Mosaic | Spring 2016

M

mosaic

M

mosaic HOLDERNESS SCHOOL | PO Box 1879, 33 Chapel Lane | Plymouth, New Hampshire 03264 | (603)536.足1257 | www.holderness.org

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

2016

M

bridge to nowhere |

mosaic

mosaic

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S

PHIE MILES ‘18

bike ride |

ELLA MURE ‘17

| acrylic on canvas................................. 29

the ocean | ANONYMOUS | poem.................................................30

legacy |

LOLO ZABALETA ‘18

a black dot: the pure start of a life |

ERICA ASHBY ‘18

asleep |

NOA LIN ‘17

one of a kind girl |

| mixed media...........................31

twilight |

BROOKE HAYES ‘17

TORI WALSH ‘17

but a man |

becoming a lake person |

| creative non­fiction ������8

| poem................................................9

YOOMI REN ‘16

ANONYMOUS

siddhartha |

| poem..............................................6

| photograph...............................................7

everything in between |

| photograph...................... 10

| poem............................................... 11

CAT MCLAUGHLIN ‘17

NOA LIN ‘17

| creative non­fiction ����� 12

| photograph........................................13

our secret |

HANNAH FERNANDES ‘17

no control |

ANONYMOUS

| poem..............................................15

WEI HAO CAI ‘18

| photography, trad. darkroom print......... 16

emerging |

let them know |

| creative non­fiction................ 14

DARIELLE MATTHEWS ‘18

| poem............................17

hannah |

ERICA ASHBY ‘18

SAMANTHA SMITH ‘16

chuck |

SAM MEAU ‘16

emma |

LILY LIN ‘19

becomes powerful | childhood | selfie |

| prose..............30

| mixed media and prose................... 32

| mixed media and prose............................. 34

| mixed media and prose................................ 35 PERRY LUM ‘17

| mixed media............................ 36

LILY LIN ‘19

| mixed media........................................ 37

GEOFF WEST ‘17

| mixed media........................................ 38

formation | KATHY LIECH ‘18 | ceramic (in progress)......................... 39 beyond |

KATHY LIECH ‘18

| mixed media......................................40

behind those forbidden doors | a fish called shore |

DREA CHIN ‘19

MOTI JIANG ‘16

| creative non­fiction....... 41

| org. musical composition (excerpt)...... 42

men with doll clothes on clothesline | photography writing prompt........ 44

granite peak |

LOLO ZABALETA ‘18

into the mist |

NOA LIN ‘17

| photography....................................19

the visit |

CHLOE DAWKINS ‘18

| poem.............................................20

on the inside | ELIZABETH JOHANSSON ‘17 | creative nonfiction........... 46

solo |

livermore |

KEYING YANG ‘17

treasure in the reservoir | moment of sunshine | trapped | howl |

TIA TANG ‘18

ANDREY YAO ‘19

52 |

| poem.............. 23

| mixed media...................... 24

| mixed media........................................ 25 | mixed media................................. 26

JOJO GRAHAM ‘18

NOA LIN ‘17

| creative non­fiction........ 22

EMILY PERKINS ‘16

ELLA MURE ‘17

SAMANTHA SMITH ‘16

a good day |

| creative non­fiction...................18

| graphite.......................................21

this poem is not about the ocean |

mosaic 2016

| mixed media............................4

letter from the editor...................................................................5

les etoiles qui me conduis |

2

M

| mixed media............................. 27

SARAH GUDAS ‘17

| creative non-fiction........................... 45

justice |

SUPAVIT POKAWANVIT ‘16

return |

BRIDGIT POTTER ‘19

robotics |

the last deadline | to daddy |

| creative non­fiction........................... 48

ENGINEERING CLUB

still life with grapes |

| robotics and coding........................ 49

TIA TANG ‘18

ALEX LASH ‘16

MINA NGUYEN ‘19

all the lights |

| graphite.................................. 47

YOOMI REN ‘16

| graphite................................ 50

| poetry......................................51

| poetry.......................................... 52 | photography................................ 53

| photography................................................ 28 HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

3

M

mosaic is the arts and letters magazine of Holderness School. Founded in 1997 by a creative and industrious group of students and their faculty advisor, mosaic continues to be a publication that celebrates the range and diversity of creative voice and vision on our Plymouth, New Hampshire campus. mosaic is published annually and copies are complimentary. Students created all of the pieces showcased here.

bridge to nowhere PHIE MILES ‘18

This year, a volunteer student staff reviewed the numerous examples of creativity and artistic excellence submitted by their peers. When considering a piece for publication, the staff focused on the following criteria: artistic vision, individualized voice, and well crafted form. mosaic aims to include work representative of as many genres as possible, including: poetry, prose poetry, narrative fiction, drama, creative non-fiction, flash fiction, short stories, coding, multimedia (original musical compositions, stills from original film and video, photography of STEM robotics productions), comics and graphic fiction, drawing, ceramics, painting, computer-generated graphics, and mixed media.

To submit your writing or artwork, send your work to mosaicholderness@gmail.com.

Reading periods are November 1st through the end of April. Please do not put your name on your work, as we keep all submissions anonymous during the review period.

Enjoy!

The Editors

4

mosaic 2016

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

5

legacy LOLO ZABALETA ‘18

starlight is too bright to be used as ink but blood and tears work just right. it’s so much easier to remember last night when darkness was my emperor to whom I bowed willingly. it’s so easy to forget laughter like butterflies leaving only a hint of golden dust. but to trap a butterfly is to kill it so how? how do I forever preserve this feeling in my chest like it might burst from being too full when this feeling is now, and now means never again when the shadows in my heart cast a permanent darkness on the impermanent page that is my life? the day will come when all we are is dust and memory and after that, not even that. so how far will my legacy go? will my ashes be mixed with glitter and shot off in a canon a sparkle for each smile or will my body go down at sea, drown in regret and negativity?

6

mosaic 2016

asleep NOA LIN ‘17

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

7

twilight

les etoiles qui me conduis BROOKE HAYES ‘17

I watched from the backseat. I memorized your routine.

Peering from behind the headrest, my eyes followed your hands as they tossed your purse into the empty passenger’s seat. They usually spent a while rummaging for the keys, before finding their way to the ignition. If it was particularly sunny that day, you’d spend a little more time rummaging for the glasses already resting on your head. When there was nothing we felt like listening to on the radio, I shouted for you to switch the station. We lucked out if Shania Twain or Josh Groban came on—I must have loved them because you did. Every now and then I would get the occasional glance back, the split second my eyes were more important than the road. I love you, Madre,” I whispered. Once the front had lost my attention, I shifted my head to the window. At night the car’s shadow cast shifting images along the treelines. I imagined it to be a monster chasing alongside our car, scrambling to keep up. When my neck tired, I rested it on the sill of the door, and stared up. I searched for the blinking lights of a plane, and the Big Dipper—the only recognizable figures in my sky. I have always assumed that is when my love for les etoiles began. At that point, my fears were no larger than scraped knees, monkey bars, and the dark—a backseat point of view.

I often pondered what it looked like from the passenger’s seat, but a part of me never wanted to make the move forward.

Even through the eyes of an elementary student, this shift meant growing up, and while we were all told we wanted to, I was afraid I did not. In kindergarten we dressed up as the profession we dreamed of, because ideally each little girl and boy was excited to mature. There was of course your typical firefighter, policeman, and teacher, but I showed up in my usual dress—flowered tennis shoes, pink tee with rolled sleeves, and pinstriped shorts. I told the teacher I simply wanted to be me, that I had no interest in being anything but Brooke. To a kindergartener that made perfect sense,

8

mosaic 2016

however, the boxes claiming our belongings, stealing frames off the wall and snatching my stuffed animals, did not.

I struggled to keep my eyes wide. They drooped. Each movement of the car lulled me to sleep. With every rounded corner, my head swayed left and right, propped up on a sore elbow and bent wrist. Before my eyelids shut, I gazed into a black sky, lit up by little diamonds. They appeared to be small holes in the sky, letting through a more beautiful light than that of day. I was in a trance by the mere significance of luminescence at night, while taken for granted with each sunrise. Our travels continued on, long after I drifted off. The back of the car had been filled with boxes, containing everything we could fit—the rest was sold. We would be starting school soon, but with unfamiliar faces and a nervous pit in my stomach. As the sun broke through the clouds, we pulled up to our new home, knowing not a soul. You stopped the car, and I watched you take three deep breaths before opening the door. My eyes followed you in. I peered up to catch a glimpse of les etoiles before the sun chased them away.

Painted over entirely by streaks of blue, the stars were no longer visible, but this would only be temporary. I stood outside of the Elementary doors, feet wedged together, fingers fiddling with my coat zipper, eyes nervously outlining any figure they could find. I waited for you to pull up, smiling out the window about to burst— waiting to ask me about my day. You pulled right up front, facing the glare of an afternoon sun. Without thought, my hands reached for the back door, flung open only to be greeted by more of those brown boxes. They filled the beat seat, piled high and labeled with sharpie. You called to me to jump in the front, reassuring me it was only a quick trip home. You asked me to toss your bag at my feet, to change the station when we didn’t like the song, and offered me your glasses when the glare got bad enough. I hope you’re glad I was next to you in case you needed reminding they were already atop your head. M

TORI WALSH ‘17

I Twilight never seemed so hopeful.

Anticipation set the stars in a glittering latticework across the dark sky; tiny pinpricks of glowing light reflected on your hair, flopping back and forth from your ambling strides as you approached me.

“Hello.”

“Hi.” Strange formalities dissolved in the velvet glimmer of nighttime as you forgot yourself and became a vulnerable boy, allowing yourself to remember the affection and uncertainty that you hid within you.

You stood close enough that the constellations of tiny freckles on your neck were visible to me, your tough exterior melting, then pooling at your feet like a dark shroud; useless until morning, when it would fit itself over your blazer and khakis and lead you through the day.

II Cosimo.

The name spoke elegance.

The long spindly fingers which extended from the slim hand, the even slimmer wrist, gave you an air of fragility, as if one harsh tug could pull a limb straight from its socket.

The light smattering of freckles over pale skin, almost bluish from the winter chill, resembled a sheen of dust spread across the shoulders and elbows and nose.

The clouded grey eyes half-hidden behind a lidded gaze, and the slacked mouth, cracked lips resting against perfect teeth, creating an expression of pure nonchalance.

And your soft, graceful stride, not broken enough to lift even a wisp of blonde hair from the head; an ephemeral glance at tranquility.

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

9

but a man ANONYMOUS

everything in between YOOMI REN ‘16

10

mosaic 2016

I am nothing but a man hiding in a metaphorical piece of cardboard.

But people view the cardboard as if it were not my own Without the flimsy artificially shelter I would surely be sleeping on near the park bench of lost hopes and dreams Failing to weather the storm of my own emotions.

I am not being put into the box by anyone.

I keep myself there to avoid the hail storm of cries and the sideways rain of tears.

Without my box I am nothing but a man.

I built my box off the pulp of agony The brutality of rejection And the pain of time and time again hearing I wasn’t good enough.

And then to tell me that all the progress I made was false That my temple wasn’t holy That the only place I could find safety from the hurricane of my passion and love was in its eye.

Maybe you’re right, But how can I search for the eye of the tempest whilst still being blinded by its gales and downpours So I stay safely in my box, always wondering what it would be like if it were ever calm outside.

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

11

becoming a lake person CAT MCLAUGHLIN ‘17

They say that New Hampshire’s Lakes were carved out by the glaciers. Massive mountains of ice that once rested on the land and receded to leave, among other scars, a puzzle of lakes in the center of the state. I like to think that the lake has had the opposite effect on me: when it recedes from my life I am smoother, and more whole. My earliest memories of Lake Winnipesaukee are of learning to swim at Gilford beach, where the breeze was cold on July mornings and teased you with the smell of snack-shack hot dogs, and where the cloudy, greenish brown water was all I thought existed of the lake. I’d skip mussels with my friends like they were rocks and we’d see who could swim the farthest beneath the undulating boat waves. My most recent memories of the Lake are of being at its center, slithering across cerulean ripples in a smooth white hull with sheets and tiller tugging persistently on my arms. The emerald mountains sit on the horizon like a crown, and I attune my cheeks to feel slight changes in the direction of the warm, wily breeze. My friends and I juxtapose its crisp whispers with trash talk, and race to see who can glide the fastest through the boat chop.

Lake Winnipesaukee is too big to see from one side to the other. Its numerous bays and coves reach into the green like embracing arms. Its islands, square miles or square feet in size, break up the horizon like the skyscrapers of a city, forming a distinct skyline in each part of the lake. But nestled between Welsch and Lockes Islands, that is our place. There is Gilford beach and Alton Bay and Bear Island and then there is our little nook. There, we can track where the wind will bend and build, where the rocks are hidden under the waves like monsters under a bed, and where the sunlight catches the hull of a sunken ship thirty feet below. It is here where we learn that the things that grant us love and fear are parts of the same body. This big, bad, beautiful, body of water. You may see the lake in its entirety, but I know it is different here than anywhere else. When we venture out on the water and could go anywhere, it is always understood between us that we will go there.

Rivers and rain carry new water in and out every day, but here it is somehow warmer than anywhere else, somehow purer than anywhere else.

The lake is not in my blood. My family has never owned a lake house or even a boat of our own. Unlike my crewmates, I was not born

12

mosaic 2016

knowing I would be a sailor. In fact, I hardly spent any time there until a few years ago. We share this little home, but they have lived here, a mile from shore, their whole lives. The lake is who they are, as constant in their lives as their family or the color of their eyes. The fear and the thrill and the sheer joy is innate for them and a venture on the water for them requires no thought, no question of belonging. I have to think.

I am not desensitized to the extremes, and floating in the center of the lake I feel them all at once. I have to force myself to leave my insecurities —about my skills, about danger, and about being everything I hope myself to be— on shore. Sometimes I feel like I missed out, knowing they do not share my uneasiness. The lake has been there my whole life, existing in the backdrop, the blue canvas on which my town was painted. It took years out on the water to understand its personification. It is a resident of my town just the way that the old church and the ski mountain are. It is a person whom we all have known since birth.

I have come to see the lake as a new friend, as someone I met at camp who changed my life.

During my first sailing regatta, I saw a side of my friend I never had before. The wild winds of the early fall had transformed what I had only known as a summer paradise into a wild animal who attacked every one of my senses. The calm rolling waves I knew had become cresting swells that relentlessly soaked everything in splashing distance. The sound of splashes against rain-gear never left my ears.

The wind had whipped the water into such a frenzy that there no longer seemed to be a division between air and lake. Everything was lake. I had never been more scared, more exhilarated and never had I felt those two emotions together until the wind churned them up that day. But I wanted to go home. Then, hours later when I did finally get to my house, I suddenly wanted to be back on the boat. The scratchy carpet, the cushy chairs, and the permanent stillness of my living room was uncomfortable to be in. Suddenly I felt homesick for the sparkling carpet of the lake, the solidness of the hull beneath me, and the unpredictable way Mother Nature always seemed to rearrange the furniture. Longing for the water became companionship with it once I returned, reassurance that I was somewhere I belonged.

To get to know the body of the lake is to see it in all its extremes: on the verge of a breaking storm, its formerly steady, stalled heartbeat now thumping below you and howling above you. The sun casting down a symphony of warmth, the horizon dotted with the white

skirts of dancing crests: everything seems to hum, as if in meditation.

Summer sounds, the whine of far off motors and the chuckle of near ones, the laughter of someone familiar, and the ever present music that fills the gaps, seem to fill every molecule of the air to bursting. It is loud with sound and with life. In a thicket of morning fog, a world so placid that the depths of the lake become a flat mirror; alone in a world where stillness blurs the horizon, touching the sky to the earth.

From the dreamlike mist in the sky to the water dripping off your fingertips in a silvery gossamer: silence.

The magic of the lake is that it smooths all of these extremes into one experience. It has this beautiful ability to be dynamic, yet always at its root the same. I go to my spot on the lake to return to the assurance of feeling like someone familiar.

The extremes of times past are smoothed into something recognizable.

The lake means something different to everyone, though in some ways it means the same to all of us. For its first human inhabitants, members of the Abenaki tribes, it was a place of meeting, a convergence of life, where people would come to fish and get clay and make maple sugar and have council gatherings. Now, people come for water

sports and to lake cabins and to fish and to sail and to escape. We, lake people, have these water-colored memories where we exist in simplicity near the rejuvenation of the water. After all it’s just water, isn’t it? It has no tides or surf or currents. Every year it will freeze into a tectonic plate of ice and thaw away into slices of broken glass . Every year its depths will be the same shades of green and navy blue. Every year we will return and plunge ourselves into this constancy and be connected with the world we lived in and the person we were the last time we were there. The lake cabin has the same nostalgic, musty smell every time you enter it, and the bubbles churn through the motor of a boat and leave exactly the same patterns in its wake. And every year I will venture out into my little nook. The emerald mountains will sit on the horizon like a crown. I will listen to the breeze on my cheeks. I will swim my hand through the undulating water like a little fish. I will each time feel somehow out of place and increasingly where I am supposed to be. Just like the lake, I will be elated and peaceful and terrified and brave and wonderfully, blissfully the same. M

photo: siddhartha |

NOA LIN ‘17

13

our secret HANNAH FERNANDES ‘17

In front of me sits a pond. It is about the size of a football field, only round, and is lined with marshy, green grasses.

The water’s surface is placid and unwavering. It is the clear, golden brown of a healthy ecosystem thriving in the area. If you look closely, small water bugs are dancing on the surface, trying to spin away from the minnows and frogs hiding nearby. A single mountain watches over the pond, accompanied by trees that climb up it. In the surface of the water I can see a reflection of the mountain that is undisturbed by ripples or waves. To my left, a beaver dam is smartly constructed with trees, mud, sticks, and grasses to stop the flow of water out of the pond. About a ten yard radius of tree stumps that come to a pointed tip surround the dam because of the gnawing away the beavers did to tip over trees to build their home. Standing next to me, behind me, and all around the pond are trees. They too protect the pond with the mountain; small barricades keeping the pond hidden and safe. The pond sits several yards off a hiking trail through trees and brush, which hide it from most passing hikers. The pond has no given name, and does not even appear on a hiking map.

It is a secret that can only be found if you already know it’s there.

My mom and I refer to it simply as the beaver dam.

Whenever I have a particularly stressful or hard week at school, my mom knows the only cure is a hike to the beaver dam with our dogs. We have yet to actually see a beaver near the dam, but we have named it that with the hope that one day we will be lucky enough to approach the pond with silence and see a beaver chewing at the base of a tree or even just scurrying back to the dam for safety. We always know that they’re there, though, because every trip comes with more trees knocked over around their home.

Maybe someday we will get lucky, the two of us. Our luck goes away when we bring the dogs to the pond with us and they wade

14

mosaic 2016

into the shallow waters to get a drink and cool off; they are the only disturbance to the water’s surface. But they love coming to the beaver dam just as much as we do, and they sniff around trying to find any animals that they can chase. My mom and I watch them silently. Even with the dogs, this pond brings a strange stillness to us. Words always seem to fail us once we reach the beaver dam, unless we’re quietly pointing out a newly tipped over tree with bite marks on the base or how the newest season has begun to appear around the pond. This entire community living hidden away from human’s touch is strange, but beautiful.

Even without me, my mom has a curiosity for the pond.

Just last week she told me about how she walked almost halfway around it in search of one of the beavers. While she was disappointed to inform us that she saw no beavers, she was very excited to tell us that she saw how the beaver dam actually extends beyond our line of sight from the normal vantage point. The reason we never see them from this point is that they have begun to build on their home in a direction we cannot see.

The beaver dam is a slow moving clock. The seasons seamlessly flow together in a silent, continuous cycle here. Full green trees of summer, changing to leaves of colors that set the pond on fire in the fall, which fall off and leave behind a colorless scene of blacks and whites, and finally melting away to leave muddy, budding life. If you were dropped into the shallow waters with no knowledge of what time it was, a quick look around would tell you exactly what the season is.

This pond is our secret. I’m sure other people have passed by and maybe stopped to peer around the beaver dam, but no one else has felt the calmness of it. It is sitting there silently; no average passerby would know about it. It has no name. It doesn’t appear on any map. It has silently grown into its own thriving settlement, completely unexposed to anything other than nature. The mountain has stood there for hundreds of thousands (or even millions) of years. It was shaped by glaciers

chewing away at its peak and edges, leaving behind the mountain that stands there today. Over time, snow has melted enough to pool and create the heart of this ecosystem. The beavers have lived there for as long as I have known about this place, but beyond that I do not know. This sense of something larger than myself is grounding and foreign. This community has existed for longer than I have been alive, and will probably continue to exist far after I have passed away. It feels everlasting to me as it has always existed in some way, and if the pond dries up or the beavers move away, something else will continue to thrive in their place here, with the absence of human interruption.

Maybe the beavers moved in months before my mom and I discovered it, or maybe four decades before. Either way, what has existed near the beaver dam for the least amount of time is the hiking trail that passes right by it. Had this trail never been made, this pond would have no history on record.

It is nameless and appears on no maps I have seen. But, it does exist in some record. In the memories of my mom and me. How many of these ponds exist around the world? Not just ponds, but niches that remain unscathed by human touch. Sitting just past our line of sight, hidden oases that have lived and will continue to live without our “aid”. I never want this pond to be used by humans for anything other than a beautiful sight to take in; I want it to be preserved as this pond with a beaver dam and a mountain and trees that is only ever touched by Mother Nature.

A slight breeze blows across the pond; the only thing disturbing the stillness. Leaves on the trees rustle, and some occasionally glide down from their branch and ripple the placid water. The grasses sway back and forth, dancing to the rhythm of the wind. There are no beavers in sight, but their dam sits strong. One, tall mountain watches over, protecting this sanctuary with the aid of trees fencing the entire scene. Life will always go on, here. M

no control ANONYMOUS

a mind like a pinball machine each chaotic thought pinging against the carefully crafted walls each ping paralyzing a body held prisoner by concepts alone nothing works like it should flawed machinery in a flawed machine control has no place here if only a voice could break free call for help if only the legs could stop shaking and run away to safety hide and wait for the storm to pass but where can you hide from yourself?

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

15

let them know DARIELLE MATTHEWS ‘18

A galaxy is a massive gravitationally bound system that consists of stars and stellar objects There are more than 170 billion galaxies in the universe My love is greater than all of them Tell them that when I die I will disperse Creating new life within you As long as you keep this pieces of me embedded into the pores of your soul that remembrance will always be enough of me.

emerging WEI HAO CAI ‘18

Tell them my love is a roaring river cascading into a boundless, forever moving body of water

I am a garden of happiness forever blooming Sometimes I might cookie crumble whitest, silkiest of milks but I don’t care.

I realize now that perfection is just a meaningless philosophical idea but I strived for it anyway.

Let them know I am stronger and smarter than I look and if you underestimate, undervalue or marginalize me that will be your worst mistake Even though you couldn’t always hear my voice know I was never an echo But most importantly let them know I was unapologetic for who I am.

If you cross me you will gush into straight into the waterfall I would not mourn your existence in my life but I will wish you well on your adventure

16

mosaic 2016

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

17

granite peak LOLO ZABALETA ‘18

Waking in the morning had been easy, considering I hadn’t really slept. Standing proved difficult. The world would inconveniently spin every couple of seconds. I stumbled about the camp, preparing for the 20 mile hike to come, only pausing when my dad pointed out the sunrise. Vibrant red and orange light bathed the entire plateau. I paused, and only then could I truly appreciate the beauty of my surroundings. The brilliance of the morning sky contrasted so sharply the twilight that had resembled a black velvet blanket embedded with diamonds. The craggy, volcanic rock mounds I had so struggled to walk over the day before made for a sharp silhouette around the rising sun.

My surroundings were so quintessentially grand that I found it hard to be pessimistic. It did not matter that I had gone to sleep without dinner and was convinced that the summit was not going to be reached, at least by me. My skull felt like a small hammer was beating against it, but in the dawn’s light the pain was dulled, like a numbing blanket of rosy light. I had a vision in my mind’s eye of success, of finally doing a peak that I had set out to do. A broken stove and a little altitude sickness weren’t going to stop me.

The next four hours are a blur in my memory. They were a blur then, too, considering I didn’t have my contacts with me. The day began frigidly and slightly uphill, became slightly warmer and very much downhill, and then became too hot and straight up. At some point between camp and the saddle, I resolved to reach the top. I questioned this decision several times over the next few hours.

Once we passed the saddle, it was a mad scramble over several false peaks to the summit. Every five steps I had to stop for a breather; every ten, I debated stopping for good. I remember my thoughts being a strange mix of elation and self-

18

mosaic 2016

doubt. As I clambered over small boulders, I thought about all the things I had failed at before. Mostly were athletics related.

In spite of those unwanted and negative thoughts, every time I got a little higher, I found myself impressed with the fact that I was still going.

By the time the actual summit was in view, every muscle in my body was protesting against every movement.

The hummingbird beat of my heart continued no matter how long I would rest. The sheer exposure and height of the situation weren’t helping either, but I didn’t let myself become afraid, not really. I was already shaking from exhaustion.

However, my main train of thought was that if I shook from fear, too, I would shake myself right off the side of a cliff.

There was a point when the fear completely overcame me, but at that point I was going to be afraid even if I quit, possibly moreso than if I kept climbing. I took a deep breath, coughed because my throat and lungs felt so raw, and continued up.

What happened next was particularly blurry, but some time later I found myself overlooking the Beartooth Mountain range and a good portion of the state of Montana as well. It seemed surreal, too grand of an accomplishment for me. At the same time it felt natural, as if I was born to breathe the high mountain air. I knew that from then on, I would never look at mountains the same. They had gone from part of the landscape to part of me in under 48 hours. Even the daunting task of descending the mountain couldn’t bring me down, at least emotionally. I had done it. I had finally summited a peak rather than stopping just shy of the top. Granite Peak, MT, 12799 feet above sea level. I opened my heart, closed my eyes, and enjoyed my moment on top of the world.

into the mist NOA LIN ‘17

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

19

solo CHLOE DAWKINS ‘18

I’m pretty sure whatever air was my first breath was arctic.

Maybe because I was born in the winter but all I did my first 10 years of life was shake like a grasshopper’s legs would shake if he danced on the wing of a plane.

I was always crouched trembling between my mothers legs begging please don’t look at me. Please don’t ask if I like first grade and God please don’t hug me.

Just let me sit here quietly and read until I blend into these coconut colored walls and you can’t see me at all.

Fourth grade chorus concert.

Solo 400 ugly puppets laughing mouths hanging open on their hinges like doors in my nightmares that are meant to stay closed.

So how about I run home Solo Teachers who forced me to speak, people who asked why I was so shy.

You should know I wasn’t being antisocial.

I wasn’t being rude just because I prefer to write my thoughts in a notebook and don’t scribe them into your ear like a tell-all calligrapher doesn’t mean I’m dumb.

Tell them Einstein didn’t talk until he was five.

Tell them not all legacies need to speak to be heard.

20

mosaic 2016

livermore KEYING YANG ‘17

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

21

the treasure in the reservoir

this poem is not about the ocean

ANDREY YAO ‘19

David is holding the electric reciprocating saw tightly with his hands covered by a pair of antique grey gloves. The saw is on fifth gear; just like what it is called, the silvery blade moves front and back with its teeth biting and carving into a rusted hollow metal column.

As he presses the saw into the column, the cut expands slowly from a crescent shape to a full circle. The sun in mid-noon shines dazzling white light on the saw, which reflects right on David’s stratified blue T-shirt. I am staring at his hands and the saw so carefully that I can see the negligible vibration of his arms. It is really amazing that many beautiful things jumped to me today, from the shadow of leaves cast over the rocks to waves of blue water in this reservoir—all because I realized why we had been doing community service on a trip called Project Outreach and, more importantly, how what we were doing benefited people in ways I never thought about before.

Project Outreach, or PO, is an annual event for Holderness School freshmen; the entire class travels to Philadelphia for a 10 day community service experience. Early in the morning on the first day of PO, our class was divided into four groups. In our smaller groups, we waddled to the mini-buses with our baggages, and began our long trip from rural Plymouth to urban Philadelphia. Even though we had mouthwatering snacks and deafening music on the buses, we were all exhausted when we arrived after the eight hour drive at Saint David’s Episcopal Church, where we were going to sleep for the next ten days. We settled down and prepared for the following days, when we would spend time going to different work sites to do community service with different organizations. Among all these work sites, the most memorable one for me was the reservoir, not only because of its unique and delightful sense of nature, but also because of what I learned from it.

22

mosaic 2016

EMILY PERKINS ‘16

Roxborough Reservoir, located in Philadelphia, was abandoned for almost 50 years. It surprised everyone the first time we saw it; it was not the kind of little lake where people could walk to the shore and take selfies of themselves with the sparkling ripples and reflection of the sky and the trees. It was a body of water enclosed by lifeless ugly gray barb wire. Inside the barb wire were weird trees that entangled together in chaos. When we all hovered around the bus, wondering what we could do with this hopeless reservoir, a man named David with a long white beard introduced himself to us and assigned every student a task to do. My job was to help build new wooden fences around the reservoir.

I ecstatically put on a pair of grey gloves, picked up an electric reciprocating saw, and stood beside David excitedly, for this was the coolest job on PO ever. David just showed us how to use the saw—now it was our turn to try it. I held the saw handle with both hands and turned on the power. I moved the saw closer to the metal column so that the teeth touched the metal surface. Then I pressed the saw into the column. The saw kept moving back and forth, expanding the cut on the column. After three minutes and ten seconds, the cut became a perfect circle, and the upper half of the column plummeted to the ground with a sound like a metal ruler dropping on the table. Next, we started to build the actual fences.

David put hollow wooden cuboids on the columns left on the ground, then he put wooden boards between the columns. I grabbed a yellow screwdriver and seven screws and squatted beside the fence. I pressed the screw in the wooden board and then started driving screws into the wood to connect the cuboids and the boards. While I turned on the screwdriver, the screw started rotating slowly into the wood. It penetrated the wooden board and bit steadily on the cuboid. When all

the screws have been driven into the wood, I slapped the board to see if it was stable, and it didn’t even have any vibration.

With everybody cooperating and working, we made three sections of fence. We felt elated because the reservoir looked completely different with the fences, which make it a much more enjoyable place to go. I can imagine when all the barb wire are replaced by new fences, people will come with their sandwiches and Mountain Dew and cameras; they will have picnic, take pictures of the water and the plants and talk about how beautiful this place is.

However, I also feel frustrated because we didn’t even replace one percent of the total barb wire, and it will take months and years for David and his team to finish this project.

I told David my worries. Surprisingly, he smiled and answered me with confidence: “It may take a while for us to build all the fences. However, when people see how amazing the reservoir looks with just these fences, some of them will join this project, and some of them will donate funds to support it. With more people helping us, this reservoir can be changed very easily.” His voice was hopeful and confident, and I can see his dream coming true in the following months.

David’s words inspired me a lot. I learned from him and our work at the reservoir that things we do, especially community service, improve the society in a variety of ways. This one day experience at the reservoir was a treasure for me in a profound way, for it encouraged me to persist in these services in the future and made me believe that what we did was worthy and even more beneficial than I assumed when we first began our drive to Philadelphia. M

(It’s about that feeling when you jump into water and everything is suddenly still, muted.

You are weightless.

And maybe, somewhere, someone has the courage to live their whole life like that.)

He lived below the surface, alone, yet he was never lonely.

It was he who possessed the special gift; the unknowable secret.

The surface held no magic, no joyful luster for him.

The oxygen was cleaner down here.

The sky, though distorted by the commotion above was always a bright azure, and the sunlight danced it’s kaleidoscope pattern.

He could not speak.

He did not want to.

It was here he thrived.

[In the] silent stillness only water could provide.

He was not a mermaid, simply an observer, a keeper of knowledge.

He possessed the gift of sight.

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

23

trapped TIA TANG ‘18

moment of sunshine ELLA MURE ‘17

24

mosaic 2016

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

25

howl SAMATHA SMITH ‘16

a good day JOJO GRAHAM ‘18

26

mosaic 2016

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

27

52 NOA LIN ‘17

bike ride ELLA MURE ‘17

28

mosaic 2016

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

29

the ocean

from the dot to the mind

ANONYMOUS

ERICA ASHBY ‘18

crashing down upon itself, white foam crests that swell and fade again, splintered wood from broken boats, pale skies don’t do justice the turbulent waters below hidden terrors, unpredictable actions it should scare us more than it does and it scares us quite a bit but not enough because we know more about mars than the waters of our planet and yet we still swim in them foolish beings we are

A black dot: the pure start of a life.

The art piece “One of a Kind Girl” demonstrates how the human mind develops. Once a newborn is released into the world, a conscious, ego, and superego are created. These segments of the human mind branch out from the pure mind at birth. As Sigmund Freud, the great philosopher, explains, humans are born with an ID, or conscious. In this art piece, the couscous is represented as the thick lines closest to the circle because the conscious is the part of the mind that has not been affected by the views of society. Therefore, it is closer to the newborn stage. As a person becomes exposed to the natural world, an ego is created. This ego is the way that a person reacts to others. The more curvy thin lines represent the ego because it can always fluctuate depending on what a person is exposed to. As life progresses, a person will discover her superego, or morals and beliefs. These beliefs are represented as the branches of the curvy lines because the superego is created by the ways in which a person views others.

These three stages of development all start from the black dot and grow upward as this human discovers themselves.

one of a kind girl ERICA ASHBY ‘18

30

mosaic 2016

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

31

hannah SAMANTHA SMITH ‘16

This composition was made to represent one of my best friends here at Holderness, Hannah. Everything about this piece shows an upward movement, from the black lines to the path of the colors. Hannah is a very caring and mature person, who I see as growing lines up towards the sky, as she strives to achieve anything she sets her mind to. All of the lines here are shown stretching towards the sky, with little hecticness, for she always has everything in control. I chose to go with a scale of cool colors, for it represents her calm nature. The blue and green both have the calming effect in their definition, as well as steadfast and nurturing. Both the purple and blue show her wisdom and loyalty. There is a small part of white in one of the corner, which represents purity, for I know she is always truthful and has been a true friend since Day One.

32

mosaic 2016

hannah SAMANTHA SMITH ‘16

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

33

chuck SAM MEAU ‘16

This picture has a thick spot of black on the right side of the painting with a lot of lines

another is orange. Blue is for his dependability and loyalty. Red is for energy and

stretching to the left side. They lead to three other anchors coming off the main spot.

aggressiveness. The orange is for his fun, happy and warm side. These three sides

Each anchor is associated with a different personality trait. One is blue, one is red, and

describe Chuck and anchor his personality and traits.

emma |

LILY LIN ‘19

emma LILY LIN ‘19

Emma was my best friend when I was in China. I used splashed ink and warm colour to describe her. The warm colour can demonstrate her kindness, patience, gentle and soft really well. The splashed ink shows that she always spread her warmth to others.

chuck | 34

mosaic 2016

SAM MEAU ‘16

Everyone could feel her amiability and warmth when she was around.

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

35

becomes powerful PERRY LUM ‘17

36

mosaic 2016

childhood LILY LIN ‘19

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

37

selfie GEOFF WEST ‘17

formation KATHY LIECH ‘18

38

mosaic 2016

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

39

behind those forbidden doors DREA CHIN ‘19

beyond KATHY LIECH ‘18

40

mosaic 2016

The doors were bright orange; they led to a forbidden place for Holderness students. My first thought about the doors was that they might have been a closet. Or they could’ve led you to the outdoors because they had a red glowing exit sign hanging above the orange mystery. But for the ten days of Holderness School’s ninth grade community service trip, most of the students never knew what was behind them.

While in Philadelphia, we spent the most time in SHARE. In SHARE we mostly packed boxes except for the second to last day of our volunteer days. That day we did something different. The SHARE workers asked for volunteers. With the lack of information, none of us wanted to part from a “safe” job that was easy. I looked around at the familiar and unfamiliar faces and nobody wanted to volunteer. So I, not knowing what I was getting myself into, volunteered myself and after that a few others did, too. The lady brought us through a series of hallways in the dark grimed warehouse and to a storage and supply closet. It held a large variety of outdoor hardware and painting supplies.

The SHARE worker took cans of white, green and orange paint, the SHARE logo colors. She finally told us that we were going to repaint some walls that were in need of a touch up. She maneuvered us around the warehouse and to the “forbidden doors.” This was the moment that some of the Holderness students’ curious minds had been waiting for. What was really behind those doors?

The orange red door opened and it was a shock to us. It was an office-like space, completely different than the warehouse. They were so different I didn’t think that we were in SHARE anymore. The only thing that told us that were in SHARE was the white, green and orange logos that were everywhere. The young twenty-something year old worker saw our facial expressions and chuckled. She led us through the large orange meeting room to more additional hallways and explained to us that we were in the office, the more official business side that would discuss donations. It was clean and pretty until we got to the “hallway.”

This was the hallway we would be repainting. The worker was right, it was definitely in need of a touch up. The hallway was narrow and it could just barely let two people walk through at the same time.

At the end of the long hallway was an open door letting in a nice breeze and a lot of natural sunlight. If you looked up you could see the high ceilings painted a black-greyish color. From the ceilings you could see the dusty fluorescent hanging lights throughout the hallway. The walls had a rough surface that reminded me of the brick faced walls at a grade school. They were painted a clean white color and had a green strip running along the walls at eye level. The most noticeable mistake was with the green strip; it was faint and had streaks. Clearly, the volunteers who did this before us didn’t know how to properly paint.

While painting the walls, the nasty fumes were swept away by the Philadelphia breeze. We heard the occasional tire screeches and the sound of the cars honking from the outdoors. But what I heard the most was the clicking of keyboards and the ringing of office phones.

Off the hallway was Steveannas’s office. She is head of SHARE. Being around her office gave me a feel of what was really happening in all departments. Overall, the hallway was silent with the occasional small talk between the volunteers, but we heard the voices in the office echo off of the walls we were painting. We accidentally eavesdropped even though we didn’t want to listen in on check up meetings.

I thought about what was really happening in those offices after the meeting. The offices were belonged to the behind the scenes workers that made what the Holderness students were doing happen and, more importantly, helped feed many people in need in the city.

They spoke to producers to come and donate their food here and talked to the organizations that needed the food support. Painting these walls and beautifying the hallway made me realize that what we were doing to help out was the easy part. I left SHARE that day with a glimpse of what was really going behind those forbidden doors.

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

41

a fish called shore | q = 130 Tempo Fl

B bb ? bb

˙

∑

∑

? bb

∑

A Fish Called Shore ˙

˙≥ ™

∑

b &b

{

A≥™

œ

˙™

B¨maj9œ

œœ œ

MOTI JIANG ‘16

œœœ

œœ

Œ

b˙ ™

b˙

˙™

˙™

bœ

œ

Œ

œ

œœ

Œ

œœ

œ

6

B bb ˙™

˙™

˙™

˙™

? bb ˙™

˙™

b˙ ™

b˙ ™

Œ

{ 42

Œ

œ

œœ

Œ

œ

mosaic 2016

œœ

Œ

œ

˙™

˙™

œœ

Œ

œ

˙™

˙

˙™

˙™

œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Gm/D b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ &b œ B¨maj9

{

? bb œ

œœ

Œ

œ

˙™

˙

? bb #˙ ™

#˙ ™

B bb

bœ œ bœ œ b œ œ b œ œ B¨ b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ &b œ œœ

˙

14

B¨7/D

?bœ b

˙™ b Bb

10

? bb

œ œ œ Fm@11 b œ œ b œ œ œb œ œ b œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œœ

2

œœ

Œ

œ

œ

œœ

˙™

Œ

œ

œœ

Œ

∑

˙™

∑

E¨ œ œ œ œ F7 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ b œ J ‰ œ &b

{

? bb œ

œœ

Œ

œ

œœ

Œ

œ

˙˙ ˙

∑

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL © Year Owner

43

the visit

“Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom” Lucy suddenly announced.

SARAH GUDAS ‘17

“Lucy, can you please hold it?” My father asked.

My parents were coming to visit my wife and our daughter in our new home. We moved to the suburbs outside of Philadelphia a couple days ago because we wanted to be closer to our family. I grew up outside of Philadelphia and I really wanted my children to have the same experience I did. We were living outside of Boston before but certain events and family issues forced us to come and be closer to family.

“Girls, my parents will be here any minute and we need to go visit Robert” I yelled upstairs to my wife, Susan, and my daughter, Lucy.

Both of them came running down, Lucy in a little red sundress with crackers in one hand and her new Barbie doll in the other. Susan came running down in a yellow sundress fussing over her hair. We were on our way to visit my brother, Robert, in prison today. He was recently convicted off theft, but our entire family is convinced he was framed.

Our recent move was because of this whole situation and we are determined as a family to prove his innocence.

44

mosaic 2016

“She needs to go to the women’s room anyways; let me handle this one” Susan said.

Lucy and Susan made their way to the bathroom and we stood there and waited for them. All of a sudden we heard shrieks and cries coming from the bathroom. Susan came out carrying Lucy in her arms and the wet Barbie doll in the other. Susan looked very annoyed and frazzled.

“What happened in there?” I asked immediately.

“Lucy accidentally dropped her Barbie in the toilet” Susan said sounding exasperated.

“I want her dry!!!!!” Lucy screamed.

We all got in my parent’s car and drove to the prison. We got out and made our way into the main building. Lucy started complaining as soon as we got out of the car.

“I’ve had it. John, we’re going outside and drying this doll out. You ladies stay here and when Barbie is dry then we will go visit Robert” my dad announced.

“Lucy, we’re going to go visit Uncle Robert and then we get to hang out with Grandma and Grandpa.” Susan said to Lucy.

“No, really it’s fine. Lucy is just being difficult and she’ll calm down in a couple minutes. We came here to see Robert and that is what we’ll do.” I replied.

“Oh be quiet Lucy and show some manners” I snapped at her.

– Collection of Eastern State Penitentiary Historic Site – the following two pieces were inspired by this photograph

“No, really I can take her, honey” I replied.

“Mom, we’re coming one moment, please” I said back to her.

“But I wanna go home” Lucy complained.

GIFT OF THE SCHEERER FAMILY

“It’s ok. I’ll take her” Susan said.

“Well, Lucy there is nothing we can do about it right now.” I said. My explanation to Lucy about there being nothing we could do only made her more upset. She continued to cry and scream at the top of her lungs.

“Hello?” my mother called as she walked through our front door.

men with doll clothes on clothesline

“Noooo! No! No!” Lucy suddenly began to have a tantrum

We got into the building and me and my dad walked to the front to check in and announce our arrival. The front desk clerk told us to sit and wait in the waiting room and that they would call us when they were ready. We sat and waited for about ten minutes and then we all got up to go in.

“No way. We are drying this doll out and then we are visiting Robert.

If you try to protest then we will just go home and no one will see Robert!” My dad snapped.

My dad and I made our way outside with a clothesline and a fan we got from the front and began drying the doll clothes out.

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

45

on the inside ELIZABETH JOHANSSON ‘17

I.

My buddy James and I were in this together, both charged with second degree murder about fifteen years ago. The guards don’t let us talk much because of that history, but we still try to make time for each other when we aren’t locked up behind our cells. I hear others sometimes talking about how this penitentiary wasn’t as bad as some of the ones we could have gone to. I didn’t do much research on it, because- well, you know, I was taken right to my cell not knowing what my sentence was or if I was ever going to see my cousin James again.

Some people I see walk in here look like they have had all the life drained out of them. They look lost. I’ve managed to keep myself sane; however, James has gone a little out of whack ever since the sixth year when the guards kept him in solitary for about six months for his behavior. He has never grown out of this PTSD and now gets scared of being alone. He regularly has mental breakdowns and can’t contain his bursts of anger when he is left alone for just a short amount of time. His cell is right across from mine, and I’m unable to explain the fear and utter distress in his piercing screams that releases every last bit of his sanity into the thick air of his stale eight feet of concrete he’s supposed to call his home.

James lives in constant fear that a guard will come in with an order to throw him back into solitary. Some guards are kind to us, and understand that when James gets reckless, he is only comfortable around me. This morning in particular, a guard named Tom, I believe, allowed James and me to play around outside so he could get some fresh air. I said to James, “So, James, what were you thinking you wanted to do today?” James and I had a lot of these windows where we were allowed to reconnect after some nights of being away from each other.

“M-m-m-my dolly’s clothes got wet last n-n-night when m-m-m-my room flooded.” His room didn’t flood. “Well, okay. We can find a clothesline to hang them up and maybe if you ask mustache over there if we can borrow that fan sitting right inside he will allow that. Just make sure you ask nicely, James, and control your temper if you get an answer that you don’t like very much.” James nodded his head and walked

46

mosaic 2016

over to Tom (I think) and being very understanding of James’ state, he agreed. This was a nice experience for James because his dolls mean so much to him.

II.

“Karen, the warden is ready to see you now.” This place reeks of mold and medicine. This is my first time covering a story of the inside of a prison. I had only walked into a prison once in my life, seventh grade when we toured the county jail for a unit on solitary. Ever since then, I have been hooked on examining the idea of solitary being a way of treatment for prisoners. I had researched many cases on mental illnesses that arose from it, and then some that made people more understanding of why they’re in prison. All studies showed change in people after their time in solidarity. No one comes out the way they went in. Today the warden is providing me with a tour of the penitentiary, mainly focusing on those who suffer PTSD and the conditions of the penitentiary itself.

I work for the New York Times, and this is the first project my boss put me on that truly matters. I’ve written witty opinionated articles on meaningless things like my political views and who really should have won Super Tuesday, but this—this was my big break as a journalist. The warden showed me around some of the cells that contained prisoners serving their time in solitary, and allowed me to look at some of the medical forms from inmates previously isolated.

After my tour I was walking back out to my car and saw two men sitting on the ground with a miniature clothesline. The clothesline was not for their own clothes, but for those the size of a doll. I stopped and watched them for a little while and asked if it was okay for me to take a picture of them. Neither of them answered. I found these two men extremely fascinating. I wanted them for my story. I wanted to know their story, but, unfortunately, my boss prohibited me from speaking to prisoners not included in my tour, so I remained quiet and walked to my car.

justice SUPAVIT POKAWANVIT ‘16

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

47

return BRIDGIT POTTER ‘19

Watching my brother step off the bus from his special program experience was such a memorable moment for me. Out Back is a ten day long excursion into the woods that the Holderness junior class participates in annually.

This trip includes a three day solo camping period, where communication with the person is minimal and the period allows for self-reflection. I waited those painfully long ten days to finally hear the sweet, low hum of my brother’s voice.

Naturally, I worried that he might have been attacked by a bear, or fallen into a 20 foot ditch and was stranded, had broken a bone, or worse. I’m the type of person who becomes the slightest bit concerned about the smallest things, so I worried.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from worrying about him, but missing him was something I hadn’t expected to happen. This had been a wake up call for me, especially because he will be away during his senior year participating in a highly selective government program in Bosnia.

My brother’s familiar figure stepped off the bus. His scent, smile, and usual awkward steps is something I would always recognize. A smile spread across his face as he watched my sister and me practically skip over to him. I opened my arms and embraced him in a huge hug. To my surprise, he didn’t smell awful. He just smelled like the smell of a little smoke mixed into a crisp, soapy, linen scent that his skin gives off. My nose pressed up against the zipper of his large winter camping jacket, causing a freeway of zig-zagged lines to appear on my nose. I gripped him so tightly that breathing became a hard task

48

mosaic 2016

with my face pressed up against him. I don’t know how long I hugged him, but I do know that the moment was so perfect I could’ve stood there forever.

I was so happy. Without these 10 days of special programs, I never would’ve known how much I miss my brother when I’m not around him. Usually, I can just shoot him a text asking him about his day, but over the span of ten days, I realized how much communicating with someone you are close to matters. I realized how important it is that you not take any time you spend with people you love for granted. M

robotics HOLTEN FLINDERS ‘17, DAVE LECLERC ‘16 SUPAVIT POKAWANVIT ‘16, NATE SAMPO ‘16 JULLIA TRAN ‘18, GEOFF WEST ‘17, ZHAOWEI YU ‘16

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

49

the last deadline ALEX LASH ‘16

An adaptation of The Last Laugh by Wilfred Owen ‘Oh not again! Unfair’ he said; and slumped.

Whether he hoped for less or none at all,

The Keyboards chattered —Tap, tap, tap!

Pencils scribbled — Scratch-scrape! Scratch-scrape!

And the Teacher exhaled with delight.

Another sighed,— ’Oh Mother,— the work,— Dad!’ Then smiled at the desk, only a child, relieved.

And the Assignment—Multi-paged,

Arrogantly spoke,—Fool!

And some words flowed, and dribbled.

still life with grapes TIA TANG ‘18

50

mosaic 2016

‘My hand!’ one complained. Procrastination-full seemed his mood, Till slowly lowered, his heavy pencil kissed the page.

And the Pens’ ink sat happily on paper;

Rabbles of Students angered and groaned; And the Deadline approached.

HOLDERNESS SCHOOL

51

to daddy MINA NGUYEN ‘19

Salty foam water Stroked my hair as Gentle as—Father.

Sunny soft sand Scratched my cheeks and hands.

But none of this matters now My body is glowing I’m high above now.

“Don’t you worry about their crimes Or those last pennies and dimes, Because all of that got me here, I made it Daddy, I am finally free!”

Salty bitter sea Hiding in my lungs as Scared as—Refugees.

Turkish tender land Ripped Daddy’s heart, my man.

But none of this matters now, My body is darkening I’m down below now.

Inspired by “Aylan Kurdi: Photo Shows Refugee Crisis’ Tiny Victim - CNN.com.”

CNN. Cable News Network. Web. 21 Jan. 2016.

all the lights YOOMI REN ‘16

mosaic staff

M

SARAH BERUBE, ‘18 LOGAN KILFOYLE, ‘17 LIESL MAGNUS, ‘17 JULLIA TRAN, ‘18

mosaic

faculty advisor NICOLE FURLONGE

CONTRIBUTORS

class of 2016

class of 2019

class of 2017 cont.

MOTI JIANG

DREA CHIN

CAT MCLAUGHLIN

ALEX LASH

LILY LIN

TORI WALSH

SAM MEAU

BRIDGIT POTTER

GEOFF WEST

EMILY PERKINS

MINA NGUYEN

KEYING YANG

SUPAVIT POKAWANVIT YOOMI REN

ANDREY YAO

class of 2018

SAMANTHA SMITH

engineering club

ERICA ASHBY

HOLTEN FLINDERS, ‘17

WEI HAO CAI

class of 2017

CHLOE DAWKINS

HANNAH FERNANDES

JOJO GRAHAM

SARAH GUDAS

DAVE LECLERC, ‘16 SUPAVIT POKAWANVIT, ‘16

KATHY LIECH

BROOKE HAYES

DARIELLE MATTHEWS

ELIZABETH JOHANSSON

PHIE MILES

NOA LIN

TIA TANG

PERRY LUM

NATE SAMPO, ‘16 JULLIA TRAN, ‘18 GEOFF WEST, ‘17 ZHAOWEI YU, ‘16

LOLO ZABALETA

ELLA MURE

COVER:

To listen to MOTI JIANG’S “ a

unfolding |

YOOMI REN ‘16 | mixed media

fish called shore,” visit our tumblr page: http://mosaicholderness.tumblr.com

Mosaic is printed on 50% post­consumer recycled paper