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The Scribbler
Chaos and Order April 2015 Pine Crest School Volume 49
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Editorial staff Editors-In-Chief Madison Herin Jarryd Rauch
managing editors
Addison Donaher Karena Halvorssen
design editors Jacob Nachlas Roshni Singh
copy editors
Mitchell Friedman Lindsay Sack
layout editors Marvis Gutierrez Michelle Pendergast
art editors Lauren Valad Jenna Wittich
editorial staff Samantha Haubenstock Gabrielle Mahabeer Kyle Mattone Matthew Merrigan Nicole Morris Ruchika Sharma Jennifer Wilson
adviser Mrs. Tina Jaramillo
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Chaos was the law of nature; oRder was the dream of man. -Henry Adams
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table of contents poetry Kairos- Debra Duval 10 Too Young- Jodie Kahan 12 Chaos vs. Order- Madeleine Turner 14 Frozen- Michelle Pendergast 15 The Metallurgist- Emily Williams 16 I Know That It ExistsKylie DiCarolis 19 Oh the Sea- Jack Steinberg 20 Back to When- Katia Mignocchi 22 A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande JatteCaroline Roschman 24 Joy- Noelia Boldizsar 31 On the Street- Aaron Srour 34 A Home- Ricardo Bazo 39 Perspective- Chase Shea 42 I Feel the Haze- Anna Venne 43 Two Paths- Jennifer Wilson 43 Oceans- Dane Gailitis 45 Perennially- Erin Carr 51 Flossing- Brittyn Bonham 52 Flames- Caroline Sachse 54 It’s Infuriating Isn’t It?- Hiba Ismail 59
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Praise for the Unsung HeroesLilliana de Souza An Insight Beyond BoundsAlexandra Folleco Fear- Stephanie Holt The Expansion of Light and Darkness Through TimeAndre Radensky The Hotdog- Cameron Andres Change- Noelia Boldizsar Drowning- Madison Herin Shanties of the SeaMatthew Dardet Le Papillon Tout PuissantNicole Maharaj Ray Charles- Jake Lieberfarb By the Sea- Michelle Pendergast The Papers Have Caught Flame Brittyn Bonham A Single SparkKatherine Jovanovic Beneath the Surface Dane Gailitis
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76 82 83 90 92 94 97 100 103 107 108 5
prose Nighthawk- Stephanie Holt 26 A Cold Winter Night- Brett Koolik 36 Macbeth Prologue- Hunter Fields 46 Silver HummingbirdMartin Iragorri 56 The Intergalactic Pilgrimage of Dr. Azat Teodoro- Matthew Dardet 64 You Are What You LoveMadison Herin 78 Jigsaw- Alec McCue 84 Living Lonely- Richard Silverman 85 An Attack- Jacob Kauppinen 86 The Redness of My RoseGarrison Bentz 98
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photography Mayhem of the MindCarolina Salazar-Paranhos 14 Iced Over- Jarryd Rauch 15 Through the Woods- Jarryd Rauch 19 Reflection- Sarah Walker 20 Sailboats- Jenna Wittich 25 In the Midst of ParisRuchika Sharma 30 Trees- Jennifer Wilson 33 Book Heaven- Jennifer Wilson 40 Not Real Flowers- Jacob Nachlas 41 Elders of the Forest- Kyle Mattone 75 Ghost- Brittany Shore 77 Head in the Clouds- Brittany Shore 81 Uptown- Isabella Faife 102
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art Flower- Lindsay Sack Cover Patterns- Lindsay Sack Inside Cover Mother Nature- Claudia Malone 11 Unknown- Annie Cassius 13 Turtle- Lyle Hayes-Macaluso 16 My Four-Year-Old MotherLisa Zheutlin 21 Abuelita “Tita”- Jamie Flores 23 Hummingbird- Addison Donaher 31 Orchids- Rachel Mondshine 32 Flower- Taylor Bogdan 33 Skeleton- Alexandra Burnstein 35 Strong Roots- Leslie Siegel 44 Mr. Octopus- Brooke Bernstein 45 Flamingo- Taylor Bogdan 51 Refurnished- Kendal Killermann 55 Eva- Megan O’Brien 58
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Macabre- Nicole Morris Three Cats- Rachel Mondshine Parakeets- Rachel Mondshine Marbles- Jenna Wittich Girl on Bed- Alexandra Burnstein First Steps- Leslie Siegel Kitty- Samantha Meade Dedication- Addison Donaher Man vs. Nature- Nicole Maharaj Leaf- Katherine Jovanovic Book Head- Jamie Flores Peacock- Kayla Mitchell Fractured- Lindsay Siegel Stitched Flaws- Stephanie Holt Nails- Kendal Killermann Mihrab- Jenna Wittich Karma- Karena Halvorssen
63 71 74 82 84 85 88 89 91 93 96 99 102 105 106 107 108
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Kairos Debra Duval In the consequence of damnation, I heard the whispers between the skies. In solitude I unearthed creation; Malignant chaos worn as disguise. I broke into the bittersweet appeal, Where I have come to find hesitation Knelt to a throne of gold and steel, Rose to rule a nation. Where is the innocence of solitude; The anguish of desolation? What slips through my fingers? Heavenly burdened temptation? Where is God when Hell breaks free? Built into sullied veins and lungs. Devils pirouetting in twos and threes, a forlorn moon of many suns. Marble throne among the many Traced along an old veneer. The stars once were twenty; We watched them disappear.
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Mother Nature - claudia malone pencil
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Too Young Jodie Kahan Tell me I’m Young, so I don’t understand loss. That’s why when she died I could not sleep for months. I’m just too naive. Tell me I’m Young, so my relationships aren’t real. That’s why the last time we kissed hurt the most. I’m just too immature. Tell me I’m Young, so I’m inherently selfish. That’s why I gave her the clothes off my back. I’m just too conceited. But you’re not Young. So the days when you were me are unfathomable. Because you get it now. You were just too Young. Tell yourself you’re old, so loss has become just another callus. That’s why when she died you told all your friends. But I don’t understand pain.
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Tell yourself you’re old, so your relationship is stale from age. That’s why the only kiss you remember is the first. But I don’t understand love. Tell yourself you’re old, so you are always selfless. That’s why you never ask me how my day is. But I don’t understand empathy. In your eyes, I’ll never get it. Too naïve, too immature, too concieted. Because I’m just too Young. But you will forever be too old.
unknown - Annie Cassius Pencil 13
Chaos vs. Order Madeleine Turner If Chaos was the heart and Order was the brain, Which would you choose? For the fire that lights the undying flame of the heart will warm you whole. Yet The command of the brain will halt the flames from engulfing your soul.
Mayhem of the mind - Carolina Salazar-Paranhos
Digital Photography
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Iced Over - Jarryd Rauch Digital Photography
Frozen Michelle Pendergast Winter arrived abruptly. Reminding me of the manner, In which you left. Bitter, harsh. Now, I am a pit of misery. My thoughts and actions, incomplete. Lonesome I am; Inside I will stay. Outside I dare to stray. Because in the frosty air, the memories un fold. When March came around, I awaited your presence. But, you did not show and neither did spring.
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Turtle - Lyle Hayes-Macaluso Sculpture
The Metallurgist Emily Williams To be pure or whole? To the pure, dedication and sympathy. To the whole, balance and understanding. The metallurgist trudging to the cavernous hole Hears the rattling hiss of nature’s lament.
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Crying openly, soft caresses down sweating cheeks, Reminders of responsibility. The earth’s weight is a heavy burden on a back. A heavenly view’s in sight; Dusky pebbles and gems of inconceivable amounts blanket the path, Like a foreign torchlight twinkling. Deep within the grey wisps of the tunnel The light lit, the air blew, the heat bristled, the tools arranged, The metallurgist breathes the electric air while the artist’s mind ignites. Fire’s dance and destructive nature singe the impurity away. The worker’s hands deftly flicking and bending the metal, fingers circling, feeling with each scaly memory, And tracing times past with the small ridges of the finger pad The separate wholes of the dirt and gravel. Nature’s harmony and gifts of life, A blessing’s curse for the pure, A job infinite for the whole. The fire, the wood, the crystal waters, tempering it, With each elemental trial ridding the unmatched And strengthening until a bond is formed. Tightening the crank and letting fly, the sparks live.
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Talented hands taught the pure and the whole, A being shaped by circumstance. Struck soundly, the metallurgist knows there must be a flaw in the pure and the whole. The whole shines so bright it is often unnoticed, As though the light blinds others surrounding it. The pure so dedicated, its will unyielding when nature’s presence will cause ripples and bends. Without faults, the contract is void, The balance notes its change and seeks to correct, A piece added on the board. Deaf and blind to human conceptions of rules, The unequalled metallurgist marvels at the creations. Sensing its hope, calmly walks to the throne, Only the tilt of the mouth gave way to a familiar mood of watching creations unfold. The purest strength, an action to behold, Whereas the whole tediously balances between keeping wisdoms untold.
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I Know That It Exists Kylie DiCarolis I know that it exists. Yonder – in stillness With its mysterious ways Not Tangible – yet witnessed. For it is there – For all to see – Normally Copious maybe! But - should it be found, Enjoy it while it lasts – Yet don’t get down If Love escapes – let it pass!
Through the woods - Jarryd Rauch digital Photography 19
Oh the Sea Jack Steinberg Oh the sea, Chaotic, thunderous, Lightning flashing, Waves clashing, Bashing the shore. Oh the sea, Calm as can be, Gently nurturing, Guiding ships Home.
refLection - Sarah Walker digital Photography
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My four-year-old mother - Lisa Zheutlin Charcoal
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Back to When Katia Mignocchi
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I want to go back to when every day mattered To when I could draw the worst picture and get praised To when I didn’t understand what failure was To when I wasn’t afraid to be myself I want to go back to when I didn’t feel trapped with nowhere to turn To when I didn’t feel alone in a crowded room To when I didn’t feel as though I were screaming my throat raw without making a sound To when I didn’t feel suffocated by the oxygen I’m supposed to be breathing I want to go back to when I was carefree To when I left my hair to blow in a tangled mess behind me as I ran barefoot To when I didn’t care how much I weighed because I was perfect To when I knew the people surrounding me only wanted what was best I want to go back before fake smiles plastered on tight lips I want to go back before pressure was crushing me from inside and out I want to go back before eyes judged me everywhere I turn I want to go back to when being myself was good enough
Abuelita “Tita” - Jamie Flores Colored Pencil
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A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of la Grande Jatte Caroline Roschman Inspired by Georges Seurat’s painting
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Behind every tree here, there is a beauty to behold, For instance, an island that seems a century old. When entering the setting, the first thing you view. Are people that look so polished and new. There is a frivolous spending woman walking a peculiar pet. You can tell by her attire that her needs are always met. There are many pairs of adults lounging on the lawn Most of them sitting with lavish hats on. The children, on the other hand, play without care Except one beside her mother who is left to stare. A dog, not so powerful, weighing less than an ounce Lurks on a Labrador wanting to pounce. Two soldiers in the distance gaze at the sea Cherishing this moment where they are finally free. Various boats move along the surrounding river Including steamboats that work to deliver.
A crew team of five goes for a trip Praying and hoping that their boat doesn’t tip. Standing patiently by the shore Is a woman in a floral hat fishing for more. A disheveled looking fellow lays while smoking a pipe; The woman next to him is certainly not his type. Fortunately, the woman is not by herself She is accompanied by a man who is top-shelf. Behind these faces there is a beauty to behold. So many stories that will never be told.
Sailboats - Jenna Wittich digital Photography 25
NightHawk Stephanie Holt It was a chilly October night in New York. The year was 1930, and I had finished another long day in the court. The current trial was exhausting, another father without a job to support his family seeking desperate measures. It was a recurring theme: lost jobs, desperate parents and ruthless judges. My job was money in my wallet and food on the table and nothing more and nothing less. I was lucky to be employed and that was that. The diner was bright and warm, contrasting the dark streets of Brooklyn surrounding it. Fluorescent lights flick-
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ered and the radiator buzzed while the waiter wiped down the cherry wood counters. The waiter brought me my regular, a simple black coffee and a slice of strawberry pie. I had been coming here every Friday for the past five years, ever since I first moved back to Brooklyn to work for the District Court. I was about to take my first bite when the bell chimed and a couple walked into the diner. The women was beautiful, dressed in a fitting red dress with her flaming orange hair done up in curls. The man was dressed in typical business wear, probably a
man of Wall Street, and wore the stereotypical weary expression of most working men at this time. They sat down at the other end of the bar and each ordered coffee and sandwiches. They didn’t fit in to this part of town, their manner reflected Manhattan wealth, yet they seemed comfortable in the diner as if they ate here everyday. I was intrigued as to what had drawn them to this part of town on such an uncanny night, but I kept my head down and sipped my coffee instead. The waiter brought them their food and coffees, and they quietly thanked him. I found it odd that they were seated next to each other but not saying
a word. The women quietly poured cream and sugar into her mug and picked at her sandwich, but the man ignored his food altogether, lighting a cigarette instead. The waiter finished up cleaning and, after realizing he had nothing left to busy himself with, tried to make small talk with the couple. The waiter asked them what brought them to his diner on a night like this and the woman looked down, as if the words were just behind her lips, but she was scared to answer. The man’s face contorted as if in concentration before he looked up at the waiter. “We grew up around these parts, myself in a small
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apartment just a few blocks away from this very diner and my wife, Scarlett, only a block away. Scarlett and I were childhood friends, attended grade school together and everything. My family and I, along with Scarlett, used to eat here every Saturday. This place used to be very different; you’re young so I’d imagine you hadn’t a clue. These pale yellow walls used to be a deep red and covered in posters and flyers. Booths lined the walls, and in the high season we would wait twenty minutes before we could even be seated.” The man looked up as if lost in a deep feeling of nostalgia, and the waiter’s face
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scanned the room, trying to picture how this bleak, desolate diner could have once been a bustling center of life for Brooklyn. I, of course, knew exactly what the man was describing, and hearing those words brought the sound of laughter and clanging plates back as if it were yesterday. He continued, “As time went by we all grew up, Scarlett and I started dating in high school and my brother and I drifted. The summer of our 18th birthdays we each received letters in the mail. Mine was from Cornell, my dream college, pronouncing my acceptance. My brother’s, on the other hand, was from the United States Mili-
tary informing him he had been drafted into service and would be leaving for Europe within two months time. My brother seemed to accept this with cold defiance, using his two months to drift farther and farther away from the family rather than get close in the short time we had left. I had been terrified, knowing the mortality rate of war, but felt powerless in forming any kind of connection with my brother before he left. On this day, 16 years ago, I hugged my brother goodbye for the last time right outside of this diner before he boarded a bus and took off for war. His departure left the family in shreds; my mother spent all her time at
the cafÊ we owned, and my father drank himself into a permanent stupor. It wasn’t my brother’s fault, of course. He had no choice in being drafted or going to war, but in being the one left home to deal with everything it sure felt like he was to blame. Years passed and we never heard any news about him, not news of death or news that he had returned. My family assumed he had returned but with no desire to see us again, and after a while the chaos of our daily lives drowned out even the pain of that. I married Scarlett at 25 and began working for Wall Street by 26, but I never stopped wondering where my brother was and if he
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ever thought about all he had left behind.” His wife suddenly looked up, as if on cue, and told the waiter that that is why they visited on this night; neither of them could shake the feeling of interest as to where his brother was or if he ever came back home. At the
conclusion of their story the couple and waiter seemed to remember they weren’t alone in the diner and all looked at me. I slowly removed my hat, tears welling up in my eyes, looked up at the man and said, “I’ve thought about it every day since I left.”
In the Midst of Paris - Ruchika Sharma digital Photography 30
Joy Noelia Boldizsar Green light seeps through the leaves in the trees above. Children laugh and play below, never shy Under the cover of the never ending forest, Under the blanket of the Carolina blue sky. Everyone wanders around full to the brim with giddy joy. A school of fish with no set formation swimming in the glistening sea, A flock of birds cheerfully chattering to themselves, Happy, lighthearted, free. Chaotic to some, But peaceful to me.
Hummingbird - Addison Donaher colored pencil 31
orchids - rachel mondshine colored pencil
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FLOWER - TAYLOR BOGDAN COLORED PENCIL
Trees - Jennifer Wilson Digital photography 33
On The Street Aaron Srour All day and night, I stand begging for change. All those who’ve passed by have guilty conscience. As if I’m invisible, it’s so strange Weeks turn to months, and I’ve lost confidence. People pass by, only giving looks of shame Avoiding eye contact, seeing a plague Assuming I chose this, I am to blame. I don’t want this life, I’d much rather trade. Yet maybe I’m better off here on streets. Could it be I care more for my brothers? Maybe this life has yet to see me beat. I think I’m well off, away from others. Not all with possessions can feel content When left with nothing, there’s naught to lament.
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Skeleton - Alexandra Burnstein charcoal 35
A Cold Winter Night Brett Koolik “Auschwitz was a living hell”Norman Frajman, 2013 As I peaked out of a tiny crevice of the barrack’s everchanging wooden barricades, I witnessed the first snowfall in the mid-night of the winter of ‘42 at the Auschwitz concentration Camp. The snow, tainted with the ash of yesterday, blanketed the soil, producing a black cover that insulated the grounds of the camp. Higher up, the liberation of vaporous clouds of organic dust secreted from concrete chimneys merged with the falling snowflakes, creating a smoke screen that
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embodied the camp. The smell diffused around and about, leaching and settling into the every crevice and crack of the rotten wood. Out in the distance, I saw an object that appeared to be a dove. It flew across the bleak sky before disappearing into the mazelike branches of a withered tree. The footsteps of guards coupled with their canines always petrified me as they passed by my quarters, but tonight, I felt at peace. When I woke up in the morning, something seemed different. The routine morning siren had gone off, but the corpses beside
me were in a greater state of fervor than I had ever seen in my three months here. “Wybór! Auswhal! Kiválasztás! Selection,” they cried. My previous barren barrack appeared as some rehearsed crisis system. People began pricking each other, smudging the blood of thy neighbor on each other’s faces as to appear lively. The powers of the Divine, guaranteed to the day of Yom Kippur, had been stripped by the Nazis, and used to organize their cattle. I slowly realized they were speaking of Judgment Day, and today was that day. As I was forced through the cold creaking doorway, the harsh early morning air struck my
skin, slowly rendering my joints useless. We made our way towards the lineup field in a chaotic manner, but were soon made orderly by punitive blows by Nazi Officers. We lined up in the field in a methodical fashion. The Nazi Officials began role call. As I peered out past the barbed wall of my prison, I could see what is and what will be. The corner of my eye caught the reflection of a white blurb that fluttered in my peripheral before disappearing. I smiled. I had not conformed to pessimism even though I was alone. My father, mother, and baby sister had all be killed today one year ago. I feared that I would be forced to follow
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in their forgotten footsteps. He examined me hastily. His hands glided about my abdomen, feeling the bony ribs oozing from my flesh. He noticed by my gaunt face and flimsy arms that I was weak, but I held my breath. I sucked in as much air as my feeble lungs could hold, trying to appear fit for work and not fit for death. I looked into his eyes, and he looked into mine. We both knew. I began to sweat, for I was standing before the Angel of Death who had made his decision. I was shoved to the right, not knowing the decision, but my predecessors and followers told me all I needed to know. I continued walk-
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ing past the array of officers through a fence and into a brick building. I turned the corner, a skeleton moved, and there it was. Standing five stories tall was the ash covered slab crematoria. My destiny, my fate, had been decided. I was ready to fly. Free floating omniscient from the sky. I shed a tear, frozen, but could not cry. Gliding through the air White beautiful streak, thin as a hair, Bumping into othersgracefully feathered left and right. My organic residue kissing snowflakes in the cold winter night.
A Home Ricardo Bazo A home is the heart in hearth. Not a house, a home. A proper home. Where the ghosts of the living That haunt the existence of man Organized disorder, traumatic peace Cannot reach. Where the comfort of a family Envelops, protects, and rejuvenates. The home is: The fortress, the church, the asylum. The place where all great people are raised. Not by one, but by all. By a group, united By blood or bond, that live together and Love together, making the one who is partial, whole. For if a home is the heart in hearth, the hearth is the heart in you.
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Book heaven - Jennifer Wilson digital Photography
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not real fLowers - Jacob nachlas Digital photography
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Perspective Chase Shea I look at the white sheet of paper and see a white sheet of paper. The innocent child sees an indestructible rocket, ready for takeoff. The stressed teenager sees the essay which will determine her life. But the white sheet of paper is just a white sheet of paper. The worried naturalist sees waste destroying our earth. The bustling worker sees a dreadful contract, keeping him up ‘til the morning. But the white sheet of paper is just a white sheet of paper. The shy girl sees a note from the cute boy across the room. The intelligent student sees a book just waiting to be read. But after all, the white sheet of paper is still just a white sheet of paper.
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I Feel the Haze Anna Venne I feel the haze descend upon my mind, The crystal clear dream state of broken souls. With dark heart now I search and search to find The deadly, twisting loss of all control. For each of us, though ours means do vary, Spend hours and hours seeking a way To escape all reality, all wary Though we are to desert life entirely. But in this dream state of serenity Where quandaries have no hold on you! Can you find the perfect tranquility Unequal to any other open to you? For life is the hardest thing that we do, And you need the high to survive, you do.
two paths jennifer wilson Sometimes I don’t know what to think anymore, I don’t even know what I’m feeling. I’m torn between love and hate. Torn between missing the past, And yearning for the future. I know I am not who I was yesterday, And you’re not the same person either. But I found a sense of beauty in darkness, A dark paradise, Where you and I once were the same.
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strong roots - leslie siegel pencil
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Mr. Octopus - Brooke Bernstein Watercolor and ink
OCeans Dane Gailitis Tons of water tossed back and forth From the surface it seems like mayhem But with a closer look It almost appears to be a symphony Conducted by someone high above Waves crash into each other with unique rhythm Which is constantly changing An organized chaos Is this symphony truly controlled? I will find out soon enough For I am being tossed in the middle of this symphony
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Macbeth Prologue Hunter Fields Introduction: Many years before the exposition of the play, Macbeth once again has lost an heir. Although he and Lady Macbeth moved past the last two, a third loss proves to be too much to bear. While Macbeth looks towards solitude, Lady Macbeth finds herself mentally shaken not only from losing three children, but also from the accompanying shame that goes along with her inability to provide an heir and experience motherhood. The scene begins with the funeral procession for Macbeth’s deceased infant, where numerous countrymen have come to pay their respects. As the funeral commences on the rolling hills of Macbeth’s Castle near the coastal cliffs, dark clouds, heavy winds, thunder and lightning are sensed near by. An unnatural uneasiness fills the air. Character List: -Old Man -Duncan -Banquo -Macbeth -Lady Macbeth -Crowd
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Script: Enter crowd including Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Duncan, Old man, Banquo. Old man: On what terrible terms we meet today, A passing stings deep, but a child’s deeper. Blessèd be his soul into the next world. I invite thee to let thy words be known, Speak now to open thyself before all. Duncan: To the mournful many, let me first condole. I posses not the heavenly power, To unmake nature’s untimely taking. Yet, fatherhood of country and own blood Hath gifted the wisdom of endurance. Life’s trials invade everyday comfort With ferocity of enemy’s might. Harken to me, thine castle’s defense stands. Bolster thine mind’s bulwark from thy demons, And today’s sorrow may be defeated. Holdfast like a vessel plowing through storms. I pray thee, seek inner peace on dark days, And angelic light break our present haze. Banquo: I know not of kingship’s grace, but hear me, Our valorous thane of Glamis endures still. As if of my blood, I have witnessed trials. A fallen heir crumples men to their feet,
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And thrice hath the impregnable Macbeth Hurtled the heaven-high wall of despair. No doubt supernatural ability, But heroes too deserve solace’s bliss. Feeling breaks no law, it keeps us human. Time moves as an ever-flowing river. Find the will to follow forth the fleeting Waters until peace be with thee at last. May heaven’s bless be on Macbeth’s bloodline. Macbeth: Thanks to all who shared mournful words so kind. This end burdens me like Atlas the world. No father should once bury a child, I watch this scene for three times too many. For now, let me find help from those above. Prithee grant me the gift of solitude. Safe travels against the oncoming storm. All exit except Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. Macbeth [to Lady Macbeth]: How fare you against the shadow of day? Lady Macbeth: In sooth, Methinks ‘tis more painful than past. I grieved before, but now blackness fills me. A third grave on this hill turns the view sour, Spoils any hint of happiness or hope, That perchance creeps in my void for a soul. Again, and again, and again denied, The one lasting wish to mother an heir.
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Every miserable chance fades away, Not even one grew past a fortnight’s age. Some unnatural curse must be on our name. I feel it, sense it, the natural world Carries an uneasiness, home to death. We’re fate’s puppets, unable to undo The tragic trail laid before, sure as stone. Macbeth: Thy sufferings swell within me the same. But while thou can release inner monsters, My tongue ties to utter all form of thought. Even but now, methinks prayer shall heal best. I cannot bear to talk nor tarry here more. Will thou accompany me or remain? Lady Macbeth: I shalt depart anon. Leave without me. Macbeth: I wait for thy return shortly. Fare well Macbeth exits. Lady Macbeth: Each grave serves to remind a life not lived. Days, weeks, months, years, time that will never pass. Enter three ghost children. Lady Macbeth: I know thou no longer walk
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this cruel world, But, O me! Do my own eyes deceive me! Claim this supernatural fiction real, Against the fundamental natural laws! Thou dost stare at me, mocking my trials Be gone! Be gone! Why do thou haunt me still? I close my eyes, yet thou dost not leave me Am I so damned that today’s punishment Hath not already rendered me broken? Sprits from beyond, thine presence tortures The last essences of humanity. How fitting that all three shame my being, And take with them the last of my feelings. What possible message is this for me? Fault? Guilt? Or even proof for my madness? Show me the meaning of your appearance! Three ghosts vanish. Lady Macbeth: These wickedly foul demons hath vanished! Whether real or my imagination, It changes not the course I take forward. Not one flower of happiness has gone unplucked. Fate hath proven that I cannot bring joy, My known purpose fails me for the last time. I’m deprived of bliss, then fairly all should From this time forth, let me not bring new light, But raise deep darkness of the lasting night.
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perennially erin carr All cycles on Earth perpetually persist Through obstacles and luminous pathways As with regularity and order Their courses carry on and endure Although sometimes not as swiftly and easily They perpetuate and travel their intricate ways When it seems like the end The processes never cease They progressively evolve With no beginning or end
FLamingo - Taylor bogdan Colored Pencil 51
Flossing brittyn bonham Does Flossing Make a Difference? If I were a toothbrush, And so were you, I would be pink, And you would be blue. We’d be the same brand, One all dentists choose, Made to clean teeth, If toothpaste you use. When we are compared, You would not be offended, After all, we are both, 9 out of 10 recommended. So why pay more, By twenty cents, For a blue toothbrush, That’s same as the rest? To answer this question, Would take much thought, But women are people, And toothbrushes are bought.
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Is Mouthwash Necessary? If you were a toothbrush, You would be blue, And I would be pink, Just two colors to choose. We’d be the same brand, But most would pick you, Because you are strong, Always praise blue. You would cost more, And I would cost less, Because pink is for girls, Don’t question the press. If boys choose the pink, Mothers will scold, “You’ve made the wrong choice, There’s patriarchy to uphold!” To say anything else, Would be talking back, But the boys are excused, So girls are attacked
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fLames caroline sachse It bursts in rage at a SparkLighting up- the unseen ShadowsDancing upon -the Oaken Banister (Growing and sprouting, glowing – Fervently!) It Grows from None to Never-endingNullifying each Nuance in the DarkOnly stones remain. I watch and all- torn apartFalling and crashing! It races past – Ashes follow- Whirling and Waving. No longerIlluminated in its Path. It spreads- its Horizon fantasticallyI have seen the childrenScream- in deadly silenceWatching and Flocking, Scrambling to the Pure- untouched DarkClutching- that which remains. It Grows still, sending Tongues intoThe clouded skyIt grows- its warmth blasting Untamed- swallowing each PossessionEffortlessly stealing in the Night-
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It begins to slowIt being- No longer WelcomeIts wooden Stage now goneCowering as it reaches the Morning Dew No longer- an Immortal Beast.
refurnished - kendal killermann sculpture 55
silver hummingbird martin iragorri The dew had just hugged the grass from the early morning. I opened my eyes to the blistering star they call the sun, and just like that, I was awake. I made myself go down the stairs, but the only thing I could focus on was how my mom was holding up in the E.R. I tried to avoid the thought, so I rushed to surprise my dad with a morning hug from behind. As my arms wrapped his torso, he turned around and gripped my eight year old body. It was a hurricane of tears that overwhelmed his caramel eyes. I knew what had happened. I knew
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the doctor called him to tell him the most unfortunate. I knew mom was going to be with the yet to be flowers. The tears began to drench our shirts and not a word was spoken… I couldn’t survive this, I needed her; my strength alone couldn’t bear the pain. Cancer had taken away the dearest and most valuable part of me, and there was nothing I could do about it. The funeral was the 26th, three days after she left us. Family, friends, and people I had never seen were present. I could see my grandparents’ eyes dampened from the corner of my eye waiting for the preacher to go with his program. Others were counting
down the seconds to get out of there, and to be honest, I did not judge them. I wanted to run away from it as soon as I could. God planned the day being sunny yet cold; I could have sworn he was mocking me by not making it rain as it usually does on funerals. After the preacher gave his program, it was time for me to approach the open casket for my final farewell. I walked slowly to her, and thoughts raced through my mind. Thoughts of how she would miss my graduation, how she would miss my games, how she would miss my wedding, how she would miss her youngest boy grow up… how I would miss her. I reached the casket, and I could not help to notice how pale she was, her lips were purple
and her face looked rested. Then, I looked at how she was dressed ,and I spotted the silver hummingbird pin she would always wear to work. In a matter of seconds, I decided to take the silver hummingbird. I couldn’t let it be buried, I had to keep it with me, and somehow I knew she would have wanted that. The silver hummingbird reminds me everyday to live, to keep fighting, to never bury yourself even if you are alive. Making sure her name is honored in the way I live and that my inner silver hummingbird doesn’t stop flying. That would be my biggest accomplishment.
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Eva - megan o’brien multimedia
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it’s infuriating isn’t it? hiba ismail It’s infuriating isn’t it? The thought of restriction, Like locking someone in a prison cell For a crime they didn’t commit. I’m innocent, yet there is still The blame. It’s saddening isn’t it? To strip one’s right away Like clipping a bird’s wing, For what? I’m harmless, yet there is still Obstruction. “Know your Limit,” they say. Limit?
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praise for the unsung heroes lilliana de souza Boom. Boom. Cannons shout from behind me. I hear the bullets shooting through the air Though they are too fast to see. Pain stabs at my stomach Looking down, I see red stickiness oozing from my core. I am to die here, I think. And I feel helpless. And I lay there on the grass of the battlefield. And I know what comes next. But I ache so badly that I don’t care: the pain just needs to stop. As my vision blurs and I brace myself to die, something happens I feel myself being tugged away toward the nurses’ tent. I try to figure out what is occurring, who is saving me, But I can barely make out the clouds above my head, So I am unable to identify this hero of mine. We arrive at the tent, and he places me in front of it. I turn to see who it is that saved my life, But he is but a blurry figure. Bam! A gun fires.
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The soldier in front of me grabs at his chest and falls to the ground. Dead. Nurses pull my ailing body into the tent As others drag the hazy figure away from me To somewhere else where recognizing him is impossible. Among all the other dead soldiers, Among all the other unknown heroes, Among the humans who gave their lives for others Without saying so little as their names, I lay on a cot in the infirmary and cry, Not because of the pain wrenching my stomach, But because of the pain in my heart, For I will never be able to thank the man who saved me. My rescuer, my savior, my hero. This is my praise for you. Though unknown to the rest of the world You deserve to be the most famous of all With famous statues and famous monuments. But I see how that would defeat your purpose. So for now I stand alone, honoring all the unsung heroes For my savior is amongst them.
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an insight beyond bounds alexandra folleco Three hundred and sixty-five days per year, Two thousand nine hundred and twenty hours of slumber. Some say sleep is only wasting this short life; Others value it as part of health, But it’s more than just a necessity eight hours long. An escape from reality, something liberating Entering into a fantasy of lying in the sand for getting about the world, Entering into an illusion of meeting people you’d never imagine doing things you never thought possible, Entering into a hysteria of someone taken away from you, Entering into a torment consuming you at the sight of a slaying, Entering into a delusion of the perfect day transforming into the worst, Entering into a world clashing with the real one. Whether I am stirring with hope, or bewilderment, or trepidation, The better knowing I can make my mind disappear While everyday dues build up and strain my brain,
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All I ever need are my thoughts to slack A desire so strong to emancipate inwardly. A gentle way of unwinding can be a much deserved relief, A way of easing the pain when being harmed, A way of dreaming about a destination that you can or cannot reach, A way of forgetting about the little things in life, A way of realizing how it feels to lose everything, And a way of sending a soul to eternal rest.
macabre - nicole morris ink 63
the intergalactic pilgrimage of dr.. azat teodoro matthew dardet As I glanced upon the shiny hull of the newly inaugurated X-46, the otherworldly spacecraft designed by a collaboration of members of various international space and aeronautics research organizations, I could not restrain the deep, rather preternatural sense of trepidation within my gut. Knowing neither for what reason I was chosen nor to where I was headed, I waved goodbye to my Earthly compatriots and entered the metallic interior in which I was to reside for a period of four hundred years. You see, shortly following the initial discovery of extrater-
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restrial life on the planet Alok’tuatar of the galaxy UGC-55 in 2075 by the Astronomical Observatory of New Chicago, all of humankind’s petty squabbles along with the entirety of global and domestic strife had ceased. After the People’s Intellectual Liberty Agreement of Hong Kong was signed, all nations engaged in a compiling of known scientific data in order to analyze the world’s preparedness to embark upon a quest of such pressing significance. When the physicists and mathematicians presented their findings to the United Nations, they theorized that the eight thousand light year
journey would not only be possible, but that it retained the possibility of yielding great intellectual and mineral wealth as well. These physicists used high-definition photographs of the surface of the planet to accurately deduce both the exact level of scientific refinement of the alien civilization along with the potential for resource extraction by mechanized drillers and excavators; both qualitative selections produced results that betrayed the undeniable flaws of our outmoded technology as well as those of our depleted resources. All of the delegates present at the conference clapped, whooped, and articulated their corresponding concurrence regarding the
impending factuality of necessity of the human race to reach out a metaphorical hand of greeting as a representation of civility and interplanetary friendship. Eight long years were spent during the research and development of the spontaneous ionic discharge engine, an engineering masterpiece that not only utilized photonic energy from even the smallest starts, but could also apply the combustion space dust towards powering a vessel. Professor Muktar Thrakzhan spearheaded the design and integration of the SIDE into a contemporary steel-andgraphene-walled box that was to transport me, Dr. Azat Teodoro, across the seemingly infinite span of space
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towards my ultimate extraterrestrial destination. The X-1, as it was named, exploded due to a leak in the hydrogen-cooled ventilation tube, but this issue was later amended throughout later experimental mission simulations. Thirty revisions of the ship were investigated and resampled until the research team began sending organic life forms within the prototype ships to carry out a multitude of assignments of varying distances. More modifications to the blueprint were instated after the human testing phase including a cryogenic sleep chamber that would preserve all internal mechanisms within the body, an fully automated organic biomass printer for regrowing vital
organs that could become unstable throughout the voyage, and a bona fide fleet of specialized machines that obtained situational functionality through a artificial intelligence unit in the computational mainframe. Finally, the X-46 was conceived, and both aerospace engineers and theoretical physicists were satisfied with its utility arrangement and spaceflight capability. A letter on official paper from the United Nations informed me that I was handpicked out of all of the planet’s nine billion inhabitants to personally preside over all of the operations for the expedition from inside the innards of the spaceship. This news came as quite a surprise to
me, for I had never once enrolled in any space program in any nation. Furthermore, aside from my somewhat anomalous amalgam of personal backgrounds in particle physics and Catholic theology, I was not characterized by a particularly extraordinary abundance of academic lore. I nevertheless gladly accepted my task as any global citizen exposed to international propaganda promoting extraterrestrial research would and began preparing for the elongated trip. From the beginning, I sensed a tangible aura of mystery surrounding the completeness of the operations, yet I plunged on due to my insatiable questions surrounding the manner by which
my convocation with the extraterrestrials would alter my beliefs in the already established tenants of Catholicism. Aliens on Alok’tuatar were themselves described as unisex individuals defined by a lack of visible eyeballs and a silvery-gray sheen, and were informally referred to as Shiners by much of the population. These creatures of developed gadgetry and science possessed statures of what analytical calculators predicted to be uniformly five feet. Debates had emerged throughout the past few years regarding a Silvenle’s mental integrity as each either belonging to a complex hive mind or cogitating for itself similarly to most known life on Earth. Returning to
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the matter at present, I strapped myself into the launch chair inside of the central command center of the X-46. I subsequently entered a series of complex activation keys into the mainframe computer and watched eagerly as both the SIDE was ignited, initiating the vessel’s power and activating the artificial intelligence unit. “Good afternoon, Dr. Teodoro. I am Lazarus, the synthetically engineered artificial intelligence unit that will be guiding your craft throughout the entirety of your voyage,” stated the steely voice of the AI. I replied, “Good afternoon, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” I waited for sometime before hear-
ing the whirring of modern machinery as the automated robotics came to life. After a short while, the spacecraft was propelled through the uppermost layers of the atmosphere with an uncanny grace, and I paused to reflect upon the physical intricacy of the processes involved in the launch. I stayed awake for some hours, checking and rechecking system vitals as well as conversing with the AI and its robotic minions regarding multiple topics including the navigational details of the expedition. After being properly assured that all was functioning properly, I pulled a lever releasing the sleeping chamber from its position under the rotating metal
floor with an audible hiss. I set the time inside the chamber to four hundred years and slowly drift off into a delightful cryogenic slumber… Beep! Beep! Beep! I woke up to see the emergency lights flashing red inside of the ship. I exit the freezing cold machine to find the X-46 rapidly approaching the exterior of Alok’tuatar. Although I took a few minutes to admire the beauty of the planet, I quickly take over the controls from the AI and attempt to slow the velocity of the spacecraft down to a safe level. However, I could not slow the dangerously quick descent of the ship, until I hear a bizarre buzzing sound. I heard a ostentatiously loud crashing noise
then a slow whoosh as I realized the ship’s AI and the SIDE were both powering down. I began to panic as I realized I only had approximately fifty minutes until the remaining breathable air inside the ship would be depleted. I waited agonizingly while wishing the allegedly brilliant architects of the ship would have included an escape pod. Time itself seemed to slow as the last minutes of my life ticked away... slowly… I looked out the window and stare into the alluring visage of the planet, then I saw the planet fizz and crackle in front of my own eyes. The massive sphere shifted in shape and distorted until I saw right through it. I fainted after finally
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seeing an image of what appeared to be a golden cathedral outside of the main viewing glass. “Patient Z349 is responding. Requesting additional medical personal this is Zangreb Station Delta,” says a voice. I waited in a dazzled state of darkness and confusion until I finally mustered the courage to open my eyes. When my surroundings gradually became visible, I observed that the walls were of a silvery metallic color; they were both solid and translucent at the same time. I looked up to see a humanoid man wearing a surgeon’s uniform complete with scrubs and a mask. The manly figure greeted me. “Welcome home, Dr.
Teodoro,” he said. His voice was unlike any other that I have heard. I observed that in its entire symphony of tones, there existed the voices a low basso and a high soprano along with all of the medium melodic classifications. I looked up once again to see the surgeon take off his medical mask. Then, he pulled off his humanoid face to reveal an eyeless, silvery-gray unisex head. This creature was a Silvenle. I sat up quickly in the hospital bed to see my own reflection in the outlandish material surrounding me; I, too, appeared to be a Silvenle. This is or was Dr. Azat Teodoro, commander of the Alok’tuatar Mission.
The lines between reality and fantasy are currently too blurry to properly discern. This will be my last mission for Earth, if ever such a place existed.
three cats - rachel mondshine watercolor, ink, and pastels
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fear stephanie holt You love the feeling in the mountains when the world isn’t quite awake yet and the air is still but full of energy as if charged but still dormant. You love the way the fog rises up over the pines and seems to shroud your world in simplicity. You love the smell of the pure air, the openness that makes you feel small yet invincible at the same time. You love the way the dew catches the light of the early morning, creating a glow that no photograph could ever capture. You love the time and you love the essence and you love the details. You love the feeling of being alone with nature. You love the feeling you get sleeping in a hammock under the stars but you fear the vulnerability that natures pursues. You have no power in nature. You cannot control what has been on this earth since the beginning of time. You fear something that is wiser than any student shall ever be but remains silent nonetheless. You love the thing you fear the most. You love your ability to make fire; to take nature’s own veins and turn them into something magical. You love the glow against the shadows of the
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trees and you fear what lies beyond the shadows. But fear is what makes you love this world so much more. Fear is an emotion that humans have no power over. Fear will always exist; the power lies in how you choose to deal with that fear. You can accept the fear as the perimeters for your existence. If you never test the perimeters, though, how will you know if you truly fear what lies outside them? Nature was made as a guidebook for humans. We cannot control nature. We cannot overpower nature. We cannot run from nature. We cannot overcome nature. Nature is and shall always be the perimeters of our existence. These perimeters were not meant to enclose us, Rather These perimeters were meant to enthrone us To show to us our true value as humans, that we are not all powerful. We are weak. We can hurt. We can die. And, we can show fear. Love what you fear the most. And what you fear the most shall open its gates to love you back.
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parakeets - rachel mondshine ink
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elders of the forest - kyle mattone digital photography
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the expansion of light and darkness through time andre radensky The days of yore held a substantial silhouette of shade, This darkness that continued as a blanket from the outer world, The darkness that stopped humans from seeing farther through the night, The darkness that kept the rate of knowledge at a steady pace, How can they overcome the constraints of the gloom? Gloom was first parted with the light of the fire, A flame that let the first men creep out of their cave, A flame that brought the warmth and comfort of known, A flame that could be reproduced with every passing day, Can the light grow greater than a lowly flame? Twilight became lesser still when the lamps multiplied everywhere, Kerosene lamps moved the people forward to higher cognition, Oil lamps freed them from the dusk - like a little baby with rusk, Lamps added light where none could be found,
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What could improve the most portable of light? Electricity and lightbulbs flash throughout today, Incandescent with a white light much hotter than the fire, Bright and lighting up the World’s Fair with no sequel, Luminous - these miniature stars have no co-equal, Is there any darkness left to be unknown? Now, all modern, the bulbs should remove all the gloaming, More knowledge than ever and yet more questions than ever, How does the light simply show more darkness? As the clock keeps going, the light and darkness keep growing.
ghost - brittany shore digital photography 77
you are what you love madison herin Suddenly the lights in the room go out, and I am in total darkness. Immediately everyone around me quiets as we breathlessly anticipate what is next to come. I glance around, taking in the hushed energy that emanates all around me as the tension makes the air heavy and tangible. I absorb the enthusiasm of the crowd, hoping I can package this memory forever and seal it away for the future. Abruptly, bright lights flash on, illuminating the stage directly in front of me. A wave of energy and exhilaration sweeps through me as I cheer loudly and excitedly clap my
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hands, ready for the night. It has begun. The band hurries out on stage, guitars in hand, while the drums begin to thump in the background. As they scream their hellos and welcome themselves as Fall Out Boy, the crowd and I go wild. The band begins its first song, whose lyrics I know by heart. Soon, I am singing along to the deafeningly loud melody with all the other concertgoers crowded around me. The tempo is fast and energetic as it pulses through my body. I glance over to my left and catch the gaze of someone else - a slightly shorter, petite girl.
Her brown eyes are bright and so wide that in them I catch a glimmer of my own reflection. I am grinning widely, moving back and forth to the tempo of the music, and I see that my own eyes are bright with excitement. The beat moves through me as I jump up and down, letting everything except happiness empty from my body. I become part of the crowd, and the crowd becomes its own entity, everyone moving and shouting together as one. I am an individual in a sea of others who feel just as much joy as I do, all because of the music. One song ends and another begins - one of my favorites off the new album
Save Rock and Roll. I am screaming the lyrics, “You are what you love, not who loves you,” when I realize why I love concerts like this one as much as I do. This alternative, rock and roll music, feels real, raw, and whole to me. These words capture my everyday feelings and moments. It is now, as I am waving my arms to the music, my head rocking up and down to the beat, that I recognize how truly content I am. In this moment, I am not branded by the stress or the work I have left behind; instead, I am one with the music. Lyrics such as “Sometimes before it gets better the darkness gets bigger” remind me that there
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is always success on the other side of the journey; that despite any challenges I may face, there will always be positive outcomes. I sing verses like these that I connect with, along with the hundreds of other people. Going to these concerts is meaningful because it allows me to meet and befriend people from all different backgrounds and ages who have come together to enjoy the music. All too soon, the concert ends, the lights again turning dim as people shuffle
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out of the venue. I peer around as the last reverberations of the music leave my body. Still standing next to me, the small girl turns and exclaims, “That was unbelievable!� Unbelievable doesn’t begin to explain it, but there are no words to describe how filled with joy I am from the night. Although I have to leave this concert for now, I let myself become content with the notion that I will again come back to experience the rush of the music.
head in the clouds - brittany shore digital photography
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marbles - jenna wittich sculpture
the hotdog cameron andres The sweet crack of the bat, Sweat on the brim of the ol’ pitcher’s hat, A spectacle for the fans, A rowdy group that fills up the stands. When it’s time to dine, they know what they need, They step right up, the menu they need not read. A foot-long dog with one large drink! That’s the ballpark commodity, the kitchen sink. The game would not be fun if players just jogged, It would not be as pleasant without that joyous hot dog.
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change noelia boldizsar “Change is good! Change is healthy! Change is refreshing!” Or so they say. Not when I lie awake restless at night thinking about you. Not when I come to the crushing realization in the middle of the day that you’re not here anymore. Not when the thought of you being gone consumes my very being to its core, like the cold in the midst of winter. “Change is good! Change is healthy! Change is refreshing!” If it is, then explain why this is so hard. Tell me when things are going to get better. Give me an answer soon Before something else leaves, too.
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girl on bed - alexandra burnstein pencil
jigsaw alec mccue The puzzle pieces didn’t fit anymore.
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living lonely richard silverman Motherless children and childless mothers cry.
FIrst steps - leslie siegel pencil
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an attack jacob kauppinen The sun was already sinking into the deep green hills to the west of the valley: the red and orange-pink of its shadows touching the corners of the land, when James Pillar began his descent. The trail stretched out unevenly down the southern slope, winding through the giant rocks that studded the mountain pass in massive clusters that led down to the forest beyond. He was a young man around the age of twenty six but his gray hair and worn blue eyes made him look much older. He wore the loosefitted royal clothes of his tribe, the Raccaba. In his pack he carried several metal items that rolled and
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clanked against each other almost rhythmically. He continued to trudge down the trail as his pack hung loosely from his shoulder. His horse trotted along next to him because he was far too sore to ride. He longed for the warm, soft touch of his bed and the gentle whistle of the wind in the mountains next to the village. As he walked, James thought about the unreal events of the past week and how his life is has become a swirling whirlwind of hate and confusion. Just the previous week he was home gingerly holding the precious hand of his beloved daughter Lana. Now all that remained of the village was walking behind him, following his footsteps through
the muddy pass. He looked back upon his people wondering how this horror could have befallen them. “How much longer till we settle for nightfall?”, his co-commander Lance managed to say as he shivered with the late-evening chill. “I’m afraid we cannot stop before daybreak because I fear the riders are onto us,” James replied. James lay in bed the next night after finding a steep alcove in the mountainside that was concealed by centuries of overgrowth and he knew the riders would not find them. He was staring into the dark, misty shadows of the willow trees and vigorously struggling to fall asleep. He remembered watch-
ing the sun, adorned in its finest silks, as it died into the shallow darkness of night. He fell into sleep’s beckoning embrace thinking here there was no sun, only the dull, gloomy land under the clouds. He could faintly hear the subtle twang of bowstrings and the hoarse sounds of men shouting. The pungent odor of blood and sweat sending a cold tingle down his back and making the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. He ran outside already bringing his horse into a trot, its hair. willowing gallantly in the morning wind He arrived to a scene of mass destruction, the riders had since gone and all that was left were the gory bodies of the victims,
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the deep scarlet blood of his loyal troops flooding theground with its atrocious contents. “I demand to know what has happened here!” James attempted to yell over the depressing moans coming from the injured. “The riders came and went, spurting blood for their sick enjoyment. If we hope to keep the villagers and
livestock alive we must move swiftly.” James sat up erect in his bed, cold beads of sweat running down his brow, relieved it was only a dream. Then memory came flooding back, like a waterfall coming down on top of him, as he looked around the room and realized it had happened. And that’s why they fled.
kitty - samantha meade Colored pencil 88
dedication - addison donaher ink
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drowning madison herin I’m drowning in myself I can’t catch a break And can’t catch a breath I’m drowning, the darkness spreading Seeping into my heart And seeping into the fabric of my soul Teach me how to keep the water out I’m shivering, trembling silently As I sink deeper and farther away Soon I’ll be done With the water in my lungs and the air far gone My mind is gone too
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man vs. nature - nicole maharaj acrylic paint and chalk
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shanties of the sea matthew dardet Survey, the majesty of the sea, swaying, streaming, steaming, sashaying, serious, soothing, seclud’d, An otherworldly pool from which life itself emerg’d, from which organisms spew unto inhabit’d lands, How omnipotent yet truly trivialized by land- legg’d mongrels and other such unenlighten’d fools. A body of sustenance, a body of commerce, a resource of unperturb’d mineral wealth, I am the sea, and thus the characteristics of me thrive in correspondence with the waves. Who am I to embody the swirling power of the maelstrom, to whom the nautili whisper, with whom the dolphins swim, to whom the ancient tomes of the kelp plants are entrust’d, in whom all creatures encounter solace and live in sagacious sanctity? I am the sea, and thus the characteristics of me thrive in correspondence with the waves. All of the sea is and belongs to me, yet I am own’d in partitions by all atoms.
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Of humankind, the weather, withered, salted sea-captains are my comrades, Whose ships saunter across my seemingly ethereal realm of watery matter. I am the sea, and thus the characteristics of me thrive in correspondence with the waves. I am always watching, for I involve all and all does not sleep, surreptitious yet entirely visible, For all creatures of Earth are mine and I theirs, for the sea heaves and shillyshallies with each organic breath.
leaf - katherine jovanovic colored pencil 93
le papillon tout-puissant nicole maharaj
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Un papillon de plusieurs couleurs chatoyantes, Vit seulement un jour de l’année. Aujourd’hui elle est née; dans les forets de l’Amérique du Sud Il danse dans le ciel, Pour seulement une raison, Seulement une raison Il traverse l’Océane Atlantique Il traverse les continents vastes Mais il n’est pas fatigué jusqu’u à maintenant ilcontinue, Ses ailes scintillant avec l’assortiment des couleurs, Jaune de l’énergie, vert de la guérison, et bleue de la fidélité Enfin, elle arrive à sa destination, Pour seulement une raison, seulement une raison Les chacals, les guépards,
A butterfly more colorful, only saw one day of the year. Today she was born; in the forests of South America She dances in the sky, For only one reason, only a reason She crossed the Atlantic Ocean She crossed the vast continents But she is not tired yet She continues, Her scintillating wings with an assortment of colors, Yellow for energy, green for healing, and blue for fidelity Finally she arrives at her destination, For only one reason, only one reason Jackals, cheetahs,
et les renards sortent de ses maisons La terreur est visible sur ses visages, Mais le papillon n’est pas venu pour la destruction, seulement la paix Sur-le-champ les couleurs de ses ailles forment un arc-en-ciel Les couleurs sortent du papillon et descendent aux animaux,Enchanté avec la beauté du spectacle Les animaux chantent, “Le Papillon toutpuissant! Le Papillon tout-puissant!“ Le papillon pleut avec joie, ses larmes remède la douleur, remède la haine Sommeil prend le papillon, et elle se couche avec ses amis Jusqu’à a la prochaine Les animaux demandent, “Pourquoi a-telle venu nous aider? Eh? Pourquoi pas?”
and foxes leave their houses Terror is visible on their faces, But the butterfly did not come to destroy, only for peace On the spot, the colors of its wings form a rainbow The colors of the butterfly descend onto the animals, Enchanted with the beauty of the show The animals sing, “The Almighty Butterfly! Almighty Butterfly!“ The butterfly is crying with joy, tears cure pain, cure hatred The butterfly sleeps, and she lies with her friends Until the next The animals ask, “Why has she come to help us? Well! Why not?”
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book head - jamie FLores charcoal
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ray charles jake lieberfarb A sightless world— full of chaos Sent to a school for the blind for order No sight but a voice Hardship and prejudice full of chaos You stood tall in the South, And made sense of the world They apologize to you— the world state did “Georgia on my Mind” Black Ray Bans to hide your sightless eyes Through a voice we all can hear
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the redness of my rose garrison bentz
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I pray because I am not perfect. I pray because life is sometimes hard. I pray when no one is watching. I pray through the good and the bad. I pray for you. I pray for me. I pray for those fighting overseas. I pray to be able to differentiate good and evil. I pray because it acts like fuel to my soul. I pray because I understand imperfection is what makes us human. I pray because it is the wipe that clears the window when the future is near. I pray when I see your true potential is covered in worldly distractions. I pray because when I was younger, I was scared of what
was going to happen when my time on earth was up. I pray because I don’t like seeing your rose wither and become colorless. I pray because when life is not clear, there is no higher resolution button. I pray because I hear voices telling me “Your teachings are wrong”, I hear them say, “follow my way, it’s easier.” But then I pray because I don’t want “easier.” I pray because when I follow the voice I feel the invigorating chills that run through my bloodstream. I pray because I appreciate the new shells that wash up on my shore.
I pray because life is beautiful, and I pray to show gratitude to the angels that watch over me.
I pray in search of an answer, and an answer is what I receive.
Peacock - Kayla Mitchell Watercolor?
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by the sea michelle pendergast All evening we had walked down the coast. The atmosphere filled with subtle ocean air and the sound of seagulls singing. Soft chatter and a tremendous amount of relaxing, While watching the waves crash on the shore. It was definitely a delightful affair. Many memories have been made of the days we spent by the sea. I recall the memories of the days we spent by the sea. Immediately mourning the peaceful walks down the coast. Oh! How I reminisce over our wonderful affair. Those nights when I listened to your acoustic guitar sing, Distressed and grieving towards the nights viewing the shore. It is simply not quite possible to start relaxing. Those summer nights with you, how relaxing. I can not bring myself to forget the days we spent by the sea. I have tried, and however, it prevails, the scent of the salty shore. The haunted memories of walking with you down the coast, The many distractions- your playful acts, like
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your off-tune singing. The many things I would do to return to our pleasant affair. How could this have come about, this exhausting affair? How did tension replace our relaxing? How did this trip leave, with the many seagulls singing? How must have this ended- the days we spent by the sea? How come it is lost, like the coordinates to the coast? How is it that I am not with you at the shore? Not my feet, it is my heart that sinks when I recall the shore. Can you fathom how much I truly miss this affair? I don’t want to continue down this never- ending coast. I will cease, surrender my fight and conclude to relaxing. I will finally throw you out to sea. You are gone. I am snickering, even singing. I no longer hear your horrendous singing. But when I think back to our walks down the shore, I remember the sea, and our oh so passionate affair. And I realize I will always want to be with you- spending time with you, relaxing by the sea.
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fractured - lindsay siegel pencil
Uptown --Isabella Faife Digital Photography 102
the papers have caught fLAME brittyn bonham [Part I] The table is littered with paper, Young eyes follow a mother’s gentle, teaching hand, As adolescent fingers quietly play the same chord progression over and over, The house is silent, Save for whispers and hushed piano, Muffled by so many closed doors and insulated walls. [Part II] There are so many lies in the pictures on the walls, The promises are as thin and fragile as paper. Now the notes on the piano, They pause for a minute due to a shaking hand. The words were always silent, And only now does she realize things may have been better when silent than completely over. [Part III] As a father sits in his office waiting for another auction to be over, Young fists punch the walls, And a mother’s repetitive sighs stay silent. It’s late when she searches for her missing paper, But instead nothing turns up in her hand,
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And she just stares, unsatisfied and sees nothing, not even the pretty piano. [Part IV] The young skin, fragile as a piano, Is so red it looks like she was run over. Her stress has travelled to her clenched hand, As she stares through the lies all over the walls. She can finally see her family is fire and she’s made of paper. And as her mother drones, she stays hushed, silent. [Part V] Now in the middle of the night, the house is silent, Except for the tick of the metronome on the piano, And the soft hum of pen on paper. A young brain dreams the same nightmare over and over, As teenage aspirations rot through the walls, And a child’s innocence is hanging on by the pinkie on her hand. [Part VI] She left her heart in his hand, And now her pulse is silent. But blood flows through the walls, In the house so easily opened by the perfect pitch like a piano, But when father, children, and mother are sleeping and day is over,
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It is taught that family is not forever, but easily erased like pencil on paper. [Part VII] And oh, how the house will burn quick like the paper family inside, when all is silent. No one will remember how he was her unburnable family. Nobody cares unless you’re pretty or good at something like piano, Because when family ends and is over, all that’s left is the blood in the walls.
stitched fLaws --stephanie holt colored pencil 105
nails - kendal killermann sculpture
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a single spark katherine jovanovic A single spark holds so much potential To keep the cold away, While sitting as a flame Providing light in the darkness. A single spark can destroy By setting fire to surrounding trees, Or eating away at buildings and homes, Which in turn destroys the lives of people. A single spark can ignite a revolution, Inspiring people to implement change Making the world a better place, Or possibly tearing it apart.
mihrab - jenna wittich sculpture 107
karma - karena halvorssen watercolor
beneath the surface dane gailitis On the Surface everything continues. There is a sense of warmth, hope. While Below there is conflict, A war of only the smallest creatures. Survival of the fittest. Take what you can get. Chaos And up above On the surface Everything appears fine. Order While the groundwork crumples Beneath their feet Oblivious.
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Colophon The Scribbler, published annually, displays the best literary and artistic work of Pine Crest School students. Our mission is to provide a forum and audience for emerging student writers and artists. Entries are solicited from the Upper School student body through a school-wide call for submissions. We accept online submissions of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, art, and photography. Each year, the staff chooses a theme through popular vote. While not a requirement for publication, stronger consideration may be given to pieces that demonstrate the theme. The meetings and production of The Scribbler occur outside of school hours. The current editors-in-chief, in consultation with the adviser, select the editors and staff writers annually based on applications and the previous year’s performance of duties. Students produce The Scribbler using InDesign and Photoshop. This year’s title fonts are set in Xenik, the body fonts are set in Optima, and the cover page font is set in Chaos. The Scribbler offers print and electronic versions of the literary magazine. Printmaster of Fort Lauderdale, Florida prints 175 perfect bound copies of the magazine each year that the editors-in-chief deliver throughout the school.
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The Scribbler Pine Crest School Fort Lauderdale, FL 33308 http://www.pinecrest.edu/scribbler scribbler@pinecrest.edu 954.492.4103 112