Les
Vitraux
2015
14-15 “POIGNANT”
AUTHOR - Lia Carter ‘15
PHOTOGRAPHER - Natalie Ismert ‘15
“A FEARFUL PLEASURE” AUTHOR-Lena Kincaid ‘15
16-17 “SANCTUARY”
AUTHOR - Mekam Anya ‘15
PHOTOGRAPHER - Esobel Moore ‘17
18-19 “SWEET SUMMER”
AUTHOR - Annalise Acuff ‘16
ARTIST - Abby Snyder ‘15
20-21 “MY ETERNAL WALK”
AUTHOR - Isadora Comens ‘16
PHOTO ILLUSTRATION - Lexi Churchill ‘15
22-23 “AN ARTIFICIAL ACT”
AUTHOR - Guthrie Kimball ‘16
ARTIST - Abby Snyder ‘ 15
24-25 “UNDER RATED”
AUTHOR - Hannah Snyder ‘15
PHOTOGRAPHER - Esobel Moore ‘17
26-27 “FOUR GLIMPSES OF THE SKY”
AUTHOR - Annalise Acuff ‘16
PHOTOGRAPHER - Maura Healy ‘15
28-29 “I”
AUTHOR - Evie Hauptmann ‘15
ARTIST - Paige Dussold ‘17
30-31 “FOUR GLIMPSES OF MOTHER MARY”
AUTHOR - Gabby Accurso ‘16
PHOTOGRAPHER - Maddy Lewing ‘15
32-33 “FOREVER”
AUTHOR - Katherine Glaser ‘15
ARTIST - Elizabeth Arroyo ‘16
34-35 “THE ANIMAL KINGDOM”
AUTHOR - Emily Baranowski ‘15
ARTIST - Lakin Powell ‘15
36-37 “THE LIGHTHOUSE”
AUTHOR - Sarah Berkowitz ‘15
PHOTO ILLUSTRATION - Gracie Snider ‘17
38-39 “APPREHENSIVE”
AUTHOR - Sydney Manning ‘15
PHOTOGRAPHER - Esobel Moore ‘17
40-41 “MUSIC”
AUTHOR - Katia Milazzo ‘15
PHOTOGRAPHER - Maggie Kane ‘15
42-43 “FOUR GLIMPSES OF A DARK MANSION”
AUTHOR - Annalissa Redmond ‘15
DESIGN - Marie Orrick ‘17
44-45 STAFF & GRAPHIC DESIGNER CREDITS
PHOTO - MADELEINE CAMPBELL ‘15
Eyes to Sea
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If I could live out on the rolling sea, In my white boat with the main sheet in hand, The time would stop, my troubles wouldn’t be. And in spite of the rustling wind on land, I find it to be as peaceful as sleep. None are a bother, or a helping hand. Treasure for seeking and for all my keep Be one with the water and take a stand, With toil or rain I still follow like sheep. To picture the perfect place and pretend, My mind runs wild to catch the reaping. Hearts set on sail, and with the eyes to sea, Countless stars to count, to follow, to seek, A soul that thrives on a wind to be free.
-CLAIRE IVEY ‘17
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Shall We Dance? -GUTHRIE KIMBALL ‘16 Voices sing a jazzy tune, Tap shoes beat the rhythm. Audience applauds, a standing ovation, these her passing memories. Much older now, yet her age gives her dignity, like a rose that grows more glamorous with age. Fur coat, glossy pearls, her attire for a frosty New York City evening. Broadway shows her entertainment, But alone among the lively crowd. A husband now gone, a daughter that’s distant. Her housekeeper as silent as a mouse. Pitter patter, raindrops pelt her perfect perm A grand apartment, lonely at night Reliving performances, dancing with herself Shall we dance? Yes!
Guthrie Kimball
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PHOTO ILLUSTRATION - ELIZABETH ARROYO ‘16
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PHOTO - AUBREY HORSTMEIER ‘15
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Dream
-AUBREY HORSTMEIER ‘15 I come once eyes are closed, lights are off, and sleep has taken hold. I slip into the minds of people far and wide and flash images of past thoughts. I cause smiles, tears, screams, racing heartbeats, From love to hate. I evoke the stories suppressed in one’s consciousness. I engender happiness, wonder, fear, and sadness. From children’s nightmares to adult fantasies. Everyone sees me. I am brief, only lasting a minute, leaving people wanting more. I take on many different forms. I shape-shift. Once the sun has broken the silence of night, I swiftly slip away in silence. Some remember me. Others don’t. But there is one thing about me that never changes; I will always return. I will be there every night when they close their eyes, when the lights are off, and sleep has taken hold.
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Four Glimpses of -KATIA MILAZZO ‘15 I
The wind can inspire. Wafting across your face, allowing you to breathe. Sometimes wind can be the boost to your day, Encouraging you to believe you can do what you want.
PHOTO - HANNAH SNYDER ‘15
II Wind can relieve stress. The medicine you need to survive. A sort of parent, giving you comfort. III Wind can be hollow, blowing right through you, leaving you empty, and Creeping up on you in times of grief And loneliness. IV Wind can assure us of the presence of God Showing us all that we are never alone. We can’t see the wind we feel but imagine its colors forming An image in the mind of God.
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. . .the Wind
(Modeled after Frank Marshall Davis’ ‘Four Glimpses of Night’)
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A Gaelic Coffee Shop Tale - ANNALISSA REDMOND ‘15 Thumps of rain against the windowpane let out a sweet Irish hymn. “Ta gra agam duit” I love you from her to him. What seems a drop becomes a roar with an open of a door. Unaccustomed thoughts, ripened crops, coffee tops and much more. Gaelin of gaming gush Living a life a childish lush Scarfing down his shepherd’s pie As empty as his coffee cup he stares at the sky. Warmth of a sunset, his scaffolding treasure For now, it, his only pleasure. A runaway with misunderstood direction. Peppermint coffee is where she finds affection. Traumatized from unwanted touches, She has conflicted thoughts, and no clutches. An unwavering mislay, That is how they found this place of temporary stay. But there is one girl who still needs to be shaped like clay. Not knowing she is a Tsunami against the bay She analyzes her surroundings while sipping Earl Gray.
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PHOTO - REAGAN AMATO ‘18
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Tattooed Man -MIKAYLA ZANCANELLI ‘15 Tangled black ink
a permanent mask
stars from cheek to cheek yet hiding is not the task. Watch out for Dracula!
Keep away from Frankenstein, dragons, snakes, and bats all deceiving by design.
Just look a little closer...
Take off the camouflage cape.
Reach past the tall green grass. Let his true colors escape. Now you will finally see
the vibrant look of his eyes the slight smile on his lips
and a confidence that you can’t pass by.
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Poignant
PHOTO - NATALIE ISMERT ‘15
-LIA CARTER ‘15
He has eyes for green, purple, orange. Fantastic worlds his visions forge. Clouds are draped around his neck. In shimmering gold his words are set. The crowd it swarms in red, yellow, blue Settling. Simmering. They capture his hue. A violent chorus. A knotted line they bring Wished in the air that he would swing. A parasite to countrymen. What now is free wasn’t then. Grandfathered blood from overseas Is what binds him to catastrophe. His shadowed hands clasping tight To echoed songs of the birth of light. When the star falls low on his window sill, The moon it grins at fear instilled. A storm bursts through the rotten frame. He’s called by curse but not his name. Into the trees the band embarks and hope they rob from his pure heart. Hoisted high to pointed toes Until gentle leaves caress his nose. 14
A Fearful Pleasure -LENA KINCAID ‘15
Ha! No more interruptions to my fairy hunt. “Meow!” Slithering through my legs to perch on the fallen pine, a Siamese cat whines. She’s going to scare the fairies more than Sela’s tears! Maybe I’m just not meant to discover any magic today. I’ll just make my own. We lounge on damp wood listening to the world’s hum. Eyes closed, every splash in the creek is a water slide, and every woodpecker shoots a dozen mobsters. As the sun retires, my eyelids
“
scratching echoing from the leftmost bush. That’s not a coyote howling somewhere behind my head...just a dog...and not a rabid dog. That tall shape over there isn’t coming closer every time I blink. I see a girl frantically thrashing through bushes, falling again and again. How disgusting... she’s wet herself too? And now she’s scrambling up the hill to her house, throwing stones at a glowing window? Her perturbed sister is opening the door and shouting, “Lena, you smell like the litter box!” Enough reflection on my embarrassing midnight flight from the forest. Having your panties scrubbed and cuts bandaged by a scowling 1st grader is truly humbling (painfully humiliating.) Sometimes my imagination gets so much stroking that the common sense part of my brain goes on an extended vacation. “Hey Sela, can we please not tell Mama and Daddy about this?” With a malicious glint in her eyes, my sister turns to me, one finger to her lips. “Lena, shhh! You’ll scare yourself!” Sometimes I do scare myself. My mind can be a battlefield of fairy tales and gore, sensibility against artistry. Could my imagination wander too far? Is it safe to daydream and drive? Probably not. Stubbornly, though, I cherish my ingenuity, because a magical world is much more amusing. Though I’m no longer an 11 year-old fairy hunter, my thoughts have never lost their vibrancy. And I hope they never do.
“
“Shhh! You’ll scare them,” I snarl with one finger to my lips. Wide eyes blink rapidly. I know she’s about to cry because her bottom lip is almost fully covered by her tiny corn teeth; she always bites it when crying. “Shhh,” I murmur gently. “If you cry, you’ll definitely scare away all the fairies! They have sensitive ears and they hate childrens’ tears.” I shake my butterfly net threateningly at my little sister, turning towards the trees. Pesky 6 year old! Always crying and ruining my critical investigations. I’m 11; I don’t have time for these games anymore! Gesturing to a fallen pine, I tell Sela, “Walketh thyself to that deceased pine... and watch out for the rosebushes, ‘cause they have lots of thorns and they poke us... well not me--owww!” Pulling myself out of a particularly thorny bush, I blush indignantly at my sister’s giggles. A single crimson droplet trickles down my chalky arm. “Sela, come here!” Eyes widen at the sight of blood. “Do you know what this means?” Nostrils flair and pupils grow as an evil grin stretches crookedly across my face. “They’re coming... the dark fairies. Coming for my blood, and yours too! Wicked little things with raven wings and needle teeth. Demons. Hungry for terror and misery. Do you sense them in the trees... the wind... the dancing shadows?” The tiny face so similar to mine pales to a ghostly white. My sister shivers and sucks in a trembling breath, sprinting out of the trees faster than the Roadrunner.
Is it safe to daydream and drive?
transform into photonegative lava lamps. Although it’s chilly for October, I’ve got a heater purring on my lap to keep me nice and cozy. Even if I stay out here all night...alone... “I can do it,” I whisper into a twitching cat ear. “I’ll spend the night out here with just you, me, and the fairies.” It’s night now, but I’m not scared... not of the dark, or dark fairies. Or ghosts. Or murderers with daggers to slice and rope to strangle. That snapping branch isn’t scary, and neither is that
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PHOTO - ESOBEL MOORE ‘17
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Sanctuary -MEKAM ANYA ‘15
“
myself in worlds much easier than my own. Worlds with demi-gods, evil witches, and a magic wardrobe. But no matter how many books I opened, no matter how many words I read, I still wished that my skin was lighter so I’d stand out less, and that my name rolled off the tongue instead of being an obstacle others had to wrestle with. I remember the day I bumped into a stranger while browsing the fiction section at the school library. The golden lettering covering the arm of its red and purple jacket caught my eye. I plucked the book from the shelves, intrigued by the title: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. The boy with the lightning scar and his magical world became my favorite adventure--my best escape. I learned that nice meant being kind and understanding, not letting others walk over you. I was taught being brave means even standing up to your own friends. My moment came during the fourth-grade Halloween party. My best friend tried to improve my unicorn costume with pieces from her pirate outfit. No, I said pushing her hands away, I like my costume the way it is. The books I had read placed the most important word in my vocabulary: “No!” The spell on my tongue broke and my voice was a rising Phoenix whose cry demanded to be heard. She stared at me before lashing out that I could stay a “stupid-looking pony”, but her words never hit their mark. I had stood up for myself and had never felt more free. The black skin I used to hate? It became the skin of a warrior, marked with scars from my battles. The name I tried to replace? It became a treasure no one would take from me again. A name I’d never take for granted. And I, who lived more in stories than in real life, finally was able to release the shame that clouded who I was.
“
Whispers in a quiet space amplify tenfold. I’m drawn to shelves upon shelves of books; they call me to open their pages like it’s Christmas and their words are my gifts. No, I say to the stack of mythology books beside me. I need to write. As the giggling duo behind historical fiction shelf leave the premises, I rejoice at the silence; but then I’m distracted by the Phlegm Monster. I glare across the table at the outdated black computers. A puff of black hair harrumphs and coughs to get rid of what must be a whale in its throat because nothing else can make that much noise. If this continues, I have no choice but to direct it to the nearest pharmacy. Taking a deep breath of the dusty air, I clear my head of all thoughts of Phlegm Monster. I direct my attention back to the paper in front of me. Movement from the corner of my eye reveals an ant, inching its way toward my pen. As I stare at its black shell, I remember a time I hated my own. In elementary school, my dark skin was a stain I couldn’t scrub off as permanent as my name. My tongue, paralyzed from shyness, was unable to tell substitute teachers that my name wasn’t Makum or Megan. I didn’t correct people, scared they’d stop being friends with me. The thought of being alone was more terrifying than having spiders crawl into my bed, so I didn’t grow angry when a girl petted me on the head like a dog when I opened the door for her. I choked back tears when my first-grade teacher prevented me from attending recess and made me email my parents. She accused me of lying about an assignment she misplaced and forced me to “confess”, even though I was telling the truth. My only shelter was the library, where I immersed
My only shelter was the library.
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-ANNALISE ACUFF ‘16 (Inspired by Edward Hopper’s ‘Cape Cod Morning’) She leans out of a window into the sticky heat of July, world tinged orange Their city sliced into neat, unfair portions. The people are at a standstill The cars are not letting loose their happy thrums They are stuck, trapped In the orange sunset Like flies in amber. Trees sway gently To the soft music of a trumpet. She leans forwards And almost opens her mouth To taste the sweet summer And swing of low jazz.
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ARTWORK- ABBY SNYDER ‘15
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My Eternal Walk -ISADORA COMENS ‘16
whispers as I pass easily disturbed stares silent laughing, shaking shoulders silent lips Directed at me I walk on flopping weakly gills straining limply No water to be found dying in the gutter one lonely star the blurred sky polluted air covering nature’s beauty I walk on a cardboard box a scruffy face ragged clothes thin chest heaving bone poking out weakly shaking an empty tin can with nothing to give no time to stop I walk on charred remains crumbling to dust
once a home not even a house no life one more family gone forever I walk on scrambling for a bite an argument breaks out forced to fight amongst themselves no faith In thee starving people I walk on this dead city so many hungry bellies parched throats sad dusty scuffling in dirt foraging for food no relief I walk on fallen trees should be fallen leaves though autumn is here no one can tell all resources destroyed
no nature no beauty in this desolate place I walk on no crushed dreams no dreams to be had all is bleak no laughter or playful spirits or happy faces in the city of gloom with a wishful heart I walk on the sun sets and rises and sets again I walk on still I walk on walking, walking on and on towards my doom no this is my doom forever condemned to this horrendous fate I walk on
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PHOTO ILLUSTRATION - LEXI CHURCHILL ’15
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ARTWORK -ABBY SNYDER ‘15
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An Artificial Act -GUTHRIE KIMBALL ‘16 Chh-ch, chh-ch, the whir of the film projector As laughter, tears, emotions crowd the room. Eyes glowing with the reflection of the pictures on the screen, But two eyes, unable to see, are stuck in a dimly lit corridor. Between tearing ticket stubs, And uttering “Good night. Come again.” Her thoughts are drawn away from what her ears discern. But hidden in her hideaway, they begin to fill the space. The final music trumpets. “The End” fades onto the screen, The movie-goers gather their coats, Excitedly chattering their praise or boredom with the film. She stands straight, briskly adjusting her navy and crimson uniform As she splashes a smile on her face, and straightens her golden hair. No one notices, no one cares for her worries or her problems. They believe her happy disguise just as they believed the actors on screen.
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RA UNDER HANNAH SNYDER ‘15
Underrated
The way light seeps through fragments, colored, of a stained glass window, And the second hand tick-tock of a clock that nears the oblivion of death. An animated man in a fedora sipping beer in the corner of a bar with his mustache beaded with droplets of foam.
Underrated The dewy smell of a thunderstorm on the brink of explosion, The way warm, buttery caramel sticks to the caps of teeth forming an everlasting aftertaste Two strangers making small talk, doesn’t lead to anything, just fills the gaps of emptiness, the way a telescope brings a spiritual sense of comfort to those feeling small in an eternal universe.
Underrated The labor of working men who created the silver platter that life often presents itself on, And homemade macaroni necklaces that are a hot-glued metaphor of ‘I love you’
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PHOTO - ESOBEL MOORE ‘17
TED
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Four Glimpses of the Sky (Modeled after Frank Marshall Davis’ ‘Four Glimpses of Night’)
-ANNALISE ACUFF ‘16 I A facade For the endless void Cloaked in calming blues And easy thinking II A worn blanket Draped over the path Of the Earth The sky warms And freezes III Sky is a cotton-candy maker Fluffy sugary nimbuses and Heavy clumps of thunderclouds Handed to indulgent parents And passed out to sugar-high cheering children IV An unreachable ceiling Where children stand on tip-toes Hands straining upwards Shrieking as they can never touch An unattainable dome
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PHOTO - MAURA HEALY ‘15 Photo by Maura Healy ‘15
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I
“”
-EVIE HAUPTMANN ‘15
One of the most common words used in daily life Humans love to speak it, a sign of arrogance? or confidence?
or just information?
A powerful word that can break down the walls of a feeble soul and gives voice to those who are unheard. I...I...I am strong.
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ILLUSTRATION - PAIGE DUSSOLD ‘17
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Four Glimpses of . . .
Mother
Mary
(Modeled after Frank Marshall Davis’ ‘Four Glimpses of Night’)
-GABBY ACCURSO ‘16 I The Mother who knows you best Loves all and loved by many. She watches her children play and go about their lives Only appearing when necessary. II Mysterious yet comforting— The Moon in the Dark of the night. We know it’s always waiting to be The light through our darkness. III
The simmering sun Always rising Lighting our day A never failing guide for us. IV A heart filled with love and compassion... Keeping us alive, Keeping us going. We never even think about it. It’s just always there.
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PHOTO - MADDY LEWING ‘15 31
Forever -KATHERINE GLASER ‘15
Her elegant cinnamon-brown hair framed her face As she leaned over the quaint coffee table. Filled with warmth from the morning sun,
she gracefully caught a glimpse of her daughter
who happily wiggled in the seat across from her. She smiled softly and crossed her legsThe little girl did the same.
Both their navy-blue dresses
nicely contrasted with the fuchsia flowers blossoming behind them. Noses crinkled.
Eyes filled with delight.
Together they laughed as time passed. Daughter like mother
There could never be another. So genuine so sweet
together
They make each other complete.
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ARTWORK - ELIZABETH ARROYO ‘16
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ARTWORK - LAKIN POWELL ‘15
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The
Animal Kingdom -EMILY BARANOWSKI ‘15
Muddy-brown hair swished un-enticingly. Hips awkwardly jerked side to side. A turtle could walk faster on the treadmill than her. She threw her knotted hair over her shoulder, Shot a slow wink to a boy who was waving at a girl behind her. A cockatoo could be more enticing than her. She engaged in high-pitched chatter with the girl next to her. Screeching whenever good gossip came up in the conversation. A parrot has a more beautiful squawk than her. A pair of boys saunter up to talk. She turned her screech into a croon over the “strenuous” workout she had. A sloth sleeping has harder workouts than her. The young men hang on her every word, Groomed by her with compliments like monkeys picking fleas off each other. The animal kingdom is easily more civilized than her.
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PHOTO ILLUSTRATION-GRACIE SNIDER ‘17
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The
Lighthouse -SARAH BERKOWITZ ‘15
There once was a lighthouse that shone brightly in the night With rough waves splashing around it like a calming lullaby. Near the shore it sat peacefully glowing a yellow tint And if you looked closely, on top, a speckled bird would sit. A small town hugs the edge of the shore, With rustic brick buildings and mountains galore. The rolling hills give life to the dreary-skied earth As Cotton Candy clouds float in the sky. Empty, empty the town paints us a picture Of its most helping hand.
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Apprehensive -SYDNEY MANNING ‘15 I am worried. What will happen if I lose control and my car slides across the ice? What will happen if I say the wrong thing and people never forget it? What will happen if I study and study and study but still fail the test? What will happen if I get home and my family is in an abominable mood? What will happen if I tell someone a secret and they don’t keep it to themselves? What will happen if I lose someone I love and don’t know how to cope? I don’t know what might happen but I am scared of what will.
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PHOTO - ESOBEL MOORE ‘17
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Photo by Maggie Kane
PHOTO -MAGGIE KANE `15
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Music -KATIA MILAZZO `15
Music is the heart’s voice. the way leaves blow through the trees
the way love expresses itself the way the Earth turns
the way one’s emotions are exposed the way coffee pours itself into your mug
the way the wind brushes across my face
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Four Glimpses of the . . .
Dark Mansion
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-ANNALISSA REDMOND ‘15 (Modeled after Frank Marshall Davis’ ‘Four Glimpses of Night’) I A personal palace achieved from hope and direction, A mansion with high ceilings, stuffed with no imperfection. A small couple with a large personality and Only recollections of hidden realities. II A mansion’s dark grey paint stealing the color of corrupted souls, Psychotic episodes in tormented stoned holes. Forlorn experiences and unforgettable conjuring, A supernatural presence continually monitoring. III A group of the misguided, of chuckled-up ideal dreams. Shackled, mangled, and tangled by swallowed-up fiends. Extinct minds that have expertly escaped, No hope left, so in that mansion they will stay IV A 13 floor mansion of joy and haunting stories. A man and woman by the name of Jim and Lori. There was a maid that walked around... No one could see her. No one could hear a sound. Jim, oh Jim, had no reason to sneak It was his misfortune. He gave into the devil’s trick and took a peek. Needless to say this is a tragic tale that has no end. She had to kill, for their marriage, they could not mend.
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PHOTO ILLUSTRATION KATIE KENTFIELD ‘15
2015 LES VITRAUX ‘TRUE COLORS’
Les Vitraux 2015 was produced through efforts of student volunteers from Notre Dame de Sion High School. The theme of the 2015 Les Vitraux is ‘True Colors’. The definition of Les Vitraux is “stained glass, type of window with colorful designs.” We coupled that this was the first year Les Vitraux was printed in full color with the idea that the writings between these covers were windows to contributing authors’ souls.
EDITOR - Maria Nessim ‘15
MANAGING EDITOR - Meredith Sanders ‘15 PRIMARY STAFF MEMBERS: Chloe Barrett ‘16, Emily Bello ‘18, Grace Lesniewski ‘16, Jacquie Whalen ‘15 GRAPHIC DESIGN TEAM LEADERS: Lily Coit ‘17, Chloe Long ‘17 & Marie Orrick ‘17 GRAPHIC DESIGN TEAM: Liliana Capelli ‘17, Lucy Cruciani ‘17, Paige Dussold ‘17, Masen Fridkin ‘17, Katia Hauptmann ‘17, Tara Jundgen ‘17, Christy Kentfield ‘17, Kameron Koppers, Nora Malone ‘17, Maddi McMaster ‘17, Gracie Snider ‘17, Lucy Stofer ‘17, Elsa Walz ‘17, Emma Warren ‘17, Natalie Williams ‘17
ADVISERS: Content - Shawn Watts Design - Carole Wall Simmons STAFF POLICY:
The process of acceptance into Les Vitraux is executed without bias. Pieces are evaluated for originality, flow and emotional appeal. The editor reserves the right to edit pieces for spelling, grammar, format and clarity. Views of contributing authors and artists represented in this magazine do not necessarily resemble those of the staff, advisers or school administration.
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Notre Dame de Sion High School 10631 Wornall Rd. Kansas City, MO 64114 816.942.3282 www.ndsion.edu