Scholastic
Achievements
Gold Medal: The highest
Silver Medal: The second
Gold Key: The most outstanding
Silver Key: The second level of
level of achievement on a national level. Czejkowski, Ellie ’13 Urban Geyser
works in the region. Schimelfenig, Lexi ’13 Down for the Count Swienckowski, Jason ’14 Down for the Count Torres, Blair ’13 Static Bovines Williams, Emmary ’13 U.S.S. Constitution Wise, Emily ’13 Fire Escape
Honorable Mention: This Award
recognizes students with artistic potential. Theobald, Cameron ’13 The Sad World of Van Man: Honda Odyssey
highest level of achievement on a national level. Torres, Blair ’13 Static Bovines
achievement on a regional level. Mintel, Rachel ’13 Time Williams, Emmary ’13 Camoflauge
American Visions Nominee:
Five works are selected out of all Gold Key works (across categories) as the “Best of Show” for each region. Torres, Blair ’13 Static Bovines
North Carolina Student Excellence Award: This was
awarded by the jurors as representative of a North Carolina scene. Torres, Blair ’13 Static Bovines
Descriptions courtesy of Scholastic Art and Writing Awards
Cardinal Gibbons High School is a college preparatory school of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Raleigh. We embrace the mission of Jesus Christ to form men and women of faith, service, and leadership in church and community.
The Repeater -2013Volume 16 EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Emmary Williams ’13 MANAGING EDITOR Anthony Palumbo ’15 LITERARY AND ARTS EDITORS Ellyson Williams ’13 and Rayburn McCulloh ’14 STAFF Rachel Mintel ’13, Daniel Diehl ’16, Shane Humphrey ’16, and Carl Hiltbrunner ’13 COVER Artwork: Laura Hart ’15 Design: Carl Hiltbrunner ’13 and Rachel Mintel ’13 ADVISER Rachelle D. Garbarine
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We, the staff of The Repeater, are proud to bring you this magazine, highlighting the literary and artistic talents that Cardinal Gibbons cultivates among its students. We would like to thank all of those who submitted this year for providing us with high quality content to complete our mission to reproduce the words, thoughts, visions, and dreams of the students, here, at Cardinal Gibbons. This year, we had to be particularly selective due to the abundant creativity of the submissions we received. Our selection is excellent; many of our submissions have received awards from various art/and or writing competitions, both locally and nationally. We hope this magazine sparks your interest and inspires new thoughts and ideas. The idea for the magazine originated many years ago when art instructor Rebecca Dason was sitting next to a student at a school dance. This student expressed his desire to have a student-led literary and arts magazine that would showcase students’ creativity. The original intent was to give students “an opportunity to express themselves through a students’ publication,” said Dason. And here we are, 16 volumes later.
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Contents 5-Down for the Count Jason Swienckowski ’14 The Fall of Man Anthony Palumbo ’15 6-The Sad World of Van Man: Honda Odyssey Cameron Theobald ’13 7-Majestic Mountains Alex Scott ’13 Little Wonder Blair Torres ’13 Awaiting the Blossom Lexi Schimelfenig ’13 8-God’s Eye Tristan Storr ’13 9-Lighthouse Daniel White ‘13 10-Static Bouvines Blair Torres ’13 Time Rachel Mintel ’13 11-Fragile Nature Alexandra Lankenau ’15 Faces Emily Lutz ’14 12-Camoflauge Emmary Williams ’13 13-Message in a Bottle Griffin Gast ’13 14-Don’t Lose Sleep Andrea Velosa ’14 16-The Pointless, Endless Effort of Purpose Claudia Luna Rutkowski ’13 Eyes Through Time Lauren Morris ’14 17-The Never Ending Game Jenna Steele ’15
18-Love of the Game Anthony Palumbo ’15 19-Down the Rabbit Hole Lexi Schimelfenig ’13 20-The Narrative Nicholas Teder ’14 22-The Looking Glass Jason Swienckoswki ’14 By the Front Door Emily Wise ’13 23-U.S.S. Constitution Emmary Williams ’13 Un Poeme a la Maniere French IV Honors, Catherine Amos ’13 24-Unwavering Blair Torres ’13 25-Urban Geyser Ellie Czejkowski ’13 Fire Escape Emily Wise ’13 26- Waldo Griffin Gast ’13 27- Confined Wren Dyer ’14 28- Her Heart Claudia Luna Rutkowski ’13 29- Routemaster Cameron Theobald ’13
Illustrated by: Emmary Williams ’13
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Down for the Count
Vol 16| 2013
Jason Swienckowski ’14
The Fall of Man Anthony Palumbo ’15
Foot Sliding, ready to fall, Nothing but his own weight to throw him down, No power to resist, And God is nowhere to be found, Dark. Hell.
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The epeater
A Sad World of Van Man: Honda Odyssey Cameron Theobald ’13
Once a man has reached the apogee of life, which today is around age thirty-five, he has two choices: get married or buy a sports car. He has seen an advertisement for the Honda Odyssey’s best-in-class seating and said, “Aha! That is what I want to do with my life!” Inevitably, as 9 in 10 men choose the first option, he gives up many carefree and sunny afternoons on winding roads in favour of shovelling coal into the boiler of childbirth. There is no doubt that once he gets married, his wife will want two, perhaps three small, precious children. Once these children are born, the man must make, conceivably, the most important decision after getting married: to buy a van. There are three choices available to wouldbe Van Man: the Honda Oddity, Toyota Sienna, and Dodge Caravan, each as different as the next. The Sienna has recently been redesigned with a new, sporty look, obviously to appeal to the deep-seated conviction within Van Man that he should dump the wife and buy a Porsche. The Dodge has several standout features, including Stow-n-Go cargo options and „Swivel-and-Go seating to match your Wash-nGo shampoo. Plus it has an engine that is less powerful than a Kitchen-Aid mixer and sounds like one too, so obviously Van Man does not choose it. So that leaves the Odyssey. Predictably, this hulk of Japanese engineering will appear on every Van Man’s drive within a week of the firstborn child. But why does he buy it? There is no attractive image associated with the Odyssey. To own one is to say you enjoy your new life with your hair full of kid sick. To drive one is to say you’ve given up. You have children and a gut. Your life is ruled, not by the need to be
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attractive and funny, but by the prices at Ikea. I’ve seen you at the supermarket, buying Count Chocu-la and Fruit Loops. The Odyssey is horrid to drive and even worse to behold, and yet Van Man sees it as a practical tool for rearing his gremlins in comfort and safety. It is as sensible as a garden hose or a chair (eight chairs, in fact, as it seats eight). Van Man sees it as an investment to put off the ownership of the Porsche. “Once Alexa and John are out of the house,” he says to his fat wife, “I will buy that Porsche.” Ah, yes, he will finally get that sports car. Or rather, he won’t, because he has forgotten about sending Alexa and John off to college. This will cost Van Man every penny he has left, and therefore he cannot afford a sports car. So he will be driving the Odyssey until his great-3 grandchildren have great-grandchildren, and it will be used as to chauffeur Van Man’s casket to his grave. Who is to blame for this ghastly sequence of events playing out all over suburban America? Honda, of course. They have market-researched every aspect of Van Man’s life, right down to the Fruit Loops and Count Choc-u-la. They have created a vehicle to supplant every reasoning fibre in his head. Which, inevitably, means that it is perfect every way. The Japs have got it right again. I therefore advise every Van Man (you know who you are) to march down to the local Porsche mecca and buy a Boxter. It has two seats. And it’s brilliant.
Vol 16| 2013
Majestic Mountains Alex Scott ’13
Little Wonder Blair Torres ’13
Awaiting the Blossom Lexi Schimelfenig ’13 Desperate—I sit. “Spring comes soon,” whispers the tree Patiently, I wait.
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The epeater
God’s Eye Tristan Storr ’13
As I listen to these waves crash along the shore, My mind is compelled to think of something more. Do we walk together, Or do we walk alone? Is His house Truly a home? So much suffering, So much pain. Don’t you wonder, if He died in vain? What is this world? Is it fate? Or, is it up to us to make our names great? Do I see His face in all creation, Or are we just a tribe of warring nations? Why does hate spread like cancer? Do these questions even have an answer? All these thoughts emerge as I begin to cry: “Do I have a place in God’s eye?” It’s that question that shakes my core, As I listen to these waves crash along the shore.
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Vol 16 | 2013
Lighthouse Daniel White ’13
A slightly lifted hovel house Against the waves deep from the South. Facing ocean’s wave and storm, The darkest, gravest tempest born. The waters come and flood the place, That once was home and once was safe. The framework sinks into the sand, It’s mastered by the ocean’s hand. The bricks and clay begin to bend, For they were built by human hand. They crumple, fall, splash to the sea, Where drowned at ocean floor they’ll be. The lighthouse falls and plunges down, Salt and sea, they all surround. The light that shone from beacon high, Set like the sun when westward nigh.
Illustrated by: Emily Wise ’13
But though the sea will churn and swallow, Not for the lighthouse that seems to follow, The One creating clay divine, That fosters bricks of life that shines.
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The epeater
Static Bovines Blair Torres ’13
Time
Rachel Mintel ’13
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Fragile Nature Alexandra Lankenau ‘15
Vol 16 | 2013
A scattering of light.
Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. An endless cycle. Life, death, rebirth. That is all that this universe is. A black, swirling whirlpool.
It is only in the scattering of light that the world is at peace for a moment. A second. A nanosecond. A picosecond. The second vanishes. Dark. Dark. Dark. Dark. We are living in chaos. We are chaos. We are the ones who say that we are right Even though we lie and cheat to make this appear true. Every day we ignore cries to help the suffering. We make this darkness, this thick black suffocating blanket. We are the ones. We are. Are we?
Faces
Emily Lutz ‘14
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Camoflauge Emmary Williams ’13
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Vol 16 | 2013
Message in a Bottle Griffin Gast ’13
Curtain opens with an empty stage and the faint sound of ocean waves. Slowly lights come up out of the darkness. The lights are pinks and orange, reds and yellows, and when blended together, give the impression of a sunrise. A teenage boy walks on from stage right with a brown, glass bottle in his hand. BOY: (Sighs) I guess I’m actually gonna do this. It’s funny, as a kid I always dreamed of being a sailor, not a modern sailor in the Navy, but a classic sailor, like a pirate. I always imagined the adventures I would have sailing the Seven Seas, ya know? One of my favorite stories was the story of the shipwrecked sailor casting bottles with notes in them out to sea. I even scoured the beach when my family and I would go, hoping to find one of those bottles. Eventually those dreams faded away, but for some reason this morning I feel driven to write a note, put it in a bottle, and send it out to sea. I don’t know why, but that didn’t stop me. (Holds bottle up and looks at it) Here’s to childhood (Throws bottle off stage left. Blackout) Lights come up, same as before with the same sound of the ocean. BOY stands where he was at the end of the first scene, staring off to sea. A middle-aged woman walks up behind him, hiding a brown bottle behind her back.
to meet me here today. It’s not as weird as it sounds…or maybe it is. I mean, I woke up one day and was compelled by something. I don’t know what caused it, but I knew I had to do it. You see, I always loved those old stories of sailors being washed up on deserted islands, throwing bottles into the sea, praying for a rescue. I thought that maybe I could be someone’s rescue. (Sigh) But I’m afraid the bottle got bashed on the rocks or lost somewhere. WOMAN: Your story reminds me of something that happened to me. A while ago, my life was in shambles. My marriage was falling apart, I lost my job, my kids were turning against me, and I even started hitting the bottle. I felt broken, so I went to the one place I knew would calm me: the ocean. After a while, a little brown bottle washed up. I picked it up and noticed a piece of paper inside. I pulled the note out and it read, “You are loved.” Those three words gave me the strength to recover my life. After I read them, I left the beach, quit drinking, made things work with my husband and kids. (She pulls out the bottle) Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. (WOMAN hugs BOY, hands him the bottle, and walks off stage right, leaving the boy in shock that he was actually able to save a lost soul.)
WOMAN: Good Morning BOY: (Startled) Huh? What….oh! Good Morning… WOMAN: You seem distracted. Are you alright? BOY: Yeah, I’m fine. I’m waiting for somebody. I threw a bottle with a note in it out to sea last year and asked the finder
Illustrated by: Daniel Diehl ’16
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Vol 16 | 2013
Don’t Lose Sleep Andrea Velosa ’14
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`
The Pointless, Endless Effort of Purpose Claudia Luna Rutkowski ’13
I could write a verse to curse I could write a verse to cheat To charm you sly and sweet I could write the silhouette of the lover you are to meet just beyond the door-frame in the dim light of the eaves I could write the way the wind curls your hair and whisks across the beach I could write you pale-faced with other-worldly echoes I could write you pink with the pretty curves of her feet I could write a world I could write a war I could write a moment unforgiving and so pure, tender and obscure to leave you craving more I could make you feel the heat of your heart and every beat but will you, oh people, will you listen to me?
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Eyes Through Time Lauren Morris ’14
The Never Ending Game
Vol 16 | 2013
Jenna Steele ’15
I am kicked, Rolled back and forth. I am shifted from one end of the field to the other. Passed to the opponent With hurtful phrases. There’s no time for comfort Before I’m back to where I started. The separation between the two teams is obvious. Each has their own fans Cheering them on. Neither team will give me up. The trash talk piles, Attacking and weakening my exterior. I want to cry out: “No!” But, I am silent. There is a referee to keep the teams in line, Neither trust; neither relent. The game never ends… No half time of peace. The game rages on With no sign of the whistle. The game Takes a toll on me, the ball. I’m banged and bruised by the foot of their words. I’ve invested eight years’ worth of practice, So I roll on. Each time I’m passed, I deflate. Will the game continue Until I’m reduced to nothing more than a flat ball? Each pass feels harder than the previous. Their legs put more power behind every strike. I am weighed down. I don’t know how much longer I can last. The game of divorce never ends.
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The epeater
Love of the Game Anthony Palumbo ’15
Jackson throws his backpack onto an empty couch. Every morning, Jackson’s mother is sitting on the couch, covered in stains from her spilled drinks, holding her bottle of Jack Daniels. Each morning the same confrontation occurs. His mother, drunk, yells, “Jackson! Where y’think y’r goin, boy?!” “To school, Mom.” Jackson then proceeds silently out the door. Jackson’s mother was never home after he got back from school. He never really knew where she was, he just assumed she was out. Buying more whiskey or actually going to work at the job of the week she found. She wasn’t why he wanted to come home so badly in this afternoon. Jackson passed the couch on the way to the kitchen to get a quick snack before he went out. He reached into the pantry and grabbed a pack of Oreos. They were a rare treat at his house, and when they were there, he was always too late. On a normal day, Jackson always got home after his brothers, meaning there were none left. But, today was special. Not only was he there in time to get the Oreos all for himself, but it was Wednesday. On Wednesday, Jackson’s school got out early, and he got extra time in the evenings. On Wednesdays, he and his buddy Dean would head down to the park for pickup basketball. Wednesdays were the highlight of his week: he could never go a second of the day without
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thinking about the game later. In the game, Jackson’s mind was free; it was the only way he knew how to forget what waited for him at home. After Jackson got something to eat, he and Dean would meet in front of the building. Jackson lived on the second floor; Dean lived on the eighth, which meant Jackson would always be there first. Jackson usually used the time to practice some of the moves he had been working on for the week’s game. Then Dean came down and they walked to the park. The park was two blocks away, but the boys ran as fast as they could, those two blocks, letting out some excitement, finally free. As Jackson walked up to the slab of concrete, his pupils dilated, and he started to breathe from someplace deeper, less shallow, than when he was anyplace else. This court was his sanctum, his safe haven from all the madness. The court was full with the usual crowd, friends from his high school and the boys down the block. The game was always the school boys versus the neighborhood boys. When it was Jackson’s turn to go in, he couldn’t help feeling unstoppable. When the ball got in his hand, everything else slowed down and the world became this quiet, private place in his head. In it existed only the orange sphere under his fingers and the court before him. Cross over, between the legs, into a two-handed dunk. He was one of the best, he could take on any opponent that came to him. But it wasn’t just a game. It was his love for the game that helped him get away.
Down the Rabbit Hole
Vol 16 | 2013
Lexi Schimelfenig ’13
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The Narrative Nicholas Teder ’14
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Death is everywhere. He is standing beside you right now, just waiting for the right time to take you. He stands beside all seven billion people right now and has already taken billions more. One might think that Death loves taking people away from this world and into another, and while that might be true, stealing billions of souls has become a monotonous job day after day. So Death thought to himself, “I must find some different way to take people’s lives,” and that he did. Our story begins in the bustling city of Charleston, South Carolina, with a young girl, Emily, on a cold, winter’s afternoon. Emily was the poster child of the school—a star of the basketball team, a straight A student, and a young, lovely lady. Unfortunately for her, today was not a good day; she had recently broken up with her boyfriend, Tom. She knew everyone would be asking her what and why all day, so she walked home faster than normal. Emily was walking down Colbert Street, when she saw her friends jogging towards her. “Emily! Emily! Wait up,” her friends shout. Fearing pestering questions, she ran away and went down an unfamiliar street filled with homeless people
Illustrated by: Daniel Diehl ’16
Vol 16 | 2013
and tattoo parlors. At this point she had lost her friends in the crowd but is worried for her safety. She looked and stirred around, and then ran into a “businessman” with black glasses, a black hat, and a black trench coat. The man accidently dropped a few books and his briefcase. “Excuse me, sir,” Emily said as she picked up his books. The man replied, “No. No. Pardon me.” Emily gave the man back his books, but when she tried to give him the black book, he said, “Actually, why don’t you hang on to that one. I’ve finished reading it, and you may take some interest in it. I do warn you though, do not read the end until you are ready.” Emily, feeling no repercussions, accepted the book, thanked the man, and headed home. When she arrived home, the house was empty with the exception of her two cats. Emily walked upstairs to her room and began her homework. She sat down at her desk and tried to work on her chemistry, but every second her head ached more and more, like something was calling her. She looked at the book and thought ten minutes would not kill her, so she rose from her chair and sat on her bed and began reading. Chapter 1: The Beginning I was born on April 13, 1997, in Charleston, South Carolina to a loving family of my mom, my dad, and my two cats. Emily stopped reading and says, “Well that’s weird. That’s my birthday.” Thinking it was just a coincidence and nothing more, she then flipped through more pages and began to read some more. Chapter 17: The Breakup Today was no ordinary day. In school today
I caught my jerk of a boyfriend kissing another girl against the water fountain! I went up to him, slapped him, and then walked away. I didn’t have to yell at him for him to know: it was over. Emily now realized this book is no ordinary novel. No, this book was based on her life. But she had only flipped to Chapter 17, and there were forty-five chapters. She thought maybe it could tell her future; however, she remembered the man’s warning. But, how could she not pass up on this opportunity? She quickly flipped to a page and read: Chapter 38: The Recovery Today marks the one week anniversary of my first chemotherapy treatment. I am miserable. The doctor says I have a 50% chance of surviving, but in my state, my chances must be slim. My husband left me because of this cancer. My kids are left with my sister waiting for their mom to recover. Sometimes I wish that I drank that little vial in my nightstand all those years ago to prevent such a miserable future. Emily slammed the book shut shivering in fear. She could not believe what is to become of her, but then she thought to herself, “What vial? I have no vial in my…” Then she stopped thinking, leaned over, opened her nightstand, and there it was: a small glass vial with a clear liquid inside. She paused to think once more and decided she did not want to become that poor old woman in the story. Emily opened the vile, smelled the ghastly potion, and drank. She fell on her bed and breathed once more. Soon after the untimely death of Emily, the man entered. He took the vial and the book, and just before he left her room he sighed and said, “I warned you Emily. I warned you.”
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The epeater
The Looking Glass Jason Swienckowski ’14
By The Front Door Emily Wise ’13
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Vol 16 | 2013
U. S. S. Constitution Emmary Williams ’13
Un Poème a la Manière
French IV Honors, an exercise in French homonyms Catherine Amos ’13 Il y a en France un maire. Et iI y a un endroit où on se baigne c’est la mer. Il y a ma mère et ma grand-mère. Et elles habitent au bord de la mer. Elles mangent des fruits de mer. Et moi j’ai la tête en l’air, Car la terre est à l’envers, Donc mes pieds sont de travers.
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The epeater
Unwavering Blair Torres ’13
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Urban Geyser
Vol 16 | 2013
Ellie Czejkowski ’13
Fire Escape Emily Wise ’13
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The epeater
Waldo
Griffin Gast ’13
(Both lean on the edge of the desk, sipping their coffee.) HANDFORD: Well then, I think the Sofia Hotel would be the best place to start our search. He could have ducked in, booked a room, and planned to wait there until the heat died down.
Curtain opens with a man in a suit sitting at a desk covered with papers on stage right and a map of a city posted on a board at center stage. Another suited man enters stage left carrying two cups of coffee. The lights are dim and all the colors on stage are blacks, grays, or whites; MARTIN: I agree. The apartments are a viable it is as if the audience is watching a live film noir. possibility, but it’s easier to book a room than it is to rent an apartment. Let’s call the Sofia DETECTIVE MARTIN: (Stands up and speaks Hotel and ask if a man wearing a red and white directly to audience.) Man walks into a bank with a striped sweater checked in on the day of the loaded shotgun, demands $500,000 in a canvas robbery. bag, is seen by at least fifteen people, and yet the only thing that anyone remembers about him HANDFORD: Good plan. (Grabs the phone and is that he was wearing a red and white striped dials. sweater…How is that even possible? Hello? Operator? I’d like the Sofia Hotel DETECTIVE HANDFORD: (Spoken to the please. Thank you. Hello, Sofia Hotel? This audience as well.) Once he left the bank, nobody is Detective Handford with Station 5. We are remembers seeing him. How does a man in a currently investigating a bank robbery and red and white sweater just disappear into a sea we need to know if a man wearing a red and of people? (Turns to Martin and hands him a cup of white sweater checked into your hotel two coffee.) days ago. (Pause.) No? Well, have you seen a man matching that description in the past few MARTIN: (Said to Handford while sipping from days? Perhaps before the robbery? (Pause.) No? cup.) He must’ve changed clothes; it’s the Well thank you for your time and cooperation. only possibility that explains him just up and Have a nice day. (Puts down the receiver.) Nothing. disappearing. Nobody’s checked in and the manager hasn’t even seen anybody like that in the past week. (A HANDFORD: And he’s got to be laying low third suited man walks in stage left.) because he knows that we’d notice somebody suddenly spending half a million dollars. CHIEF: So boys, how goes the bank robbery case? MARTIN: (Gets up and wanders to the board.) Okay, so if he’s hiding out, he could only go about this MARTIN: Well Chief, we thought we had a far without somebody noticing him. (Draws a red lead, but it’s just turned into another dead end. circle on the map showing where the culprit might be.) CHIEF: I want you boys to keep me informed HANDFORD: (Studying the map.) Hmm… about anything you find and I’ll try my hardest that area includes the Sofia Hotel, a group of to help you out from my end of things. apartment buildings, a few stores, and…our station! You don’t think one of our boys pulled HANDFORD: Thanks Chief Waldo. We this job, do you? always know we can count on you. (Chief turns and walks off stage left. As he is walking off, the MARTIN: No. There’s no way one of our detectives turn to the map and we see a bit of a red and guys robbed a bank. Our officers are the most white sweater peeking out of the back of the Chief ’s dedicated force in the whole city. jacket. Curtain falls.)
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Vol 16 | 2013
Confined Wren Dyer ’14
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The epeater
Her Heart
Claudia Luna Rutkowski ’13
America is a wild girl with her hair let down, barefoot and blue jeans, lovely and sweet. America is a smoke-sung boy young and strong, heart beating to the time of a drum. Passionate and rebellious and bright, laughing by day, flying by night dancing in the flicker of the morning light. Reckless and loud, thoughtful and naive, bursting bursting bursting at the seams— it’s the beauty in the ashes, in the rise in the fall the bell that rings the crux of us all the person who sings can never give up fire of dawn, evening skies secrets, secrets of the night it’s a stirring, eyes meeting, it’s a riot! Firm and fleeting,
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fervently speaking, it’s a fight. Wonder-seeking, kept awake, we will change the whole world right— whisper, hum swear and speak, we are we, free free free
Illustrated by: Claudia Luna Rutkowski ’13
Vol 16 | 2013
Routemaster Cameron Theobald ’13
Colophon
The Repeater, Volume 16, was produced by The Repeater staff at Cardinal Gibbons High School in Raleigh, NC and was printed by Progressive Business Solutions in Raleigh, NC. The cover art was painted in acrylics by Laura Hart ’15 following an assignment dedicated to the exploration of the new building spaces in search of design elements depicting a cross. Students in art II class walked throughout the new space as a class and took photographs to utilize for their images. Laura used gestural color marks on the canvas before depicting the front of the building in a bold graphic. The book contains 28 pages, including 9 in full color, and was produced using Adobe InDesign. All body copy was set in10 pt. Baskerville Old Face, titles were printed in 30 pt. Garamond, and all authors’ and artists’ names were printed in 12 pt. Berylium. The 2012 Repeater received three awards – Overall distinction, Honorable Mention, Distinction/Poetry - from the North Carolina Scholastic Media Association
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