2016 Etchings - Art & Literary Magazine by Hebron Academy

Etchings Art & Literary Magazine

see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

Featured on the cover: Ladders of Consciousness Shin Hye “Tiffany” Hwang ‘16

Featured on RIGHT: Top: Ashes Till Now - Riley Hemmings ‘16 Left: Curve - Riley Hemmings ‘16 Right: Traditional Market - Shin Hye “Tiffany” Hwang ‘16

FORWARD & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Welcome to our most recent Etchings, the art and literary celebration of student work at Hebron Academy. It was an incredible year for our writers and artists, filled with accolades from within our school, in local galleries and from the Scholastic Art and Writing Contest. Students and faculty alike worked throughout the year, thriving in our creative culture that inspires boldness, exploration, excellence and rigor. Through the many writing opportunities and the countless visual art projects and studies, Hebron students are free to share their individual and expressive voices. As they reflect on a piece of literature, share memories and sentiment through a recipe, or craft horror for the writing contest, Hebron students show that they are flexible, imaginative, and fluid writers. And for our artists, as they create an interactive 3-D piece about their childhood, understand conceptual thinking and illustrate a novel, and share organic textures with clay, they show that they are playful, adaptive and diligent. We hope you enjoy this wonderful collection of work and continue to visit the Etchings pages throughout the year.

--The English & Fine Arts Department

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

All photos in this series by Shin Hye “Tiffany” Hwang ‘16 see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

And the summer was over...

By Alaia Singh ‘17

I slammed the car door shut hurriedly, waved goodbye to my mum, and ran towards my grandma who was waiting for me under her building. She lifted me in her arms and swiveled me through the air while I clutched on to her tightly. The faint breeze caused her scarf to ruffle and her homely jasmine scent relaxed me from limb to limb. She carried me to her sea-facing apartment and the entire five floors up she mimicked the motions of an airplane as she swooshed me up and down. Later that afternoon I was perched on her knee while she bobbed on her grand old rocking chair and knitted away. I was mesmerized by the large expanse of ocean visible from the window and simultaneously I enjoyed the delicious homemade cheese potatoes Nani hand fed me. It felt like only minutes had passed but it had been hours since my mother dropped me off and the clock now read five past six. Nani honored the promise she made the previous Sunday and took me to the garden to play with the other kids. ‘Run Alaia run!’ yelped the kids on the playground in unison during our game of Tag, and in turn I sprinted away from the Tagger. A few seconds later I find my seven year old self in the midst of gravel and mud, face flat. The stone I tripped over stumbled ahead and cheekily landed adjacent to my muddy face, posing as a subtle reminder of how something so tiny caused me to be motionless. Before I could notice my bruised knee and bloody elbow Nani scooped me up and hurried up the same five floors again, except this time she cautiously held me close to her chest. My eyes were slightly puffy and Nani could tell I would break into a terrible sloppy mess any second. ‘Did you know this building is over a hundred years old, Alaia? And the doorman has been around since your mother was a baby? Did you know he is from Nepal? Do you know were Nepal is? Would you like to visit Nepal, Alaia?’ Nani desperately ranted away all the five floors up. Once I caught sight of my blood drenched elbow I started bawling aggressively. As Nani wiped my bruises clean with an antiseptic I cried even louder and kicked my legs erratically in the air. I can still recall the utter discomfort I felt. But what I recall more vividly is the manner in which Nani nestled me in her bosom and hugged me so tightly that I had no choice but to surrender 6

to the pain. I stopped kicking, stopped crying and started breathing slowly and deeply. It was one of those hugs. The ones which make you feel at home,absolutely safe. Roughly seventeen bruises, ten falls and eight years later I stood in front of a scrawny,hunched, less charismatic and constantly confused Nani. A Nani who could barely pick up a pillow let alone swoosh me through the air. It was the 11th week since she had moved in with my family. Nani would sleep in my room and every morning I would help my mother bathe her. During the week of my tenth grade final exams, I would get into bed only by the early hours of the morning because I would stay up all night revising my work. One distinct morning my head hit the pillow at 4am and my heavy eyelids were thankful that I was finally done studying. Soon after that, my deep sleep was interrupted by a loud thud that seemed to come from the bathroom. I rushed in to find Nani, bare skinned and immobile, sprawled on the wet floor. Her forehead had swollen up and bulged out to form a hemispherical red shape. Her eyes were big and fear stricken. My post sleep grogginess instantly turned into a state of panic. I gathered she had a fall while attempting to bathe herself. Her body was limp. She was in a state of shock. Her bony figure began shivering, her eyes were still wide. She didn’t blink. Her lips hung loose and soundlessly began quivering. I summoned the physical strength to pick her up. She was unable to contribute any effort because she was still shaken up. This happened to her a lot. She was slowly losing control of her body, her speech, herself. I propped her up against the wall, wiped her dry and slipped on a nightdress over her wrinkled, fragile body. Slowly, she crept back into consciousness and tears started streaming down her face. Her cries got louder and more intense and had a noticeable undertone of frustration. While the rest of the house was in a deep state of slumber, I wrapped my arms around Nani. I stroked her gray hairs and patted her spindly back. My arms encompassed her body and I gave her a tight hug. It was one of those hugs. The ones which make you feel at home, absolutely safe, because her cries gradually died down and she started breathing slowly and deeply.

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

By RYAN BOUCHER ‘16

By RILEY HEMMINGS ‘16

By JOEL COHEN ‘16

By ELIZABETH EVERETT ‘16

see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

Slavery: Legacy and Change By Maria Vitoria “Vic” de Vasconcellos Marques ‘16 During the Classic Age, when empires like Greece and Rome dominated most of the world, slavery played a significant role on social life. Slaves were obtained by wars and as a form of paying off debts, the enslaved people would live among citizens and work with them. The banality of slavery at the time can explain the lack of a major social issue or tension between classes: being a slave wasn’t much more than being a worker, there were no moral causes involved. As time passed, slavery changed and within about a thousand years, when the connection between the African and European continents grew stronger, helping Portuguese explorers to establish a slave market, the world witnessed the birth of a completely new form of slavery, developed due to a mix of economic causes and a social fallacy. “Modern slavery” was almost disconnected from classic slavery. The basic fundamental principle which supports modern slavery – and therefore explains both its success and moral issues – is the inhuman treatment towards slaves. Expansionists European countries transformed a continent that was once home to outstanding civilizations (such as the Egyptian) into a location dominated by domestic conflicts – which were a direct result of Europeans treaties2 – and deteriorated by misery. There are not enough arguments to support the brutality and the overall absurd that modern slavery was. There are, however, a series of consequences related to the lingering maintenance and institutionalization of slavery. Regarding the African continent, which is always thought to live under a state of endless primitivism, experienced a massive loss of culture and social patterns, a violation of the sovereignty concept due to the European belief of superiority, which is a clear and proof-less fallacy. Because of its division in a large number of tribes, the African people didn’t consider themselves a part of a major group – in contradiction to a historical “tradition” of referring to “Africa” as if it was a single country – therefore, there was no reason that would have driven them to unite against the European continents, specially when the same countries that would eventually wreck a tribe were very useful on domestic conflicts against enemy tribes. Slavery itself – but a kind that was more similar to classic slavery, only with a higher trading potential for enslaved beings – was common among most tribes, as stated by John Barbot, an agent for the French Royal African Company during 8

his visit to the West coast of Africa, “Those sold by the Blacks are for the most part prisoners of war, taken either in fight, or pursuit, or in the incursions they make into their enemies territories; others stolen away by their own countrymen; and some there are, who will sell their own children, kindred, or neighbours” (Barbot, 1678). Due this prior connection with slavery, the commercial relation with countries such as Portugal and France wasn’t considering to be threatening at its beginning. The economic reasons behind slavery, which are proved by the plantation system on many colonies, establishes itself as major factor that explains the long duration and consistent of the modern slave trade. The initial relation based on a simple trade would change with the soon to be an overwhelming demand of slaves to support the New World’s economic system. In South America, Portugal rapidly transformed Brazil on a land dominated by plantations2 which caused a significant increase on the demand for slaves. The events that lead to the growth of slavery in North America, on the former British colonies, are deeply related to a rebellion lead by a white man – and other five hundred people, including black men1 - which opposed the Governor of the colony of Virginia. The so called Bacon’s Rebellion convinced colonists that African slaves were a better work option than poor white men, starting a trend that increased the commerce of black slaves which was soon spread throughout the other colonies. Once away from their home continent, the African slaves that survived the horrendous journey to the Americas1 were sold in slave markets and were forced not only to work restlessly but also to quickly adapt to a different culture that considered their own African religion and traditions to be related to satanic figures and therefore worth destroying. The brutality with which the slave owners would reinforce the idea that slaves weren’t humans is also a subject of Barbot’s notes, “These slaves are severely and barbarously treated by their masters, who subsist them poorly, and beat them inhumanly, as may be seen by the scabs and wounds on the bodies of many of them when sold to us [… ]they are carried like sheep to the slaughter, and that the Europeans are fond of their flesh”. The change in slavery is clear and fully proved by the profitable economy that followed it. However, the reason which determined the long life cycle of the institution was the firm belief of superiority by the Europeans. Curiously enough, the same place that was the

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

model of classic slavery is also responsible for the origins of the concept of superiority – the Greek policy against foreigners2 . This dangerous concept, later adopted by Nazi leader Adolf Hitler2, has proved itself to be a major cause of massive murders and general destruction. Its presence on the “not so new” world is daily proved by events that question moral values correlated to racial problems such as the event that happened on the city of Ferguson, Missouri. Slavery is over, but some of the mentality that drove humans to enslave other humans is still present on the mind of the contemporary man and despite the social need to end such form of thinking, the problem remains on the fact that is much easier to spread the moral wrong than to fix a centenary historical atrocity.

2. Brazilian plantations mostly cultivated sugar, this system of monoculture ended up causing a major social problem once external rivals managed to wreck the Brazilian sugar kingdom.

1. Known as the Middle Passage, on which approximately 25% of the slaves died.

By RILEY HEMMINGS ‘16

see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

The Cursed Ring The ring, small and dainty as the woman herself slipping onto her finger with an illusion of love with not enough money to spend to buy the love of another but he began to tire of trying to be what she needed but the sun continued to rise Even as the leaves danced with fire red tips saturated the green how ugly the world becomes when everything begins to die when the summer has gone sun fading as their voices grow shrill, angry, violent, unpredictable just as the fire grows the leaves redden with anger to be a man shriveling with resentment as they themselves grew shrunken blackening with hate seeping through aged skin falling into the ground with nothing left to give I love you she said the only response to given, yet she continued on fingers and stomach swollen trapping a curse on her finger and so the ring remains I know Stars heavy with their own sorrow rested at her fingertips As the sky fell her arms rose to meet it As the fire burned her She held up the world for others But there were too many stars to hold As the sky fell her eyes held the broken stars Stars heavy with the hope of a generation

Her hands looked like something given to someone in need of comfort. Wrinkled and swollen, with juices trapped under the skin and age spots facing towards the sun. Rings trapped on a finger that was swollen past 10

By Evelyn Turnbaugh â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

the point of return, so that no remedy, not even butter, could remove them. Yet those hands of comfort, gnarled like bittersweet apples, continued to work. Flying through tasks, put into motion from a will stronger than steel, creating food for her family. Every Thanksgiving she drove up with her husband and a car full of food to meet their small family. The most requested tasks of her were to make a pie, the gravy, and to peel onions. Apple pie was the top choice, and when the crisp apples had been freshly picked and peeled the pie overflowed with juice and delicious flavor. Her hands steadily peeled the apples that she then cored and cut with a knife. The pie crust was handmade with love, and rolled to perfection that cooked to crisp but soft on the tongue. She made her masterpiece in a glass dish, handled with such care that there was never cause to worry if one day it would be dropped. Once the couple arrived her next task was to make the gravy. Her daughter had long before decided that cutting up the innards of a dead bird was not her forte, so the task fell to her steady hands. Unappetizing as this makes gravy sound, somehow her swollen, speckled hands found a way to add just the right ingredients. Flour was carefully poured into the mix and she sliced up meat as she went. The last part of her duties came with another task no one wanted to face: peeling and cutting onions. Though this was dreaded by everyone in the family, no words of unhappiness came from her mouth, no falter was shown by her fingers, and no tears could be seen. Through every task her ring never dirtied, and her hands never failed. One fateful day in May her husband tired, his hands shook but his body more so. His feet faltered when they had never before, and he fell. Her hands could not save him, but her ring remained. And when he rose again it was not in this life, so she began to tire as he had. Her hands began to shake with every apple peel that dropped uncontested to the floor. Without control her hands slipped dangerously on the overly ripe apples that had overstayed their welcome under the sweltering sun. Cuts appeared on the places age spots did not cover, and bruises filled her skin with a pigment that contrasted the ashy look descending over her. Store-bought crust sunk in on itself and was filled with apples that had long since gone bad. The spices she added covered her hands and ring which had developed a tremor she could not control. No longer could she bear to look at death, and her weakness overtook her will. Her famous gravy ceased to exist, as the technique to had disappeared with the sheen of her ring. But as always, her swollen fingers clasped the

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

ring as if nothing else in this world mattered. The onions were left un-peeled, as her fear of her own ineptitude left her with nothing left but a ring. But the tears that the onions caused could be seen in her eyes, and her cheeks sunk in as food lost its appeal. Through every task her ring was dirtied, and her hands continuously failed. Her hands looked like something that had gone bad, wrinkled, darkened with death, cut from mishaps, and fingers swollen to hold on to her one remaining happiness. Every day she tires because there is no one left on this earth that can steady her shaking hands. The most requested foods for her to make are left unmade, with blank spaces on the table to show what once had been. Through her failing body and shaking hands nothing

remains but the ring. When she tires, just as her husband did, nothing will remain but the ring and the love of a forgotten family.

By Riley Hemmings â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16 see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

When the light fades away By Kiana Melvin ‘16 A damp flushed face stares blankly at me. As I inch closer, she shifts towards me as well. I look very deeply into her bloodshot empty eyes as I watch a tear slip away. I could feel the heat generating from her red hot swollen face. She’s hopelessly standing there with what seems to be nothing left to hold on to. Behind her the bath was running and the lights overhead were dimmed. An irregular melody was playing around her. The room was full and neat, yet everything seemed so scattered. When I turn my head from her she does the same. I couldn’t stand looking at this pathetic figure in front of me anymore. She was tearing me down with her, but I couldn’t help it. So I watched her. Freshman year is always tough, especially when you go to a new boarding school away from all your hometown friends. On the first day you wonder who you’ll sit with, if you even sit with anyone at all or who you would spend your free time with. I had the upper hand because preseason started a week before the school year. Preseason soccer allowed me to meet my teammates first before I met any other person. I can say that I loved my team. Everyone was so nice and all the upperclassmen took us youngins under their wings. I found my group of friends that week and we stuck together. Most of our down time was spent together laughing and having a good time. I always wondered why people hated freshman year because it wasn’t even that bad. I was in with the older group of varsity girls. Life was good. The water to her bath had now reached the middle. We both backed away giving a bigger distance between us, but we were both in each others’ sights. I studied her every move and she watched mine. She mimicked me and I wish she hadn’t. Every time I tried to move from her she was still there. I was getting angry, but then I could feel her hopelessness. She was crying for my help, but I couldn’t give it to her. I tried to hard to help her. But she was to far gone. I looked forward to going back to school almost everyday. I didn’t have classes with any of my teammates because I was one of the two freshmen on the team. It didn’t really matter though because my free period was one of the most popular, lots of my friends had it. During our free period we would all huddle in someone’s room, bump some music, and talk. When it was time for lunch we grabbed a table and filled it. Lunch was practically another free period, so some of us would sit outside taking in the 12

nice warm breeze before winter’s bitter nips came. When it was time for class, we all went our separate ways. The sound of the water caught my attention. Her bath was almost full, but when I looked up to warn her, her eyes froze me. The one of the bulbs on the overhead light had blacked out making the room unevenly lit. She didn’t move and I didn’t either. We beamed into each others eyes waiting to see who would give up first. Neither of us would look away. I tried hard, but she pulled my attention to her. I wanted to help. All I wanted to do was save her from her misery. But she was too far away. When the school day came to an end, everyone rushed to change for practice. I hated soccer, but I loved being there. Soccer took my mind off of things. This was my first high school sport and I am a very competitive person. Practice was fairly easy. We didn’t do too much running, just mainly possession drills. The goal of possession is to keep the ball away from the other team so, possess the ball. I’m pretty sure we played that every single practice of the season. When practice was over it was time for me to go home. My ride was always waiting for me. I walked slow to the car. The girl’s sad pitiful face was still looking at me. A strong annoyance for this girl had grown on me. I no longer felt bad for her, I was just angry at her. Her shoulders slumped forward giving her horrible posture and her head was bowed down, but her eyes were still on me. The room was dimming more than before and the water had now reached the very top. Around her there was a bunch of different bathroom supplies; used toothbrushes and squeezed paste, mouthwash, a gross hair brush, a razor, mini cups, a slightly ajar pill bottle, and her makeup. On the floor where her clothes. She brought me back into her woeful trance. No matter how much I hated her all I wanted to do was speak out to her. But she wasn’t listening. After practices I always wanted to stay longer and have fun, but I knew I had to go home. I really didn’t want to go I would have much rather stayed in the dorm then drive all the way home. When ever I would get the call that my ride was waiting for me I would roll my eyes and take my time getting my stuff to leave. I would drag my feet to the car pushing off going home. Car rides were typically silent. There were many thing that I would love to share about my day, but the vibe in the car was dead. So, I sat in the passenger seat staring out the window watching everything we passed. The car rides really put a damper on my day. When we pulled into the long driveway and the

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

car was put into park, I rushed to my room avoiding any contact with the rest of my family. Most nights I had to go to a different sports practice separate from the school. My dad usually drove me to these. Her whole body looked weak. By just looking at her she shared her headache with me. She moved closer to the counter with everything organized on it. She was carelessly standing in a giant puddle of water. I tried to tell her to turn off the water. But she was still not listening. I hated being in the car with my dad. He only spoke to criticizes my play. “Kim, I don’t understand how you can let yourself play like that! I don’t know why I keep wasting my time and money on you.” “Dad, I’m tired! I just got done with school all day and soccer prac--” “Stop making excuses! College coaches don’t care about what you did before you played. Do you ever think that anyone is going to want you if you always play like that?” “No” “That’s what I thought.” I don’t think he understood that it was a practice not a game. I don’t understand why he can’t give me a single compliment. Even when I do play well all I hear is

what I could do better. According to him everything about me could be better. He was pushing me to hard. I was only fourteen. And I was so over it. She looked tired. She looked done. She was done. She moved even closer to the counter. She reached for the hairbrush. She combed the knots out of her hair and set the brush back down. The last light above was starting to burn out. We both moved directly in front of each other. She reached her hand up and I did too. She was controlling me and I didn’t have the power to make her stop. The tips of our fingers met. We both moved our foreheads to touch. She leaned back and I did too. I lifted my hand to my cheek and she did too. We both rubbed our fingers feeling the dampness from tears. I leaned on the counter in front of me accidentally spilling the bottle of pills. She did the same. She was broken, I was broken. The light flickered. I grabbed a handful of the unknown pills and let the pain slowly relieve from us. My reflection disappeared. Everything was gone. The last light faded away.

By emerik faubert-phliippe ‘16

see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

WRITING CONTEST : FOOD FOR THOUGHT Cranberry Steamed Pudding

Chicken Curry Pasta By Dolphine Penzo ‘18

By Emma Newell ‘22 I liked how that molded chocolate-brown cake looked. How that cake was topped with hard sauce and cranberries was just amazing. That welcoming smell of the steamed cranberries filled my heart with Christmas memories. I stood in the kitchen hearing Grammy put in her two cents worth about how this cake may not taste like her mother’s. My four siblings and I all stood in the kitchen fighting over who was going to blend the rosy red cranberries, the plain white flour, the sticky molasses that gets all over our hands when we try to reach up and pour it into the blender, the baking soda dissolved in boiling water, and that salt that we sometimes mistake for sugar. Then one of us calls who is going to spew all those ingredients into the greased coffee can. Now my Grandmother covers the coffee can with heavy aluminum foil, tying string around the top to assure that it is secure. Then we seat the coffee can in a covered pot for ninety minutes. We let it cool for twenty minutes. Now we have to make the hard sauce. We all get to add one ingredient the into the blender: I get to pour in the butter, Olivia gets to flow the vanilla extract in, Liam gets to pour in the confectioners sugar, Ronan gets to put in the heavy cream and Lachlan gets to blend up all the ingredients. We top the cake with the soft “hard sauce” and halved cranberries. I like that molded chocolate brown look that welcomes me with the smell that fills my heart with all of my Christmas memories.

I spent the first ten years of my life as an only child, having only my mother. During this time, my mom was very young. She became pregnant as a teenager and took the responsibility of raising me on her own. Of course she got some help from my grandparents, but she has always been good at handling things alone. Though she had just graduated high school with a restaurant diploma, my mother was a terrible cook. I’d say we made trips to McDonald’s at least three days a week. It was rare for us to eat something that wasn’t just cooked in the microwave. A lot of the times we‘d eat at my grandparent’s house. She always tried her best with what we had, and having bad economy didn’t help. She went from job to job, working from early mornings to late nights to try and to provide for the two of us. I was always the first child being dropped off at school, and the last one to get picked up. I used to feel bitter about this, but looking back I can’t By Avery Jurek ‘18 blame my mom for simply trying to make things work, month to month. I was always so proud of having the youngest mom out of my friends. I didn’t see what people thought was so bad about it. She was still an amazing mom despite of her age. I remember the struggles she went through in order for me to have food on my plate. She often made sure I had something to eat, but ended up forgetting to feed herself. She didn’t conventionally follow the recipes, but instead created her own dish. It was grilled chicken bits with pasta, curry sauce and vegetables. It’s one of those foods that are just as good the day after. Imagine being in your early

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

twenties with a child that needs to be fed and you only have less than ten ingredients in your kitchen, half of which are useless. You are forced to use your imagination and improvise. She came up with this dish during a failed attempt of spaghetti and meatballs. Instead of meatballs she used chicken, instead of spaghetti she used shell shaped pasta, and instead of marinara sauce she used whatever was in our spice cabinet - which happened to be curry. Basically, she used anything that was somewhat useful and created this delicious meal we’ve been eating ever since. It hasn’t always been the food that I enjoyed the most; but the familiarity in it, and how it has a way of making me feel at home. It’s not something I eat every Christmas or birthday, and it’s not something complicated or fancy. It’s something I can forget about for a while, and suddenly feel this huge craving for from time to time. I’ve become rather picky about it now. I know it needs to be a ready, grilled chicken and not a frozen filé that you cook. The pepper should be green, not red or yellow even though I hate green pepper, it only works in this dish. The pasta needs to be shell shaped, because I’m convinced that any other shape tastes differently- even if it’s from the same brand. Finally, the amount of curry cannot be measured, it’s something that needs to be tasted throughout the process. To me, it represents the dedication and sacrifices my mom put into raising me.

As the years have gone by, and I’m not an only child anymore, none of my grandparents are alive and my mom isn’t single anymore. A lot of things have changed; however, I will always appreciate the days I can spend alone with her, reminiscing of how it used to be over a bowl of her homemade pasta. Since then, my mom has perfected the recipe and it was the first meal I learned how to cook myself. It was also during the cooking of this meal that I discovered I wanted to be a vegetarian. One step of it is tearing apart a whole grilled chicken. After about ten minutes of intense staring and attempts of touching it, I left the chicken lying on the cutting board, untouched and with my cheeks soaked with tears because I couldn’t bare to rip the chicken wings off the body. I’m grateful for everything my mom has done for me during these years, and even if the chicken curry pasta seems like a small part of it, it’s something that’s going to stick with me forever, even if I have to create a vegetarian version myself.

By ELIZABETH EVERETT ‘16

By Mikalia cloutier ‘17

By alaia singh ‘17 see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

elderberry wine For the fifteen years and eleven months that I’ve know my great grandfather I’ve always thought that he is the greatest man on earth. His name is Tom, but I call him GG. I’ve learned over time that GG is an incredibly wise man. He knows how to cook anything that you could ask him to, build anything that want, plant the greatest garden in the world, and he is great at telling stories. My Thanksgivings are usually pretty much the same. In the morning I wake up at 5:30 to go hunting with my grandfather. We then go back to his house when we finish hunting. I later get ready for Thanksgiving dinner with my grandparents, GG, my uncle and my sister. At dinner, we talk and eat A LOT. Then us guys fall asleep in the living room while watching football, we wake up to have desert, and then everyone returns home. This past Thanksgiving will probably be one of the most memorable ones to me though because of the great time that I had with GG. GG always brings a bottle of his homemade elderberry wine to Thanksgiving dinner every year . He usually pops it open after dinner so the adults can have it with their desert. After I had eaten so much turkey and I felt like I was going to burst, I went down to the living room with my dad, uncle, grandfather, and GG, to watch football. All of the ladies in my family were still gossiping in the dining room like they usually do after dinner. All of the guys fell asleep within three minutes after we sat down except for GG and I. GG got up and crept out the back deck door, and he silently gestured for me to come out there with him. We both sat down next to each other in wooden lounge chairs that he had made years ago as a gift for my grandparents. He reached into a bag that he had brought out with him and pulled out two wine glasses along with his bottle of elderberry wine. He poured us each a glass and said to me, “Quinn, I may not live long enough to be able to share a drink with you, so I figured that we could just have one now. Now you better not tell anyone about this because

By quinn woods ‘18

I’m sure they’d kill me before I get the chance to run.” I knew that GG was a fairly old man and unfortunately he probably won’t still be alive to share a drink with me when I turn twenty-one. Even though GG is eighty-six years old, he still has the heart of an eighteen year old. I have never even had a single drop of alcohol in my life so I wasn’t sure what to think, so I just went along with it. I watched GG drink half of his glass before I even had a drink of mine. I tried and tiny sip and GG asked if I liked it. I said it was great but I absolutely hated it. We must’ve sat out there for at least an hour but it felt like it was only five minutes. I sat there and laughed at the stories and life lessons that GG was sharing with me during that hour. Throughout the time that we were out there, I slowly sipped on the tiny glass of wine I had in my hand. During that time, I realized how much of an impact GG has on me. It took a big part of me to hold back the tears when I realized how much I love him. It wasn’t until then that I really started to appreciate all of the things he has taught me throughout my life. We started reminiscing on all of the crazy times we’ve had hiking, kayaking, camping, hunting and fishing, planting his garden, me helping him build By Haohan Tang ‘17 things, and lots of the other adventures that we have had together. There was an incredibly strong bond that formed between us during that hour that I am going to remember for the rest of my life. I only drank about half of the glass of the homemade wine that I had, but it was during that drink that we shared that created a magnificent memory for me. I hope that one day I will be like GG. I want to be able to do all of amazing things that he can do and be as creative as him, and share stories and lessons with my children and grandchildren. I haven’t told anyone in my family about this yet and I never plan on telling them either. This is something that I hope he will always remember. We will always be able to laugh at this without anyone else in our family knowing what we did that Thanksgiving Night, and this will forever be our secret.

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

cookies for santa The fire roars and the Christmas lights flicker. Outside, a layer of fluffy white powder covers the warm Earth. The ground sparkles with the light from a frosty moon. A gust of wind blows snow from the roof and tree limbs, but we pretend it is sprinkling down from the stars to make this the perfect Christmas Eve. My family gathers around the TV, bundled up in blankets, to watch our favorite Christmas movies about talking snowmen, red nosed reindeer, and an elf looking for his father. Between movies, we migrate to the kitchen to whip together chocolate chip cookies for us and Santa. First we gather the ingredients and sample to chocolate chips to make sure the are Santaworthy. Christmas music flows from the speaker as we throw butter, sugar, and eggs into the bowl. Mix and pass. Mix and pass. As the bowl makes it way around the table, the cookie dough begins to mysteriously disappear. After a few scoops, we manage to stop ourselves and put the dough onto the pan and into the oven. The dim lights in the kitchen let the Christmas tree shine bright. It is dressed top to bottom with ornaments that tell our life stories. Mine begins with a teddy bear with my name and birthday on the back. Next comes the gingerbread man with “Jack five years old” scribbled on it’s back. Some are barely legible and others have my picture on them. The tree is filled out with similar ornaments that my brother made and my parents favorite ornaments from their childhood. Our tree is unlike all others, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Suddenly, the scent of the fresh cookies invades the room. As it drifts by, we each get a whiff of the delicious treat soon to come.

By jack morton ‘17

The timer rings to tell us the cookies have finished, but the race to the kitchen has just begun. We run across the carpet, slide on the wood floor, and scramble to find the oven mitts. As we take the cookies out of the oven, the sweet scent must have could have filled our entire street. The first bite is the best. My teeth sink smoothly through the warm treat. The soft chocolate and gooey center mix and melt in my mouth. One cookie is never enough so we all grab another. And another. And the last one is quickly snatched up. Another batch needs to be thrown into the oven. After a while, I checked on the cookies to make sure they were not burning. The cookies had barely cooked, which seemed odd. I felt certain they had been in the oven for at least eight minutes, but when I checked the timer only three minutes had gone by. These cookies could not come out soon enough. I went back to watch our Christmas movies with my family and prepared myself to wait for what would feel like hours for these cookies. After I watched Rudolph discover the island of misfit toys and meet a flying lion, the timer finally rang. We all rush into the kitchen and swing open the oven door. The cookies are the perfect golden brown color. Before they are all eaten, we set aside two cookies for Santa and pour him a glass of milk filled to the top. We carefully walk over to the fireplace and set down the plate and cup. We zip back to the kitchen and grab a cookie. I break mine in half to expose the warm, moist center and take a big bite. As I walk back towards the plate by the fireplace, I know that Santa will love our cookies.

“ I know santa will love our cookies. “

By morgan lurz ‘16 see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

WRITING CONTEST : hebron love hebron love By sarah nicolas santos ‘18 I contemplate you from my window My eyes are on you, Remembering those moments That you taught me how to enjoy. Your front has an impeccable tradition But from the inside, you are multicolored, Because you are full of cultures And full of knowledge and full of love. You will always be with me Because I will never forget you, You are full of good teachers

By olivia berger ‘16

Who taught me how to live. The years will pass, But the joy and triumphs That made us stronger Will always be here. Our voices will be forever Held in your walls, And each of our names Will be kept secret in every corner of your heart.

By tobias tarnow ‘17 18

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

learning to look up By evelyn turnbaugh ‘17 The sky broke into a full sunset, and the trees caught its fire Why doesn’t anyone ever look up? When the wind pushed the clouds across the horizon Their eyes remained on the dirt and dust And when the sun lit their faces in a golden glow Expecting to see smiles from the warmth, their feet shuffled along Their mouths remained grim, so the sky darkened But before the sun dropped beyond the trees of ash, the lights of heaven flooded the sky, with color deeper than the eyes can perceive And for once, their eyes found the sky Searching through the infinite colors, By lily cheng ‘16

smiles broke through their faces Finally seeing their own warmth, the sun slept With fire in their minds the blackness of night was lit by stars Each one made from the eyes that never left the sky, that lifted themselves from the dust To catch its fire Then make their own

By linda wei ‘18 see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

WRITING CONTEST : OH, THE HORROR

voices The therapist sits down in front of me. The look in her eyes reads pity, but I do not, can not, relate with that feeling. She’s drumming her hands on the table, restless, nervous even, this excites me. The security guards step out, we are alone now. They tell me she is perfect, they tell me I need her, they tell me she is next. The smell of the therapist’s perfume is intoxicating, I take a deep breath through my nose and smile. Clearly unsettled, she begins to speak, “When was the last time you felt the urge to hurt someone.” “How long have you been in the room?” She checks her watch, “Around five minutes, why?” “Well I suppose three minutes ago.” Upon saying this I see a small flicker of fear in her eyes, the corners of my mouth turn up into a small smile. She pauses, she rapidly taps her fingers on the table and then scribbles something into her notebook. They tell me her notes are about me being crazy. I agree. Orange light is filtering in from the window. I can see the sun setting over the fence. I can practically taste the outside. “So it says here you’ve been having night terrors,” she continues. “Can you describe these to me.” I look at her, she is not worried about me, she doesn’t care. She sees me as a monster. “Well there is this one dream that I keep having.” “Can you describe it for me?” “It’s always the same, I pull myself out of the mud and run for the tree line. The rain beats down and blood washes into my eyes, making it harder and harder to find the entrance to the path. I’m breathing loud. I try to stop it, to control it, to hide it, but it was too much. I find the entrance to path and run, follow it till I reach the old shed. I crash through the door and slam it shut. I try to barricade it with the rakes, and the pitchforks, but it is not possible. I can hear him outside now. He is here. He is just outside. I push myself against the door, grasping a pitchfork...wiping the blood away from my eyes. Waiting. He is hunting me and there is nothing I can do to stop him, when he finally gets to me I wake up.” 20

By joe dunn ‘16

“Very descriptive, do you feel fear during the dream? Or do you know who is chasing you?” “The man chasing me is me, and no, I don’t feel fear.” “Huh, this sounds to me like you are feeling remorse. If it is truly you who is chasing yourself then I think you are feeling for the victims. I think you are feeling bad for what you did.” I pause for a moment. Maybe she is right, maybe I do feel for the victims, I probably should have corrected her when she said night terrors though. I should have told her that this was a pleasant dream. As the therapist gets up to leave, her hair falls across her face. I can smell her perfume as she brushes the hair out of her eyes. I can barely hold myself together. The car rolls to a stop, I hear the door close tightly. I pause for a moment then crawl from the trunk through the back seat. The sun is down, they are probably just noticing my cell is empty. A clown doll is sitting on the seat, Looking at me, lifeless. I can almost relate. I open the door and walk to the window of the small house. Inside a little boy is showing the therapist his hockey stick, splintered into pieces. There is no husband. Good. I open the front door and make my way to the kitchen. The whole house smells like her, it’s invigorating. They were right she is perfect. The sink is full of detergent, I reach in and grope around until I find a steak knife. The lights are out in the house and everyone is sleeping. The voices are telling me to go upstairs. They are loud, so loud I fear they will wake her. I open the door and see her, asleep, beautiful. Her skin is soft, so soft. They tell me to lie down so I do. I can feel her breath, the rise and fall of her chest, it calms me. The voices for the first time in a while, fall silent, waiting. I gingerly brush the hair from her face, she lets out a yelp, and then she is silent. The house is silent, the voices are silent.

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

Delusions “They said I was crazy. I’ve been in here for almost 60 years now. And you know what they say, once you’re in West Harbor, you don’t leave West Harbor.” The elderly lady said referring to the psychiatric hospital she was in. She rocked slowly back and forth in her chair with her bathrobe wrapped tightly around her and a clown doll clutched in her arms. Her gray hair was patchy and thin, barely covering a fourth of her head. “I know that Mrs. Phillips. You already mentioned all that. But what I want to know is the whole story. I want to know every detail from the moment you bought the house to the moment you were brought here.” The novelist explained while trying to identify exactly what the elderly women smelled like. She decided it was a mix of dish detergent, baby powder and mothballs. She had only graduated from Georgetown University last spring but young Margo Callahan was well on her way to becoming a best selling author. Mrs. Phillips appeared deep in thought for a few moments before leaning in close to Margo’s face. Her old blue eyes met Margo’s young green ones as she said. “You better write this all down because I’m only going to say it once.” “I had just graduated college and I was moving into my own house. This was the time of my life I had been waiting for since I was a little girl. The house was beautiful with a large yard and the woods out back. For the first two months it was paradise. But then strange things started to happen. When they began I could make up excuses for them. I’d blame the sounds on the old pipes or the humidity or whatever excuse would set my mind at ease. It worked for a little while. Eventually the sounds became nearly impossible to make up excuses for. I would hear footsteps coming from my room, or breathing while I was trying to fall asleep, things would fall to the ground with no explanation, and sometimes I would hear very faint voices coming from the walls. I blamed it all on my imagination. Some days I would look into the mirror in my bedroom and upon first glance I would see a large scar going from my temple to my chin or faces in the background, but upon further inspection I’d realize there was nothing there. I’d also blame that on my imagination or sleep deprivation. After a

By sophie list ‘19

few weeks I accepted that perhaps my house was haunted. However, the spirit had never done anything harmful so I tried to ignore it. One night, about six months after I bought the house, I came home after a long day. My boss had fired me earlier so naturally I was angry and upset. I stormed up the stairs and hurled my bag across the room coincidentally shattering the mirror into tiny pieces. As the mirror broke, the voices I had been hearing intensified, becoming a thousand times louder. They surrounded me, the screaming and shouting pierced my eardrums. I curled up on the floor as the shards of glass ripped my skin and rooted themselves into my flesh. I covered my ears, trying to find anyway to stop the voices but there was no luck. I laid there for what seemed like an eternity before coming to my senses and realizing I needed to get out of my house. I pulled myself onto my knees before gaining the strength to stand all the way up and run wildly down the stairs. Instinctively I grabbed a large steak knife from the kitchen before sprinting out of my house. I pulled myself out of the mud and ran for the tree line. The rain beat down and blood washed into my eyes, making it harder and harder to find the entrance to the path. I was breathing loud. I tried to stop the voices, to control them, to hide from them, but it was too much. I found the entrance to the path and followed it till I reached the old shed. I crashed through the door and slammed it shut. I tried to barricade it with the rakes, and the pitchforks, and a hockey stick which broke in half but it was not possible. I could hear their voices and their footsteps outside now. They were here. They were just outside. I pushed myself against the door, grasping a pitchfork...wiping the blood away from my eyes. Waiting… That’s all I can remember before losing consciousness. My neighbor found me the next day on an early morning jog to watch the sunrise. I was covered in blood, lying half in and half out of the shed. He helped me on to my feet and asked what had happened. I explained to him the voices and the mirror but I could tell he didn’t believe me. He called an ambulance to come and get me. I was in the psychiatric ward of the hospital for a week. The doctors had me on numerous medications, anything that would help me see past my ‘delusions’. Everyday I would go to

“And you know what they say, once you’re in West Harbor, you don’t leave West Harbor.”

see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

counseling and the counselor would ask me to tell her what happened. I would tell her about the voices and the mirror every time. Eventually they decided I was truly crazy and they sent me here to live out the rest of my life.” Margo looked up from her notebook and shut off her audio recorder, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Is that all you need?” Mrs. Phillips asked, leaning back into her rocking chair. Margo nodded. “Yes thank you. Although, I was hoping I could come back another time and focus on the details.” Margo requested as she began to pack up her things. Mrs. Phillips shrugged before staring off into space. Margo Callahan never got to see Mrs. Phillips again. Mrs. Phillips passed away a few days after Margo’s visit. In order to try and get the rest of the details for her book she went to visit Mrs. Phillip’s old house. The house had a chilling aura to it that sent shivers down Margo’s spine. The paint was peeling, the windows

were broken, and cobwebs hung in the porch. Margo and her photographer, John, went inside to explore. After taking notes and pictures of the downstairs, Margo took a deep breath and began ascending the stairs to Mrs. Phillips old room. The first thing she noticed when she walked in was the mirror, completely intact. “Did she ever mention fixing the mirror?” John asked Margo as he took picture after picture of the room. Margo shook her head. “It doesn’t look like anyone has been here in years. I don’t know who would have fixed it or why for that matter.” Margo pondered out loud. After she decided she had everything that she needed she picked up her notebook and audio recorder to leave. But as she turned to leave, she could have sworn she saw Mrs. Phillips’ smiling face in the mirror out of the corner of her eye.

By shin hye “Tiffany” Hwang ‘16

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

LANDSCAPE POEM

Me then me now

By leah bonis ‘19

By pedro crespo delgado ‘17 Me then.

and the wind was

Oh god, he was innocent. He would believe anything

rolling and whispering over an ocean of dreams.

anyone would tell him. Everything he heard he would

the trees

believe it. He couldn’t lie, so he couldn’t understand why

ebbing and flowing, my eye barely reaching over the swell.

others would. He didn’t even know what a lie was. He

then over the ledge.

was carefree; he had nothing to worry about but to have

birds swallowed violently by a starving expanse of

fun. He was as noisy as a thunder and as destructive as

evergreen. moss cracked into irreparable fractions.

a tornado. He would turn everything upside down to be

then to the sky.

with his family. He used to be wild, because he didn’t value

the moon a mere shadow of its former glory, starving and

many of the things close to him. His mother would teach

wane as it fades into the light.

him that lesson with patience and time. His mom did really

and then to the mind.

well on that. He was LIGHT, no problems on his mind, no

where you stumble upon the wide expanse of human

muscle or fat. He was light as a leaf floating down from the

emotion.

branch of the tree.

tumbling, twisting, and unraveling into mangled and twisted up knots.

Me Now. The leaf touched the ground and became all dirty with mud and became heavy with rain. The leaf was not bright anymore. He was seasoned,experience, hardened. That was his change. Now he’s locked in problems and concerns, and sometimes forgets how to have fun. Sometimes he thinks he made the wrong choices and the worst of all, he thinks he can’t mend them. But he is still hopeful that one day these problems will disappear because he finally took the right choice, hoping he will one day get on the right lane. Now he has goals, targets, and he’s aiming but unable to shoot because of fear. This is today; we’ll see about tomorrow.

see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

vaults and lockets By iulia lupul ‘17 Eighteen...Seventeen...Sixteen... Her mind wanders. She goes back to that same old room. She’s all grown up, but that’s still where her mind brings her when her conscience turns off, when all the walls start falling down. Everything is so colorful in there and still intact, no matter what. She stares through time into that room. That musty room. The clowns on the walls, the toys on the shelves. She’s sitting on the floor playing with legos and little toy cars. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t know nor understand yet. She’s happy. She chose the colors for the rooms herself. She wanted it yellow and green and red and blue. She wanted it pretty. That little girl, sitting on the floor is what she has to protect. At any cost. That little baby that doesn’t know what people do to each other, and hopefully never will. She won’t know about the closets. About the skeletons hiding in them. She’ll never know that some are tiny and harmless, and people carry them in nothing more than lockets, and that some are big and scary. She’ll never know that some shrink over time and dissolve into thin air, and others devour radioactive feelings and start growing extra heads and limbs and claws and their bones rattle so loudly that they overwhelm everything else hiding inside, and the closets turn into vaults. She’ll never know that she can be so sad that she can’t breathe, or that sometimes frustration can bring her to the edge and over. She’ll never know anything. I won’t let her. Fifteen...Fourteen...Thirteen... She’s seven now. She’s just started first grade. She’s smart and she’s friendly and she’s in love. She doesn’t know it yet, because no one ever explained it to her. No one ever told her how it just happens, how it hits out of nowhere and it’s completely unpredictable. She didn’t know that that’s what it was. The only thing she knew is she found a friend, one that was just so perfect and so much like her, and so out of this world. She was in love and it was amazing. But it didn’t last long. Sitting on the floor of her room she was crying. She was so confused and so mad. She would never tell anyone about this. Ever. No one could now. She was afraid. She knew no one understood. But she loved her so much and it was so painful to realize that she could never tell her, or anyone else for that matter. She cried. No one was home, so she just cried. That’s when she knew, for

sure, that she was different. She was young. She couldn’t put a word on it, but she knew it, so she never said it aloud. She would keep being strong and powering through everything, until it got too much, until the dam broke and all alone, at night, the tears would come streaming out. But no one ever noticed, so she was fine. Twelve...Eleven...Ten… She’s back in the room. She’s sixteen now. She walks in, lays on the floor and looks around. The walls got thicker since she was here last time. And the door, it got bigger too, and it’s made of shiny lead now. She doesn’t cry. She never cries anymore. She’s not happy, but she never cries. She’s strong now. She holds it in and, with time, it stops burning her eyes, and the knot in her throat goes away. She’s confused. So much has happened in her life, and all she ever wants to go back to is her room, before it became an epicenter of destruction. Before she couldn’t make herself walk inside of that house no matter what for. Before she only got to see her brother a couple of times a year. Before she barricaded herself from the world. Before she had to think about feelings and about life. She’s in high school now, and all everyone is thinking about is the future. Go to University, get a job, get married, have kids and that’s it. That’s what the plan is. But not for her. That’s not what she wants. She doesn’t care. She wants to be free, and not be bound to plans and timetables. She wants to see the world, and fall in love, and most of all, she wants to understand herself. She wants to know, because she never did, because people always told her everything. She wants to escape. But she can’t. She can’t disappoint, she never could. That’s why she always acted tough, never showed weakness, not in public anyways. She has to decide. She has to make one choice, a single choice that is going to change so much. Does she stand up and say something, or does she live a life she never wanted? Nine..Eight..Seven.. Same walls, same bed. She’s laying down reading, in the middle of the carpet. It’s still March, but she can’t wait for May to come around. She’s going to be 10. She’s so excited that she keeps rereading the same page over and over. She’s planning the party, and

“She doesn’t cry. She never cries anymore. She’s not happy, but she never cries.”

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

her outfit, and the guest list. So happy. She hasn’t cried in a while. She has tried to not think about it, or at least ignore it when it pops into her mind. Her friend was still there. But it wasn’t the same. She made herself push her away. Not far. But just enough so she doesn’t blow up too when the pressure builds up too much. She keeps thinking about the gifts she’s going to get and the food they are all going to eat and the games they are going to play. Her mom walks in. She’s crying. She sits down next to her and tells her they have to talk. She’s confused, she’s never seen her that upset. Her mom pauses for a while. She takes a deep breath and in a very shaky voice says: “Honey, um… You know how sometimes things break, they crack and you just can’t fix them.” She paused again. “Well sometimes that happens to relationships too.” She never heard what she said afterwards. She already knew. She burst out crying. She didn’t know why, but she just did. It seemed to be the appropriate reaction. She hugged her mom and just sat there, in the middle of her room’s floor. Her mom kept saying things, but none of them registered. Finally, her mom kissed her goodnight and told her it would be better if she just went to bed and stopped crying. She did. She went to bed and never talked about it again. Six..Five..Four.. She’s thirteen. They moved. Her mom and she have a nice apartment now. They both like it. But she never got to decorate her room. She was stuck in her old one, going back to it whenever she wanted to. It seemed so real when she imagined it. The colours were the same, and the smell was just as she remembered it, and the light made the same designs on her carpet as it used to. Nothing was changed there, but the door - it was bigger and heavier. She has to stop dreaming so much. She’s a big girl now, or at least that’s what they all tell her. She’s smart and she’s funny and she’s tough. And they all tell her she’s pretty because boys notice her. She has so many friends and she’s still friends with her. Everyone starts talking about funny and confusing things. Feelings. Emotions.

Whatever. Everyone is falling in love, and she is, too . A lot of them are faking it, and she is, too. Or at least she thinks she is. It’s so confusing. How can she be in love with two people at the same time? So she just tells everyone that she likes him, but no one will ever know about her. Because that’s wrong, or at least that’s what they tell her. But he’s nice and she likes him just as much as she likes her, so it’s just as real, and even better because she doesn’t have to hide it. She’s good. She’s not happy and not sad. She’s floating somewhere in between, and somehow that gray area seems so much better, so much more reliable. She’s tough, more so than she has been before. It’s harder for people to hurt her now, so she cares less about their opinions. She’s one of the cool kids. But they still somehow manage to get to her. ThreeTwoOne. Only three weeks until she turns eighteen. She hasn’t been home in almost a year, but it doesn’t phase her. She’s learned to make homes out of people, not places, to sneak into people’s lockets or vaults and decorate their insides. She thinks she’s so much better now that she’s away, but she still lies to herself on a daily basis. She never expected any grand life lessons out of this year, and she never got the them for that matter. She realized however, how life goes in circles, how she never thought she would revert to her seven year old self, sitting on the floor of her colorful old room, falling in love with someone she knew she should not, but she did anyways. She looks through the windows of her perfect little vault into the haze and mess that is the outside world, and hopes she never has to leave. I’m coming to get you! But you’re not. And no one else is either. It’s not a game of hide and go seek anymore. I’m still in the room, with the clowns on the walls and the sun dancing on the floor, and she’s still happy and clueless, and I’ve been hiding here for a long time now. The door is too heavy to open for anyone, so I know, for sure, that she’s safe.

By riley hemmings ‘16 see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

Loss By todd williams ‘17 What is loss? What does it mean and when does it really matter. Your losses are what shape you as a person and can be something you carry with you for the rest of your life. To some, a big game is lost when at the final buzzer the opposing team is celebrating because they had scored more points than you in the allotted time. To some, a loved one or close friend passing is considered losing them. To some, loss is losing a friend due to fighting or a number of many other reasons. So what is loss? And when do you know that you have lost? Is it the buzzer at the end of a championship. Is it the straight line and long beep of a heart monitor. Is it the emptiness that used to be filled with companionship. I was lying in bed with my sister who was two at the time, crying. I was only eight, and one week before my parents had divorced; on my eighth birthday. I was now at my grandparents house, my father’s side, because my parents thought that my sister and I deserved a break from the constant fighting and the storming out and the cursing and so on and so forth. I held my sister tight and reassured her that everything would be okay and that the fighting would be all over soon, but she was sleeping. I guess I needed to think that I was helping or comforting her so that I had an excuse to ball my eyes out. Funny how even at eight I act like it was “not manly” to show my emotions. Anyway you look at it, I was crying and I needed something. The door creaked; I turned my head to see who it was, and sure enough it was my goofy grandfather. He stumbled into the room, “what’s the matter capin’?” “I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled as I was still choking back tears. He replied, “Well, me neither, but it’s better to let out whatever bothers you then to let it build up until you freak out on Nena. Poor woman already makes the house crazy, I don’t need you adding to that.” I tried my best not to laugh, then I chuckled. I rolled over and looked into his eyes, tears running down my face. He wiped the tears with his hand, reached in his pocket and gave me a chocolate mint. He then held my hand and said, “You’re not alone, and you never will be as long as I am around.” I hugged him, the tightest hug that I have given in my entire life, and began to tell him everything. I am twenty one now. It’s hard to imagine the impact that someone makes on your life, especially when they are not there. Your morales change to theirs. Your view morph to fit his or hers. It has been four years since his passing. But it has been much longer than I had anticipated. Time seemed irrelevant for a while, it all kind of blended. I was at school, I was home, I was in a field, 26

and now in a bar. Not always in that order but you can get the picture. It’s rough, I know what loss is, that’s the worst part. Most people fear the unknown, but when the unknown becomes known, sometimes you wish that your only fear was what you thought that you knew. But I am a man now, I have to get over it, and I will get over it. But I will never forget, I will never truly lose him because I am a part of him as he is a part of me. I carry him with me everywhere I go. To the church, to the supermarket, to Buffalo Wild Wings, to the field. The field is the worst part, there are thousands of names, but you want the one that you knew to be a hundred feet tall so that it stands out and grabs the attention of other passers by. You want them to know how great of a man he was and how much of an impact that he had on you and others close to him. But I am grown up, or so I think at least. I am moving forwarding my life, and he would want me to do the same. I was sixteen at the beginning of summer going into my senior year. And I knew all along that I would be much older going into next year. Although it was only one year in number, it must have been twenty in heart. I would visit him in the hospital, in the bed, on the floor. I was there, I saw my grandfather dying. I saw everything, from vomit to crying to coughing to death. I was there. I knew that he was gone. I knew for a while that he was gone. That is what hurt the most. That is what frustrated me the most. I had known that this was going to happen, and I knew that I could do nothing to stop it, nothing to prolong his legacy, his life. Just like that, flip of a switch, his body was gone. All that lived were his blood and his stories. I will never forget. I was there. I knew. It was three o’clock in the morning. I was awake, the only one there. I rushed to the nurse only for her to come in and put her head down. I was there. The night before might have been the most that I had ever cried. My dad had exchanged some words with his, and began to cry. He then walked to me, telling me that it was time to go. I told my dad that I would stay the night here and that I would be fine, so he nodded his head and set off for the hotel that was about two minutes away. I strutted over to the bed and pulled up a chair, he was crying. I told him that I loved him and that nothing would ever change that. I told him that I will live my life for him and that he would never be gone to me. He would never be forgotten. He inhaled violently two times to clear his nose and throat, he took my hand as he had years ago. He picked his head up as I leaned in. What is loss? And if there is loss and so much of it, how do we win? It’s a touchy subject to some, especially

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

me. But each person has their own experiences and situations which scales their loss different from yours. My greatest loss may have been a family member and that is the case for many. Some people lost a championship game or a girlfriend and that is their greatest loss. It doesn’t matter, with all loss comes pain. Not always “it’s all my

fault” type of pain. But pain none the less. Pain pushes us to strive for greatness, to strive for something, or at least it should. I am glad that I could share this story, because at the end of the road, that is all we leave behind. So tell a good one, make a good one, never lose.

By OLIVIA BERGER ‘16

nature’s beauty By jose pablo bello ‘19 When the grass is dry leaves fall and the wind blows. When it goes dry and cold. It feels as if you were bald Laying in the soft grass, a man maybe as close to its beginning state as to get a taste of nature’s bait. Taking the taste of natures beauty Can lead you to forget about your duty Make you live this life in which you Barely survive, forget and regret, that cold sweat you get when you Remember the the warmth of the ember,

Hermit Crab By eliza quinones ‘19 The hard sand scraping upon my naked back, Burns like a complete blue flame. Happiness crashes onto the shore, Only feet away. But I must not seek this life, Until I have found a home. I have tried many times before, To find with whom I belong. Some tell me to take my happiness, To live a good life in the waves. But what good would it be, Without something to share with? The voyage may be long, Painful, even killing, But once I find the one I love, I can step into the water.

The taste of loneliness my chase am man to insanity and forget about humanity.

see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

All photos in this series by Jacob Irish â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16 28

Etchings is a collection of written and visual works created by students at Hebron Academy.

see more writing, photographs and art at www.hebronetchings.org

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