack of depth. To
her, they were clearly illusory, so she charged forth, holding her glaive across and closed her eyes. She felt
nothing, save a slight coldness, until she crashed through the door. She twirled, dropping her glaive and
slamming the doors shut. It was as dark as pitch and no sliver of light broke into the temple.
She struggled to find the torch and tinder in the rucksack, and knocked the torch’s handle as it
clattered to the floor. She sighed as she lit the torch on the floor and hefting it skywards. The flickering
torchlight revealed corridors and doorways, with strange architecture unlike any she had seen. It looked alive
almost, the pale marble walls and floors having no corners at all. There were no scones for torches nor for
candles, everything was smooth as if hewn from a single stone. The floor was slick and strange shadows
played in the reflections as the water slid down the corridor to unlit depths. She walked carefully to the first of
the two rooms she could see. It was drowned with flasks filled with unnatural colors, and presumably the
paraphernalia to make them. She moved to the only other room in sight, broken frames hung on the walls
and shattered mirrors littered the floor, small flickers of creatures danced along with the torch’s light. The
mirrors’ shards rattled fiercely as she slammed the door and turned away.
She crept along the corridor, finding next a massive marble door sealing the end of the corridor. As
of the rest of the construction, it appeared to be of one continuous piece. She shoved and struggled against
the door, but not one inch was gained. She jammed her glaive against it, attempting to pry when the door
flashed, sending her reeling back in a blinded daze. Pools of shadow gathered at her feet, slowly clawing at the
soles. She tumbled as they stuck to her shoes like tar, and she felt that they were real, not illusions like the
beasts. They shied from the light as she flailed the torch, breaking the shadows apart. She struggled, tearing
her right foot away from the shadows, realizing in that moment she had made a mistake. As the torch
dropped, its flaming tip slammed into the pool of dark, the shadows hissed and burned but the light was soon
enfolded in darkness. The shadows swarmed, creeping upwards over her when a loud thud crashed from
behind the marble door. Something had changed, she knew if she didn’t try in this moment it would all be
over. She blindly leapt forth with all her might, slamming into the door, peeling away from the sickly shadows.
The door finally gave way, her shoulder cracking loudly as she landed on the cold stone floor. As the shadows
slithered after her, she rolled on her back, lighting her tinder and throwing out at them and beyond the door.
They backed off as the lit tinder crossed the threshold, and the door slammed shut behind it and a massive
stone bar slid out, holding it shut.
She laid there for a while, catching her breath as pain emanated from her shoulder. She scanned the
room as her rest continued, it was large and dark like the rest. Two rows of pillars pushed into the darkness,
and out of her vision. Every surface, save the pillars, was inlaid with mirrors, even the floor was glossy with
non-existent light; The entire room was palely lit from no source she could see, her shadowy figure reflected
in the countless mirrors. If not for the pillars she surely would have been lost, but her head was spinning as
her eyes darted between the cacophony of her own images, the endless reflections following her as she tried
to march forwards. Her only sense of stability, the pillars, were off too. The sharp edges and straight lines felt
stark and unnatural compared to everything else she had seen. She started to topple forward, hand outward to
catch herself on one, but passed through, the pillar wavered as she slammed against the floor. Her own
images taunted her as they danced around her vision. The world was fading, the faint silver of mirrors
darkening to black.
Her eyes snapped to focus as pain erupted from her cheek and blood wept to the floor. The glaive
she carried as she used it to combat her vertigo had come down on her face, cutting deep, almost piercing her
cheek entirely. She tore the buckles off her bag, yanking out a cloth coated in a green paste. She ripped a long
piece off the cloth, applied some of it, and tied it tight against the fresh wound. The length of makeshift
bandage stretched across her face, she winced as she pulled it taut, hoping for an end to the bleeding. She
trudged forward, grunting as the pain kept her vision sharp. She could feel her heart pulse as blood trickled
and bled through down her face. But it left a trail, something to focus on, as it became the only stain upon the
polished floors. Then she saw the end, capped by a door coated in mirrors like the rest of the room. With as
much strength as she could muster she heaved, though the door opened little, it was enough for her to
squeeze through. She slipped inside and the door shut itself quickly.
A raised dais lay in the center of the room, which was domelike in shape. She could see only the
outline of whatever lay upon it, until she spotted a lantern cast aside. It looked mostly intact, only minor chips
and scratches as the scent of oil wafted in her nose. Tinder heated oil, and a burst of flames leapt out, settling
on the wick. Lifting the light, it shone on the dais, a massive gold-framed mirror towered over her. Gold and
precious jewels shimmered in unison with the mirror. The lamplight shone through the mirror, not landing
upon a reflection, but someplace else, an even stranger place then where she was now. It wildly flickered
between a place of total brightness and one of grayness. Among the whiteness appeared only to be mirrors,
suspended as though set in stone, the other void felt empty, yet full, something swallowed in the depths. She
reached out and the mirror rippled at her touch, its image stopping on the blinding emptiness filled with
mirrors.
The mirror felt almost damp on her fingers, and there was a gentle tug as though she could dive
through it. It felt strange, her arm was repelled, yet her hand was being pulled in. It was already beginning to
be painful, she felt like her hand would be severed, a human crossing a boundary no human should cross. She
pushed through the pain and shoved herself the rest of the way through. She left behind only a strand of rope
tied to the foot of the grand mirror. She instinctively held her breath, but it now seemed irrelevant, floating in
this nothingness. Her hunger had all but vanished as well, all of the aches and pains gone, but the wounds
remained. The blinding white was vast and disorienting, the immobile and endless array of mirrors so close
yet so far. She glanced back from where she came for a moment of solidity and clarity but saw only the last
breath of the oil lamp before it died, leaving reality dark. The oil of the lamp seemed plentiful enough for
several hours yet it went out in an instant. She turned back, and was astounded by the obelisk of mirrors
collected before her.
Then, it hit her, this place was no temple nor tomb, but a place of containment, a trap to keep
something in, not out. A massive crack echoed behind her and she yanked on the rope to whip back towards
the entrance. Masses of shadows had begun slamming on the mirror outside, leaving a thin line running
across its span. She knew being stuck here would be far worse than fending off these things. She tugged hard
on the rope, barreling towards the mirror, as she had floated quite a distance away from it. More sinuous
cracks echoed outwards from the original break. With a last heave, her rope snapped, the frayed end on the
other side looking ancient. With the rope’s disappearance she had begun to spin, speeding forwards until she
slammed sideways into the mirror. It was hard as a rock, yet she felt nothing. She scrambled to right herself,
but it was too late, it felt as though her entire existence screamed in pain as the mirror shattered completely,
blowing her backwards into the abyss. She felt as though all of herself had been shattered into infinitesimal
pieces as everything went dark.
As the shades dispersed from the broken mirror, they revealed a small wooden puppet. Etched from
head to toe with glyphs, it moved without strings, and it left quietly. It had sat there for hundreds of years yet
now it moved. It walked without rest for months, eventually reaching the foot of a mountain, entering a grand
wooden cabin nestled within the rocks. As it reached inside, it was scooped into the arms of a youthful
woman. Thin, strand-like scars roamed across her body, clashing with the light tan of her skin and auburn
hair. The puppet hung limply as she looked into all the things it had seen. “Lirana,” She spoke softly, “Oh my
dear what you’ve been through.”
Sam Kreiger studies Psychology at Bridgewater College.


English

Silvered Palace

Fogleman, Ashlyn

Northrup, Jonathan

Forbidden Love

Pearson, Andrew L

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 46 
December 2024 
Secrets With Wings 
Andrew L. Pearson 
Bridgewater College, apearson@bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Pearson, Andrew L. (2024) "Secrets With Wings," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 46. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/46 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Secrets With Wings
By Andrew L. Pearson
When I was little, when I was young,
My world was big and secrets were fun, 
Hiding books from my teacher and toys from my sibs,
Little white lies and one or two fibs.
Honing this power, I discovered in me,
More and more secrets I could now see.
Conniving thoughts grew in thought, word, and deed,
Control was my pride - my day-to-day creed.
I played like a king and lived like a pawn.
Enslaved by my secrets, my friends were all gone.
Secrets have weight; secrets entice.
Secrets hurt, steal, and carry a price.
I packed my secrets into a burlap sack.
I tied it down so it ne’er to come back.
But early next morning, I opened my door,
To face their taunt more than ever before.
No stars to see and no dogs to bark,
In a boat on a lake in the darkest dark,
I tossed my secrets overboard in a sack,
Weighted with hate, yelling, “Do Not Come Back!”
Down into that deep sank all my fear.
Rowing and rowing, I reached my pier.
Tired and happy, I then returned home,
My secrets there waiting for me to atone.
Pressed by a whispering spirit’s dare,
I opened my window in tears of despair.
Each secret by name I then called out,
Each sprouting wings on the air of each shout. 
Soaring out of my window like a gaggle of geese,
Secrets’ spell is broken, leaving me peace.
As the sun rises - my secrets are gone.
I now live free - as free as the dawn.
Andrew L. Pearson directs the Forrer Learning Commons at Bridgewater College.


Secrets With Wings

Scheiner, Meredith

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 50 
December 2024 
On Thoreau’s “Walking” 
Meredith Scheiner 
Bridgewater College, mscheiner@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Scheiner, Meredith (2024) "On Thoreau’s “Walking”," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 50. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/50 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
On Thoreau’s “Walking”
By Meredith Scheiner
I was two when my father began
holding my hand through the forest.
Wading creeks, climbing trees, crunching leaves:
through two decades it became routine.
We don’t look West anymore.
Westward Progress– Divine Rights– Manifest Destiny:
we know the murmur of their falsehoods
fed to our forefathers at the expense
of those who lived unrespected.
Eastward, some gaze to the Himalaya–
to the distant dusty-capped peaks.
The South is cracked in sunbaked unrepentance–
the North’s gray eyes are stoic;
They scrub the surface of it all.
My grandfather can see the veil now.
We all say that if he dies picking berries,
or disoriented in the trees,
it would be favorable, and
yet, the Morphine revives him.
The people rage and shake like
the grass of the plains.
Solar powers the surveillance state.
Where is the comfort that has been promised?
The Civil War flexes its tendons
under the dirt of laborers.
Is that it?
My friends chuckle when I prepare
to go on “one of my walks.”
I like to disappear.
Hours shade into days and I
still sit on that bench in the trees.
Wildness, wilderness,
any sense of adventure
ebbs and flows like the
sun and its spots.
Go to grass, he says–
touch it? How things
bend and twist in time’s shift.
But it matters not,
for we saunter towards
the Holy Land,
golden as a bank-
side in autumn.
Meredith Scheiner studies Professional Writing at Bridgewater College.


On Thoreau’s “Walking”

Archival photograph from Bridgewater College Special Collectionshttps://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/wgmb_photos/1000/thumbnail.jp

Bridgewater College

Bridgewater College, WGMB Photograph of students at turntables, undated

DeWan, Aspen

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 4 
December 2024 
The Garden 
Aspen DeWan 
emma.dewan@dsdewan.com 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
DeWan, Aspen (2024) "The Garden," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 4. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/4 
This Fiction is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
The Garden
By Aspen DeWan
“Goddess of Secrets.”
Vasillia doesn’t need to turn around to know who has entered her sacred garden. She knows that
voice too well. “How can I help you, Goddess of Truth?”
She doesn’t mean to spit the goddess’s name like poison, it just happens. Centuries of pent up anger
and aggression can only remain stagnant for so long, it must boil over eventually, and Vasillia is done trying to
keep it locked deep down inside of her. If she is not allowed to physically act against the goddess, she will let
her words do the work for her.
“Quite a nice setup you have here.” The Goddess takes a seat down next to Vasillia, not even
bothering to glance at her.
“Are you going to tiptoe around my question?” Vasillia asks.
The Goddess of Truth, Seraphyx, doesn’t answer at first. She sighs longingly, tilting her head back to
glance at the sea of stars above. The vast expanse of heavens seems to stretch on forever. It somehow always
finds a way to make Vasillia feel completely and utterly alone. Some might argue that being the Goddess of
Secrets is a desolate life. And while Vasillia cannot deny that fact, there isn’t much she can do about it either.
Vasillia glances at Seraphyx. Silence—comfortable? Uncomfortable? She can’t tell—washes over
them. Seraphyx plays with her blonde hair, her spine as straight as a ruler no doubt in an attempt to keep her
baby blue off-shoulder cocktail dress from touching the fountain’s water. Vasillia hates how much the color
fits in with the vibrant theme of her garden. Nothing like her, so vicious underneath the surface, should touch
her perfect rows of organized flowers. She might poison them.
“As much as it pains me, I need a favor.”
Vasillia’s eyebrows furrow. She can’t help but stomp her black and red lace-up boots in an attempt to
keep her fist from swinging. “Why would I do anything for you? And what the hell do you need from me
anyway–”
Everything clicked. The only reason the Goddess of Truth would seek out the Goddess of Secrets
would be to either figure out a secret being kept from her, or to turn in a secret herself. It’s Vasillia’s job to
keep all secrets safe no matter what and do so by transforming them into something other than their original
form. After spending an eternity surrounded by nothing but nature, it was only fitting that they spun into
flowers.
The thought almost makes her smile. The Goddess of Truth is harboring a secret.
Vasillia glances at the row of dark roses on her left. The flowers with a meaning as daunting as their
colors should not take up as much space as they do. Vasillia does not know how often humans go about
killing each other, but it’s clearly an unhealthy amount. Would Seraphyx’s secret fall there? Or would it be
added to the rows of her purple hyacinths; a field of guilt so large nearly half her garden is nothing but a sea
of deep purple.
If Seraphyx wants to turn in a secret, what could she have done that was so bad she can’t tell anyone?
The thought heavily tempts Vasillia to take a look for herself, to dive deep through Seraphyx’s darkest, hidden
thoughts, but something in her holds her back. No, she wants to hear Seraphyx say it herself.
“I made a mistake,” Seraphyx starts. “A bad one. I want to forget all about it and entrust it to you.
Can you do that for me?”
The mention of a mistake causes Vasillia’s heart to clench, and she almost scoffs. After all, the first
flower she placed down was her own. It started with just one, turning her secrets and pain into something
beautiful; something bearable to look at. Of course, it has expanded into so much more. Millions of people
have offered secrets of their own, and in doing so, it makes Vasillia feel less shame about her actions than she
used to. Now, cobblestone pathways edged with moss weave through perfectly organized groups of daisies,
bluebells, and carnations; her beloved fountain at the center of all the color. Unable to leave the garden,
regardless of certain circumstances, she’s devoted the rest of her miserable, eternal existence to caring for
these secrets, no matter how deadly they are.
Vasillia hums, crossing her arms and pretending to think. “You do understand the terms though,
right?”
Seraphyx plays with the lace on her dress, tight-lipped, clearly avoiding the inevitable.
“I get to look at your secret before I turn it into the garden.”
When she only stares at Vasillia with deep blue eyes, Vasillia stands from her spot, pivoting on her
heel to match Seraphyx’s gaze.
“After this exchange, I want you gone. For good.” Vasillia knows her words might sting the Goddess,
but she doesn’t mind. She hopes that they do. Seraphyx had made mistakes before and never made a move to
fix them, and now she’s taking the coward’s way out. Not even Vasillia has had the nerve to try and transform
one of her secrets without attempting to fix it. The only ones she ever gives up are those that continue to
haunt her, and she can’t have that
But that is only the beginning of the differences that pull the goddesses apart. Seraphyx dresses
highly, wearing the newest clothes or the best cutting-edged fashion she can find to every occasion as if all
eyes are on her. The star of the show. Vasillia, however, wears what her heart desires. Pants, free-flowing skirts,
and blouses with billowing sleeves line her wardrobe; a type of style meant for freedom that she lacks in her
everyday life. Vasillia’s heart, battered and bruised, fighting to keep its steady pulse amongst the thorns that
hold it encapsulated, is nothing like Seraphyx’s; the vines that splinter and choke without consequence. The
pure hair of Seraphyx, a staple for the Goddess of so-called Truth, mocks Vasillia’s cherry-red, which almost
perfectly reflects the wounds that have never closed and bled out onto Vasillia for everyone to see.
Vasillia digs her nails into her palms in an attempt to clear her mind. Dwelling on the current
Seraphyx only reminds her of how much the goddess has changed. Thinking about it too much is something
she has to desperately tell herself not to do, especially in a life like this, where all she can do is sit and think
about past mistakes to pass the time.
Yet, her body hums with power that coils under the surface; her ability ready to do its job. Once the
secret transforms into a flower, the goddess will not remember it. Vasillia has the deepest urge to tell
Seraphyx no; to let her wallow in her own regrets and pain so that it consumes her mind the same way it had
with Vasillia’s. But if making Seraphyx forget about something she's done is what it takes to get her to leave,
then hell yeah Vasillia is going to do it.
“I’m sorry,” Seraphyx mutters. Vasillia clenches her teeth hard enough to crack. She doesn’t want an
apology. Not from her. Vasillia’s sharp eyes burn a hole into Seraphyx’s head. Seraphyx’s shoulders sag slightly,
and Vasillia watches her arms twitch, threatening to pull into herself.
Coward! Vasillia wants to scream. She forces herself to swallow the word down, a lump forming in her
throat.
Vasillia wants Seraphyx out of her garden. If she has to keep looking at the goddess's face any longer,
Vasillia doesn’t know how well she’ll be able to hold herself back.
She extends her hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Seraphyx drags her eyes from Vasillia’s hand up to her face. Pushing herself off of the fountain, she
shakes Vasillia’s hand. “Yes,” she responds shallowly. “Deal.”
The air around them sucks in heavily. A smoke-like darkness creeps through the garden until it
reaches them.
Then it encases them.
Vasillia stands alone, yet almost immediately she can tell this secret is something different than she
has ever seen before. Something about it is so familiar. So personal. She can’t place her finger on it, but the
feeling sends something shivering down her spine like a snake.
Only when she takes a step forward is she aware of the water beneath her. It clings to her flared
bell-bottom pants, stinging her skin like ice. She tries her best to ignore it, even though water has never been
the setting in anyone else's secrets.
A beam of light shoots down like a spotlight, illuminating the group of figures in front of her.
Oh gods. Not this. Her eyes widen. Her stomach drops. Her legs shake. Her heart beats in tandem with
the impending thoughts that flood her mind and try to take over.
The scene unfolds, an unwelcome memory that she’d rather drown than remember.
“What the hell did you do, Vasillia!?” the Goddess of Love, Amias, screeches, eyes blazing with rage.
“I–I had no choice!” young Vasillia cries. She intertwines her hands, a silent prayer for forgiveness. Her tears trail the
blood on her face downwards.
As young Vasillia cries, the water underneath current Vasillia slowly rises. She curses silently.
“You killed a god! Do you understand the severity of what you have done?”
“P–please! I had no choice! Let me explain!” young Vasillia sobs, her words choppy. Amias scowls, disgust plastered
on her face. She turns to look at the other person in the room.
Seraphyx.
“If this mortal hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have known of your crime!”
Young Vasillia’s eyes shoot open, and she can’t help the tsunami of tears that escape. Seraphyx, her friend, had betrayed
Vasillia’s deepest secret.
“And you couldn’t stop at a god, you had to bring a human to the heavens! A human, Vasillia! Every new deity
knows not to mess with mortals!” Amias lashes out again, sharp nails digging into Vasillia’s skin leaving massive, burning
scratches. All Vasillia can do is scream, wild eyes finding Seraphyx’s amidst the chaos. Please, help me, she pleads. Seraphyx
hugs herself with her arms, remaining silent.
“Ugh, how I wish I could strip you of that power of yours.”
“Please, Goddess, he was trying to rid me of my home! I didn’t mean to kill him!”
“Your home? Girl, that sorry excuse of a garden is not a home.”
Amias throws young Vasillia to the ground and turns to Seraphyx, who is shaking like a leaf. Young Vasillia tries to
stand, but her knees betray her, bruised and fractured like her heart.
“Thank you for bringing this news to me. Hopefully, we can stop her before she turns into a monster.” Amias strokes
back Seraphyx’s hair in an attempt to soothe her. Oh, how young Vasillia wishes she was being comforted. Why wouldn’t anyone
listen to her? She didn’t mean to kill him! It’s not her fault! Young Vasillia tries to call out again. To explain herself. The only
noise that comes out of herself is a scattered croak of desperation.
Young Seraphyx passes her eyes over Vasillia’s broken and bloodied body. Only then does she start to cry.
The water under Vasillia rises again.
Four angels are called to the scene and arrive within seconds. They have to pry Vasillia off the floor with their bare
hands to keep her grounded. Vasillia screams, cries, and kicks, just to try and justify herself. To get Seraphyx to talk to her one
last time. To hear Seraphyx’s voice. In the end, Seraphyx turns her back on Vasillia. She didn’t even say a word, young
Vasillia thinks. Not one.
The scene stops abruptly, but it doesn’t stop Vasillia from the overbearing feeling of choking. She
claws at her throat, trying to breathe air back into her lungs. She has to lock her knees to keep herself from
falling apart completely. Her heart beats like a hammer in her chest, so intense that she believes for a split
second that it will pop out.
Even though she hasn’t recovered, the scene changes and starts up again. This new one, Vasillia
knows is new. She isn’t quite sure if she wants to.
Seraphyx stands surrounded by deities. The God of Heaven looks at her with curious and sympathetic eyes.
“What…what will happen to Vasillia?” she asks with a shaky voice.
The God of Gods smiles slightly. “The Goddess of Secrets will be locked inside the place she calls home. We won’t rid
her of her powers, though. I personally think they do her more harm than good.”
Seraphyx doesn’t respond at first. Her eyes stay locked on the ground, staring at her shoes. She knows what she did was
wrong to Vasillia. Vasillia had trusted her with everything. Her, a mere mortal, had betrayed Vasillia in return.
But Seraphyx is destined for more than the life of a mortal. She is destined for more than a life of pain. Living on
Earth as only a human has given her nothing but dismay and utter misery. Vasillia had her reasons for killing a god, and
Seraphyx has her reasons for turning Vasillia in. Even if it hurt Seraphyx to her core.
“Now…us deities are so impressed by what you have done. You, a human, have been strong and brave, courageous and
kind. You, Seraphyx, have been truthful. And the Goddess of Love asked me to do something for you.”
Yes, this was what Seraphyx wanted. But why does it hurt so bad now that she finally has it in her grasp?
“What is it?” she queries.
“You have proven to be worthy of the afterlife. Proven yourself to be worthy of being an entity destined for greatness.”
Greatness, she thinks. But who will she share that greatness with?
“You, Seraphyx, I want to ascend to the heavens.”
This is what I wanted, she tries to remind herself.
“You will no longer be a mortal,” the God of Gods says. “You will now be known as Seraphyx, the Goddess of
Truth.”
And the God of Gods gave her power then and there with the flick of his hand. The other deities in the room applaud
her with smiles and cheers of happiness and triumph. They tell her she stopped a monster from forming. That she saved the
heavens.
But it certainly doesn’t feel that way to her.
Vasillia can’t stop crying. The tears flow out of her as if on autopilot, raising the water below higher
and higher, until it covers her head. Slowly, she runs out of oxygen. The more she tries to swim to the top, she
realizes she can’t. She coughs, grasping her ribs.
She starts to drown in an ocean of her own tears.
SPLOOSH! The water breaks like a dam, and Vasillia drops down onto solid land once again. Her
hair whips around her like the stray fluff from a dandelion. The familiar cobblestone path has her gasping in
relief. Her prison; her home. A deep shiver runs through her body, covering her in goosebumps.
When she looks around, Seraphyx is nowhere to be found.
Seraphyx. The one she trusted most, turned her in to become a goddess. Betrayed her to gain power
and a different life.
Betrayed her to become the Goddess of Truth.
The reality of it all breaks her mind and sends her spiraling in ways she didn’t know even existed,
threatening to break her apart.
Is she even alive? Should she be alive? What reason even is there?
What the hell do I have left except for my Garden of Secrets!?
Light emits from her hands, and she pushes herself up to sit back on her heels with a sniffle. Holding
them out in front of her, a flower forms from Seraphyx’s secret, the roots trailing down her wrist and curling
around her forearm as if in comfort. The color shifts from pure, stark white to a dark purple as the secret
settles in and takes its final form.
A purple hyacinth drops into her hands.
Vasillia holds it to her chest carefully, making sure not to crush any of the petals the same way that
Seraphyx did to her heart.
Who could have known?
Vasillia takes the flower in her hand and stands. She will plant this one with extra care and choose its
final home among the others: a constant reminder of everything that they had, and what they could have
been.
Aspen Dewan is a student at Loudon County High School.


The Garden

Buckley, Melissa

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 16 
December 2024 
The Mad Scientist 
Melissa Buckley 
mbuckley@spotsylvania.k12.va.us 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Buckley, Melissa (2024) "The Mad Scientist," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 16. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/16 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
The Mad Scientist
By Melissa Buckley
In a baren lab where the echoes creep,
A mad scientist toils, lost in his deep.
With wild, unkempt hair and eyes like a flame, He stirs his cauldron, driven by fame.
Test tubes glisten with colors bizarre,
Each bubbling mixture a whispered memoir. He jots down equations in frantic delight, Dreaming
of chaos unleashed in the night.
“Just one more ingredient,” he mutters with glee, “A touch of the moonlight, a splash from the sea.”
With laughter that dances on edges of dread, He plots to awaken the secrets long dead.
The potion he brews, a dangerous game,
Promising power, but not taking blame.
With whispers of madness, it beckons the bold, A tincture of secrets too dark to behold.
“Imagine the wonders! The worlds I could change! With this final elixir, nothing will seem strange!” But as
shadows grow long, and the thunder rolls near, He pauses, sensing the weight of his fear.
For power unchained can devour the heart, And genius once praised can twist into art. Yet still
he persists, his ambition a curse,
In the flickering candlelight, he schemes to disperse.
In the depths of his madness, the line becomes blurred, Between science and sorcery, he’s lost in the word. A
toast to the future! He raises his flask,
But fate, ever watchful, waits for his task.
Heed well this tale of the potion he’s made, A reminder that knowledge, unchecked, can invade. For in the
heart of ambition, where secrets shine, Lies the danger of dreams that seek to design.
Melissa Buckley teaches Biology at Ni River Middle School.


The Mad Scientist

Lucy, Tony

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 22 
December 2024 
Whispers in the Wounds 
Tony Lucy 
Bridgewater College, tlucy@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Lucy, Tony (2024) "Whispers in the Wounds," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 22. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/22 
This Art is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Whispers in the Wounds
By Tony Lucy
Tony Lucy studies Art at Bridgewater College.


Whispers in the Wounds

Patterson, Dawn

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 23 
December 2024 
Dysfunction 
Dawn Patterson 
Bridgewater College, kpatterson@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Patterson, Dawn (2024) "Dysfunction," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 23. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/23 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Dysfunction
by Dawn Patterson
From the outside, the house is happy;
from the inside, the house is tense.
From the outside, the house is strong:
from the inside, the house is weak and falling apart.
From the outside, the house is perfect:
from the inside, the house is heavily flawed.
Families can always put on a show
if they want to hide from everyone.
Families drift apart from each other
if no one is happy with each other.
Families will fall apart easily
if no one communicates.
Parents and kids can cut contact
if the parents treated the kids wrong.
Parents and kids lose touch
when the kids become adults and live.
Parents and kids fall out
if neither of them is happy.
Dawn Patterson studies Professional Writing at Bridgewater College.


Dysfunction

Garcia, Summer Grace

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 35 
12-5-2024 
—baroque— 
Summer Grace Garcia 
Bridgewater College, sgarcia2@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Garcia, Summer Grace (2024) "—baroque—," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 35. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/35 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
—baroque—
By Summer Grace Garcia
Forbidden Silver—
Cutting through Night—
You destined—and I—
In some sense familiar—
I was wading with the tide—
Baiting—biding time—
Until I saw such Sylvan Temple—
Cutting over Glass made water—
Until you reached over planks of wood—
The Riddler.
And I was beautiful—
The image of a Secret—
Something created to be solved—
Refined and antiquated—
And I allowed my fins to leave—
Floor boards—twisting feet—
Just for me to see you—
And I you me—
And I—your devotee—
Your fished out little Rarity—
Thought it but angelity—
But warm eyes bring colder seas—
And forever declares no—
Indelibility—
And there were so many on the table—
I failed to realize it—
That I was only a delicacy—
Like honey—newly salted meats.
So I entered in—pretty poised me—
As the Decorum—I did not quite See—
I thought me unique—Some Juliet—
I thought me an Artist—whilst you held the Pen—
And I entered in silence—for I could not quite speak—
With the tongue which you asked me—begged me to sing—
I could not help it—Twas much to take in—
All of the strangeness—did in full force Commence—
And the crew was seated—I with the Captain—
Passing glances—sweet hidden romances—
But a Chill took over—came heightened—
In an evening—a lifetime—left I all slighted.
And it was always a Question—I never voiced—
Far too lost—In the freefalling force—
The way it was said—too decored to be meant——
Holding me—holding me—
Holding me—I Your Pet—
For there I was—all filled to floating—
Felt so long since words unspoken—
Thought them of—but overread—
Spun into what wasn’t said—
And in a state of melatonin—
My mind played our hearts too open—
Showed me what I’ve been denying—
Hurts a bit—but I’m not dying—
For there you were—and there I was standing—
Saw through the dim light and brine from the manning—
Some waistline you were holding—
Some delicacy—gilding—golding—
‘twas no nightmare—though I was crying—
You unaware—in Cruelty sighing—
The letter of me slowly folding—
Into some pocket of ship—
Doomed for erosion.
All of me sealed—I left for the ocean—
Left for the bow—to drown all the motion—
Timidity heightening in Wayward emotion—
I shut the door and drank my Potion.
And braced against its wooden beams—
My back to what I could not be—
We stood a breaking memory—
You for You and I for We—
And stilled on ships—bare icy feet—
I’ve tried to stand your eyes to meet—
But they’re a shifting-switching sea—
Imbalancing my sails sure-swing—
So there I gripped Mahogany—
Grasping tight as the salt whipped sting—
Sickening—the water careening—
Crashed upon my body—
Salted Me.
And through the blazing haze of rain—
I watched candles in repeated sway—
Blurring pendulum—turned panes—
A prettily gay feast was lain—
And everything so sickly safe—
All of it—I wish was fate—
But I have no key for any lock—
And I know the Risk it is to knock.
Breathless—Water slighting my frame—
Chill soaking through every weave of my cape—
I imagined me turning—but then I turned away—
With the water’s enveloping—shattered refrains—
Then all the Recedes–The blurred saline seeing—
Then the utterly freezing—wind frosting my being—
The marines in runs ceaselessly churning—
All of me numb in this Boreal Burning—
The sea—my Match—such a festering flame—
This ship—my Love—my Love and my Stake.
And like the flooding at my feet—
—from my Summer—from my heat—
—will you become—much more meek?—
—will you go feverish?—will you get cold? —
—tell me—Darling—are you Prone?—
My mind a swirl of memories—
—I’m sinking into your blaring marines—
—amidst all your blues—you’re almost unseen—
—amidst all the mist—and the salt—and the swim—
—I see you—I see you—a trench in endless spin—
Fragmentations you would never read—
—nay—but I do ever sink—
—just as disheartened—and still the more deep—
—just as shipwrecked as the sailings I’ve torn—
—for mine own illusive mirages morn—
Crashing over—Crushing me—
—and my dress is made of paperweights—
—fragmented—and small—but they take up space—
—and it’s all silver with no lining—
—and my heart’s in slivers in all its lying—
Breaking over—senselessly—
—and the door of feather painted oak—
—the one we struggled to unbolt—
—has now been left—cleared and open—
—but it’s not summer anymore—
—the dutch is wide and the air is Cold—
Pelting Cold—Cold—Colding—
—and that is why I am so Broken—
—broken as a Bee can be—
—after Sting—Protection—Poison—
—stilled to Nothing—To ever breathe—
—and Thought I in my all-knowing—
—that I knew the Sky—I Wrote—
—It out in Gracious growing—
—but there’s more behind a simple—Eye—
A sail has torn—I cannot see—
—and that is why I am so Broken—
—Broken as the Hickory—
—the one still aching—wooden—flaking—
—we walked over—1843—
—and it is why I am so Poisoned—
—walking hand in hand with thee—
—as old lovers—I’m sure—have done—
—from its birth—we in Memory—
In this storm—I stand to be—
—after All—the best loves—cannot be sustained—
—are ones—left for always—to never be played—
—until the notes leave you pining—for times when they rang—
—when we danced in pretty dresses—same in all their Wrong ways—
Ready for the waiting—
—on a ship—Tossing—Twirling—you to my Right—
—our satin’s soaking—wrapping slick at our sides—
—all of it Haunting—your hair a sail of the sky—
—all of it stopping—in senseless strung time—
And if I truly am to leave—
—but you are one for unknown places—
—newfound shifting sacred spaces—
—always finding some Replacement—
—to give your life some new enchantment—
—and I am no magician—
—In my mediums there is—no mesmerism—
—I cannot hold the tide from Rippling—
—I cannot capture Air and Spin It—
I’ll stand on deck—
—and I don’t want to hear it—the Bell of your voice—
—when it is last over—when we no longer have choice—
—when our voices no longer are trailing ‘I misses’—
—our fingers no longer in their usual laces—
Watching as the waters head—
—but sometimes—In the dark falls of the night—
—all the corners of myself—I hide—
—come charged with new daylight—
—and fall open—on my bed—
—little wisps of moon—
—craters Demanding to be read—
—I stand by windows gazing up—
—holding Close the lasting Sun—
—wishing on dripping stars—
—elixirs for my dropping heart—
Comes—Cryospheric Crest—
—but was it to hypnotize—a deliberate disguise—
—when your aurora startled the night?—
—masking it all to be within sight?—
—and how in this world—can one truly tell—
—a trick from a love and—a love from a Spell?—
—or see through the veil—when the veil’s woven thin?—
—how does one know where the tulle starts to begin?—
A Raid on Warmth my Skin once kept—
—and with everything you’d say—how could I truly know?—
—know unreal from all the things I just passed as Baroque?—
—and all the pretty secrets—you helped Craft—you Disposed—
—you don’t have to like them—Go On—prefer to Cold—
—but my heart is an Elysium—of which—slightingly—you Sold—
—but was I too far willed a Wisp?—
—was it a broken Enchantment?—
—or was it enticing—convincing—enlightening—
—christening I without making it Known?—
—but were you too far wild with the wind?—
—was it a stretch for Happiness?—
—or was it conniving—though curious—confining—
—blossoming by without picking a Rose?—
And slowly all my fills of floating—foamed away— –
My heart an ocean—
Summer Grace Garcia studies Spanish and History at Bridgewater College.
