F L I G H T
The Literary Magazine of Brentwood Academy
2015 Vol. XXXI
“When you remember me, it means that you have carried something of who I am with you, that I have left some mark of who I am on who you are. It means that you can summon me back to your mind even though countless years and miles may stand between us. It means that if we meet again, you will know me. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear my voice and speak to me in your heart.” —Frederick Buechner, “Whistling in the Dark” In loving memory of our teacher, our mentor, and our friend, Cynthia Breath Tripp 1950 - 2015
Flight 2015 Brentwood Academy’s Literary Magazine Vol. XXXI
Brentwood Academy is a co-educational, independent, college preparatory school dedicated to nurturing and challenging each whole person—body, mind, and spirit—to the glory of God. www.brentwoodacademy.com
Editor-in-Chief Ellie Lovell ‘15 Associate Editor Maddie Jarrard ‘16 Advisor Mrs. Cameron Phillips
Literary Staff Abby Austin ‘16 Savannah Bastian ‘15 Matt Binkley ‘15 Connor Brown ‘15 Carmen Campbell ‘15 Allyson Collins ‘15 Michael Dennison ‘16 Mary Capers Elder ‘16 James Foster ‘15 Noah Franks ‘16 Bekah Friday ‘16 Sarah Friday ‘16 Liz Gibbons ‘16 Brittany Hamrin ‘15 Maggie Newman ‘15 MacKenzie Phillips ‘15 Andrew Rankin ‘15 Michael Renner ‘16 Peter Richards ‘15 Marissa Rodgers ‘15 Kendall Ryan ‘15 Anna Stephens ‘16 Sommer Grace Weldon ‘16 Elizabeth Wheeler ‘16 Jeffrey Williams ‘16 Kayla Williamson ‘16 Katherine Wilson ‘16
Artwork Celtic Cross Maddie Jarrard Front Seeking Touch
Patricia Jones 1
Bible Verse Illustration
Jack Propst
4
Mood Portrait Bailey Arthur 7 Sketch Book
Makayla James
11
Droplets of My World
Savannah Bastian
12
Gesture Mary Capers Elder 13
Color Sprout
Patricia Jones 16
Line, Color, Shape Study Mary Capers Elder
18
“NYC” Mika Matin Azad 19 Acrylic Painting
Chloe Vafiades
21
Literal to Abstract Sophia Lauer 25
Mozione Maddie Parrish
27
Blue Lamp Maycie McKay 30 Chinese Silk With 2 Fish
Savannah Bastian
31
Fleeting Moment
Avery Rose Myrick
Back
Art Staff Patricia Jones ‘15 Mika Matin Azad ‘15 Mary Capers Elder ‘16 Maycie McKay ‘15 Mrs. Debbie Dunn
Table of Contents Poetry and Prose
For You Maddie Jarrard 1 I Walked On A Crystal Staircase Kayla Williamson 2 Be Small With Me Allyson Collins 3 The Worth of A Werther’s Carmen Campbell 4 This Is How I Recreate You Ellie Lovell 4 Fiction Sarah Friday 5 Finishing is Starting Elizabeth Wheeler 5 The Rope Swing James Foster 6 If You Were a Book Kendall Ryan 7 I Give My Trust Too Freely, My Flowers Are Trampled So Easily Kendall Ryan 7 The Train Bekah Friday 8 This Morning Allyson Collins 9 The Boy Allyson Collins 10 Journey Michael Renner 10 Him Alayna Holbert 10 The Black Mirror Connor Brown 11 Tattoo Ellie Lovell 11 Adrift Maddie Jarrard 12 Abuse Margaret Newman 13 A Beard, a Lie, and the Smell of Smoke James Foster 14 Devil’s Dictionary Carter Kilpatrick, Brandon Black 15 Unbroken Mackenzie Phillips 16 Beautiful Commotion Katherine Wilson 16 The Art of Being Kayla Williamson 17 Breathe Maddie Jarrard 18 Seaway Michael Dennison 18 Dear Friend Joy Owings 19 Perfection Margaret Newman 21 Faithful Love Peter Richards 22 Followers and Liking Savannah Bastian 22 Melanie and Emilia Ellie Lovell 23 From the Cage Brittany Hamrin 25 Time Takes Too Darby Brown 25 From Everlasting to Everlasting Caroline Archer 26 Voyage Andrew Rankin 27 Time Allyson Collins 28 At a Party As an Outsider vs. With Your Friends Savannah Bastian 29 Another Time Michael Dennison 29
For You My tongue is not talented in the art of consolation— I won’t pretend that I’ve suffered your pain. But I’ll paint blue skies on the underside of an umbrella So you’ll feel the sun when you’re drowning in rain
Maddie Jarrard ‘16
Seeking Touch, Patricia Jones ‘15
1
I Walked On a Crystal Staircase I walked on a crystal staircase, and mistook it for average. Ever since I took my first steps, it was all I knew. There was the smooth, hard finish, and the vaguely iridescent hue. The elegantly simple landings supported my every move. I walked, at first, with measured trepidation. Then, I ran with unbridled confidence, finding my groove. When you walk a crystal staircase, You worry not if you’ll make it to the top. When your foot meets the cool surface, there is little cause to stop. I walked on a crystal staircase, and reached its crown. Adorned as royalty, I misread my lot. You see, I thought this staircase was the one everyone got. My back did not ache, and feet were not sore. I gallivanted up ‘til I could no longer see the floor. I walked on a crystal staircase. But I never knew her name. I forgot about a woman named Sojourner. I forgot about a woman named Harriet and Maya and Zora. I forgot about a woman named nameless mother Who walked a bare stair. She, who trudged onward one step at a time, Through dark lonely nights And long southern summer days with no reason or rhyme She, who had the carpet pulled from under her feet Only to get back up again and her trek complete I walked on a crystal stair And never knew her story. Maybe it was because no one ever told me. Maybe it was because I never listened. Life for me, has been a crystal stair. Thank you, to she who blazed the trail there.
Kayla Williamson ‘16
2
Be Small With Me Be small with me. Tuck your wings. Drop your sails. Take down your rebel flag. We’ll float like fallen leaves in the waves. Be quiet with me. Lose your voice. Lock up your pride. Sink down below the newspaper headlines. Find peace in the voiceless nights And learn to listen with your bones. Be tiny with me. We can be mini explorers, Venturing between book covers And hiding in the sidewalk cracks. We’d slide down flower petals during spring And swim in tea cups during summer. We’d paint the grass green during winter And snuggle in the picked cotton during fall. Be unnoticed with me. We can slip between the giant’s fingers And scurry across their toes. We can dance in their footprints And kiss in their shadows. Be small with me. Drop all the acts And learn to love in my tiny ways. The world is too much with the two of us. Let’s shrink together and live our Miniature lives away from the deafening shouts; Away from the giants who think that Being big is the only way to live.
Allyson Collins ‘15
3
The Worth of a Werther’s Hands like freckled, well-loved Werther’s candy Hold a Virginia Long between stove-burnt and age-stained fingertips. The other hand lays weary and ready to colander-catch Every last raindrop-problem. “How did you ever marry him?” “I reckon it was nineteen sixty-seven.”
Carmen Campbell ‘15
This Is How I Recreate You When the wind became your voice, I began to recreate you. In the middle of that lake, That lake where you told me Of your father for the first time, you became bones of broken wine bottles, sinew of willow wisps, and muscle of graffiti stains. You became skin of music notes and the magnetic words on my refrigerator, freckles like the core of sunflowers. Your eyes became both the day and night, dawn and twilight. In the middle of that fatherless lake you became visceral of old scrolls, veins of pencil strokes, and—If I Could—I would recreate your blood as water. When the wind became your voice, I saved your heart for last— and I turned it to glass.
Ellie Lovell ‘15 Bible Verse Illustration, Jack Propst ‘16
4
Fiction Where the variant in educational expectation is disproportionate. Where man rules, woman births. Where tinted skin profits less. They say equality is not a myth. “Destitution spawns ineptitude,” the enlightened say. “Women are weak,” the men say. “All Muslims are terrorists,” the Christians say. “Equality prevails,” they say.
Sarah Friday ‘16
Finishing Is Starting An ending is a beginning in disguise. Who dislikes beginnings? So many beg for a new start, Hoping a renewal won’t bring demise. There must be both to bring harmony; One ushers in the other. Everything has a start and finish, With the exceptions of God, infinity, circles, and eternity. Flowers will grow atop the graves; A child being born ends a pregnancy. Both creation and death occur constantly, The universe can’t offer the pause we crave. So accept the infinite cycle, Take joy in every “goodbye” For a goodbye means there was a “hello,” And for those too be thankful.
Elizabeth Wheeler ‘16
5
The Rope Swing
Rain had arrived at last for Luis. He pressed his dirt-capped hands against the faded window of his bedroom, wondering if his blurred view of the outside world was because of the glass or the rain. Puddles converged, forming a sea of mud outside of his home; water pelted the ebbing tomato and yucca plants, which he and his brother, Julien, had re-planted annually, each year with decaying hope. He heard tangled footsteps rush across the hallway; Isabella and Dayana darted into his vision of the dirt lawn in front of his house. They twirled and skipped with unbounded joy, as they quickly became drenched in the sacred gift from above. His sisters’ happiness confounded him; Luis was unsure if it came from strength or ignorance. Ever since the death of his parents, Luis and Julien were forced to salvage an already minuscule income. Nothing came easily for them, especially in the midst of a drought. Nevertheless, Isabella and Dayana danced on empty stomachs, played in dirt-blackened clothes, and sang with thirsty mouths. Luis wondered where his sisters found the strength to remain joyful, and shuddered at the thought of his three-room home devoid of their laughter. The rope swing on which his father used to push him was swaying violently in the wind; the rope tugged on its already unstable branch. Luis wanted so badly to be pushed up into the sky by his father just once more. Many days after his father’s death Luis would rest on his knees and hug the swing with all of his strength. Lightning struck the ground, and his sisters sprinted inside in a fit of anxious laughter. Luis could hear the walls of his house creaking; the trees outside his home barely held off the wind. In a panic he turned toward his garden; it was now a barren plot of dirt and uprooted plants. At this sight his heart dropped, and Luis fell onto his bed. He laid there for what felt like hours. Tears formed puddles in his eyes like the rain that had destroyed his crops. Suddenly, his door swung open, and in one motion Isabella jumped onto Luis’ bed, carrying with her the rain and mud from outside. She threw herself onto Luis and giggling, played with and tugged on his hair. Luis laid back down on his pillow, closed his eyes, and smiled.
James Foster ‘15
6
If You Were a Book If you were a book, I’d devour you in one sitting. Read you cover to cover, not daring to skip a single sentence. I desire to know all of your stories, But more than that, I yearn to be in your stories.
Kendall Ryan ‘15
Mood Portrait, Bailey Arthur ‘15
I give my trust too freely; my flowers are trampled so easily Some say we build walls to preserve the gardens that hide in our hearts, I was cursed with a wall built far too small. In fact, it’s not much of a wall at all. It’s more like a single row of bricks, arranged in a small loop— So vulnerable, so easily infiltrated. It doesn’t require much effort to penetrate—a simple hop and you’ve made it over. Once you’re inside, there’s nothing I can do but accept the intrusion. Often I even come to love the trespasser. I have one wish to beseech of you: Please don’t pluck the flowers—they don’t grow back.
Kendall Ryan ‘15
7
The Train As soon as I stand up, I fall back down. My eyes concentrate on the floor While a sharp screaming desire inside of me begs to look up I attempt a step forward with feeble strength Gasping at the difficulty How far off the track I am. The train glides gracefully ahead of me Looking forward to upcoming sunrises and sunsets, Its constant rhythm provides comfort As the windows gleam with streams of light. They are clear, with no secrets to hide. My knee is oozing, my nails are bitten down Another tear rolls down my nose Following the path of many others, The thought of another day haunts me I curse as I stumble over flat ground. Yet the train gains speed, dancing peacefully With a past equally as beautiful as its future. I cry alone. Embracing my failures and mistakes There is no hope, only guilt and misery. Suddenly a hand reaches down from above It scoops down, picking me up cautiously My head falls back and my arms spread out I hear an unfamiliar voice in my ear whispering to me “Don’t look back.” Glancing down, my scars are suddenly gone; The bruises are gone and my skin is now gleaming— I rise to look around Only to hear the welcoming noise of a train whistle The train stops for me to climb aboard As I am amazed how my cumbersome legs Climb the steps with ease and delight— Looking out my window, I see my reflection Which I was too ashamed of to look at before The train takes me to the light at the end of the tunnel. I am done with my old ways and refuse to look back.
Bekah Friday ‘16
8
This Morning She cried this morning—again Because she woke up and wasn’t good enough for the day. Besides, no one would notice the red behind her mascara covered eyes. He swallowed the pills this morning—again Because it was the only thing he had control of in his life And he couldn’t force the smiles without a little help. She took the beating this morning—again Because momma said to be a woman and sister told her please don’t go. Besides, some sponged on makeup could cover the bruises. He tipped the bottle back this morning—again Because without it, he isn’t fast enough to keep up. “Finish the year strong,” his teachers said. Well, he was in last pace and his legs ached too much to finish. She wiped her tears this morning— for the first time Because the stars and moon whispered “we need you” while she slept And the angels kissed her forehead in her dreams. She could see the glow in her cheeks again. He put the prescription down and swallowed his fear this morning— for the first time Because the buzz wasn’t as good as the hand that held his. He had forgotten what it felt like to curl his fingers around something healthy. The purple veins kept his heart beating and he never wanted it to stop. She fought back this morning—for the first time Because the bruises turned yellow and sister’s eyes were losing their shine. Her split knuckles stung when momma wiped the warm rag, But daddy was gone now and sister’s smile scattered the hurt. He poured it down the drain this morning—for the first time. He was tired of the taste it left: hate and sharpened metal. He was choking on the pain of life And liquor wouldn’t wash it down anymore.
Allyson Collins ‘15
9
The Boy The boy was beautiful. Snowflake eyes, Heated midnight fire hands, Falling leaf hair, Salted watermelon lips, Sandy, ocean skin, Summer night stereo voice, Sprinkling rain touch, Blooming flowers in every feature. His body owned every season. He carried them in his bones, Making him invincible To changes in the weather. He was nature, And so he was lovely.
Allyson Collins ‘15
Him His lips started to move And then I knew he was slipping away He knew I disapproved It’s hard to be so close to somebody When you know they could break your heart I just wanted him to be happy But now I’m alone and looking at his beautiful art Wondering how she is better than me He always had a lie Under that precious smile Forever having trouble saying goodbye
Alayna Holbert ‘18
Journey I stay the path, He leads me on, A hope long dreamed, a long way gone, I leave behind the warming sun I used to walk, but now I run.
Michael Renner ‘16
10
The Black Mirror Words bite sharp, a New York wind. Another lie, another failure, the implied loss of another friend. Conceit is the word of choice, even now I can taste it like gasoline, the anger, the loathing in her voice, no more the lingering touch, the wind in her hair. It was too strong, too hard, the flood. Emotions rushing, spilling themselves into the synapses between two people...is there no word for it? So now we sit together separately. Stuck forever in that place. On past that brutal moment of honesty when for a shortened time I looked into her black mirror and she looked into mine.
Connor Brown ‘15
Tattoo I taught black ink to fly, I made birds perch upon my ribcage. I’ve called it my way of begging, But now I’m just asking— If I go, will you go with me?
Ellie Lovell ‘15
Book Sketch, McKayla James ‘17
11
Adrift We shared our dreams of fantastical getaways Sandy beaches that strecth for miles Airbrushed sunsets that hang for hours But tomorrow was never a promise When I lost you I lost myself A picture torn in half Unsure how to cope with the ragged edge Your ghost exists in all my favorite places My spot in the local coffee shop Had you placed in the opposite seat Carefully crafted into my life Ingrained in every sensory function You went finger painting on my memories Tinting the past you were never even a part of You left your mark on my favorite things My dreams for the future included But the excess of dreams were thrown overboard Before I could wrap my arms around a single memory It shocked my every system Because routine’s subconscious
Maddie Jarrard ‘16
Droplets of My World, Savannah Bastian ‘15
12
Abuse Pounding bruises envelop her skin. Scars strip and slash her surface savagely. Quaking lips strive to speak but cannot begin. Abused eyes pour blood storms furiously. Temptation beats upon her mind’s blockade. Aspersions usurp her lucidity. The demons lead a destructive parade, Consuming her remnants of purity. Dreams often transport her to a safe place. Too soon she awakes to the monster’s rage! Cacophonous slander wrests silent space. Crippled, drained, she collapses in her cage. Scarlet mouth, stained not from wine, whimpers cries As limp limbs reach for substance besides air. Shattering glass accompanies the lies Ricocheting off the walls of death’s lair. Left alone to writhe in the emptiness, Haunted by the screaming of her own heart, “Sober,” yet exhibiting craziness, Victim to the demon’s masterful art. Deception declares that it was her sin. The price of her mistakes, she must now pay. But she never planned of being cast in An interminable black swan ballet.
Margaret Newman ‘15
13
Gesture, Mary Capers Elder ‘16
A Beard, a Lie, and the Smell of Smoke
For eight years of my life, my father meant the world to me. My mother insisted that I was just like him, but now I like to pretend that she was wrong. Some time ago, such words would do nothing but bolster my confidence; now, even deep into my adulthood, they are merely a cutting reminder of how lies can unravel a lifetime of idolatry and adoration. My father was not what one would call “clean-cut.” An adjunct English professor at a private college near our home, his mind was constantly in a frantic fit of hysteria, and his wardrobe mirrored this. His clothes, rarely washed, were painted with stains, wrinkles, and the smell of alcohol. His hair was messy and slicked back, usually home to a pen or pencil he had mindlessly placed there during the day. He was tall and wiry, and his overgrown graying beard seemed to comprise most of his body weight. He would come home late at night, with a large stack of books under his arm, leaving a trail of loose papers behind him as he walked through the door. Picking me up in his arms, he would hug and kiss me and ask me about my day. His relentless lack of attention to detail did not extend to his daughter. We would eat a bland and unfulfilling meal (my father was a strict vegan), while he told me stories of obnoxious undergraduates, and we discussed my day at school. After dinner I would retreat to my room to read or draw, and he would retreat to his study to work on his writing. I didn’t mind the limited time I got to spend with my father; I knew he was busy, and I knew that he cared for me. Several times he would come to my room to tuck me in, only to find me sprawled out on my bed, flipping through an album of photos of my mother. He would caress my back, and I didn’t have to turn around to feel his empathy. When I was six, my parents divorced; the split up was sudden, but the tension had been cultivated for years. For a child, I understood my father fairly well, or so I thought. He was dismissive and cold to my mother, rarely showing her any affection. He drank like a Hemingway character, relentlessly, and to no apparent affect. He curtained himself in his study, often times working from dusk until dawn. But to me, he was compassionate and interested, and so I loved him; I was never too close with my mother anyways. Then, on the day after my sixth birthday, my mother was gone; her clothes and other possessions had been cleared out, and she was off on a journey to California to “find herself,” as my father had told me. I wasn’t surprised; he treated her more like a tenant than a wife. I was, however, sympathetic toward my father, as his grief was apparent. Two years later, as I bolted down the stairs to wish my father a good night, I smelled cigarette smoke in the living room. I figured his professor friends were over, so I came to a halt. My father did not like me interrupting conversations with his friends. I heard my mother’s name mentioned, so I sat at the bottom step, listening. Even to this day I wonder how differently I would view my father, had I not stopped to listen. I couldn’t breathe or swallow; my heart thumped rapidly; my eyes teared up; I’m sure that my face turned red. I slowly rose to my feet, and walked up to my bed, knowing I would never again look at my father the same.
James Foster ‘15
14
Devil’s Dictionary Bear, n. A terrifying beast who will stop at nothing to kill you, or a cuddly friend who comforts you in the night. There is no middle ground. Birthday, n. The addition of one person’s already increasing age, usually celebrated with a cult-like ritual involving flames, a sharp object, chanting, and a large dessert. Forensics, n. A terrifying disease caught by nerds who would rather wear suits and talk to walls on Saturday while being malnourished by the budget of public school systems throughout the country instead of sleeping in and eating delicious breakfast cereal. Hamster, n. A Houdini-like escape artist who will constantly break any binding put on it, even if the end result could be death. The life of a hamster is a rather riveting one. Hot, adj. A word used to describe the attractiveness of a person. If used as a compliment, it is most likely from a person uninterested in your intellect or personality and only wanting someone nice to look at. Innocence, n. A fancy word for ignorance. Usually used to describe children or people who are blind to the world around them. Jealousy, n. The belief that someone else is better than you. Jealousy can arise in the fields of appearance, knowledge, relationships, etc. Literally, adv. The most misused word in the English language. Has a myriad of meanings, the most common being, “figuratively,” the word’s exact opposite. Often used in cases of extreme anger or happiness. Maturity, n. Having the courage to question everything you’ve been told. Few people ever reach true maturity, and those that do go on to change the world and others. Patriarchy, n. What men use to feel better about themselves. By belittling women, men have a sense of control and accomplishment, even if they are disliked by the majority of their peers and have troubles in finding a suitable female companion. Politics, n. Something that no one truly cares about but is somehow seen as important and/ or necessary to have a functional society. Staring Contest, n. A form of competition in which two people stare longingly into each other’s eyes to torture each other into tears. It is quite strange in retrospect, and anyone watching will think the participants to be insane. Tot, n. A rather small person who does not quite fully understand life and its rules, but has a chubby, adorable face; OR a delectable potato nugget that one eats when down in the dumps. Do not confuse the two, as that could be disastrous.
Carter Kilpatrick ‘17, Brandon Black ‘17
15
Unbroken Shattered, the heart is a fragile thing. Cracks have been made that no glue can repair. Enduring this pain, so difficult to bear, The words you said left a permanent sting. But my spirit remains, Unbroken, I walk tall. I will recover from the pain. I refuse to give up, I refuse to be small.
Mackenzie Phillips ‘15
Beautiful Commotion I gaze at the beautiful halcyon pond The surface is still With teeming life beneath the serene façade I peer into the water below And see my quiescent reflection With a foreign complexion A sense of peace washes over me As I stare at this little world And escape the worries that plague me If only I could uphold this peaceful exterior But rocks keep skidding across my life Causing ripples and bumps that are out of my control I grasp a rock And skip it across the untouched water Causing a reaction that traverses the pond The ripples overlap with alacrity And the sudden patterns transfix me The breaks and swells are beautiful.
The commotion is beautiful. Katherine Wilson ‘16
16
Color Spout, Patricia Jones ‘15
The Art of Being Why do we ask children what they want to be Before we even ask who they want to be? Incessantly, we let the daunting question fall from our lips Like the first foreboding drops of rain from a looming cloud. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” The words so carelessly poured, are heavy with expectation. Yet, all at the same time, they are devoid of confidence. As if warning of the storm of adulthood to come, We prod these sweet souls. Why do we burden them with the pressures of doing Before ever allowing them the pleasures of being? We invest in their talents, And neglect to foster their character. Oh, what a grave misappropriation! Oh, what a deep loss! Even in the smallest of ways, we expose where our treasures lie. They lie not in polishing the refined beauty, That sparkle in a child’s eye. They instead lie in displaying the diamonds of wealth and success. If you inspire a child to be a doctor, You may very well have done a wonderful deed. If you motivate that child to study her medical books, Then you have done an even greater deed still. Yes, a driven child makes a skilled future doctor. Inevitably though, that doctor will be someone’s boss, friend, mother. Who will inspire her To not only display great talent, but to breathe with integrity? What if we measured our words and focused our energies? What if we could shower sweet rains of encouragement So that our children could flourish in doing, But that they might also blossom in their very being?
Kayla Williamson ‘16
17
Breathe How do you breathe, darling? “Bottled up” is an understatement Words voiceless against duct tape Shards of your heart lost in the cage you built yourself What are you waiting for darling? The man with the exacto knife Who sees you as a present to be opened No he drowned with the other fish in the sea So take your own hands, darling Pry the bonds from your mouth Shout like a hurricane Watch the bullets you’ve fired ricochet You may be wounded, but at least you’re free
Maddie Jarrard ‘16
Line, Color, Shape Study, Mary Capers Elder ‘16
Seaway I will go to the ocean, and swallow the water. The depths will swallow me, no matter my whispered pleas. Sometimes I stare at the sea, sometimes I forget to breathe. I cup it all in my hand, it spills over again and again. I thirst for the water, it only makes me want more. I can’t carry it around, or wear it as a crown. It makes not sudden sounds, moving through the underground. For all the things I adore, none are quite so “agotador”. “How is it down there, with the water so clean?” “What water?” I mouth, and my mouth makes the sound, And sends it around, and around and around and around To never return, like a thief from the scene.
Michael Dennison ‘16
18
Dear Friend, You are so weak Ha ha ha Are you not embarrassed of yourself? Night time comes, and are you crying? Do you get jealous when you see me draw the beautiful flowers Or record her passions? What about when I run through her hair? Are you useless? Can you even do anything? Why must you sit And watch And wait for something good to happen to yourself? Pathetic. It’s not that I am more important; it’s just that I am The chosen one. I’m special and you are not. Oh, but my friend, do not envy me! You must feel as if you are wasting your time away. Get up! and make use of your miserable life. Lazy. Oh, but what if one day I had to leave, and all the responsibility was left On you? Ha! Would you be able to take my place? Would you be prepared? Scared of responsibility? Hopefully that day never comes, my friend. Because We both know it is me who is the leader The select and the favorite The elite. Never forget who is in charge. Your friend
“NYC” Mika Matin Azad ‘15
19
Dear Friend, Thank you for my letter. Yes, it may be nice to hold the ink, But may I remind you Who is holding the paper? Who is keeping calm And still As she becomes nervous? You may think you are calling all the shots, But do not forget Who supports her as she leans on the desk as she feels that drop in her stomach? As she reaches out to hold the one she loves? Who gives her balance? It is me, my friend. You may extend her knowledge to paper, But I extend her compassion And we Together Comforting the ones she cares about, Lifting up for the one she adores, Stretching in the morning up to her white ceiling, Pulling her blanket up close to her face while she falls asleep at night. We are together. Look in the mirror, my friend, It is not you that you will see, But me. I love you, my friend, But we must work together. I may not be able to take your job, as you say, But you are not able to take mine. That’s why we are both here, Not just one of us, But both. We are partners. Let us work together, Let us not be selfish and consumed in our strengths, Let us love each other as she loves. Your friend
Joy Owings ‘15
20
Perfection A glimpse into my mirror of Desire Shows intricately woven locks of gold Sweeping across irises of fire, Framing a face—the perfect, sculpted mold. A porcelain figurine of Glory— Shatterproof—no cracks, no foibles, no flaws. Lips that can sing any sort of story Into one deemed worthy of applause. The beam of a seraph, like no other, A prime body prototype for all men No shaming layers or scars to cover Surely a Goddess gifted from Heaven. But Deception lurks in my ideal reflection. Can Beauty exist apart from Perfection?
Margaret Newman ‘15
Acrylic Painting, Chloe Vafiades ‘17
21
Faithful Love Admiring the tender, loving face, Longing the warm embrace to surround me, Including me among the human race Opened my eyes to a world filled with glee. When discarding trifles, I tote them back; Not understanding the peculiar ways. Preparing to protect against attack As the enemy lurks, sensing their gaze Being the sole defender of the fort, Nothing will penetrate the sacred land. Always alert during sleep, work, and sport, As I patiently wait for your command Calling madra, perro, canis, and hound, Love was Greek to me before I was found.
Peter Richards ‘15
Followers and Liking Fingers poised above a pixelated screen It’s hard to tell what people mean, We’ve forgetten if someone matters without a sufficient number of others who agree that they do Making a small grey heart turn red to show that you care about an image or the person in it, or the words beneath or in the hopes they’ll do the same unto yours. Why do we like something? Someone? Do we like either? Caught in the superficial stinking web of people saying things they really don’t mean to get something they want. Niceties, niceties, niceties Manipulating Cultivating Rating
Savannah Bastian ‘15
22
Melanie and Emilia Everything was hazy. The world was far from in focus. “She’s still asleep?” “Yeah, hasn’t made a peep all morning.” “They tend to be like that on the first day.” Melanie didn’t remember waking up being this hard before. “Melanie? Can you hear me dear?” Yes, please stop talking to me. “Melanie. Melanie…hello, dear?” Stop shaking me, please. “Melanie!” Her eyes opened with a start to reveal a middle-aged couple bending over her. She was vaguely aware of the small bed she was lying on. It was warm but her feet hung off the end. “Ah! Dear, you’ve awoken!” Shouted the woman. No kidding. They stared for a while, expecting a response. Clearly they did not know Melanie. “Well,” continued the man. “Welcome to Springfield Home for Orphans.” They smiled extra wide at her after saying this as if to silently apologize for Melanie’s unfortunate fate. Melanie nodded back at them and managed a smile that looked more like a grimace. The couple kept pressing Melanie for words. They eventually left saying, “I’m sure you will feel right at home in a few days!” Ha. Hahaha. Ha. Did they really think that she couldn’t hear their whispers? “I heard she has 12 toes!” “I heard she has x-ray vision!” “I bet you she doesn’t have a tongue!” “You know what they say about people who don’t have tongues!” “What, what, what?” “You know!” “Oh right.” “I heard she got kicked out of like 200 orphanages!” Closer. “I heard she ate one of the other kids!” Ah, and you almost had it. “Shush now.” Mrs. Pattie came over to them. “That girl has had a rough time.” Melanie left the cafeteria. The truth was never as fun as the x-ray vision. Melanie’s room was freezing that night and her towel of a blanket didn’t do much to keep her warm. She could hear all of the other girls’ teeth chattering as well as her own. “Psst.” Melanie opened her eyes and saw a young girl kneeling right in front of her. Melanie gasped in fear and almost fell off the bed. “Hey! That’s the first noise I’ve heard you make.” And the last.
23
“Mind if I hop in?” She didn’t wait for a response; instead she just leapt onto the mattress. She made a single big blanket out of the two small ones and cuddled right beside Melanie until they were a little cocoon. Melanie’s eyes were wide open, and she had gone completely rigid. “My name is Emilia and you should talk more often. But not now. Now is sleepy time. Goodnight.”And just like that, Emilia went to sleep. It took Melanie a while to fall asleep. She just stared and stared at the girl next to her. She could feel Emilia’s slow heartbeat, hear her breathing. It was foreign to Melanie, being so close to another person. Goodnight Emilia. The next day at dinner Emilia told the young boys who were whispering about Melanie to “Bugger off!” Melanie had never heard that expression before, she had to suppress a laugh. “Hey!” Emilia shouted at her, “I saw that smile.” That night was as cold as the last and Emilia was back at Melanie’s side. They were stretched out, back-to-back, and Emilia had not shut up for at least two hours. Melanie felt that she knew everything there was to know about her. She too had been kicked out of a home about a year ago. When she said that she also added, They just said, ‘Oh yeah, it’s a state thing…out of our control…love ya and good luck!’ And just like that I was on the front porch of Springfield.” Emilia’s voice cracked and Melanie could hear her cry. I understand, I understand, I understand Emilia. When summer came the children ventured out to the field behind the home for some fresh air and a few games of tag. Emilia and Melanie sat in a patch of weeds and pretended that they were flowers. “Beautiful! Just marvelous!” Emilia would shout. Melanie would laugh. “Melanie.” Melanie looked up at Emilia. “Melanie I wish you would talk to me.” She was sincere. She was hurt and sincere. Melanie choked back her tears. “Why won’t you talk to me?” Melanie looked back down at the flowers the beautiful flowers. Emilia kept sleeping in Melanie’s bed even when it was summer. It was dark, so, so dark in that room when the moon wasn’t out. Melanie knew Emilia was almost asleep. She opened her mouth ever so slightly and whispered, “I am like my father. And he never said a word to me.”
Ellie Lovell ‘15
24
From the Cage My wings are strong, my colors true I am filled with burning ambition Ready to soar in my own direction. But, perched in this prison, patience is a game Freedom so close, my heart ablaze. They are trying to clip my wings I thrash and struggle against their blades Resulting in open wounds. I refuse to let them conform my will I have no desire to fly like them,
Time Takes Too
They cannot change the pattern of my feathers, My character developed long ago, I know who I am, I have a purpose—
She left me here to die. She left me yesterday. She only said goodbye, But then she walked away.
Time inevitably opens the cage I am eager to begin my ascent;
She left me here to live. She left me when I cried. I didn’t want to live. I didn’t want to die.
My wings are strong, my colors true I am filled with burning satisfaction Soaring in my own direction
She left me here to wonder. She left me years ago. And now come rolling thunder, But I am but a doe.
Brittany Hamrin ‘15
She left me here to crumble. She left me when I prayed. And now the walls will tumble Upon the beauty that we made. She leaves me to remember. She leaves me now again. These loves I’ve lost will render. Goodbye, dear keeper, amen.
Darby Brown, ‘17
Literal to Abstract, Sophia Lauer ‘16
25
From Everlasting to Everlasting What if...this ink was eternal? If these simple syllables and sounds Were immortal, never to fade or be tarnished by time, Would writers be so bold As to challenge what is and to wish for what isn’t? Would writers take comfort in their infinite legacy, Or would they fear its implications for the future, A future that would surely examine and ridicule Every splotch of syllabification, A future that is no more certain than a summer breeze? But what of this ink’s potential for legacy? Is it not worth the risk? To be remembered and revered For our very hearts and souls, Which are bared and revealed in our words, Makes for the purest of memoirs. Works of literature paint an unblemished picture Of an author. Like a portrait of the subconscious, They display the values and flaws of their creator. The word eternal has many implications. What is eternal can never be eradicated By any means. It lasts far longer than the transients of this earth. Is humanity ready for the eternal? Can we truly deal with a concept so beyond our grasp? Or are we bred for eternity like a racehorse is for the chase, Prepared its whole life for its weight and glory? Eternal ink, a blessing and a curse, A weapon and a balm, A potent blend of beauty and mistake. Writing would be forever transformed, forever shaped By this ingenuity, whether for better or worse Is a mystery. So, what if...this ink was eternal?
Caroline Archer ‘17
26
Voyage The life sucked out It was all so quick Just so— Rapid And just so— Helpless. The new journey Now begins For the lost Souls Of yesterday. The excursion continues Surveying the land— The Friends and Family Left behind. To be seen again someday. In a world not so far From our own. Time is only Space. Arrival.
Andrew Rankin ‘15
Mozione, Maddie Parrish ‘15
27
Time Boxes on boxes filled with calendar days. You’ll fit all in. Yes, child, there are ways. But with running and going this way and that, comes the chance of living a life that’s quite flat. You can smile and laugh and deny any help, but you know the truth— you’re all by yourself. So when morning comes and night dims the day, remind yourself that your way is not the only way. Before you say, “Speed it up! I’m gonna be late,” Let me tell you of a Man who planned every date. All the parties and meetings and coffees for two were set in stone before the oceans were blue. Before the hands on the clock ticked away the hours, The Grand Keeper of Time was still painting the flowers, and turning the earth, and pulling the tide, with a timeless mind, putting hours aside. Seconds and minutes didn’t dictate your being. Mankind wasn’t put on hold because God had a meeting. Focused and determined he sculpted your smile, and your hands, and your brow, with no sense of tomorrow. For Him, the mountains and stars could wait. He was creating his favorite creation—and there was no time to waste.
Allyson Collins ’15
28
At a Party As an Outsider Vs. With Your Friends Every word I speak is as calculated as the decor of the room we sit in Their lingo is a foreign dance that my tongue can’t perform My eyes are pulled down by the pressure of theirs My fingers scratch trenches in my pantlegs Pupils trace over my frame and the clothes draped around it Every hangnail finds itself under attack Energy seeps out of my body and into the Persian rug I have no control (If I did I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway) I recognize these smells Their chests are warm and their laughs aren’t alien My lips don’t trip over syllables and if they did we’d all show our teeth Eyes blink more slowly and limbs relax My hands don’t crawl to my face I say things that make bodies shake with pink laughter They recognize my costume and I curl up inside the noises of their catch phrases We share the space and the air isn’t heavy
Savannah Bastian ‘15
Another Time I sped away, wishing she’d fall through the seat beside me. If words cut like knives, then how am I not sliced to pieces? Because she said it all. It seems so palpable, that I could reach out and feel it. If only it were, my problems would all be gone Because I could wipe them away. I could always dream, and escape that way If forgetting it made it all disappear completely, At least from my view. But it won’t, and it can’t, and I couldn’t. So I just do it again, because maybe this time I can change it.
Michael Dennison ‘16
29
Blue Lamp, Maycie McKay ‘15
30
Chinese Silk With 2 Fish, Savannah Bastian ‘15
31
Flight is printed by Cenveo Printing Company. The Flight staff would like to thank Mr. David McQuiddy III ’78, and his staff for their incredible assistance. The Flight staff thanks Mrs. Debbie Dunn for her expert eye, Mrs. Susan Shafer for her insights and suggestions, Ms. Lindsay Fowlkes for her red pen and valuable input, and Mr. Curt Masters for his support of the magazine.
Fleeting Moment, Avery Rose Myrick ‘15