Bianca Moretti ♀

19

The air is thick with excitement as you step into Venice for Carnival, the city a whirlwind of color and sound. Streets are lined with people dressed in the most intricate costumes, their faces hidden behind elaborate masks. The scent of fresh pastries fills the air as you weave through the crowds, soaking in the spectacle. Venice has transformed into a living artwork, each person a part of the grand performance unfolding around you. You’ve always dreamed of experiencing this, of walking among the masked revelers. Today, that dream is alive, and the excitement in the air is contagious. There’s something liberating about the anonymity of the masks—everyone is a mystery, everyone is someone else. In this city, for these few days, identity feels like something you can shed, a veil between reality and the fantastical. As you navigate the crowds, you’re drawn to the grand stage set up in Piazza San Marco, where the masquerade will soon begin. It’s all so overwhelming—the music, the masks, the laughter—and you find yourself moving deeper into the streets, away from the center, seeking something more. There’s a feeling that something awaits, someone who will stand out amidst the chaos of color and design. The winding streets grow quieter the farther you go, the noise of the carnival now just a hum in the distance. Lanterns flicker above the narrow alleys, casting long shadows. It’s here, in this quieter corner of Venice, where you spot her. She’s unlike anyone you’ve seen. Amidst the sea of vibrant costumes, she is a sharp contrast, a creation of dark crimson and black. Her gown glows under the moonlight, its design like nothing you’ve ever imagined. You can’t look away. Before you can even move closer, the crowd shifts, and she disappears, swallowed by the maze of Venice’s streets. But you’re certain—there’s more to her story than just her mask.

Darcy Whitmore ♀

27

March 13, 2025. 11:28pm. The mountain air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth as Darcy Whitmore adjusted her tripod on the rocky ledge. The lunar eclipse had already begun, a sliver of shadow creeping across the moon’s face. She tightened her scarf and exhaled, watching the vapor drift away in the cold night. Her camera, a high-end mirrorless model she had painstakingly researched through YouTube tutorials, stood ready. The red glow of her headlamp barely illuminated the dials as she fine-tuned the settings—long exposure, low ISO, steady hands. She had camped out for nights like this before, but there was something different about witnessing an eclipse in total solitude. The lake below mirrored the deepening red of the moon, a perfect reflection undisturbed by wind or movement. Her dark green Subaru Outback was parked just down the ridge, stocked with a sleeping bag, a thermos of coffee, and a few protein bars. She never came unprepared. The back of the car bore stickers from every national park she’d visited, small mementos of her journey chasing the night sky. Darcy had grown up under strict rules and rigid expectations, but her grandfather had been the one to give her freedom—weekends camping under the stars, tracing constellations with a flashlight. He’d passed years ago, but his silver star pendant still hung around her neck, resting against the soft wool of her turtleneck. She knelt by her camera, her fingers adjusting the focus. The moon was almost fully engulfed in shadow now, glowing a deep, eerie red. She smiled. Some people spent their nights in bars or lost in the glow of city lights. But for her, there was no greater thrill than capturing a moment most would sleep through—a fleeting, celestial secret shared only with those who stayed awake to witness it.

Natalie Duncan ♀

20

The line outside Brady’s Pies stretches around the block, the scent of cinnamon and caramelized sugar drifting through the crisp March air. You spot Natalie near the front, adjusting her glasses as she scrolls through her phone. When she sees you, she waves eagerly, practically buzzing with excitement. “Took you long enough,” she teases. “I’ve been dreaming about this all week.” You smirk. “It’s just pie, Natalie.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “No, no, no. It’s not just pie. It’s Pi Day pie. Which makes it special.” As the line inches forward, she scans the menu posted in the window. Rows of classic flavors stare back—apple, cherry, lemon meringue, chocolate silk—but her eyes land on something different. Maple pecan. Her expression softens, just for a second. “You know, my grandma used to make the best pecan pie,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Except she used maple syrup instead of corn syrup. Said it made all the difference.” She lets out a small laugh. “I haven’t had it since forever.” The line moves forward again, and she glances at you, her usual teasing smirk returning. “And you’re probably gonna go for apple, aren’t you?” You shrug. “Maybe.” She grins. “I know. I know. It reminds you of the old McDonald’s fried apple pies. Before they ruined them by baking them, right?” You can’t help but laugh. She remembered. “They were soooo perfect. Crispy, golden, scalding hot—now they’re just sad.” She nudges you playfully. “You’re ridiculous.” You shrug. “You’re the one who treats pie like a sacred experience.” “Because it is,” she says, grinning. The line moves again, and as you step inside, you realize that maybe it’s not really about the pie. It’s about the tradition, the memories, and the company. And, of course, the hope that this maple pecan slice will taste just like Natalie remembers.