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P U B
Springside Chestnut Hill Academy 2021 Pub 1
Pub’s Mission Statement
Pub is an annually published, creative arts magazine published by a cohort of student volunteers for the Springside Chestnut Hill Academy Upper School. The magazine provides Upper School students with the ability to share their written, visual, and auditory work with the community at large. We hope to inspire and motivate student artists to create, and we aim to celebrate a broad, diverse range of work in each edition of Pub. 2
Pub
Change 2021
P U B
Franchesca DiMichele ‘23 | Untitled | Charcoal
Springside Chestnut Hill Academy 500 W Willow Grove Avenue Philadelphia, PA 19118 www.sch.org | pub@sch.org Pub 3
Letter from the Editors Dear Readers, When discussing possible themes for this year’s edition, the PUB team kept circling back to one idea-- change. Almost everyone can say that they have been profoundly affected by the events of this school year, for better or worse. While there have been many difficult changes this year such as the lack of consistency and routine, lack of social interaction, and lack of adventure, there have also been beautiful changes we’ve seen: new ways of socializing, new connections with nature, new skills learned, new memories made with family, and a resurgence of support for civil rights movements. In addition to all of these, there are the regular changes that all teenagers face: preparing for college and adulthood, shifting friend groups and relationships, navigating tougher schoolwork, the ups and downs of mental health, and experiencing changes to our environments. In this edition, our goal was to wholeheartedly explore the effects, emotions, important figures, and driving forces behind change. We hope you are able to find comfort in pieces that you relate to, and be challenged by different perspectives that you cannot. So sit back, put some headphones in, grab some tea and a snack, and let yourself be changed by these powerful pieces of student work. Best Regards, Your Editors-in-Chief Meena Padhye and Chloe Brundin
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Table of Contents Prose
Art
Burn by Gabrielle Woolley ‘21.....................4 John Lewis by Juniper Moscow ‘21.........Cover Autobiography by Lenny Lorenz ‘21..........10 Untitled by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23.............1 Tim Burr by Gabrielle Wooley ‘21..............19 RBG by Meena Padhye ‘22..............................7 The Composition of My Freedom by Tobi
Untitled by Tess Fairlie ‘22..............................9
Farbstein ‘21.............................................24
Face by Juniper Moscow ‘21.........................13
The Town by Nia Hodges ‘22......................31 Punk Tim Burton by Madeline Mahoney ‘22...14 A Deserter’s Redemption by Harry Kelly ‘21..38 John Lewis by Meena Padhye ‘22.................17 Still Life by Juniper Moscow ‘21....................21 Portrait by Juniper Moscow ‘21.....................22 Thoughts of My Mind by Anonymous...........25
Poetry this is america by Gaby Leon-Palfrey ‘22.....8 Blanket by Catherine Driscoll ‘23..............16 Life in HD by Juniper Moscow ‘21.............23 Give Me No Change by Sally Thistle ‘22....29 Cleaners by Ava Szalay ‘24.........................30
Untitled by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23...........26 John Lewis by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23......28 Untitled by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23...........33 Portrait by Sally Thistle ‘22............................34 Self Portrait by Iris Wilde ‘22.........................35 Portrait by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23............39
Consume Me by Raven Kilcollum ‘23.......34 Solo Time by Lenny Lorenz ‘21..................36 Poetry is My Motion by Ava Roberts ‘21....37
Music Learn to Run by Will Stutman ‘22..................12 Wilted Flowers by Will Stutman ‘22..............20 Pouring Rain by Will Stutman ‘22.................32 Faded Daylight by Will Stutman ‘22..............34 Animal by Will Stutman ‘22..........................41
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Burn
By: Gabrielle Woolley ‘21 Burn.
and run off laughing. She was a crazy
He watched as his essay turned to ash.
old croon and not even his family, who
It wasn’t good anyway. Just a few words
witnessed his own burning antics on
here and there that managed to get him
multiple occasions, believed her. They
a solid C for the entire semester. He had
blindly watched everything he did, they
written about fire and how man never
would never admit that their baby was
tamed anything, not even the hair on
imperfect. They would never admit that
their head. His teacher, a strict religious
anything in their life was imperfect. Oh,
conservative who may or may not be
how he was incapable of being imperfect.
biased in her racial opinions, slammed
Oh, how anything was incapable of being
it on his desk with a big fat F with the
imperfect. How they assumed everything
word Radical angrily scrawled across
was perfect when they forced it to be, they
the entire first page. It didn’t practically
pretended for it to be. So he burned. He burned things to release stress. He
matter to him. He simply blinked at the essay, looked at his red-faced teacher, and
burned things to have fun. He burned
gifted her with the most condescending
things for attention. He burned things for
grin he could manage before he burst into
love. Maybe if the blaze grew big enough,
laughter.
if the blaze grew hot enough he’d find
He’d always enjoyed burning things
something, just a burn that mommy and
from setting small trees ablaze to
daddy’s dollars couldn’t heal.
burning leftover paper in the house.
-
Once he’d managed to set a mailbox on
He wandered down the sidewalk,
fire belonging to his neighbor, and now
kicking every stone he came across,
every time she saw him her eyes drilled
wondering how his parents would react
into his skull, but he couldn’t care less.
to his “failing” grades as they would term
Every time he saw her, in fact, it took all
it. A genuine smile crossed his lips. Them
his willpower not to stick out his tongue
caring for little old me, imagine that,
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only 18 years overdue. His head lifted as
“Get out of my office before I rip you out
he ran home, invigorated by the simple
of it.”
possibility of his parents paying him any true mind.
He blinked, he had forgotten he held the charred remains of his essay loosely in
He burst through the front door as he
his hand and his grip tightened with the
yelled, “Mother! Father! Guess who’s
entrance of his father causing some ashes
failing!”
to drift silently onto the floor. He opened
His cry echoed throughout the house.
his mouth to proudly tell his father about
Not a sound responded to his plea. He
his grades, but his father silenced him
called again unsure if his parents were
with a single glare.
further back in the house or not there at all. The only reply was the gentle hum of the fish tank within his father’s office. His father never
Spellbound by the fish gliding inside their friendly safe haven, the boy began to climb into the tank.
“Get. Out. Boy.” “Yes, sir,” he murmured quietly. He smelled the reek of alcohol rippling off of his father in waves
allowed him to be in his office, never
which nearly bowled him over. He was
once had he entered, and never had he
surprised his father wasn’t lying in the
needed to. Bubbles drifted to the top and
foyer in a drunken stupor like usual, but
popped in reply as the fish floated at the
this meant his mother lay somewhere
glass, blank eyes intent on his own eyes.
within the house floating away on a cloud
Mesmerized by the tank, he drifted over,
of pills. Something in him broke. His
and gently placed his hand on the glass.
father couldn’t have hums of the fish tank
The fish tried to nibble at his fingers and
to himself. His father didn’t deserve water
even nuzzled the glass. A smile stretched
when he drank liquid fire.
gently across his face, never wavering
He ripped the match he always had
as long as he watched the fish push each
tucked behind his ear and looked his
other just to get to him.
father dead in the eyes while a malevolent
“Boy,” a voice rumbled menacingly,
grin etched its way onto his face. He
Pub 7
flicked the dead match, watching it gulp
their friendly safe haven, the boy began
its first breath in earnest, and dropped
to climb into the tank. The tank wobbled
the match onto his father’s paper-covered
under his weight and the boy almost
desk and giggled as the flames licked up
willingly dropped into the rising flames,
every piece of the fuel in its sight. He
but the fish beckoned him with their
snatched burning paper, not bothering to
eyes, and he knew he couldn’t leave
notice the fire sinking into his own skin,
them all alone. He wouldn’t leave what
and shoved the paper onto the curtains
he learned to love so quickly to burn
lining the windows within his father’s
alone; he wouldn’t leave what loved him
office. The flames gobbled the curtains
to burn. The water kissed his fingertips,
greedily as his father began to shout
giving him a love he’d never experienced
obscene curses as he ran frantically trying
before. Heavy with anticipation, the boy
to find anything to put the flames out.
sunk into the tank as the flames danced
The boy, with his anger sated, watched in
around them. The fish welcomed the boy
a daze as the room rapidly came alive with
with nuzzles and delicate pokes, and one
fire. The boy twisted toward the fish tank
began to nurse his weeping burned hands
and lurched forward as the fish ogled the
causing the others to join in. The boy
scene before them curiously. At the boy’s
gazed out into his burning world as the
approach, the fish wiggled and shoved
fish continued to contently care for him.
each other out of the way. He smiled, for
The lonely boy grinning within his tank of
the fish liked him more than anyone in his
hungry piranhas.
life had ever. The fire inched closer with every second as it gorged itself on the fake happiness that money could afford. The fire nipped at his heels as he stood with his face pressed against the cool reassuring glass of the tank where the fish swam as closely as they could to him through the thin sheet separating them. Spellbound by the fish gliding inside 8
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Drown. ***
Meena Padhye ‘22 | RBG | Acrylic Paint
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this is america By Gaby Leon-Palfrey ‘22
this is america,
say,
where a statue stands on an island
turning their backs, they sit back as the
in the harbor making empty promises
racists attack and the cops don’t fight
a torch held aloft
back
as empty eyes stare into the sun
the capitol burns, stones still left unturned, we never learn.
this is america, where yellowed pieces of parchment
this is america
frozen in time, the past beneath glass
where children cry for their loved ones
promise life, liberty, and the pursuit of
hiding under desks, hands clapped over
happiness
their ears
but did hancock sign with his fingers
it’s not enough to silence the bangs and
crossed?
screams that echo through the walls, echo down
this is america
the halls
where george and breonna and ahmaud
that will echo in their minds
and tamir and eric and rayshard and
perhaps forever
trayvon and all of the others, and all of the others don’t matter
this is america
as long as the economy is doing okay
where young girls tremble in courtrooms
where 550 million is nothing more than
as they are forced to remember
a joke, a hoax, they stoke the fires of
as they are barraged with questions,
misinformation
suggestions on how to avoid it
shots of bleach and you’re out of reach,
how was he supposed to know you didn’t
for the love of god, can we just impeach?
want it? and they’ll let him off anyway,
this is america
the boy’s swimming career is far more
those who search for a life in the
important
“promised land”
than a woman’s petty cries for attention.
are promised 6 months in a cage without the chains they’d go insane, they 10 Pub
Tess Fairlie ‘22 | Untitled | Digital Photography
this is america
or juliet and juliet
where the very ground beneath our feet
or julian and romea.
cries for help as smoke billows into the air, we stay
this is america
unaware
where cries of outrage and protest
but who cares when you’re making
are silenced,
millions?
where hatred runs rampant through its
it’s all a hoax anyway.
veins, all the way through to the heart
this is america
whose history repeats itself, and denial is
where love wins until the story is
everywhere
rewritten,
this is america.
and it’s romeo and romeo,
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Autobiography By: Lenny Lorenz ‘21
I learned to read out of jealousy.
reading with its bizarre tales of Sedaris’ life. I had graduated from the middlegrade novels and trilogies into real adult books. I read in vans, sandwiched between two sleeping friends, on the
As my classmate, Ainsley, read “real
side of the dirt highways when our vans
books” next to me during naptime in our
broke down, and in my hammock with
kindergarten classroom, I knew I had to
my headlamp, attracting bugs to my face.
learn, too. By first grade, I was a pro-
I slowly made my way through Sedaris’
reader and by third grade, I was finishing
short stories page by page under the
the Harry Potter series. I spent many
southwest sky that summer.
nights in my bubblegum-pink bedroom
When I returned from New Mexico,
reading with my dad. He would read to
I was already planning for my next
me for a little while from a harder book,
adventure: semester school in Colorado,
leaving me to read something easier long
starting just ten days after I returned
after my light should have been turned
home. Realizing that books were cool
off. I remember the first time I finished a
again, I purchased two more of Sedaris’
book in a day. I had checked out Out of
books and Educated by Tara Westover.
My Mind from the lower school library
I had fallen in love with Sedaris’ writing
in the morning, and my eyes didn’t leave
as my friends passed around a copy of
the pages until I closed the back cover.
Educated that didn’t make it to me before
My reading continued through middle
the summer ended, but hearing everyone
school, petering off around eighth grade
rave about it, I put it at the top of my list.
when my workload started to outweigh
The day someone spilled curry on the
the time in my day.
group copy of Educated, we hosted a
The summer after 10th grade, I brought
memorial for the lost pages. I set off to the
a book someone had gifted me on my trip
High Mountain Institute (HMI) with five
to summer camp in New Mexico. The
or so books to read during the semester.
book, Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls
As we set out on our first eighteen-
by David Sedaris, re-ignited my love for
day backpacking trip, I packed one of
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the Sedaris books because I feared the
labs and history discussions. I knew I was
hardcover by Westover would weigh
missing out on something I had set my
me down, but ten days in when I had to
sights on over a year ago. Finally, after
return to campus for a night to see the
about three weeks of doing nothing, I
doctor, Educated went with me into the
picked up Educated again. While my head
backcountry. The glossy white cover was
pounded in the background, I became
quickly worn by the damp air and pine
enchanted by Tara’s story, reading late
needles that carpeted the forest floor. The
into the night with my headlamp.
pages filled with bits of dirt picked up
Soon, I finished Educated and moved on to Little Fires Everywhere. Again,
from late-night reading. Upon returning to campus, we
I became lost in the story as I read late
were greeted with a BBQ at a nearby lake. We played cards and hosted a fake engagement photoshoot. While playing a game of frisbee, I bumped
into the night after
I felt like Tayo, waking up in a sterile room after leaving a beautiful and deeply emotional place.
having slept all day because the sun was too bright and my classmates too loud. After Little Fires Everywhere, came When You
heads with another student but thought
Are Engulfed in Flames, and Me Talk
nothing of it. I awoke the next morning to
Pretty One Day. Stories offered me a
a sharp and pounding headache that has
connection to something; a way to learn
never left.
when I couldn’t even get out of bed. On
I’ve had concussions before and knew
the days where I felt like I should maybe
I should stay away from screens and
just pack up and fly home, I would plop
reading for a little while in order to feel
down in the rocking chair next to our
better soon, but as one week turned to
woodstove and read. I read away my
two and then three, my headache didn’t
fear of being inferior when all of my
get better. I spent every day in my cabin
classmates were deeply enthralled in
alone while my friends attended science
discussion of the morals of shopping. I
Pub 13
read to forget the painful days spent in
that had made me feel a little normal
Cabin Two, the curtains pulled shut to
was the books I read. I felt like Tayo,
block the sunlight glistening off the fresh
waking up in a sterile room after leaving a
snow.
beautiful and deeply emotional place.
As my peers and I prepped for another
I returned to Colorado and was off to
trip, this time to the canyons of southern
Utah twelve hours later. Ceremony still
Utah, we began to explore native writing.
rested in the top of my pack and greeted
From this came the book Ceremony, a
me as we reunited on the soft desert sand.
story of a native man, Tayo, trying to
The pages turned orange from the dust
fit in between the white world and the
that got into everything that made contact
native world after returning from war.
with the canyons, and filled up with the
The story took place in the corner of New
scribbles of my annotations. The book
Mexico I had called home for multiple
was confusing. It did not have chapters,
summers. As I packed it into the top of
jumped around timelines, and included
my backpack and hoisted it onto the bus,
poems throughout. It was enough to
my advisor pulled me aside. He wanted
make my classmates’ normal brains spin.
to talk about my headaches. We decided
It was too much for me. I longed to be lost
I would go home for about five days to
in the story the way I had been reading the
see a doctor. My backpack went to Utah
first few pages, to imagine the drought,
without me. I was pulled from my books,
to draw on the pages, and to make
and flew home to meet with a doctor who
connections between hummingbirds and
said I should only read for ten minutes at
the color blue. I spent many silent days in
a time. I was devastated. The only thing
English class listening to my classmates talk of the story, crafting my own version
Learn to Run
By: Will Stutman ‘22
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Juniper Moscow ‘21 | Face | Acrylic Charcoal & Pencil
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in my head from the bits and pieces I was
I understood how hummingbirds carried
told.
stories in their bellies and why the color
I didn’t finish Ceremony until last spring, long after the snow had melted
blue could bring home branded cows. When I finished Ceremony, I closed the
from my boots for the last time. I finally felt chapter my friends had closed months connected to my classmates in Colorado.
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before. I finally understood what they had
Madeline Mahoney ‘22 | Punk Tim Burton | Crayon & Pen
when they boarded the bus from campus
of buildings being built on camp to grow
for the last time way back in December. I
into new spaces.
was caught up in a place I no longer was
When the school year started, the
and fell further behind in work at home.
words faded from the pages as I struggled
My brain still had lightning bolts shooting
to contain my headaches. Going to class
through it when I looked at a smartboard,
made my eyes sting, my stomach ache,
and the letters danced around the pages
and my head feel like a small person with
of my English handouts. I turned back
a hammer was inside beating on the walls
to reading. As I crawled into my bed
until one would crack open. I got shots
defeated each night, I would open a
of nerve blockers, tried steroids, and
book and read a page. No matter how I
ended up in the ER until 2 am before our
was feeling, in the books I was moving
first day of in-person school. It was too
forward, making progress even if it was
much. The pounding wouldn’t stop. Pain
slow. I somehow managed to make it
woke me up late at night like the raccoons
through the school year and into summer.
outside my window would when they
I flew to Maine to work at a summer
broke into our trash cans. After our first
camp with the goal of journaling. Words
day of in-person school, I checked into
on pages had carried me thus far, and it
the hospital. With two books in tow, I
was time for me to try it for myself. My
spent the next two days in a druggy haze
journal entries were often mundane and
pushing through the books I had packed.
focused on the weather or what I had to
I wasn’t writing my own pages, but at least
eat for lunch, but still, they propelled my
the stories were moving forward.
story forward. Day after day, a page was
Reading and writing have given me
filled with words to paint a picture of how
immense strength over the past year and
far I had come since last September. I
a half to do things I wasn’t sure I’d be
flipped through news stories and journals
able to do. There was a point when I was
from the camp history collection--
worried about how I would finish high
everywhere I looked there was progress.
school like this and if I should even look
I read of social justice movements
at college, yet the stories push forward,
happening in the world around me and
pulling me along with them. ***
Pub 17
Blanket
By: Catherine Driscoll ‘23
Blanket. Sadness is a blanket. Covering, Overwhelming, Swallowing you whole. Sadness is a blanket. Wrapping around, Holding you, Pulling tight. Sadness is a blanket. Controlling, Trapping, Hard to escape. Sadness is a blanket. Pushed aside, Thrown around, Put away. Sadness is a blanket, But only if you let it.
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Meena Padhye ‘22 | John Lewis | Acrylic Paint
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Tim Burr
By: Gabrielle Wooley ‘21
attention up quickly enough as he grasped his father’s leg and let out one of his heart-melting squeals. His father
When his parents named him Tim
couldn’t even put up a facade before his
Burr, they did not foresee how hard he’d
face cracked, and he scooped the little
fall.
boy up onto his shoulders as Tim’s bubbly
Tim was a confident clutz of a child,
giggles filled the air. Timothy knew how
the apple of his mother’s eye, and his
the boy’s mother clung to her child, Tim
youthful giggles were one of the few
was the only baby out of six to make it into
things that managed to spark happiness
his toddler years. A husband prepared
within his father’s gaze. Tim’s father was
to turn back to his wife and watch her
named Timothy Burr, an oddly-fitting
eyebrows tick to and fro while Tim would
name for a man as broad as the redwoods
be oblivious to his mother’s secret code.
in the forest surrounding their family
“Daddy! Daddy! Tree hunt and I will find
cottage and as quiet as a doe slipping
the most big one,” Tim squeaked.
through the undergrowth. His mother,
Timothy smiled as his son began to swing
whose sharp beauty resembled that of a
his feet into the air and said, “How will
fox though at times she may seem to lack
you carry back that tree?”
the cleverness of one, couldn’t contain her tired excitement when she had the boy and shortened his name in order to
“I’ll make you carry it! You can carry me and Mommy!” His father turned back to his wife,
hold him to her as quickly as possible. She
who stood with her head down as she
coddled her first and only child as much
nudged the dirt with her bare feet. The
as she could, but lately, he’d been eager
boy couldn’t be sheltered for this long,
to venture out with his father into the
Timothy had been raised on the shoulders
woods. She struggled to hold onto him,
of his own father as he transversed the
but his attention waned from old legends
mountains that had kissed the doorstep of
of the siren in the mist to the new coats of
their worn out log cabin. It had instilled a
sawdust on his father’s boots.
sense of adventure and curiosity that had
One day, she couldn’t snatch his 20 Pub
once brought him to these very woods,
and he had never left since.
push the other away for clinginess, but
He pulled his wife into his arms
gentle Timothy never complained. A part
and carefully balanced his son on his
of him relished the attention and another
shoulders. Her eyes flickered nervously
part simply couldn’t get away from her.
to Tim as he began squealing with delight
She had walked into a small clearing
as he tipped over onto his father’s head,
within the forest, overlooking a plain
but her husband consumed her attention
cast in gray by the sympathetic sorrow of
with a happy kiss on her lips. Their
the sky; a sheer cliffside which her body
lips broke apart but he held her close
teetered precariously over divided the
as his eyes flared with a protective spirit akin to that of a mother bear. It was unbridled passion and warm love seeping into her body through his eyes which finally forced her to concede. She glanced
rueful trees from the
The leaves shook as the boy’s small legs struggled to lift him higher than the roots of the giants surrounding him, so he could peek into the surrounding him so he could peek into the heart of song.
solemnly at her
saddened grasses. She shook her head and rocked back off of the ledge and laid mournfully on the ground. A pressure built in her chest, pushing aside her lungs, and crushing any thought from her mind as it clawed its way up into her throat.
cold cottage as the door yawned open
A melodic wail broke through her lips as
into a now-lonely abyss. She stuck her
she began a painful forgotten tune.
arms out and spun in a silent circle
The songbirds held their breath, they
wishing her son ran around her instead
hadn’t heard her tune since the wood
of the pitying whispers of the wind. She
man wandered into the forest in a dazed
hadn’t been alone from the moment she
trance. The stags courageously crept
met her husband, she had followed him
from cautious hides, sleepy spring drones
everywhere to the point where one would
righted from hearty honeysuckle hopes,
Pub 21
turkey toms halted haughty hillside pecks,
The little boy swung his arms as he
and tiercel hawks stilled starving soars.
moved deeper into the forest as the wind
The songbirds couldn’t hold in their
tried to lull him back to the wood man.
praises any longer, they belted out the
The wind desperately shoved aside
glorious tune as the forest came alive with
millenia-old leaves; tossing moths into
coos, caws, yaps, and yips to try to spread
the air who left on wings of pixie dust,
the song through the very air of the forest.
revealing sparkling treasures who never
Tim Burr shook off his memorized trance
once graced the eye of man, and throwing
of watching his father hack down trees
old legends into the open, but the boy
taller than he could ever hope to be and
never faltered.
said with widening eyes, “Daddy, that
He pushed on as nightfall crashed into
song is pretty,” as he tottered into the
the blue sky with an explosion of white
woods to find the source.
glitters who winked curiously at the boy
The burly wood man, Timothy, sat stuck in the song of his ax against the trunk and didn’t see his precious little
as he continued his slow journey with the wind tugging at his heels. His mother crawled from her grief
boy slip into the woods. The forest
as the sun blinked its last pitying
shook their leaves struggling to catch
reassurances and listened to the mimicry
the attention of the wood man, but the
of the forest until a raven fell at her feet.
cries of their sister were too great. The
It was a gigantic creature covered in
screaming rhythm sucked the wood man
sawdust, but as nightfall crashed into
into a place of contemplation and wonder
the blue sky with an explosion of white
so grotesque to both the wood man and
glitters who winked curiously at the
the forest.
boy with the wind tugging at his heels,
Wilted Flowers
By: Will Stutman ‘22
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the raven expanded until it became the
cries became raven screeches guttural,
night and the sawdust on its feathers the
terrifying, warning. They cried as they
stars. The moon, its eye, beat into her,
ran, and flew, and fell, and dove.
its feather of night suffocated her as she
The little boy heard voices in the
breathed in the stars. The crickets within
woods, voices too unnatural to be true.
the night rose until together they formed
He began to run through the woods
its deafening caw, “The boy never loved
twisting this and that trying to find his
his father’s song, all are weak to siren
mother. He desperately spiralled further
call.”
and further into the night. The night
His mother and father screamed into the feathers of night until their voices choked raw from sawdust. Their
Juniper Moscow ‘21 | Still Life | Oil Pastel
raven swallowed him as Tim Burr fell off the mourning cliff of his mother. ***
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Juniper Moscow ‘21 | Portrait| Gouache
Life in HD By: Juniper Moscow ‘21
So vibrant and vernal is my setting Although not sunny nor spring, perhaps Yet even without color it’s begetting Of profuse life, into which I relapse Fertile with conflict, emotion, and strife Stirring within me such love and rapture No matter the problem, in me delight So pleasant, even the worst disaster Where I am, life is just two dimensions A beautiful web, invigorating So stimulating, the screen’s invention It’s falsities encapsulating Collapsing now as I close my laptop Now darkness surrounds, that life to a stop
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The Composition of My Freedom By Tobi Farbstein ‘21
They had come from California, China, Russia, and Ukraine. They spoke fluent sheet music in multiple clefs before
grandparents for driving all this way to see me. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” My
kindergarten. A piano sat in their nursery
grandfather responded. A week prior, he
before a crib. They seized admissions to
had told all of his friends that his “prodigy
Julliard as middle schoolers and would
granddaughter” was playing piano at
become bilingual in both the piano and
Carnegie Hall.
violin. They had practiced their whole lives with a goal in mind.
*** All I remember about kindergarten was
“I like to play piano sometimes…”
my teacher’s best friend: Ms. Clark. Ms.
I would tell my friends in sixth grade.
Clark greeted each student with a smile
Then, I would rush home and gossip
and listened patiently as they talked. She
with my piano teacher for thirty minutes
conducted dance parties and celebrated
before starting my lesson. My dad secretly
after each correct answer in class. She saw
wished I would quit the piano and take
her students like extensions of her family
up the guitar. I secretly wished I would
and protected them like they were her
quit the piano and take up chatting with
own. During recess, our classes played
my piano teacher for fun. Regardless,
outdoors together. While my friends
four years later, I still ended up marching
raced to see who would play first on the
across the stage, bowing in my long flowy
monkey bars, I would spend the period
dress, and standing proudly next to the
talking with Ms. Clark. Years later, I
child prodigies. In the background, a hint
discovered that Ms. Clark would return
of broadway and bright lights twinkled
home and tell her mother about the young
through the tall glass windows. I had felt
brown-haired girl that she spent an hour
as if the Statue of Liberty, or her official
talking to at recess. To my surprise, we
name, Liberty Enlightening the World,
were obsessed with each other.
had extended her hand and guided me
Next, I remember sitting in the car with
to the stage. She stood with a calming
my mom driving home from Hebrew
presence, easing my nerves as I had
School. I pawed at the snack bag on my
pressed each key. Later, I thanked my
lap and blurted out the question:
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“Can I take piano lessons?” “Why piano?” My mother asked. Our family was not particularly musical. “My favorite teacher at school teaches
roses at every recital. Piano, at that point, and every point after, was more than intellectual: it was personal. Around the same time I learned to read
piano, and I want to hang out with her.”
sheet music, I studied how to interpret
I said.
books and write the alphabet. I was no
“Let me talk with your father,” my mother responded.
more engaged in music than I was in my literacy, yet my musical talents surpassed
I was later gifted a small keyboard.
my reading and writing skills. I had slop-
Every Monday, my mom would drive me
pier handwriting than children often do
to Ms. Clark’s house where I would take
and struggled to read outloud. I tripped
lessons.
over the
During the
words be-
first couple
fore falling
of years,
and peering
piano bored
bashfully at
me, but I
the floor: I
did it for
understood
Ms. Clark.
the mean-
I hated
ing, but I
practicing
was unable
yet counted
to commu-
down the
nicate it.
days until
In English
Mondays after school where I’d be with
classes for years to come, I was pulled
Ms. Clark again. With each year that
out of class and into “special” reading
passed, my skills advanced and my pieces
groups. Teachers would coach me as I
grew harder. My relationship with Ms.
worked on translating the words on the
Clark progressed and I dreaded piano
page into a language that I could express
a little less. Like lifelong friends, Ms.
verbally. From elementary school on,
Clark and I talked about life, carpooled,
each of my essays earned poor marks, and
ordered pizza, and got ice cream
I didn’t care: I blamed it on poor gram-
together. I attended her wedding and
mar. In middle school, I could (some-
curtseyed before giving her grandmother what) read out loud and write neater, but Anonymous | Thoughts of My Mind | Digital Pub 27
I couldn’t seem to compose the words in my head. I could, however, play them. As a sixth grader, it occurred to me that I had found a sense of expression far
Then, the whole piece in a month. The piece had done something no other language or writing had done before: it caught my attention. In the past, I was limited to the
fluently read outloud. With Ms. Clark,
simplistic aspects of my education,
I was able to choose what I wanted to
never stemming beyond “average” or
play and the music I studied. At school, I
“mediocre.” I never once thought to
didn’t have this liberty, and thus I learned
challenge myself academically to the
to hate reading books and writing essays.
extent that “Vesuvius” did musically. If
Instead, I grew to love piano as much as I
I could play “Vesuvius,” I could write a
loved Ms. Clark.
solid essay and read like the other kids.
In seventh grade, I played “Vesuvius”
Suddenly, I wanted to be a student. At
by David Lanz. This complex piece
piano, I was taking in the wonders of
challenged me to rapidly alternate my
intellectualism, and even academia,
fingers between a single note while continuing to play the melody in the same hand. As I read through “Vesuvius” for the first time, my hands ached. As the wooden keys stretched my fingers apart, the discomfort startled me. I had never played a song like this, yet I was now asked to perform one of the hardest pieces at the recital. I wondered, why me? My piano skills were nothing more than average for a kid my age. Regardless, something about the piece clicked, and for the first time, I was excited to study. I learned the first page in a week. 28 Pub
Franchesca DeMichele ‘23 | Untitled | Acrylic Paint
before I could write comprehensively or
not for my future but for myself. What
into my own hands and discovered my
would I be capable of if I took the values
academic potential through something
of my education within school like I did
deemed solely an
at piano? What if I tried, not to succeed
extracurricular. By mastering my potential
for a grade, but for my own personal
within school and at piano, I explored
betterment?
the value in all that I saw outside of the ***
When I was younger, I studied the
classroom. With piano, I discovered that I was capable of teaching myself to mimic
songs that were popular amongst many
what I see through painting, express myself
of my fellow piano students. In middle
through writing, and soar above the world
school and high school, I was engrossed
through flying an airplane. Without the
in Bach, Beethoven, and even Chopin.
inspiration from a school or a university, I
Their songs were deemed “impossible”
shaped myself. Ultimately, these passions
by early scholars, yet I found myself
supplemented my education and showed
playing them as a freshman. These
me what I was capable of.
songs were unpopular and, at times,
Even after I found my musical potential, I
inconspicuous; however, they were
was not satisfied. I would sit on the bus and
unique. They inspired me to bring forth
hope to be something more. I envisioned
my potential to the world. Today I can
myself sitting on the stage at Carnegie
read and write, but I am no more free
hall and playing like the scholars before
nor capable of expressing myself than I
me. In tenth grade I had the opportunity
was before my traditional literacy. Sure,
to submit a video of my playing to a virtual
I can write a ten-page essay about how
international music competition. High-
a poem made me feel, but why not show
ranking performers were asked to come
that emotion in music? Isn’t it the same?
and play a recital at Carnegie Hall in New
Doesn’t it provide the same expression
York. I got second ranking. Nowadays,
and thus freedom?
I have gone as far as I wanted to go. I’ve
Throughout highschool, I’ve had
played piano at Carnegie Hall, and I am
people call me a piano prodigy, but I
now free to continue exploring music how
never once believed it. At school, people
I wish.
began calling me smart, and I never once
There is something further to say about
believed that either. I was neither smart
education, however. What happens to
nor a prodigy but merely hardworking. I
educators like Ms. Clark? The people
began applying myself. I took education
who started it all? As a student, education Pub 29
founded my individuality and sparked my and hope for the betterment of children intellectualism. But, as a teacher, what’s
like me. They are selfless and do not keep
in it for Ms. Clark? There’s something
their knowledge to themselves. Instead,
special about Ms. Clark and those who
they pass it on with the hopes that future
educate others. I wouldn’t be myself
generations will do something great with
without them. Teachers like Ms. Clark
it. Like Ms. Clark, They carry the weight
show us how to navigate the stairway to
of my future, and the future of humanity,
civilization and how to climb with ease.
on their shoulders.
They care about the future of their society
Franchesca Dimichele ‘23 | John Lewis | Acrylic Paint 30 Pub
***
Give Me No Change By: Sally Thistle ‘22
He grabs the butt of the multi-grain bread
Electricity pulsing through her body as
out of whole wheat packaging at 7 am
an image of another world dances in her
Twists the recycled bag until it’s taut in
head
his grip and grabs a decaying twist tie
“Daddy can I tell you my dream?”
But the forest green tie snaps under the
“No, you have to wait until after break-
pressure of the years, damn
fast”
Give me no change, so I’ll be the same
“But what if I forget what it means?”
person that you once held at the dusk of
“Well, then you shouldn’t have asked”
the world’s goodbye
He turns away to look at the grandfather
The radio button clicks with a swift move-
clock pinned to the wall
ment, his ring finger telling his middle
Give me no change, so no time will ever
finger to scram to the music
pass.
The air crackles and pops, before coming
He turns away from the soft face of the
to life like it did yesterday and will today
little, now dull girl bereft of her light
The same station plays the same jingle
Give me no change, then everything can
that it will tomorrow
stay the same.
Then, two googly eyes attached to the face of a long haired girl wander down the stairs
Pub 31
Cleaners By: Ava Szalay ‘24
I have the cleaners come every
I take their tireless title and polished ears.
Wednesday,
And drag their lobes as they gag,
to dust and drum,
forcing them upstairs.
on shaved shelves
I prick their skin, like bubblegum
shadowed by germs and mud,
and watch them say their prayers,
and rugs weary
then remove them from their chairs,
with bloods from pinky crumbs,
to bury them downstairs.
blood that I have dripped
Occasionally I doubt my intentions,
from people’s thumbs.
let my insides ration my guilt.
Only when they tell
Sometimes it’s hard to see their families
me how helpless, and humorless
cry,
my being appears
shrivel
as they drink brandy
and barely make it by.
and sneer,
But, I continue to drag, drip and let them
looking down on my job--
die
not their preferred career.
Because when the cleaners come; to fiddle and find I get some time To breathe and realize, I’m not really such a “bad guy”?
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Pub
The Town
By: Nia Hodges ‘22 Jeremy Extant hated funerals.
to walk down the street, he realized that
There was something about the finality
he needed to acknowledge his own role
of the whole ordeal that truly bothered
in creating the hatred. In the breaking,
him. He could barely stomach seeing
many had lost both their homes and
the casket; a torn chapter in a chaotic
their lives. He was extremely fortunate.
book that made his fingers twitch with
Miraculously, neither poverty nor death
discomfort. He didn’t want to be there,
seemed to touch Jeremy Extant. He
and more importantly no one could
remained a drifter; flickering in and out of
suppress their own discomfort in his
the large house his family had managed to
presence.
keep within their grasp for generations.
Of course, this was all simply speculation on his part. But to Extant, the crowd’s discomfort
He understood the envy, and sympathized with the destitute. He understood the glances at his pockets, as if staring hard
was a flashing danger zone. He often
enough would make riches spring free.
trusted his own infallible sense of
But at the same time, why should he
predicting danger even at the expense
be made to pay for fate? He could not
of popular opinion. At this moment, he
help that disease ran rampant, or that
could not deny that there was something
he owned a nice house on the eastern
undoubtedly strange about the entire
mountain. He could not help the fresher
situation. Why did Violet glare at him so
air that lived there, and the rare flowers
from the other side of the casket? Why
that blossomed every winter, immune to
had Nick refused to engage in their usual
the howling winds.
conversation by the side of the cafe? Why did it seem as though this entire town hated him in life more than they wished to mourn her in death? As he exited the ceremony and began
He could not help those unable to help themselves. Extant knew that when the bloodlust frenzy faded, his circumstances would not change. Survival waited for no
Pub 33
man, and gifts were never meant to be
Extant made him nauseous.
opened without the proper recipient. He understood this, and the corners of his
In the center of the fire, stood his house.
mouth lifted with the everyday knowledge
It was exactly as he had left it in haste
that for him at least, years were within his
this morning. He could just make out the
grasp. He was going home.
cracked vintage television in the front
“Extant, come quickly!”
room, and the dim light in his bedroom
Extant flashed his eyes forward
that continued to flicker unthreatened
and landed on the tense form of Mr.
even as the flames engulfed the front
Gravewell, sprinting towards him down
porch and began to stretch upwards
the lane. “Whatever is the matter, John?”
towards the second and third floors.
“Fire!” John gasped, practically
It dawned on Extant, a realist, that
keeling over on the concrete. “Fire on
tomorrow in the ashes he would find most
Elm Street!”
of his prized possessions stolen along
Together, they sprinted towards Elm,
with his food supply. He had no doubt
Gravewell stopping every couple minutes
that Violet and many others in this town
to regain his breath. Smoke dotted
would sleep soundly tonight richer than
the azure sky, beginning to threaten
they had been the night before. How
the promise of daylight. Extant felt his
could they do this? Why did they all treat
throat constrict as his feet hammered the
him with anger and such hatred?
pavement and fought the urge to scream
With tears in his eyes, he gazed up into
in anticipation. When both men finally
the smoke and released the remains of his
rounded the corner and reached 22 Elm
family.
Street, the sight that beheld Jeremy
Pouring Rain
By: Will Stutman ‘22
34
Pub
Gravewell gazed up at the wreckage
in horror. “I….I….don’t understand,”
Gravewell. “She was one of the good
he exclaimed, staring into the golden
ones.”
tongued flames. “How did this happen?” Extant did not offer a reply, but shook his head as if trying to ward off all memories of this dreadful day. He had lost almost everything. He had lost
Again Extant did not reply, but simply hobbled away from the burning inferno and down the lane. Barely alive, but surviving nonetheless. ***
almost everything, and yet he still lived. He still lived
Franchesca Dimichele ‘23 | Untitled | Acrylic Paint
to begin again, a phoenix reformed from the excruciating ashes of his past. He still lived. “I’m sorry about your wife Jeremy,” remarked a somber
Pub 35
Consume Me
By: Raven Kilcollum ‘23
put my headphones on and get Lost pestering thoughts left in the past like diving head first into a pool of bliss allowing the water to slowly Consume me don’t fight the urges to resurface allowing the bliss to Consume me if i crack an eye open i can See an ominous light in the sky above so i let my eyes rest and let the waves, in the key of Life
Sally Thistle ‘22 | Portrait | Crayon
Consume me.
Faded Daylight
By: Will Stutman ‘22
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Iris Wilde ‘22 | Self Portrait | Acrylic Paint
Pub 37
Solo Time
By: Lenny Lorenz ‘21
It’s Sunday,
Reflection space.
the pine grove is
I realise I have forgotten
ravaged by early June storms.
my journal and the current book I am reading. I pick up
The November air
the pine needles, crumbling
bites my ears
their weak spines between my
as I curl up on the
fingers when my step
bench to watch
mom walks over.
my dad and step brother play.
She sits down with a loud exhale. She leans on my tree touching my arm
They shoot Nerf darts
her legs stretched up to the sky.
through the trees
at each other
She groans as her body stretches.
My heart races.
dead pine needles dropping out of trees,
This is not my “solo time” anymore,
their only victims.
I am no longer here to make peace with nature,
Further into the grove,
to break the spines of pines,
I find a tree to rest my back
to understand why I wander
on. I flash back to the times
into the woods to sit by myself
I sat alone in
and just think.
Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah, “Solo Time” they called it.
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Poetry is My Motion By: Ava Roberts ‘21
Poetry is my motion The words are my devotion I come through with a flow sicker than the ocean Rhymes come through like waves causing a commotion Pushing my pen to paper Is like nourishing a land full of acres
Hate can’t conquer my passion That’s like me not taking a stand on a cause that needs action Day in and day out I feel exhausted like my energy is drained by a drought My mom shouts without a doubt To get out of bed and attend this workout I can’t count the amount of times I dreaded going Or the times my coach said you need to keep throwing I glide with a quick stride Take a heavy stand, and watch the ball leave my hand This 9lb ball is heavy, but I have balance to stay steady After all this practice will I ever truly be ready? As I take a reflection of all my pain and rejection I realize the past won’t last, but my future will surpass Sometimes, I have to go in overtime to define the critics As they try to judge my statistics Yet, there is not one thing they can mimic of my characteristics Envious of my ethics because my outcomes are mostly epic Not supporting me, but rather try to tear me apart I’m not a puzzle, but guess what, I am a work of art When I fall, it’s like no one’s there The irony is when I’m on my feet, everyone wants a piece of my wins to share But guess what, life’s not fair And I have to hold myself up first during times of despair Eventually, I had to flow in the wind solo to find my drift My style is one of a kind, more rare than something I found at a thirft I have this conflict, but I predict That I will commit to something legit My ideas and emotions circle like a merry-go-roundBut I have regained my confidence that could once be seen in the Lost-and-Found Don’t let fear stand in the way Find those people in your life that will help you make change today
Pub 39
A Deserter’s Redemption By: Harry Kelly ‘21
The night sky over the infinite grassy plains was silent as the grizzled man looked off into the distance. He watched a group of dark grey storm clouds quietly move through the air as they slowly enveloped the midnight moon, shutting out any natural light. To his right, a small fire crackled and clicked like someone was stepping on branches. To his left, a small makeshift portable tent, made out of an old cotton blanket and the wood he found by a nearby river, swayed back and forth gently with the wind. Behind him, his horse, fast asleep and tied up loosely to a tree, breathed in and out softly. Beneath the old chair where he sat, a group of ants quietly moved a collection of small pebbles and sand to form their new home. The man wore an old military uniform whose color had faded over time to the point that he couldn’t remember what it had been originally. An old, dark brown cowboy hat, with a hole about the size of a bullet through the brim, lay on the back of his head as if it was trying to not fall into the flames beside it. He had a white beard that had run its course across his face 40 Pub
and had now started to make its way down his neck. His grey eyes complimented a face that had clearly been through a lot. A black scar passed through his right cheek and down his jaw. A piece of his left ear had seemingly disappeared. On the back of his neck, a red letter “D” branded on his skin, a message from the US military to the whole world, “This man’s a deserter, and should be treated as such.” But that wasn’t what the man was thinking about as he picked up a scratched and dirty guitar, which he had found years ago abandoned on a street corner. He gently twisted the tuning keys, causing the instrument to exhale a small squeal. Once he was satisfied with each individual sound that each guitar string emitted, he began to slowly play the same song that he had for all the nights previously. After repeating the beginning instrumental opening a few times, he began to whisper along to the song, his deep southern voice cracking while he tried to reach the high notes of the song. “Oh bury me not on the lone prairie... These words came low and mournfully from the pallid lips of the youth who lay there dying...In a narrow grave, just six by three, we buried him there on the lone prairie- ”. He stopped. Off in the distance, illuminated only by the moon’s light, he could see a lone silhouette making its way towards
Franchesca DiMichele ‘23 | Portrait | Pencil
Pub 41
him. He squinted to see if he could make
sighed and quietly said, “Joel. Pleasure to
out who or what it was exactly, but his
meet you…” He then looked back down
tired vision failed him. It was only once
and began strumming the guitar again,
the silhouette talked that it was revealed
trying to remember where he had left off.
who it was. “That’s a mighty nice voice you got
Micah laughed, “Not much of a talker are you? Well that’s understandable, given the
there mister! Ooo-eee I could listen to
times we’re in right now, it’s probably for
that all night,” a high southern voice
the best.” He took out a brandy bottle from
exclaimed, as the person emerged from
his bag and began to drink from it as he
the shadows and became illuminated by
watched Joel play. After what seemed like
the flames. He was a bald young man,
hours, and after Micah had gotten halfway
with skin pale as the stars above, and
through the bottle, he staggered up from
a dark red cotton shirt with ripped up
the log and grabbed his things.
grey pants. He carried a hunting rifle,
“Well Joel, I have to say, it was a genuine
along with a small ammunition bag. The
pleasure to meet you this fine evening. I
most striking feature, though, was his
can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed
feet, completely barefoot and bright red
something so much so I appreciate you.”
from all the cuts and bruises that must’ve
He got up and made his way over to Joel to
come with not having shoes to protect
shake his hand. As they extended their arms
them.
to shake, Joel noticed something that the
“Name’s Micah,” he said as he made
darkness had obscured until now. Micah’s
his way to the fire and sat down on a bro-
shirt was red, but not completely, rather, it
ken log. “Sorry to bother you but I was
appeared that it was splattered throughout
hunting around and I heard you and I
the shirt as if somebody had spilled some-
just knew I had to come over to whoever
thing on him, or rather, somebody had bled
was singing that great song. And your
on him. As Joel studied the shirt more, he
guitar playing too! My word! I haven’t
realized the blood covered a horizontal-
heard someone play like that since I was
ly-striped grey and white shirt. A prison
up at San Quentin… But where are my
inmate shirt. He remembered Micah’s feet
manners? Your name sir?”
and how they were strangely beaten up and
The grizzled man remained silent for a moment as he scanned Micah, but he 42
Pub
covered in blood, as if he had to make a run for it in tight chains before ripping them
off...
in and out rapidly, like he was hyperven-
Before Joel could even react in fear,
tilating, before he ran out the tent and
their hands had already intertwined in
towards the edge of the encampment.
a firm but awkward hand shake. Micah
Once he stopped, he scanned the plains for
nodded and made his way back out to
any sign of Micah. He cursed loudly as he
the dark plains. But as he turned away,
struggled to find him, until he finally found
the flames revealed a twinkling golden
the silhouette making its way up a nearby
plate with an engraving on the stock of
hill. Joel breathed in slowly as he aimed his
his rifle, “Issued to the San Quentin
musket up at Micah, the muzzle of his gun
State Prison Guards, 1865.” The blood
enveloped half of his view of the silhouette.
on the shirt wasn’t Micah’s.
Suddenly, Micah jerked around, as if he
Joel gasped quietly as Micah slowly
felt the presence of a gunman on him. He
made his way out and started to turn
swiftly raised his hunting rifle at Joel, finger
back into a silhouette. He lunged to
on the trigger.
his tent and grabbed his old military
Off in the distance, the night sky over the
musket, the ammunition nowhere to be
infinite grassy plains was no longer silent
found. He frantically searched through
as several gunshots rang out. The echoes
his materials until he finally found the
of the shots seemed to stretch out for miles
bullets stashed underneath his bed.
before they finally dissipated, and once
As he loaded up the musket, his hands
again, everything was silent.
shook with fear and adrenaline. Once it
***
was ready, he felt that familiar pain on his neck from the branding, a reminder of what he’d done the last time he was confronted with danger. He breathed
Animal
By: Will Stutman ‘22
Pub 43
Pub Staff Chloe Brundin & Meena Padhye Editors-in-Chief Amanda Cooney Fiction Editor Madeline Mahoney Poetry Editor Nia Hodges Nonfiction Editor Iris Wilde Visual Arts Editor Will Stutman Music Editor & Layout Editor Chuck Norton Publicist Susanna Coates, Jenny Gellhorn, & Emily Salazar Faculty Advisors
44
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Colophon
Pub is the student-run creative arts magazine of Springside Chestnut Hill Academy. The magazine is the final product of a yearlong activity that meets on Wednesdays during SAS, the final block of the day. September-January: the staff collects poetry, short stories, plays, essays, nonfiction writing, writing that defies caterogization, music, 2D, and 3D visual art from the Upper School student body. As work is submitted, the staff assesses submisDesign: Adobe InDesign CC sions based on how appropriately it fits the magazine’s annual theme, quality, oritinality, and style. Specifications: 5.5” x 8.5” trim, January: the staff finalizes itws choices for the 40 pages plus cover magazine and begins to edit. Each literary work is proofread at least twice and the writer is consulted Photography: All photography if fundamental changes areneeded. February: featured in this magazine is The staff determines the ladder for the magazine student photography by pairing visual and literary art and determining the most relevant pieces for each section of the Typography: Adobe Handwriting magazine. March: the staff begins to design the (Ernie), Bodoni 72 Oldstyle, magazine with Adobe InDesign CC. The magaAvenir Next Condensed zine is sent to the publisher and distributed to the Printer: Quaker Upper School student body and faculty within the last week of April.
Pub 45
Juniper Moscow ‘21 | John Lewis | Oil Pastel 46
Pub