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Harbinger 2013
Harbinger 2013 Volume 37 Menagerie
Editors-in-Chief Caroline Grebner Abhisek Rameswaram
Layout Editors
Submissions Editors
Publicity Editors
Copy Editor
Nick McGuire Martha Reilly
Sanjana Singh Annie Zidek
Amulya Kandikonda Rose Watson
Isabella Kwiencinski
Contributing Members
Annie Cebulski Samantha Cook Mia DiCara Lorena Fernandez Katie Galuska Natasha Gupta Nicole Hefner
President
Judith Muchek, Ph.D.
Alyssa Kruft Alex Legaspi Alaine Murawski Meera Ramakrishnan Emma Scheer Alex Senycia Claire Zupec
Principal
Lynne Strutzel
Moderator Janna Nixon
Carmel Catholic High School One Carmel Parkway Mundelein, IL 60060 Cover Art: Collection by Abby Nierman Back Cover Art: Courage by Emily Ritter Background Page 1: Irony by Grant Blume Background Pages 2-47: Beach Chair Companions by Caroline Grebner Background Page 48: Remembrance by Emily Ritter Border adapted from Lights of Travel by Sarah Heimberger
Poetry and Prose:
4....A Tree - Alex Legaspi 5....A Cynical Childhood - Samantha Isidro 6....What It Is To Be A Baker - Brett Pullman 7....Free in the Desert - Max Horcher 8....Let’s Gather Around the Campire - Cassie Wilson 11...Temptation - Brooke White 12...Conversation No. 46 - Nick McGuire 13...Willow - Brooke White 13...Never Forgotten - Clare Rasmussen 14...Treasure Hunt - Brooke Kamins 15...To the Stars through Consciousness - Liz Gutierrez 16...Noble Onions and the Fabled Penthouse Annie Cebulski 19...Along a Highway in Harlington, Virginia Nick McGuire 20...Just 2 Guys - Kylie McGlynn 22...The Orange - Jackie Durnil 23...The Sweet Leaves of Time - Marisa Smith 24...Sleepyhead - Annie Zidek 24...The Stories Never Told - Daniel Santos
25...Life’s Story - Brittany Tarpey 26...The List - Alyssa Laystrom 28...The Leaves - Carter Bedward 29...Winter Daze - Lauren Fournier 30...A Morning in Alaska - Stephen Feely 32...Mocking of a Pond - Patricia Bucci 32...Switching Seasons - Sarah Massarelli 33...A True Kind of Love - Isabella Kwiecinski 34...Only a Fantasy - Sanjana Singh 36...Black Sheep - Samantha Campos 37...Swallow - Nick McGuire 38...Memories, Memories - Pat Petrus 40...An Adhesive Calm - Michael Sterns 41...Ablaze - Robbie Bates 42...Songbird - Brooke White 42...Pirouttes - Kathryn Edwards 43...Broken Bone - Abby Nierman 44...Afraid of the Light - Rose Watson 45...Slipping into Character - Nick Heinlen 46...Pinecones - Jackie Durnil 46...Apparatus of Nature - Emma Scheer 47...We Who See Broken - Isabella Kwiecinski 48...Randonmess - Rita Hull
Photography and Artwork:
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4...Lace Eyes - Abby Nierman 5....The Palmer House Diaster - Dana Wegge 7....New Orleans Night - Taylor Smith 7....Train in the Hills - Natalie Geoffroy 10...The Audition - Bridget Kotek 11...One for the Money, Two for the Show - Lily Noonan 11....Purple Thistle - Natalie Geoffroy 13...Mirror - Abby Nierman 13...Street Scenes Keepin’ It Classy Dana Wegge 14...Chiffon - Abby Nierman 18...Shine On - Grace Spagna 19...Headlights in the Fog - Abby Nierman 21...Fledgling - Abby Nierman 23...Cafe Characters - Lily Noonan 25...Wildlife Menagerie - Mia DiCara
25...I Spy - Natalie Geoffroy 27...Bon Chic, Bon Genre - Abigail Paulson 29... In Between 176 - Kari Osowski 31...Lemon and Honey - Abby Nierman 31...You’re Timeless to Me - Lily Noonan 32...Chi-Town - Krista Gauger 35...Stained - Abby Nierman 36...After the Storm - Abby Nierman 37...Beach Boy - Rita Hull 39...Reflective Pier - Caroline Grebner 40...Illuminated Elegance - Caroline Grebner 40...Thoughts - Brie Lubor 43...Through the Garden Gate - Jenna Brashear 44...Winding Staircase - Caroline Grebner 48...The Girl on the Tractor - Rita Hull
Harbinger 2013
Letters from the Editors-in-Chief Dear Reader, This year has gone by too fast, and I’m sad that it’s over. I’ve been in this family-like club for three years, and I have enjoyed every single moment. This past year though has been my favorite. I am proud to have been co-editor-in-chief this year, and I enjoyed doing what I do best: pretending to know what I’m doing but actually having no idea and then going with the flow. I also had the pleasure of working with amazing editors and club members. Without you guys, this year wouldn’t have been the best. There are so many people I’d like to thank, and I especially want to thank you, Abhisek Rameswaram, for putting up with my bad puns and for letting me be right all the time even if I wasn’t. Thanks for keeping me sane. Thank you, Mrs. Nixon, for all your patience. You never gave up on this despite our rough start. Thank you, editors, for all your hard work and for tackling any challenge given to you. And thank you, Carmel students, for sharing your creativity. Without you, this magazine would not exist. I hope you enjoy this year’s crazy edition of Harbinger! -Caroline Grebner Dear Reader, “Let the Poetry begin!” The time has come for this year’s Harbinger; it is of the...peculiar verity. First off, I’d like to thank everyone involved, especially Ms. Nixon, whose tireless efforts were instrumental in the making of this magazine. This theme is what Harbinger and literature are all about. A collection strangely so. A specific collection of everything. We placed the juxtapositions intentionally, and comedy and tragedy are linked in a way both sickening and enlightening. We talk about the past as if it was the present, collecting memories of all shapes and sizes and letting them roam. We hold collections of odd traits and paradoxes. We all hold menageries and are a part of a larger menagerie. Crazy right? Ah, but I digress. This magazine was wonderful to work on, plotting which picture would not compliment but contradict which written work. It become surreal at one point, but madness is like gravity; all it takes is a little push. Lastly, I’d like to thank everyone who contributed. This magazine wouldn’t be...well, a magazine, without you. As Carl Jung said, “In all chaos there is cosmos, in all disorder there is order.” -Abhisek Rameswaram
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A Tree Alex Legaspi
How to plant a tree: Dig a hole, put the seed in, Sunlight, water, love.
Lace Eyes s Abby Nierman
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Bended at the knee, she skipped over the split cement and onto specific squares singing, rhyming, humming. But the shouting wind disapproved of that childish game, and so she landed on her two left feet, silent. Passing a cemetery, she gulped tunnels of air, remembering what they had said. And that rumor about aliens still bothered her. Mommy, do aliens really have ten arms? But she walked into the house with a simple nod, refusing to play that childish game.
Samantha Isidro
The umbrella wisped her a shy two feet ahead. After cleaving itself from her budding palm, she bobbed down the flickering street, swirling the creamy snow, heaving over the cracks— she didn’t want mother’s back to break like they had said.
A Cynical Childhood
Watch me fly. Over the ledge, a soft sway was all it took. Taking off from the highest point, falling into a life too serious, too fast.
The Palmer House Disaster s Dana Wegge
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What It is to Be a Baker Brett Pullman
What it is to be a baker A cookie and cake maker The oven’s blazing light Bringing much delight Mixing and stirring Oh what could be occurring? Who on earth would bake With something that is fake? Would you like to bake A delicious cake? How ‘bout some cookies That look better than Snooki’s Fake tan Oh what a scam But my sweet treats Cannot be beat. Oh what it is to be a baker A cookie and cake maker Experience the joy Like when a child gets a toy That dream come true Or sky full of blue Oh wouldn’t you Like to be a baker too?
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Train in the Hills s Natalie Geoffroy
New Orleans Night s Taylor Smith
Free in the Desert
Max Horcher
Racing whistling through the desert as the dust swirls in its wake, stripped up from its brethren in the sands below beneath the dry glassily shimmering air in turn beneath the heated glaring sun which glowers at the cooling, persistent entity below: wind.
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Let’s Gather Around the Campfire Cassie Wilson
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Ginger. No, I am not referring to the spice, but in fact my hair. It is what I am called. I supposed it can be deemed as a derogatory term for a redhead; yet, to me it is simply a classification. However, it was not always this way. Back in the day, elderly folk used to have the most to say about my hair. “Beautiful!” they would say. “Don’t ever change it!” another would add. “I would kill for your hair!” It felt good. Scratch that, it felt great. Unfortunately, these compliments persisted only until eighth grade, and now it is on rare occasions that I will receive such a compliment. Eighth grade year I transferred schools. I was as terrified as an elephant in the presence of a mouse. I knew nobody, and nobody knew me. What would people think of me? Would they judge me? I would soon find out the answer to the latter was yes. Unfortunately, the hallways of the school turned out to be more menacing than the school itself; they began to exclude me the moment I stepped through the door. Friends hugged. People laughed. And I was awkward. Truthfully, I did not mind being a wallflower at first. But it was hard to blend when I obviously stood out--I was the only redhead. Now, this is usually the case. In most instances I can count on one hand the number of redheads in a room, let alone building. About a week into school a boy in my class named Bobby called me out on it. “Sup”, Bobby said as he stifled a laugh. “Oh hello… just doing homework”, I replied. I had never talked to him before; therefore, I was naturally curious as to why he was wasting my time, and was wondering whether it would be worth it or not. It was definitely not. “So you’re a ginger”, was his next response. “A what?!” I questioned. Why had this boy just called me a spice?! I was so utterly clueless. Bobby simply laughed and walked away. It did not take me long to figure it out though. I searched the word on urban dictionary and was enlightened by the fact that he
Harbinger 2013
had undoubtedly made fun of me. Not only that, but it was face-to-face! Being the shy, clueless eighth grader I was, this genuinely hurt. I felt cast out over the next month as all my peers continued the pointless badgering. Fortunately for me however, I eventually learned to expect the name-calling and stopped letting it bother me. I was, am, and always will be ginger. My number one favorite question I am constantly asked is this: “Do you like having red hair?” Do I what? Asking me if I like the color of my hair is like asking a black man if he likes the color of his skin. How do I even begin to respond to that? I am genuinely indifferent towards its color, yet when asked I always reply: “Yes, it is a part of me. I love it”. Is this true? Well it was not always. I was and am constantly surrounded by ridicule. “You are the spawn of the devil!” someone will snicker. Another will laugh and add, “You have no soul haha!” But the most absurd is when my hair is used as an excuse. “Rachel, why did you take my seat?!” The most typical response is, “Because you’re a ginger… duh.” “Danny why wasn’t I invited?!” Again, the same response follows. Terrible isn’t it? To mock someone based one something they cannot change. Anything that differentiates me from what is average and considered normal sets me up for mockery. Another question I am often asked is: “Are you ever gonna die it?”. Why should I have to? Would that same question have been asked if I had brunette hair? Blonde hair? It is unlikely. After a while, I stop responding to these questions. What these people, my peers, do not realize is that I would never satisfy them by conforming to their ways. By dying my hair I will become just like them. This is not to say that I will never die my hair, but if I do it will not be to please others. It will be because it is what I want. Yet, it is not lost on me that most of what is said to me is all in good fun. I find it humors me when people pretend to use my hair as a source of heat. I
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do not even understand the thought process—my hair is red; therefore, it must be a campfire on a warm summer night? If you say so! Honestly, the fact that the statements people say, while intending to make fun of me, are absolutely senseless proves that they only say it because I am not like them. Did not the Cheetah Girls say, “…we make up one big family but we don’t look the same. Our spots are different, different colors”? Does this statement not apply to the color of my hair? It is attempting to show that no matter what someone looks like, they should not be excluded. Society should learn a lesson from the Cheetah Girls. Nonetheless, I do not mind when people tease me and call me a ginger. In fact, Ginger is practically my nickname. I have also pushed aside all the talk of me having no soul, as I myself know for a fact that I do have one. That argument is indeed idiotic. A soul is a mere idea, and one cannot tell that I lack it just by a single glance. Yet despite my disregard, the moronic banter continues. The principle behind this ridicule is the most disturbing. I am different. I stand out. And I am judged because of this. But I try my hardest to stand out confidently. I do not let words hurt me because talk is cheap and every day it loses more value. I once read a phrase that said, “Once you accept your flaws, no one can use them against you”. I do not believe my hair is a flaw, but now that I have accepted that I am different, I am left unaffected by the all the taunting. But it is not only that is does not affect me, but that it cannot. Because if I let it, who will I become?
The Audition s Bridget Kotek
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“Hello,” Temptation said to me. He handed me my first cigar I puffed And he said, “Why son, you just killed me.”
One For the Money, Two For the Show s Lily Noonan
Brooke White
Temptation
Purple Thistle s Natalie Geoffroy
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Conversation No. 46
Nick McGuire
i. Brittle grass under our feet as we race, John and I. We touch down on concrete and feel it ache and breathe in our strides. John will win. ii. Summer air. Opened, early and breezy—we hear all we missed in winter, the gold porch door cracking, cicadas creaking. iii. Mother and I fought. I went barefoot running at night. I had nowhere else to want to be. Three days later, charcoal tracks are buried in our pale living room carpet. iv. She kisses my face good-bye, swatches of pink ascending to my cheeks. I drove home. Ten and two, a lonely sight. vi. Five a.m., a hummingbird crosses the window. Feathers of sea salt blue and lemon meringue. I am lonely.
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vii. I leave blue bouquets on the mantelpiece of her new marble home. viii. We burn the American flag on a Tuesday, all worn and fragmented, whole holes in stripes. Fireworks blazed overhead and somewhere I bled. ix. Danny found a job as a silver statue in Lincoln park. He gets paid well. Frozen until one wants him to live. x. Popsicle sheaths on the nightstand. She and I fence with wooden swords, and I realize nothing means everything to me. xi. We took photographs, under water— She dances. I sing, bubbles climbing in front of my face. Our eyes close in groggy film. xii. I only went to her funeral because she didn’t want me to. My candle was a sparkler from last July.
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Brooke White
Sometimes, I catch the weeping willow smiling at me. When I ask her why, it seems as though she does not know the sadness in her name.
Mirrors Abby Nierman
Willow
Never Forgotten
Clare Rasmussen
I found your picture on the floor Wishing you had left me something more Because now you are off fighting at war Remembering, hoping, and praying that you will Come home again once more.
Street Scenes Keepin’ It Classy s Dana Wegge
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Treasure Hunt
Brooke Kamins
Open my eyes to a new day, though love is given, love is lost. April showers continue into May, but I search for just one flower.
The treasure hunt brings me to the gold leaves, swiftly and slowly reaching the ground. Unknowingly, my soul rises. Through the Ray Bans I see serendipity, but silver linings are not the prizes. Polaroids I’ve taken in my mind float through the air like treasure. Yet the true joy I found, my heart can only measure. Farfetched to think one memory can say goodbyes unsaid, unlock doors without the key, and bring my soul to be fed.
Chiffon s Abby Nierman
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Are we alone in the Universe, or is another being looking up at the stars too, contemplating the same things as me? The universe incomprehensibly vast to act with arrogance. However, My body is a part of the cosmos, composed of dead stars reborn into the physique of a human being.
Liz Gutierrez
I wonder if somewhere up in those twinkling diamonds, far beyond the Milky Way galaxy, in the vastness of the cosmic ocean, there is a God watching down over me.
To The Stars Through Consciousness
I often lay under the suburban, Midwest night sky to stare at the lights from the heavens. Slowly, my thoughts drift off to contemplate about the mysteries of my existence.
I am the cosmos, and the cosmos resides within me, Yet the same question always remains. How is it that I can feel extraordinary and insignificant at the same time?
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Noble Onions and a Fabled Penthouse Annie Cebulski
Overcast clouds had painted the sky opaque, not letting an ounce of sunlight through. A dismal, sleeting rain had started to fall as the clouds were pouting over the loss of their favorite companion, Sun. Pretty soon the ground was covered in slush due to their temper tantrum, and the many people who were out and about complained of the terrible weather. However, a young child from the Cebulski clan— roughly translated to “Noble Onions” in Polish— paid no mind to the clouds’ grievances. Her mouth grinned wide at what fun was to come. Today was a special day for the Cebulskis, and Annie could hardly contain herself, emphasizing that point with a childish skip in her step. Ever since anyone in her family could remember, Christmas time meant wandering around the streets of Chicago 20 strong. It was a time for window shopping, museum viewing, and exploring the intricate depths of the city. The girl gave a chuckle as she recalled how her cousins had described the birth of the tradition, with their grandmother accidently leaving one of them (sometimes told as Bryan, but usually as Mark) on Michigan Avenue as they left the city. Mark-Bryan, fresh out of elementary school, wandered until he stumbled upon the grandest looking building he had ever encountered: the Palmer House. Inspired, he then proceeded to impersonate a British heir to a wealthy tea company, somehow scamming his way into a free kiddy-cocktail. Meanwhile, the family began to panic when Mark-Bryan couldn’t be found and the sun had set. They spent the entire night tearing up the light-lit town, dashing in and out of stores like madmen. When they at last located the lost boy, they found him chatting up middle-aged women in the lounge, cocktail in hand. A mischievous smile never left his face as he was dragged by the ear back to the group. They decided it was too late to go home, so they checked into the Palmer. Once the dust had settled and the yelling subsided, a conclusion swept
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through: it had been fun running around the city. Thus, a ritual was born. Now, ten years later, the littlest Onion of the clan checked into the legendary Palmer House. Whirlwinds of gold and regal reflected in her bright eyes widened in wonder. After a day of wandering for hours until the temperature reached frigid, it was almost too much. Finally, the group approached the door to their room, and when it opened opened, a depiction of the Virgin Mary’s serene face greeted them. As she fell into bed, she decided to ask what the word virgin meant later. Sheets of soft cotton tickled Annie’s feet as she got ready to sleep. Her Uncle Tom had different ideas, however. “Hey,” he said. “We’re going on a little adventure!” And so she and her other cousins were whisked into a winding journey through the vacant halls. Uncle Tom led the young Onions down stairs, up ramps, and through corridors until an elevator loomed invitingly. “Alright, troops, let’s go.” Golden doors opened to reveal a man, eyes wide at the sheer number of people joining him. The young girl giggled as her uncle let out a greeting of “Hullo!” Somehow, the elevator was able to squeeze everyone inside. It, like everything else in the hotel, had a copious amount of space and an equal amount of decoration. No eyes were gazing at the intricate innards of the elevator, however. They were too busy staring intently at one button. “Do we dare?” peeped the youngest cousin, her mouth curving into a grin. “Well, that is where our room is, isn’t it?” Uncle Tom said, answering her grin with a wink. A single button glowed white, bronze lettering glimmering beside it: Penthouse. Floor after floor passed, the little arrow shifting closer to the top spot until it finally rested at its destination. However, the door did not open. Understanding rapidly twisted excitement into disappointment; a key was needed to enter the sacred space. “Well, Dad, what are we going to do now?” asked Kevin, another cousin. Uncle Tom just shrugged sheepishly. A congested grunt broke the awkwardness that had grown in the elevator. “Do you need a key?” the man smiled and slid his card through the keypad. The stranger had been forgotten on the trip up, tucked away in the corner. He stepped out of the elevator, nodded, and darkness swallowed his form.
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“Well, that was convenient,” said Bryan, brother to Kevin. Laughter traveled through the air at the luck. A few shuffles later, and it was done; they were in the penthouse. A green glow softly illuminated the giant plexy-glass windows. All the fruit one could ever eat lined the walls, cups of gourmet coffee a button away. A sitting room with velveteen sofas completed the greeting area, and Annie didn’t hesitate to try out all of them. Suddenly, while lounging languidly, she remembered a question that had been nagging at her all day. “Hey, what’s a virgin?” she asked. That got heads to turn. Mouths gaped slightly, and Bryan stifled his laughter. Uncle Tom just scratched his head. “Well, Annie… A virgin is someone who has never done, well, anything. Like me! I’ve never been to the moon. I’m a moon virgin!” he said in a desperate attempt to answer the question while revealing as few details as possible. The young girl’s eyes lit up. “Oh that makes sense! So… if that’s the case, then we aren’t penthouse virgins anymore!” “No, Annie, you’re right. We aren’t penthouse virgins,” Bryan snickered. Annie’s amused grin fell into a content smile as she sank further into a sofa. This was her Christmas; this was her adventure. This was her family, the Noble Onions. “Thank goodness they had lost Mark-Bryan,” Annie thought.
Shine On s Grace Spagna
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Along a Highway in Harlington, Virginia I worried about my shadow Nick long enough to ask a person on the road—hair lined with grease and a face drawn by mechanics— if he saw it too.
What if I don’t want to believe I have one? He shook his head and wrung his left hand around nothing. Echoes of my grandfather gained footing in my eyes,
Headlights in the Fog s Abby Nierman
He said, yes, a ghost of yourself walks there. He pointed. I tried to believe him. His eyes probed my sleeves thick with dust, and no one else carried baskets of tomatoes like his shoulders.
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and as he spoke I was certain he left my grandmother with my baby father fifty-eight years ago. May you always be happy living a dream where no one follows you, not even yourself. A tomato dropped to my feet when he rambled away, and a pool of red form at its bottom. I have done nothing right.
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Just 2 Guys Kylie McGlynn One day when walking down the road, A man walked passed another. He saw that he was with a frown, So he asked what was the bother.
You see, this life, it’s funny. It works in many strange ways. But it is certain that you decide, If you want worse or finer days.
“Excuse me, sir,” he called to him, “I can’t help but see you’re feeling blue.” “My life, it’s over,” the man replied, “I got nothing left to do. I lost my house, my wife is gone, My kids are all grown up. I’m ruined, broken, tearing down, I’m nothing but a mutt.”
If you want a change in life, Then grab it by the horns. Because if you don’t it will eat you up, And you will then be torn.
“Now say, stop that!” the first man said, “Stop being so darn gloom. You’re not even looking around, You don’t see the sun and moon.
Get a job, forget your wife, And please, sir, call your kids. Don’t take advantage of things you have, While for others life may forbid.
Instead of being negative, And full of sorrow or rage. If you don’t like the story, Then you can turn the page.
Wake up tomorrow with a brand new mind, Ready to start the day you’re given And be sure to be thankful, That you are even still here livin’.”
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Get a job, forget your wife, And please, sir, call your kids. Don’t take advantage of things you have, While for others life may forbid.
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Then the other man spoke, Softly, he then said, “Your words, I think they just saved me, I was like the walking dead.” “Now don’t be silly,” the first man said, “I didn’t say anything bizarre. I just showed you things that you just happen, To didn’t see before. Life’s too short to be miserable, And no one really cares. So you might as well live it, At its best throughout the years.
Like the great MJ said, You must start with the man in the mirror. And then when you start working towards it, Then things will be much clearer. I must be on my way now, But please, sir, do know, You have to deal with a little rain, To see the whole rainbow.”
Fledglings Abby Nierman
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The Orange
Jackie Durnil
The orange, I noticed as I sat by the tree, Was brighter than any orange that I’d ever seen. So, I acted on impulse as I plucked it from the leaves. Peeling it quickly and sitting back down, Marveling at this perfect thing so orange and so round, I carefully divided it into perfect orange wedges, Noticing how each had soft rounded edges. I closed my eyes as I bit one into two. The sweetest orange juice dribble down my face. I blinked in surprise at its speedy fast pace. A second, maybe two, it fell lips-chin-ground. I watched the drops fall down-down-down. Soon, I had eaten every single piece. The last lonely drop fell on a head, A head attached to a body so red, A ladybug, if I recall correctly, A lady bug I knew I loved immensely. So, I acted on impulse and lifted it gently from the grass.
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I will follow your course, wherever you lead me I will go. You show me the way of my past, present, and future. Only you know the way. I set my exhausted fantasies into the wind Drifting with the sweet leaves of time until they come again‌
Cafe Characters s Lily Noonan
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The Sweet Leaves of Time
The evolving colors bring something new to experience. A fullness of summer, bareness of winter. An unpredictable change—hindering between luscious and fruitless.
Marisa Smith
The sweet leaves of time, dancing through the wind Each a different form, different design, different purpose. Some crinkled and forgotten, others perfectly intact.
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Sleepyhead Annie Zidek And everything is going to the beat. And everything is going to the beat. And everything is… slowing down like the heart after numerous tablets. Eyelids are close to impossible to lift as eyelashes and cheeks meet every so often. Reality and slumber smear together like paint on a canvas; awareness can only be obtained by fighting and clawing. Strength is lost, the body gives in, and it’s time to forfeit to repose. It comes as sudden and as unnoticeable as a tidal wave, and reveries become actuality. Good night, sleepyhead.
The Stories Never Told Daniel Santos
This is a tribute. This is an ode, to the stories never told to the soldiers and protestors, screaming, “We will never fold!” To the homeless getting old, still sleeping in the cold, with dreams from their fathers, still searching for their pot of gold. In the end, we’re all the same. We’re all children of destiny, Rich, poor, black, white, upper class, and peasantry, Lost in the world tryin’ to find our true identity, united by the pain we’re expressing through the melodies. We’re flawed. We fight, argue, bicker, and moan, worried ‘bout our children growin’ or dyin’ alone, But really, life isn’t defined by the possessions we own. It’s about what’s inside, and the perserverance we’ve shown.
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Life’s Story
Brittany Tarpey
Silence. Waiting. Stuck.
Wildlife Managerie s Mia DiCara
We stare at the blank piece of paper just waiting to be written on. Thoughts dance around the page. Excitement envelops the plain white background, and humor makes it alive.
I Spy s Natalie Geoffroy But fear hides in the corner, and sadness is there between the lines. We are scared to pick up the pen and write our own story, nervous for what may come. But by writing the first letter, we begin the adventure.
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The List
Alyssa Laystrom
I am not scared of much in life, but, like everyone else, I do have my fears. I fear the standard fears, such as losing someone and dead bodies. I fear some not-so-normal occurrences, such as being caught in a riptide. However, my biggest fear of all is having regrets. The fear of regrets hits me at random times. I feel like I am facing a flat wall that someone has told me to climb, and climb NOW. The stress piles up and I become overwhelmed, and then I stress myself out even more. What if I lose motivation and am not able to attend the college I want? What if I am a failure? What if I am simply mediocre and never accomplish anything with my life? The questions start to attack me with increasing urgency and panic sets it. This feeling attacked the strongest at a conformation class. A theme of a recent class was death and loss. After every kid was equipped with paper and a pen, we were given a scenario: you are on your deathbed and have a day left to live. You are confined to the room. The leaders of the program asked us to write down five things we would want with us. I can do that, I thought. Easy. I numbered my paper one through five and scrawled out my list: note book, pen, a treasured book, my horse, and my dog. After we had finished our lists, the leaders asked us to write down five people we would want with us. I listed my parents, my brother, and my best friend. I bit my pen and frowned. I could not pick two more people. While I was still pondering my list, the leaders told us we now had an hour left to live. We could only have one possession with us. I moved on with the exercise and scratched out everything on my list but my horse and my dog. How can they be asking me to chose? I thought. It’s just a game. I could not choose between my horse and my dog. I started fidgeting and was alarmed to find that I felt vaguely like a cornered animal. Finally, the leaders asked us to pick one person to spend our last hour on Earth with. I tried to pick from my incomplete list, but I could not do it. I was too weak and this exercise hit too close to home. Frustrated, I put down my pen and ignored my list. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes and hurriedly brushed at my face before anyone could see. I joked around with my friends after, explaining my
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indecision by stating that “I was dying, I’ll have what I want!� Even though I could cover my emotions on the surface, my brain was in overdrive trying to process what had just happened. The wall loomed in front of me like a threat and I was severely shaken. It was simply meant to be an exercise for a purpose I do not even remember, but it scared me. When we talked about our experiences later, I admitted I was a lot more stressed about having regrets and not accomplishing my goals than I was a couple of hours ago. When I was asked to make lists and rank people and possessions that I care about, I saw a reality I have never seen before. Someday I will have to make difficult decisions like the trial ones I made in the exercise. After considerable thought, I did take away a positive message from the experience. I am more motivated to work hard both in school and out and maintain a positive mindset. I surround myself with friends and family. I have a list of goals that I look at often. Regrets and the fear of having them is a tricky demon that haunts me every day. However, that demon has pushed me to accomplish more than I ever thought possible.
Abigail Paulson
Bon Chic, Bon Genre s
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The Leaves
Carter Bedward
Times are becoming tougher, everything is harder. The boy struggles to get by. Nothing seems right, everything wrong. A million solutions tried, all failed. All seems hopeless for him as he walks through the forest late one fall evening. The dying light casts a bloody hue upon the world as he walks toward his doom. Every step seems to bring him up one more step to the gallows. There seems no way out, shackled at the ankles and the wrists, unable to move in any other direction. Staring at the ground, he sees the leaves, dead and rotten, unmoving. He thinks of his pain, wondering if it will ever end. The sun disappears, leaving a grayish, morbid tint to the world. The boy looks for the light at the end of the tunnel, but sees nothing but darkness. The leaves lie still and dead under his feet. Times have changed, but the boy is in the forest again. The sun is rising, casting a golden glow upon the early spring trees. The boy is amazed, seeing the world as if for the first time. He stares up at the sky and sees the budding leaves seem to glow vibrantly. In his mind the boy can see the leaves blossoming into full, beautiful leaves. He sees himself, overcoming himself, becoming who he is, who he should be. He can see ahead, the brilliant light at the end of the tunnel, but cannot reach into it. He feels powerful, on top of the world, commanding. His earlier worries forgotten, he charges into the sunrise. Once again, the boy is in the forest. However, he is no longer a boy, but a man. It is noon, and the sun casts a steady glow upon all. The man feels a cool breeze chill his face as he glances around at the fall foliage. He is content in a moment of serenity, looking straight ahead. As he looks forward, he sees the leaves, falling around him, spiraling to the ground. He sees the vibrant colors of each leaf, as well as the murky brown, sludge coated leaves in the dirt. He catches a leaf as it falls, suspending it between the tree and the ground. He holds it for a second, thinking back upon his life, and releases it, watching it join the leaves below. After another minute, the man walks straight forward, out of the forest. He glances back once, and leaves, never to return.
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Winter Daze
Lauren Fournier
There’s a light in the darkest days, Where Alex lives before I wake. And he’s alive; it’s all the same, Numbers rattling inside his brain.
The little boxes and scribbled ink, The window above the kitchen sink, And her laughter before she thinks Take us all—pull us back from the brink. “This is what happens when I write upbeat, It’s kind of strange, don’t you think?” And she just nods and falls off to sleep, When she wakes she’ll call it all a dream. Then I wake and realize it’s not what it seems, The little boxes of scribbled ink, Her laughter before she begins to think. In Between 176 I open my mouth and find I can’t speak, Kari Osowksi Forgetting which is reality and which is dream. I’m confused but then I blink, And snow drifts in through the window above the kitchen sink.
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A Mourning In Alaska
Stephen Feely
The sunlight peeks over the horizon revealing its regenerated smile. The birds awake and stretch their vocal chords; young caribou cries for food fill the landscape. A new day has begun in northern Alaska. A few miles away, the Inuvik tribe slowly drags itself out of a slumber filled with dreams of wonder and awe. The sunlight finds its way through the slight peeks in the opening of the teepees and shines right on Alestine’s face. As he opens his eyes, the light reflects off the engulfing hazel pigment that could drown even the strongest of boats. He rises, stretching muscles that have been sculpted over years of hard labor and success. As he exits his teepee the tribe has already started its daily routine. The markets are set up, the doctors are attending to a child who became sick during the night, the elders are praying for the success of hunters. A band of men, similar in stature to Alestine, pull up next to him with spears at their side and nets slung across their backs. “Let’s go, Alestine,” the leader announces. “The fish aren’t going to stay awake forever”. Alestine grabs his spear and the group heads off towards the ocean. The ocean provides an escape for Alestine. The calming waters, the smell of the salt and the sound of the gulls soaring overhead bring him to a state of tranquil repose. He can’t imagine a life different to the one he currently partakes in. Fast-forward to 2025. The sun again peaks over the horizon, but this time, fights to penetrate the smog that provides a permanent cloud of depression. The birds have migrated and the caribou have left, forced out of their breeding ground. A few miles away, a road leads from the newly built airstrip to the site of the oilrig. Alestine awakes in his relocation teepee, not from the sunlight, but rather, from the sound of the transportation trucks starting their daily runs between the rig and the airstrip. He gets up to the melancholy feeling that has been greeting him for these past years. As he walks outside, a smell of smog blended with petroleum punches him in the face like a boxer. He sits outside desperately wishing to see a caribou, a sight he has not been awarded with for over two years now. He goes on his daily fishing trip, but the water is no longer clear. Ever since the spills occurred the water has turned into a murky slime color. The sunlight
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no longer reflects off its shimmering waves and, as the first catch comes, none of the fish are suitable for eating, their scales contaminated by petroleum. After the whole day, only five fish were safe for the group to eat. Sitting back in his home all Alestine can think about is how things used to be before the oilmen came and built up their facilities.
Lemon and Honey s Abby Nierman
You’re Timeless to Me s Lily Noonan
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Mocking of a Pond Patricia Bucci
The infamous pond inspired the great Thoreau but could not inspire me for all those years I searched.
All those years have come and gone without a second thought of that so well written Walden of which Thoreau had sought.
Chi-Town s Krista Gauger
Switching Seasons Summer bright, warm relaxing, shining, blazing bonfires, beaches, hot chocolate, icicles sledding, caroling, snowing chilly, frosty winter
Sarah Massarelli
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A True Kind of Love Isabella Kwiecinski
“You never let me speak!” “You never listen to me!” I love my parents. “You won’t get out of the bathroom!” “You won’t get off the couch!” I really do. “Stop talking!” “Stop eating!” They are the most caring people I know. “You’re an embarrassment around our daughter’s friends!” “You’re screwing up our son’s habits!” They are the most creative people I know.
“You talk so much, your mouth will run off your face!” “You’re going to grow so fat, whale-watchers will take pictures of you!” I wish I could be as dedicated as they are. “I pay more attention to our son’s grades than you do!” “I go to more of our daughter’s games than you do!” I wish I could have their same love. “Look, I’m sorry. I love you.” “Get your feet off the couch.”
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Only A Fantasy Sanjana Singh Living in a house of cards when it is hurricane season, Taking one step at a time and finding out the ladder is broken, Feeling like the unnoticed leaf in the beginning of autumn, Losing the solution to every single problem. Tears should lose their meaning when a smile is caught. A new story should convey everything an old one forgot. Not living up to expectations, as clichĂŠ as it has become, Soon enough, it feels like my life will be a music-less song. And when I spend the hardship-filled days, the tears I do not want to shed, I remember the days when I made my Fantasy World, When I was about six years old, The place where I could laugh all day, with those invisible friends I made. I would feel so safe, and nothing would go astray, And all I want to know is that--how do I go back? How do I take the fantasy out of that World? Taking all the time that I can never afford, A single word could make me want to run away. The headaches that would not go away, The happiness that would not stay that way, The lies that I constantly convinced myself as the truth, The hundreds, thousands, and millions of ways that I could lose, The pieces of my heart that I could somehow never perfectly sow, Aligning my stars in the opposite of how they should go.
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And all I want to do is go back to the past, Where the hardest thing was to color within the lines, When, in my Fantasy, I could imagine my own world. It was the six-year-old dream. I could see the stars through the cloudy weather, I could wash away all the dreadful memories, And perfection was never out of my reach. But too bad that it is only a fantasy, A Fantasy that will realistically never come true. Therefore, I am content with dreaming, And dreaming is what I do.
Stained s Abby Nierman
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The Black Sheep Samantha Campos
I am the Black Sheep, locked in a farm. They stare at me. I mean no harm. Their perfect white curls and My un-sheared black coat. They ostracize me. All they do is gloat. I am not like the rest, the difference is clear. When can I get out of here? I am the Black Sheep, The only one. When will my torture finally be done? I understand that I do not belong. Each day I tell myself to remain strong. There is no way in life I can change who I am. I am the Black Sheep. Me, Sam.
After the Storm s Abby Nierman
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Your hands were thicker yesterday before jasmine tea slipped through blinds into the regalia of my mind, cracking my skull
Swallow
Nick McGuire
it was a dream then of a paper bag thrown into night, shirts in the bonfire when you were across the length of a flame.
Beach Boy s
I watched you find my scars with linen sheets pulled up to the small of your precious back. you dismantled yourself and crossed into the sun, and as you walked, I swallowed the last pills of breaking everything
Rita Hull
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Memories, Memories Memories are fickle things.
Pat Petrus
Necessary, but fickle nonetheless. The memories that we carry with us—the calm spring mornings, the gentle lapping of the sea at our feet, the warm glow of a fire in winter—are all too quick to leave us when it becomes inconvenient to bear them, slipping through our minds like grains of sand through a sieve. They carry no monetary value, no physical tangibility that we can embrace and stick in our pocket for later. They are what their name implies: fleeting thoughts of moments adrift in a stormy sky. Despite this, they seem to be the most important thing about us. They make us act the way we act, think the way we think. They make us. They are us, in a way. It’s sad, really. We are nothing but the sum of our memories, yet those memories do nothing but fall through the sieves that are our minds and blow away into nothing. Where does that leave us? Worthless, purposeless, meaningless—and the list goes on. I say not. Perhaps we, and our precious memories, are all meaningless in a grand scale. For we are nothing if not tiny beings floating in a cosmic sky so vast that our minds falter when we even attempt to comprehend it, clutching desperately to the things that shaped us in the hopes that they will somehow guide us to rest.
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But we exist on a tiny scale. A scale where a simple “hello” can make a world of difference. A scale where something as simple as a calm spring morning or a gentle lapping of the sea at our feet or the warm glow of a fire in winter can make an imprint on our minds so deep that we remember that simple little thought until the day we ourselves become sand, falling out of the plane of existence and into some great cosmic unknown. But if even such simple things can create lasting memories, then perhaps we— simple creatures by nature—can leave our own marks on the world around us, if only to defy the eternal eroder that is time by planting a flag and shouting to the sky above our heads that we were here, that for a tiny, infintesimally brief second, we existed, that we left our imprint on the world and on the people around us. And as long as we continue to shout, even though we know nothing is there to hear our cries, there is hope that we will live on even after our hearts cease to thump in our chests. That is my hope. If I am to be forgotten, then let the essence of me, the sum of me, live on long after my name had turned to sand and flung itself to the wind. Let it carry on the breeze and land in someone else’s life, in someone else’s sieve. Maybe, just maybe, it will make a difference. Let my memories be not in vain, for they are me.
Reflective Pier s
Caroline Grebner
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An Adhesive Calm Michael Cynical seamstress sewing sad soliloquies, Together, into a quilt that only smothers me. To every word, I listen. Mental malnutrition. Pent-up internal friction, growing inside of my heart.
Stearns
Illuminated Elegance s
The maddening mathematician with the problem-solving problem. Hypocritical historian with a knack for hating everyone. Lovesick linguist feeling quite cumbersome. Factor out the fierce facts and foreign flashbacks. Done. Resurrected faith in an authentic personality. Love like a match: strikes a new mentality. New realization spasm. Can’t fathom reality. Please adhere, my dear. Reminiscence.Tranquility.
Caroline Grebner
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A Fleeting Heart s Michelle Ross
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Ablaze
Robbie Bates
The fire was lit and spread The forest is now orange and red. The flame traveled a long path Now the trees will feel its wrath.
Now it is a puddle of ash What was there is gone with a flash. The show is over the curtain will dawn The crowd like the woods is now gone.
Candle Light s Natalie Geoffroy
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Thoughts s Brie Lubor
Would it fall would it burn? When will people learn? Of what destruction they can bring Now the flames will sing. The crashes of branches, the drums without any flaws The crackle of the flaming leaves, the applause. Man was the conductor and the match was his wand All that is left was once a pond.
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Songbird
Long-sought independence flies with the songbird. Awed by her newly found voice, she—and curiosity— descend from my steady branches and expand their wings over wobbly terrain. I search for the wire cage—where did I leave it last? Yet my reel is broken and my hooks are left unhinged. I try to call her name, but there is no song to guide her home as she escapes into the joyous loneliness of freedom.
Brooke White
Pirouettes
Kathryn Edwards
The young girl fluffs her tutu, dancing alone, while a woman clings to her partner as he dips her, the muscles of her face slowly forming a smile. As the instructor choreographs the dance, pouring over music selection and jetés for months preceding the performance, the man in the streets breaks out into a freestyle routine. The break dancer darts sharply from one complex position to another in a split second, but the ballet dancer gracefully exaggerates each movement. The male escorts the female in a combination of steps in the ballroom, as the tiny children chassé across the room following their teacher. Pride rushing through her body, the dancer’s heart leaped after she mastered the jump into a man’s arms. On another stage, a dizzy beginner fell to the ground after attempting a frustrating pirouette. Life is a dance. While each intricate movement differs from the last, collectively, they form a beautiful ensemble worthy of applause.
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Broken Bone
Abby Nierman
They say a soul is a broken bone that means you have not lived if you live alone because to heal, you must have help and help can never work by itself Alone you live, alone you die throughout hard times, alone you cry with another, your soul will grow into a harvest you will proudly sow
You’re in a cast, to set the break it moves slow for healing’s sake after time, when it is done the secret soul search has already begun They say a soul is a broken bone with the right help, the holes are sewn just as strong but now it’s two you thought you were alone but I found you
Through the Garden Gate s Jenna Brashear
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Afraid of the Light Rose Watson
Who’s afraid of the dark? Of the night? Of the boogieman under the bed? Of the monster in the closet, ready to steal you away? I am. I am scared of the big bad wolf and the raven and the shadows and the dark. But you know what’s worse? The Light. The Light is full of shapes, of cold contrast, of hate and love loneliness and hope. The Light has five-minute-affairs, tests and lessons, persecution and persecuted, great expectations, shallow tears, Jesus-Loves-Yous, and eyes watching, watching. Light is the space between knowledge. I do not fight, fight the dying of the light. Let it come, let it cover me. Call away the dawn with the calls of nightingales. Give me dusk and dawn and the in-between time, but send the day away. Or paint me black and chip my teeth and make my eyes burn red. Give me the dark, for in the dark at least,
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Winding Staircase s Caroline Grebner
I know what to fear.
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Slipping into Character Nick Heinlen
“I’m happy, I’m a spazz, I love life—I’m John Cleary,” I repeated incessantly, pacing the black backstage void, pacing back and forth before my entrance. Calming down, I leaned ever so slightly onto the door and peered through its crack, scanning the set for movement; I breathed in and out, mentally delivering and redelivering my opening dialogue, exploring every gesture, every vocal permutation. “I’m happy, I’m a spazz, I love life—I’m John Cleary.” Not that I had anything to worry about. John Cleary largely resembled an older, more eccentric version of me, one equipped with the superpower of what I coined “Olfactory Awesomeness,” the ability to identify anything that had ever occurred in a building simply by taking a deep whiff. So I had very little trouble actually getting into character. “I’m happy, I’m a spazz, I love life—I’m John Cleary,” I whispered again. Suddenly, a ghostly figure, appearing from nowhere, materialized before me, leaning on the wall across from me; excepting the grayed hair, the crow’s feet, and the nineteen-forties’ clothes, he resembled me perfectly. “Goodness,” he said, removing his long-brimmed fedora. “You can calm down now, Nick; you’ve mastered my mannerisms and command my diction like a drill sergeant in boot camp.” “I know, John. I think I’m finally ready.” He grinned toothily. “Do or do not—there is no try.” I straightened my tie. My 1940s figment would quote Yoda to me. Suddenly, the music halted, and the curtains swept open. “That’s my cue,” he said, turning and replacing his hat. Swinging back around, he faced me. “Just remember—” “I’m happy, I’m a spazz, I love life—I’m John Cleary,” I said.
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Pinecones
Jackie Durnil
“Jackie, Kelly dear,” My mom called, “come here!” She smiled so sweetly at us. “Now, don’t make a fuss, But I’m making a centerpiece For Christmas Eve, And of pinecones I’m in need.”
And so we set out With our jackets puffed stout And headed to the park, Our teeth chattering in the dark. We collected pinecones: 1, 2, 3, 4, But when we arrived, shivering at door, My mom said, “Oh, I don’t need these anymore.”
Apparatus of Nature
Emma Scheer
Bring me the sunshine in a cup, And the moonlit sky in a bowl. Bring me the dew-frosted, morning grass on a plate, And the shining stars upon my platter. Bring me the Earth To hold in my hands, The sun to rise above my head, And the moon to sleep beneath my bed. Bring me the freshly cut flowers in a vase, And the northern lights to shine upon my face.
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Bring me the moon To cradle in my arms, The trees to sway with every breeze, The icing on the lake when it decides to freeze. Bring me the ocean waves, The darkened caves, And all that lies Beneath the skies. Bring me all of Mother Nature, So I may know her pure beauty. Bring me the sunshine in a cup, And the moonlit sky in a bowl.
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We Who See Broken Isabella Kwiecinski
I don't see her. She brings me my things though she fumbles and stumbles with their weight over her fragile frame. "You don't have to," I say. But she insists and drops my books onto the floor. I crack a smile, and, scraping together the scattered remains of my possessions, we laugh together at the pieces. I don't look happy. He sits and tells me jokes, ecstatic and falling apart with delight. I laugh and grin and joke with him, and his return of it is the best feeling. I say, "I'm glad you're here." He says something stupid, and we choke back happiness tears and cracks in our voices. I don't look too hard. She tells me her problems, and I explain the solutions. I know them all, and she loves me for them. We share our lives, and we understand one another. We work hard, but we know we are puzzled. I look, and I see a man. His eyes are sad. The glasses he wears over them would shatter. I look again. I know what he talks about. I see it. She pushes my things toward me and hastily runs to the girls who call her name. He springs to his feet, chasing after his friends and leaving me to stand. She moves away, ignoring me with her eyes and pointing to the three behind me. They walk away and they laugh, away from me. I look; I am alone. I am in pieces. "You look at them all," the man says. His eyelids and chin wrinkle. "I'm sorry for what you have seen that takes you apart." I look at myself through the looking glass, and he asks, "Can you put yourself together again?" I look every day, I look every time, I look every moment. And I laugh. And they walk away. And my eyes are crying. And I see the man, and he is sad. I look to him, and he takes me in his arms, and he cries many tears for every child like me who sees. We see. We aren't blind, but we are broken.
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The Girl on the Tractor s
Rita Hull
Randomness
Tim Vanco
Running around in circles, the puppies chase their curly tails, Animals of Africa hunting prey on the savannah, only to fail. Nigeria receiving independence from Great Britain in the year nineteen-fourteen, Duchess of Cambridge, Kate, announcing a baby--maybe a future queen? Oprah Winfrey loves babies, Many different people interviewed by Dr. Phil, some very crazy ladies. No one as crazy as Miss Britney Spears, chasing cars armed with an umbrella, Everyone needs an umbrella to secure protection from rains of Nutella. Sunshine and a rainbow following the flood ending the world, Superstar, Paul Vasquez, singing of double rainbows in a magical swirl.
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Copyright 2013 by Harbinger, a publication of Carmel Catholic High School. After publication, all rights return to each work’s creator. The views expressed do not represent the views of Carmel Catholic High School or the Harbinger Staff.
Harbinger 2013
menagerie [me-nag-er-ie] 1. A collection of wild animals kept in captivity for exhibition. 2. A strange and diverse collection.