VIRTUTE VOLUME II
LOWER SCHOOL
Rehoboth LOUIE RENJEL ’27
A
re you ready for fun? We were packing for Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. My sister and I were really excited to go! Finally, it was the day to leave. Nina, my sister, had planned fun games for the three-hour drive. The games were fun, and the hours ended quickly. We were there at about four o’clock p.m. We didn’t do anything fun that night, but we did get delicious pizza. We were so tired that we had to go to bed early. We woke up at probably 6:30 a.m. My uncle was on the porch, so we went up and asked him, “What are we doing today?” He said we were going to get donuts, go to the beach, and go to the boardwalk. It sounded like a pretty fun day. We went out to get donuts at around 8 or 8:30 a.m. I ate two, of course, and even my sister ate two, and she’s not a big fan of donuts. After that, we kind of relaxed and watched TV. We pretty much watched golf all of the time because a big tournament was going on. Next, we went to the beach. Our uncle and aunt told us if we dove in
a wave we would stay for extra time, and it was true, but it wouldn’t be until we left the beach. Now we were just by the ocean hanging out. As soon as my sister and aunt were walking along the beach and my uncle was relaxing in his chair, I got to build a sand castle with my mom. We built a great one, and it was pretty big. Finally, everyone got in the ocean. It was time to dive. I was nervous and kept saying to myself, “I can do it.” Then it was time… I DID IT! My first ever time I dove in a wave! I was proud of myself. Nina didn’t quite do it the first time, but did it the second! WE GOT EXTRA TIME! We were walking to the beach house. Sadly, we couldn’t go that minute to the boardwalk, but we could relax and watch golf. We had a couple snacks, then it was time to go. It was about a 15-minute drive to the boardwalk. We got out of the car shaking in happiness and then paid the car meter. We sprinted as fast as we could to the games and rides. We played every game we could including throwing the ball in the cup, spraying water to get a prize, and the one I got two giant prizes in the horse game. It was amazing! Every game and ride was cool. We tried to eat up time. Sadly, we had to go when we have had two hours to play. We got good pizza at the boardwalk. We walked home. Then I took a shower, went to bed, and thought to myself, “Best day ever!”
CHASE HUNTER ’26
JERMAINE DRAKES ’25
The Hockey Game MITCH MOZES ’27
W
e got off the plane. I could tell it was going to be an awesome trip as walked out in the Tampa air. My dad called Uber. After five minutes, the Uber guy came. When we arrived at the hotel, the check-in man told us they did not have a room ready for us. So, we went to the pool. The man told us the pool was on the third floor outside. They had nice seating, a personal small couch that could fit four people and it even had shade! My dad and I grabbed the final one that was left. We dropped our stuff on the couch and changed in the bathroom and started playing in the water. After a little while the man called my dad, and the man said our room was ready. We changed and got our room keys, and we went to the room. We started to watch some biking. They did some epic tricks! My dad took a shower, and I kept watching biking. My dad got out, and
I got in. Once I got out I put on my favorite shirt and on top of that my Tampa Bay Lightning jersey. After I got changed we walked (I can’t believe it but the arena was not that far away) to the arena. Since the game hadn’t started my dad bought me a Tampa limited puck and a Tampa hat. We also got some drinks and after a while we went into Amalie Arena! We saw a ton of people! We got some food and sat down in the third row. And we were able to see my favorite player Ben Bishop, number 30, for two periods! We sat down and the players came out. After they finished, we saw a few ads, then my dad told me to go to the place where the Lightning players would come out so I could fist bump the players. The players came out to fist bump everybody who was there. Then I saw Ben Bishop and Andrei Vaslevski and they ONLY FIST BUMPED ME!!!! Then I went back to my dad. And the game began. The Sharks (the other team) scored twice in the first half. At halftime I asked my dad if I could get some popcorn. He said just wait a little longer. We saw ads and people wishing other people happy birthday, and then I saw my name up there! Then my dad said we could get some popcorn. After that Tampa scored, and the buzzer went beep. Then the Sharks scored twice, but that was the most exciting time of my life!
CHEIKH SY ’25
RAHIM NOOR ’27
CARSON YOO ’26
MIDDLE SCHOOL
A
Moving In ASIM HAKIM-FLORIAN ’23
chill went down my spine. A lump the size of a golf ball sat in my throat. My heart was pumping fast. Blood was coursing through my veins. Ah, my reader, but you must be confused. Thus, I shall start from the beginning. It was every kid’s favorite night of the year. Albeit, it was the most eerie, horrifying, and bone chilling night of the year. Yes, you guessed it, Halloween. I stepped out of my doorway and was immediately struck by a cold gust of air. My hands grew snow white. My face went pale. I couldn’t feel my toes. From head to toe my body shivered like I was inside an ice cube. As I grudgingly and arduously walked along the vast, narrow streets Trickor-Treating the night away, I couldn’t help but notice a peculiar house at the end of my street. It was tall, thin and contained an innumerable amount of windows. However, each and every single one was pitch dark. The house had an ominous theme to it, the color being gray and bricks layering the exterior. My curious side got to me and I couldn’t help but wonder who lived there. I tiptoed across the yard along the pathway, and as I neared the wretched house, a notch in my throat grew. My heart beat faster, my legs
twitched, and there was a knot in my stomach. My hands shook with fear as I slowly knocked on the door, Thump Thump Thump! I waited for what seemed like an eternity until the doorknob twisted Click! The door creaked open very slowly Creak! And a head peered through the door. He had big bulgy eyes, icy blue. He stood 6’5 and couldn’t have been more than 200 lbs. He wore raggedy clothes and wore worn out sneakers. “Young boy, I am not handing out candy tonight, but you may come in if you wish to.” He had an urgency to his voice, as if he was trying to get rid of me but not be suspicious about it. Thoughts jammed in my head, for I didn’t know what to do. But then, just as quickly as he invited me, I swiftly said “Ok.” He slowly opened the door and immediately I knew I had made the wrong move. There was no furniture anywhere in the house. No one else lived there but the strange man. All but no silverware and food occupied the house. The floorboards creaked, cobwebs filled the walls, and I may have spotted some blood oozing from the walls. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought he lived in a ghost town. I started to wonder what the man’s intentions were, what with letting me into his house. It was like he could read my mind, and proceeded to say “ I don’t get much company nowadays. But I shall only let you in for a quick tour.” The man said “quick” sternly, as if this needed to be the case. Suddenly, a horrible, rancid, putrid smell filled the house, so bad so that it had to stir suspicion. The tall man kept trying to steer me away from the smellier parts, especially the basement.
Come to think of it, a lot of his idiosyncrasies were: trying to hide any knives or sharp objects, moving fast with an urgency to every step, and, with a handkerchief, trying to “wipe off some dirty spots on the floor.”
A CHILL
WENT DOWN
my spine
Suddenly, a blood - curdling scream erupted from the basement. “AAAAAHHHHHH!!!” A chill went down my spine. A lump the size of a golf ball sat in my throat. My heart was pumping fast. Blood was coursing through my veins. “Young man, I think it is time for you to leave.” I bolted through the house and out the door as fast as my little legs could carry me. I didn’t stop running until I was safely at home. I slammed the door and immediately went to my mom. “T-T-T-TH-H-H There’s a guy O-O-Over there.” I stuttered perpetually. Annoyed and confused my mom exclaimed, “Just tell me what happened!” Finally ready, I swiftly said, “At the end of our street there’s a house, a strange looking house. A man opened it and I knew I shouldn’t have gone in but I was just so curious and suspicious. The inside looked really weird, and something just seemed really off about the whole situation. Then, suddenly, a petrifying scream let out and I bolted out of there as fast as I could.” “Asim, you must have gone crazy, our neighbors moved out of that house two weeks ago. Although, we never did see them leave and their cars are still in the driveway. So whoever you saw there couldn’t have actually been living there, but had actually infiltrated the house.” At that moment, I went as pale as a ghost, and fell to the floor with a loud thud.
CHARLIE ALBERINO ’22
SPENCER DURBIN ’22
The Watcher CONNOR BRUGGER ’23
H
e stood over me. He was tall and the only thing I could make out was his pitch-black eyes as they stared down at me. With a fast movement he bent down and I felt his icy fingers grip my arms in the darkness. It felt as if my soul was being ripped from my body. My senses popped alive and a chill went through me. Suddenly my eyes opened and I was back in my home. It was as if I had just taken a nap. I was shaken but kept telling myself, “It is nothing, it is nothing, only a dream.” But something about the experience felt so real and so invasive that I could not tell whether the creepy watcher was real or just my imagination. The distinct line seemed to just float away. My mind seemed to have taken control and I could feel a mysterious presence and something in me knew it had to be real. Ever since that time, I have sensed that there is someone watching
It is Nothing.
ONLY A
DREAM
me, especially in the night when I lay alone in my bed. But nevertheless, I kept telling myself, “It is nothing, it is nothing, only a dream.” As I felt the presence getting stronger I kept reminding myself, “It is nothing, it is nothing, only a dream.” One night, lying in bed I had decided to give myself a glimpse back into reality. I went to the window to prove to myself that no one was there. I was shocked to see the outline of a tall figure under the street lamp. It was less a shadow than a white void with a faint black figure. I tried to comprehend what it was before me. The figure moved so smoothly but yet so jaggedly. It had eyes that seemed to be both so dark and yet so bright. It seemed to be happy and sad at the same time. All the spine chilling figure did was stare, just stare, and stare. Finally, I dared to stare back. As I squinted to see clearer, I noticed that his eyes were not open. Yet I felt as if he could see me, as if he could sense me. But how? And more importantly, why me? What had I done to deserve this? My mind kept coming back to the phrase, “It is nothing, it is nothing, only a dream.” I decided to do something to escape this unnerving situation, and I tried to see if I could somehow wake myself. But nothing seemed to work as I tried pinching myself.
As I had suspected, nothing worked and I eventually decided that it was somewhat real and that when I was or where I was...ugh. I tried to go back to bed. As I gave up on falling asleep, I looked out the window and just like that he was gone, completely and utterly gone. But where? Where could he have gone? I pondered. Then I felt a sort of itch in my head. The itch got stronger and stronger, and it seemed even though I was itching it, it would not stop. Then I had a realization. The itch was not on my head, it was in my head. It felt now as if there was something, someone inside my head tearing it apart piece by piece. All of a sudden, I blacked out. When my eyes popped open, I was not in my room anymore but in the void. I was floating above the house surrounded by eternal space I decided to look down. As I looked down at my body, all there was, was blackness, the same blackness I had seen before in the figure outside my window. As I looked down at my house I could see that there is a kid in a room. But as I looked closer I could make out that the kid was me looking out the window. How I wish I could have done something and yell to that kid, but I was in this loop trapped forever. Suffering forever without me ever knowing it.
My Name THOMAS EUSSE ’23
My name changes, I am one person with two names, One connects me to my American side of the coin and the other to the Colombian one. It’s easy to drop one persona and pick up the next. I am a pet that responds to two names. Call me by my Spanish or English name it’s all the same to me. But I will slip up, and not answer to your calls. Isn’t it strange how when I speak Spanish in class, most laugh. I have Colombian pride, and I will not be afraid to show my Colombian side. Empathy The gunfire rings Like church bells I wonder when the doorbell bird will sing, I believe this boat will sail To and from this corrupted land, As we pack, to leave our home, I look back and see it alone. On the drive to the port, we see people walking people of all sort, People run, people crying, people sulking, people approaching their only hope. We arrive and see piles, Of all sorts of things, Sad, tragic, and horrific things. As we mount the boat to sail, We hear an earth shattering artillery hail.
S E AN C U R R AN ’ 24
COLIN FLOOD ’22
PALMER M c TAGUE ’22
Empathy JAMES MONCUR ’23
When the bombs fell, I ran. I ran from my burning village and to the sea. Watching my village burn too something from me Something I will never get back. I miss my warm bed, my friends, my pets, But most of all I miss my home, But none of that matters now, what matters is survival. I ran and promised myself I would never look back. My family reached the shore and swam as fast as we could. Once we arrived on a fishing boat, we noticed we were not alone. There were several other families on the boat, And they all had a similar look on their face, Like life would never be the same.
SP E NC E R D U RB I N ’ 2 2
Papaya Tree MEHDI FIROZVI ’23
On my tree, A papaya was born, Greenish-yellow, With white dots. It grew from a seed, A seed thrown to the woods, From me. With a shiny muddy color, And a thick coat of slime, It was buried. Deep into the earth it slept, Until it awakened.
Digging up, Grasping for air, Was the seed. Up came the seed, But different. Not a seed, But a tree. And on my papaya tree, A papaya was born, Greenish-yellow, With white dots.
UPPER SCHOOL
Bite of the Saw ARI CHADDA ’18
First comes the bite of the saw. The cold metal of the bow saw gnawing into the tree is a harsh contrast to the heat emanating from my body. Connected in this struggle—the tree resisting—my axe carves out a Pacman-esque shape, directing the tree to fall. With a back cut, and a scream of resistance, the tree falls, defeated. Now the fun part, with a pair of loppers (a giant pair of tree scissors) I prune away the branches, using physics to allow me to overcome the lignified cambium. Then, hefting the tree onto a saw horse, I proceed to divide it into two-foot sections, sorting by girth. The fate of the larger logs is to come. Next comes the splitting. Out of the corner of my eye, the edge of the silver wedge resting on my shoulder glistens. With a grunt, I break from my squat, hefting the eightpound maul high over my head like a triumphant King Arthur raising Excalibur. Dropping back down into the bottom of a squat, I drive my heels into the Earth, bringing the head of the axe down into the log before
me, whose resolution breaks easily. Again. A fissure appears. Again. The most satisfying combination of brutality and grace, as the extension of my body shatters the logs evenly into two semi-cylinders. Then, the stacking. Calloused, cracked hands heft the larger halved logs first, creating a steady foundation. Next, the even larger logs fill the gaps between the halves, and then the smaller logs fill in the gaps, creating a woodpile that leans slightly backwards so it falls away if it falls. These three chords will take me four hours to stack, my body will ache, fingers will stiffen, but I will have paid it forward. Wood, freshly cut, still possesses water in its xylem and so is not burned immediately, instead, it is stacked for the next year. Finally, the boiler. The shrine where the destruction in the woodlots serves the needs of the people—the whirring heart of the school. The boilers, hidden in the depths of the school, are what allows us to survive the frigid Vermont winters, what allows for hot showers and warm food. The roaring flames, the stack of wood, and the glowing embers all demand deference, but not of a religious sort. Rather one purely inspired by a human struggle for survival—a primal instinct. Flames lick upwards consuming the compact
fuel load of wood piled within. First, they scar the wood, marring the beautiful creme color black, then, slowly, flames conquer, and shrivel the perfection of the wood, adding charcoal twists. Then finally, ash.
a combination
and Grace OF BRU T AL I T Y
But the heat from the fire warming the water in the circulating pipes to a boil will warm the buildings and serve the community’s hot water demands. To know something by heart, one must know it not only mentally, but physically too. This knowledge invites a deeper respect. By performing the entirety of the process that heats the school from beginning to end, I’ve gained new insight and appreciation for the process of turning trees into energy and finally into ash. And the smoke billowing from the chimneys serves as a warm reminder of this ability for humanity to overcome even the slimmest of odds in order to survive. I’m grateful that I got to know each part of this process, having done it hundreds of times, with my body. I will never forget the happy hum of well-fed boilers, the beautiful arrogance of a slumbering woodpile, the gratifying splintering of an axe dividing a hunk of wood, or the sickening crunch as a tree full of life succumbed to the silent might of the saw, for this process sounded with a chord synonymous to that which sings in my heart.
WILL JARRETT ’19
MATT LOWRIE ’18
Behind the Door
I
WILL KING ’18
had been anticipating the moment, through breakfast, a frigid morning hike in the dense, knee-high snow; the multiple warm showers I took to feel the tingle of blood in my frozen limbs; and the long, extended-family dinner and conversation that always ensued. My mind was elsewhere; on that wood door concealing a small room. Never before had this glorified closet held my interest. My eyes traveled along the contours of the dark, tar-like stains on the door to a small piece of paper taped above the knob: “DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 10 PM!” My patience was wearing paper-thin. With one twist of the knob I could let a sliver of light break through to whatever my older cousin, Hank, had been assembling all day. With every ounce of self-control, I restrained my impulses. I stood, facing the door, with my brother and two cousins closest in age. As a foursome, we are a tight unit forged over summer and winter weeks spent together at my grandparent’s house in upstate New York. We are an eclectic group, but when we’re together, our differing interests give way to group endeavors--creating a Jedi council after finally finishing all the Star Wars movies together or storming the beaches of Normandy after watching Saving Private Ryan. Though the four of us spend months apart, when we reunite we are inseparable. Hank was the maestro of this night’s undertaking. He is a middle school history teacher and musician 11 years older than I am. Hank views music as a great equalizer. The winter before he had instituted evening cousin conversations
paired to a soundtrack. Each person could dictate what song to play and, in turn, what direction the conversation would take. Sometimes talk subsided altogether to better appreciate the sound emanating from a small speaker. This night was to be different. Being the youngest, I was last to enter, pacing and fidgeting, stretching my neck to get a peek into the room. The door had closed behind each older cousin as he entered, the only sign of their presence a low hum through the thin door. Finally, it was my turn. The 10 by 10 foot room was transformed by well-placed candles just bright enough to illuminate the faces of my cousins who seconds before had waited eagerly with me outside. Now their faces were focused, trusting enough of each other not to feel self-conscious. I followed their gazes to the source of the melodic hum filling the room. Anything that could make sound had been dragged into that small space: a guitar, drums, a washboard with a drumstick, a mallet wrapped in duct tape to soften its sharp sound, a bass, hand drums. Seated on a throne of pillows, Hank handed me a guitar. I had always loved to sing, but I had no skills with an instrument. None of us did. Yet, at that moment, we were so comfortable with one another that whatever sound came to our mind we played. Hank tied our straying melodies together, able to hear our wandering ideas and riff on his guitar to guide all of us in one unified direction. Once our unskilled hands began to tame our wild sounds, we started to play with ease and assurance. With self-awareness dissipating, I felt a primal bellow flow from my throat. It was not conscious but a guttural reaction to the pure joy of creating what I was previously only able to absorb passively through a speaker. The mess of a melody we created, regardless of how unbearable it may have been for those outside the room, was solely ours, borne of love and trust, it rang beautiful in our ears. Several hours and several broken improvised instruments later, we shuffled to our beds, sweating, half asleep, and smiling.
Undefined and Love Triangle HARRISON MUTH ’19
Oh how I long to be defined like him; To be but nothing would be sweet release, But I am doomed to never show my skin, For I am undefined and have no peace. Some people call me tan of pi o’er two, But most will never know my face or name Because I have no form, no shape, no rule, And all my life is but a longing pain. My love for her extends beyond all range, Yet my domain forever binds me tight. Cosine of x, her beauty great and strange Her supple curves extend beyond all sight. To be just close to her would be so fine, But I cannot for I am undefined. Her perfect symmetry, too much for me Her boundless curves serve only to torment. Oh sine of x how much I envy thee! To be with her… alas I must relent! For both them squared together are but 1 Complete and whole like I will never be Their love together is beyond all sum, Intertwined like serpents through the sea. René Descartes, come here and answer me: Why make a world so vast and yet so cold? To leave some undefined, such cruelty While others stretch beyond all things, not growing old. The sting of lack, too much for me, To see their love and yet still not to be.
AL E C M E AR N S ’ 20
Imperfections ZAK ZAID ’19
S
he spent most of her life in front of a mirror Searching for that one mistake That one hair out of place She stared so hard that those baby blues no longer looked at her, But rather, they looked straight through “You’re so pretty,” they told her. “I wish I could look like you” But she wondered if the words would still be spoken to her if she let her hair hang loose? If she took off all that makeup would those comments still be true? Because she wants a prettier smile, Hates the freckles on her face But little does she know that those imperfections truly make her great. But they’ve told her what she must look like ‘Cuz if she’s not a size two or a Kendall Jenner look-alike,
Then she isn’t good enough. Society’s got a hold on us. Are we even really living? Because when I hear the word beautiful, here’s what I envision. You You And You Because who are they to tell you that you’re not good enough? Who are they to tell her that she’s not beautiful? And who are they to tell me that I can’t do it. Because, like Doctor King, I have a dream too And no I don’t want to be a rapper or a basketball player. I want to make a difference in the world. I want to be somebody. But all around me it’s black people this, black people that. Black people dance, black people rap. But what if I don’t want to juju or hit dem folks to a bunch of these socalled “rappers” as they mumble on and on about how much money they got. Or the man they just shot. Because they say that if you look like me, the only way to make it is if you can hold a mic or hit a jump shot. But in reality most of us can’t.
And i titled this imperfections so maybe you can see. Imperfections of us Imperfections of them Imperfections of you Imperfections of me And I wrote this for the girl who thought she wasn’t pretty enough And I wrote this for the guy who was told he would amount to nothing. Because if you let your imperfections define you, then you’re falling right into the trap. That black hole abyss And i promise you it’s not hard to miss because just when you think it’s been dismissed It’ll sneak up on you again. But remind yourself Remind yourself Remind yourself Remind yourself To own those imperfections one at a time Because time is the only thing that can unfreeze your mind.
GUS AND R E WS ’ 1 9
MATT LOWRIE ’18
When I’m Older
I
TREY ARMSTRONG ’18
’ve sat this same way since I was seventeen. My shoulders hunched over my chest, the middle of my back almost protruding though the chair and my neck hanging forward over my body. Except now doing anything to try to correct this comes with pain, so I stay in my sixty year old position and watch one of my grandkids playing near the stove. Eventually he’ll burn himself, like my son did, and like I did before him. But I won’t say anything. No chance. If I stop him before he burns himself he won’t learn. But honestly, it’s not my kid, and I don’t have the patience nor the want to deal with a crying child, I already did that many times, a long while ago. So I break my stare from little Len, and get up out of my chair and walk past the pictures of my childhood that once made me feel nostalgic, and sad, but now just give me something to look at as I pass by. Too bad. I had once promised my father when I was younger that I would not let my experiences change my once optimistic viewpoint on life and my kind heart. I have let him down… I miss my older sister. I would call but we wouldn’t have much to talk about, never have really. I think about my wife. Thinking about my wife is mostly all I can do. We still live together, yes, but silence has consumed our relationship, something that did not surprise me in the least, no matter how sad it was, or how hard I tried to avoid it. It’s like a curse passed down through my blood, silence is.
I’ve been around it so much over these long 77 years, it is my comfort zone. So I sit on my couch in my living room, almost as comfy as the one my parents had, and I think. I think about my kids and their lives and how my wife and I did a fine job. “Dad, do you want to watch the game?” My son asks me. “Sure.” I wonder if I had never had him or his sister would things be different between myself and my wife. But then my wife walks into the room and sits next to him and I realize what we had to sacrifice for our children’s successes, and I am alright. I think this is what my parents would always try to explain to me and my sister about loving us. I am sure they would be mad at me for even thinking the way I just thought about my children. When I was thirty-two, at the height of my career and just married I would have never thought this way. But I’ve got a lot of time in my own head now. So I guess this is what I do with it. I wonder if the younger me would like me now. I’ve got a good amount of money. Was I that materialistic back then? Damn. Who knows. I’m sure my wife does, but I am in no place to ask her. I hope that she would say something nice. I still love her more than anything in the world. Which is stupid of me to say, and so uncreative for what I am supposed to be, but it is true. Aside from my kids of course. “OUCH, DADDY, DADDY.” I hear from the kitchen. I smiled the crooked smile I’ve always smiled and let out a laugh. My wife looked up when she heard my faint laughter and smiled back. For a second there, I was Trey again.
CONNOR PUGH ’19
CHRISTIAN MOCKLER ’20
Thank you to our Landon students and faculty who contributed and edited Volume II of Virtute. The title of this publication is derived from Landon’s motto, “Virtute et Non Vi,” which is loosely translated as “By Virtute, Not by Force.” Our motto holds fast to the principles of our Code of Character, which include respect, honesty, civility and honor.