2017 Upper School Mainsheet Literary Magazine

the mainsheet a literary and arts magazine Severn School 2017

The raw colors of the forest form a hued canvas. With each and every blow the wind paints a new layer of leaves across the horizon. There is no escape from its breath. The trees sway above the earth, and the leaves abandon their arboreal homes. In the swirling vortex of leaves reds and yellows become one, and like the pigments on an artist’s palate they cover all which lack color.

Aidan Wang ’18

Readers, you will find in this issue of The Mainsheet examples of written and artistic work completed for classes and you will find works created independently by students exercizing their talents. Above, you see Aidan Wang’s style imitation of the opening of Jill Ker Conway’s The Road from Coorain (read for Mrs. Sanders’ AP Lang class). You will find more of these Conway style imitations throughout the journal. In addition, you will find style imitations of Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried by students in AP Lit. Every year, these works of emulation reveal just how talented and sensitive Severn students can be.

In addition to the many pieces of written work in this issue, we know that you will enjoy all of the visual art represented within. From digital art to painting, our students have expressed their thoughts and passions

~1~

~2~

Table of Contents Cambridge, Gabby Ciraolo...........................................................................................................................Front Cover Conway Sentence Emulation, Aidan Wang........................................................................................................................1 Untitled, Meghan Chu......................................................................................................................................................7 The Things Severn Students Carry, Tess Bradshaw..........................................................................................................8 Apple Head, Sophia Taczak...........................................................................................................................................10 Fall Bike Ride, Sophia Taczak.......................................................................................................................................11 March 21, 1851: Jungfrau Summit, Ethan O’Malley.....................................................................................................12 Sonnet, Charlie Olmert..................................................................................................................................................16 Untitled, Sophie Oliver..................................................................................................................................................17 A Ballade in Time, Jimmy Diamondidis.......................................................................................................................18 Live for the Love, Sloane Walker....................................................................................................................................21 Horse’s Eye, Shreeya Bahethi.........................................................................................................................................22 Stuck Inside a Canvas ‘til the Museum Dreams Again, Jack Mellin................................................................................23 Untitled, Blair Reilly.......................................................................................................................................................27 The Color of War, Julia Olds..........................................................................................................................................28 Memory Project, Jane Huang...........................................................................................................................................30 Sonnet, Alexa Roberge...................................................................................................................................................31 Untitled, Katie Dubinski...............................................................................................................................................32 Sherwood Forest, Jack Mellin...........................................................................................................................................33 Untitled, Meghan Chu....................................................................................................................................................37 Aterone, Paul Wyrough..................................................................................................................................................38 Colton, Ben Carsley........................................................................................................................................................41 The Things Severn Students Carry on Their First Day, Haley Kerridge........................................................................42 Singapura, Yasmeen Meek.............................................................................................................................................44 ~3~

Routine, Ben Carsley......................................................................................................................................................45 Untitled, Jimmy Diamondidis.......................................................................................................................................47 Livin’ on a Prayer, Grace Fieni......................................................................................................................................48 Scorpio, Elizabeth Crowell............................................................................................................................................53 The Things Severn Students Carry, Emily Huber...........................................................................................................54 Food Truck, Gabby Ciraolo...........................................................................................................................................55 The Elephant Has No Mercy, Trevor Marvin...............................................................................................................56 Shells, Aidan Buckley.....................................................................................................................................................60 A True Love Story, Paul Wyrough.................................................................................................................................61 Annapolis Sunrise Impression, Clare Ryan......................................................................................................................65 The Word Damage, Grace Fieni...................................................................................................................................66 No Cycles, Gabby Ciraolo..............................................................................................................................................68 Conway Sentence Emulation, Madison Akers.................................................................................................................69

~4~

~5~

~6~

Untitled

Meghan Chu ’19

~7~

The Things Severn Students Carry Feet planted in the hallway, his eyes are glued to passing gold pins reflecting off of navy blazers. He looks down at his own jacket and sighs. Naked, the young freshman thinks to himself and continues to class. What he does not realize, though, is the reality behind those perfectly polished pins. Each pin represents a weight they carry. A pressure. A passion. A struggle. There is much more to the story than what is on this seemingly simple surface.

The things Severn students carry are determined by a number of influencing factors, but it is often based on what they feel is expected of them. She carries a paint brush because that’s what her mother wanted. He carries an SAT prep book because his father went to an Ivy. She carries her cleats because she “wants” to play lacrosse in college. Students also carry things in order to showcase themselves in a certain manner.

She carries powder to impress the boy in her stats class. He carries gum because he worries about talking to girls. She carries glasses that she never actually wears because she’s afraid of what others might say. She carries coffee to keep her awake because she lies in her bed at night, staring up at the ceiling. Always thinking. Always overthinking.

What they carry varies based on their personal struggles as well. She carries the weight of her parents’ divorce. An unresolved conflict, constantly hanging over her back. She carries the strain of her sister’s mental health problems. He carries the embarrassment of his father, the alcoholic. The things they carry are not always physical. Sometimes they are mental, which is why some may seem to have it better than others. Pins do not tell the whole story.

Be yourself, they say. Do what makes you happy, they say, but do not forget to play a sport. Do not forget to earn an A+ in that class. Do not forget to be artistic and creative. Do not forget to go to an Ivy. Do not forget to be innovative. Do not forget to look attractive. Do not forget to be a leader. Oh, but do not forget to stand out from the rest. “Take the initiative” and do something different. How can one stand out, yet be expected to do the same things as everyone else. Severn students carry the weight of confusion: the constant battle within themselves of trying to achieve this “perfect” image of a student. Something impossible.

Three years later, the not-so-young-anymore senior gets dressed for school. He pulls on his blazer and stares into the mirror. Three varsity lacrosse pins, three varsity basketball pins, two varsity soccer, and an art honors pins look back at his reflection.

The national honor society pin mocks him. It is not good enough. He envisions the Cum Laude Society pin by its side. The second place art show pin shames him. Why didn’t I do ~8~

better? He asks himself. Why didn’t I get first? Instead of focusing on how incredible all of these are, he begins to compare himself to what could have been, which only puts him down. It blinds him from all of his amazing accomplishments. Severn students carry the constant pressure to possess the passion to succeed, but their happiness is hindered when they compare themselves to others based upon the surface—based upon the pins.

Tess Bradshaw ’17

This is an emulation of the style of Tim O’Brien in his The Things They Carried.

~9~

Applehead ~10~

Sophia Taczak ’17

Fall Bike Ride

Sophia Taczak ’17

~11~

March 21, 1851: Jungfrau Summit The sun was already sinking in the cloudy late afternoon sky. To put it mildly, my day was rather eventful so far. After four days of hiking through the rugged alpine terrain, I was finally on the cusp of the Jungfrau.

My fascination with Jungfrau began roughly twenty years ago, back in the states, when I first read about the Alps. Back then, while just a boy, the stories of adventure and glory lured me. Beautiful landscapes showed the snow covered mountain peaks, rocky gorges, woody forests, and pristine streams. With these paintings came stories of pioneers, of men who were the first to ever reach a summit. One story stood out more than the rest. One summit, Jungfrau, was first reached in 1811. A pair of brothers, the Meyer brothers, had braved the unknown and hiked Jungfrau. I was mesmerized. How did it feel to be the first person to ever see something? I dreamed of being the first person to see something. At twenty two, I left Philadelphia for the West; I had joined the army.

The West was the frontier. I was chasing adventure and glory, and there was nowhere better to start. While I did not quite understand why we were going to war with Mexico, I embraced it as a chance to head west. My years in the military changed how I viewed life. By the end of the conflict, I was able to brave even the toughest conditions. I knew what it was like to be shot at. I found out that I was able to march a dozen miles in scorching heat, and I learned the way of the West: adapt or die. I stayed in the West after the fighting stopped, and I decided to get my financial footing in California.

Life in the West was hard. An impecunious man, I lived as a vagrant, always in search of my next job. The work was as scarce as the women, and it seemed like I would never settle down. After a few months of stumbling between jobs, I caught my first break. Gold was discovered at Sutter’s Mill, and I knew my next move. I acquired a substantial loan from the bank and claimed a small area as my own mining space. Next, I built a business that sold tools of the trade and continued my search for gold as an aside.

Six months in, I struck it rich with my personal mining, and I used the newfound wealth to grow my business.

As the world converged on California, my business only grew. I saw massive profits and within months of the initial discovery, I had financial freedom for the first time in my life. With freedom came reflection. I thought back to my dreams of hiking the Alps. I thought back to Jungfrau. Had I had my own Jungfrau moment? Late in fifty, I decided that Jungfrau was no longer going to be a dream— it was going to be a reality.

I crossed the Atlantic in early 1851, and by late January, I was in Europe. The ~12~

innovations in sea travel were remarkable. The once perilous trip across the Atlantic had been reduced to a comfortable two-week sea cruise. After arriving in Liverpool, I was off to mainland Europe. The mild late winter weather was a pleasant surprise, and it made my trip to the Bernese Alps much quicker than I had anticipated. I arrived in Lauterbrunnen in early March, a beautiful time of the year. The seasons, in transition, shaped a picturesque landscape. The towering mountain peaks were dotted with snow, and the verdant valley was overtaken by the emergence of blooming greenery.

The clusters of deciduous trees were still coated with fresh snow; their snow covered branches shielded the saplings sprouting near the base of their thick trunks. This majestic sight had become all too unfamiliar back home. In America, nature is used solely to maximize man. Here, nature and man coexist, each element relying on the other for support.

My brief stay in Lauterbrunnen allowed me to become accustomed with the terrain and to mingle with the locals, many of whom were well versed in the dangers of hiking the Alps. It was recommended that I take a guide with me, and a younger gentleman was assigned to accompany me on the hike. My guide, Elias, informed me that this would be his first hike as a guide, and he was assisting me with equipment. Elias would be bringing our tent, a map and extra rations. We set off for Jungfrau three days later, with our gear fully packed and the weather nearly perfect.

The first three days of hiking went smoothly. We moved at a fast pace, our provisions were holding up, the weather cooperated, and we found rather comfortable locations to set up camp for the night. The morning of the fourth day felt no different. We rose early, scarfed down some hardtack, and packed up camp. We were on the move just after the sunrise, and we were set to reach the summit of Jungfrau by early evening. It was mid morning when my journey to Jungfrau took a turn for the worse. A fast moving storm overtook the valley in minutes. Before we could adapt to the changing weather, we were pinned on the side of the mountain, and fully exposed to the cruelty of the storm.

Elias started down the mountain to look for shelter. Minutes later I heard him yell, “There’s a cave! Come down before it gets any worse!” As I started down the mountain, I saw a sight so ghastly that it became frozen in my mind. Elias, who was outside the cave and signaling to me, was struck by a boulder that was loosened by the heavy rain. The Jungfrau journey came with Draconian consequences. Elias had been killed. A man of the mountains, he was now one with the mountains. His lifeless body was sent tumbling down the slope of the muddy mountain. Death was no stranger to me. After the war, my reaction to death was different. My reaction, the army standard—move forward. I was on my own from here on out. My mission: Reach the summit of Jungfrau by sunset. ~13~

It may appear that I am apathetic, but after the storm passed I began to hike again. I was saddened by Elias’ death, but my training told me to forge on. The trek is relentless and nature yields no mercy towards man. If I stopped for too long I would make myself vulnerable to the grim fate dealt to Elias—death. The parting clouds illuminated the valley where I was now. With only my knapsack and a staff, I scaled the monstrous boulders that made up the rocky gorge below Jungfrau. The sun pierced through the clouds, revealing the snow covered summit of Jungfrau. It was if the gates of heaven opened up to accept the spirit of the recently departed. That is when I saw another man, an artist. He was standing attentively, while his hand moved smoothly but quickly across the canvas on his easel. He had witnessed the entire ordeal. I do not know if he followed me to the summit of Jungfrau, but I feared that my solitary figure had been immortalized while hiking the mighty Jungfrau.

As I pressed on I felt a sensation like no other. It finally hit me that I was alone.

Darkness was set to overtake the valley in a matter of hours. I had little food. I had little gear. What did I have? I had extreme resilience. There was nothing that would stop me from reaching the summit. I proceeded to hike at double time, footslogging up the soggy slope. I was racing the sun and I was determined to win. The entire hike was eerie.

A layer of fog began to overtake the range as the the water rose into the cool sky. My visibility reduced, and without a guide, I relied on instinct.

The early evening was silent save for the sloshing water in my boots. With each step I could feel bursting blisters on the soles of my feet. Mother Nature was trying to break me, and I refused to be broken. My haphazard climb slowed as the steepness of the slope dramatically increased, and the the cool air felt particularly thin. I slumped to the ground, emptied my boots, and took a swig from my canteen. As I pulled my boots back on I saw a wood sign through the fog. Boots not even laced, I raced to the sign. Inscribed in the dense mass of oak was the message “Summit 250m.” I estimated that I had around half an hour until darkness set in. I was going to see this sunset from the top. I placed my staff by the sign, went back for my knapsack, laced up my boots, and started upward.

I hiked with conviction. My feet, now bleeding, did not bother me one bit. The summit was in sight after mere minutes of furious hiking. The marker came into focus and my pace hastened, and then, before I knew it, I was at the top. I had reached Jungfrau. I was overtaken by a medley of emotions. A tremendous sense of relief, an abundance of pride, a sense of euphoria, and my realization of manifest destiny. I sprawled out on the ground, with my knapsack under my head and my eyes on the setting sky. As I watched the sunset behind the picturesque peaks, I remembered my childhood dream. I wanted to experience something new, something not seen before; I wanted to witness the beauty of ~14~

nature. My dream had arrived.

The amber sky faded into darkness and I faded into a slumber. Dozing off, I looked on in amazement, soaking in the star filled sky above. This was my Jungfrau. Now, it is time to return home, having just finished off the last of my hardtack, and with my canteen running dry.

This morning I witnessed the sun set the sky on fire. Shades of yellow, orange, and red engulfed the sparse clouds. I hope to be back in Lauterbrunnen in three days. I will miss Jungfrau, but I value my life and without food and water. An early departure is necessary. On to another day and another journey.

-John Callahan

Ethan O’Malley ’17

This story was inspired by the painting The Jungfrau, Switzerland by Alexandre Calame.

~15~

The fog hung low on the thund’ring city.

In the West Wing, small fingers tap and tweet About ratings and his best friend, Puty Outside, the human sea calls out the Cheat.

The day before I could not help but think: They had us beat, and the world did look bleak.

The horsemen trotted in, I could not blink; Betsy and Bannon: I wanted to shriek.

But as the strongest rainbow is only Formed from the darkest and most gloomy storm, I awoke while the sun was still lowly, A million strong, pink hats the uniform.

We beat the drum, though the night seems so long The stubborn tide of progress flowing on.

Charlie Olmert ’17

~16~

Untitled

Sophie Oliver ’18

~17~

A Ballade in Time A man sets his face, lupine features relaxed yet circumspect: deadpan. A salient nose and cheekbones proudly vaunt his French heritage. The man slides onto a wooden bench, swinging his angular legs round the side. His crisp black slacks match the slick black varnish on the veneer of the bench. His black blazer is open and his top button has been undone in exasperation—or, perhaps, because he has begun to sweat. Black suit, black bench, black keys; white shirt, white face, white ivory. It is like a silent film.

Alexandre Tharaud assiduously raises his timeworn hands; they are poised to shatter the silence.

Chopin, Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 23.

A note rings out, sonorous and solemn. Tharaud lets it hang, until the decaying pitch has paradoxically grown in the listener’s ear. Like a distant horde of yellow jackets buzzing nearer and nearer until it is inside her head, echoing off the barren walls of her cavernous skull; and all the while getting louder and louder until her whole body vibrates with the energy of the invasive insects. The tone has been set for the piece. The hands deliberately swoop up the keys in unison until the ceiling has been reached, and then fall to an unstable resting point. Working together, the hands make another circle on the keys. The theme has been established, and the hands leave the piano for three counts. It is a snapshot of the climax shown at the beginning of an action film.

The palette is cleansed and he enters the waltz: one two three, one two three, one two three. The tune is pleasant and simple, but its simplicity somehow conveys eerie dissonance. Perhaps it is the rests that are so jarring—not a matter of what is played, but what isn’t. A gasp of air in between a structured danse. Like the pianist is drowned by his hollow melody and must systematically come up to breathe, held captive by his own obsession. One two three one two three rest, twothreeone twothreeone twothreebreathe twothreeonetwothreeonetwothree breATHEtwothree onetwothrBREATHEtwothr— haggard heartbeats. Rubato: Tharaud begins to bend the tempo; he seizes control of time.

The notes on the page are more and more dense, and the tune is more and more cluttered as the pianist obeys. The waltz reaches a fever pitch and explodes into a chromatic flourish through the upper register. In this one terrifying moment, the piece is transformed into a French love affair: two innocuous Parisians sharing one pain au chocolat at a cast-iron table just outside a café, plaster peeling and ivy bursting, noses close together, ~18~

mouths closer still.

A new waltz slices the reverie in two. Gradually it descends into darkness and lingers there, a rumbling deep within the belly of the piano. The notes tumble like waves crashing on a sinking ship of pirates. Two, three, one, an arpeggio soars up out of the murky water. And down again up down again up down up. Tharaud’s hands are but a blur, the notes indistinguishable in a tide of emotion. It is a lifetime of dedication that brings him to this moment: thirty-six years, the life of a French protégé. His fingers are the teeth on the gears of a clock. Tharaud cranks out time, a split-second per note. The dots on the page engraved on his cranium, translated, and organized perfectly in time.

He is equally slave to the notes and to time. But if he is slave, he is equally master.

Chopin tells him what to play, but not how to play. It is his piece now, his story, his thirty-six years.

The arpeggio dissolves into a sweet melody: childhood innocence, a mother’s smile, the envy of every lullaby. A boy tugs on the tail of his mother’s floral skirt, blue, the color of sun-washed hydrangeas in June. She leads him on a matted trail through a flaxen wheat field. They cross a dirt road and come to a farmer’s wooden fence. She goes over, he goes under. They meet again in a field of violet wildflowers—the site of their picnic-to-be. She pulls a vanilla macaron from her hand-woven basket and hands it to the boy. His big eyes gleam the blue of her skirt and she laughs for the first time in too long. Giggling, they fall together into the wildflowers without having laid out a blanket. A grace note signals the end of reflection and the onset of maturation.

A tempo, pianissimo: we are back to the first waltz. The pitch is raised, and so is the tension. Tharaud is drowning once more, trying to fight his way out of the dissonant haze. The restriction of time keeps him in purgatory, clunking his way through the music: a nightmare. The bass swells until he casts off his chains and breathes in a first deep breath. Houdini escapes from an underwater coffin. Jacques Cousteau surfaces with French gold from a sunken treasure ship in clear Cretan waters. Tharaud, too, searches for legacy in the depths of the ocean. Early today, he sojourned at the Montparnasse Cemetery and laid violet wildflowers at the tomb of Emmanuel Chabrier.

A French protégé must not remain a protégé.

The next section is unrestrained joy. The melody and the hands and the heart all leap for happiness. A man tosses his head back to kiss the rain flowing from the heavens. His arms are outstretched and he twirls in a dark narrow alleyway of Paris, not because he is a dancer but because he is alive. His suit is drenched and his mane of hair is showering the cobblestones with moonlit droplets like a zealous labrador retriever.

Immortality. ~19~

The pianist returns home. The boy and the mother lock eyes and fall into laughter once more. The fragrance of the wildflowers and the summer air and the sweet vanilla is intoxicating. They sit up, and the breeze tussles the boy’s soft hair. Several strands of straightened hair wisp in and out of the woman’s face, but she is stoic, lost in her paradise.

They share a baguette and a quarter-kilo of heart-shaped Neufchâtel cheese. The sky is the light periwinkle of faded hydrangeas. The melody fades as well.

Meno mosso, pianissimo, sempre sotto voce: it is the first waltz again, but this time it is scarcely a whisper. A secret told in a forgotten cave, a haunting memory.

One two three one, but this time the pianist seems to control the music, three one two three, crescendo. The rests are no longer a gasp for survival, a cry for help, but they are exaltation in the glory of overcoming struggle. Two three one two, appassionato.

Tharaud takes possession of time now; the climax is his anguish, toil, and sacrifice. The piano lets out a guttural war cry. “At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.”

The music picks up speed again, his hands working inside the clock. He is never late and never misses. So mechanized, yet so much emotion. It is fiery: a forest of love and hate, triumph and failure, joy and heartbreak. It is a life run backwards in thirty seconds. And as the clock winds down, the piano fights back and the thunder rolls. There is a break in the music and the pianist prepares for the final descent. fff, poco ritenuto: the right and left hand strike against one another. Together they hack at the keys, rusty hatchets splintering the ivory. The ticks of a thousand clocks. Accelerando: the clock winds down for the last time. The piece ends with a thud, like the toll of a distant bell that is all too near.

Tharaud is breathless, hunched over the piano, a used carcass. He has transposed his soul into his instrument. Yes, this recording will do. He titles it Journal Intime. This performance exhibits his life, his thoughts, for better or for worse. It is his legacy.

I shut off the recording and slide onto a wooden bench and swing my legs round the side. I raise my trembling hands over the keys, ready to shatter the silent world of black and white with my story. Chopin, Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 23.

Jimmy Diamondidis ’18

~20~

Live for the Love The wind blew in the city. The boy tightened his hoodie and walked down into the subway. His eyes drooped towards the concrete. He glanced up when he saw the man.

“Sit down,” said the man. The boy sat and his fingers were fidgeting in his pockets. The man blew smoke that got tangled in his beard. “You want one?”

“Yes.” The boy reached out his hand.

“You don’t smoke.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Don’t lie to me”

“You’re never around.”

“She know you been smoking?”

“I left.”

The man sighed. The boy coughed into his fists.

“I don’t want to be like you.” The boy turned and faced the tracks. The man sighed. “I don’t want to be like you, and that’s why I’m leaving.” The man noticed the boy’s pockets.

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Yes.”

“Leave that here.”

“I’m not afraid of getting caught.”

“You should.”

“I’m not afraid of anything, not even what comes after this.”

“There is nothing after this.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.”

“Berry did it, and no one misses him.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Nathan.”

The boy coughed again. The man sighed and blew smoke into his beard.

“I’m leaving because of you.”

“I’m never around.”

“You’re what mom wants. She doesn’t want me.”

“I think you’re making a mistake.”

“You’re not the judge.”

The boy stood up and kissed the man’s head. The boy walked back into the city. The man sighed and a tear ran down his cheek, through the smoke, and into his beard.

Sloane Walker ’17 ~21~

Horse’s Eye ~22~

Shreeya Bahethi ’18

Stuck Inside a Canvas ‘til the Museum Dreams Again Part I

It is my cruel and undeserved fate to be trapped inside this wood-framed, canvas prison, hanging from a wall in the Walters Art Gallery, exposed and defenseless to the eyes and merciless thoughts of all who pass by. Worse yet, I can hear their words, and often it is painful indeed to have no choice but to listen not just to what they have to say about me, but also how they feel about the world around them. Well, well, well – what have we here? Yet another unkempt twenty-first century teen who will no doubt soon begin to mock me. Every time, it seems, the same remarks: “What’s with the fingers, and, my God, look at the nose!” “Get a load of the dress and the matching shawl and skullcap – looks like something my grandmother would wear.” Or the one I loathe most vehemently: “Old dude looks like he hasn’t had a decent meal in a decade.” ‘Old dude’ – can you imagine? Children these days have no respect for historical figures, even those with the greatest of impacts on society, but who could blame them? They haven’t the slightest idea who I am - or, perhaps I should say, who I was. This clueless young gentleman is standing in front of a Pope, Pope Pius V; not just a Pope, but a Saint! And just look at him - shoes untied, shirt untucked, long hair, incessantly pecking away at his phone. No respect. The Internet – that was the last straw. Back in the nineties - the nineteen-nineties, I mean – children still read books. Some even went to church. Based on those who walk by me, now it’s all Snapchat and Netflix and Game of Thrones from what I can tell. What has the world come to? Oh boy, here we go again – he’s staring at my nose.

Society was far better in sixteen – the sixteenth century that is. Paolo and Domenica (my parents) – they ran a tight ship. Growing up in the Ghislieri house taught one how to conduct one’s self properly. Restraint, austerity, discipline. We were dirt poor but rich in values. When I was this boy’s age, maybe a little younger, I woke up with the sun and spent all day tending our flock of sheep, not luxuriating in some private school tending my iPhone. College? Ha! There was no such opportunity. I went straight from sheep to seminary, out of the frying pan and into the fire, if you will. This child would not last a day in the hills of Bosco, and I would love to see what he would think of the trappings of a Dominican seminary. It would be a real eye-opener for little Mister Patagonia. “Where’s the chocolate on my pillow?”

‘Make America great again?’ Isn’t that what they are all saying? Well, they are right, at least in that there is certainly room for improvement. I will tell you who ~23~

made a society great again – I did. And not just a single country, but the entire Catholic Church. I could see plain as day that reform was needed, desperately. So, I rolled up my sleeves – yes, my cassock of choice had sleeves – and I went to work. I took control - no more Sunday desecration, or profanity, or adultery, or animal baiting. I really disliked the animal baiting. Out with the heretics, prostitutes and drunks; in with seclusion, fasting, and prayer. If this boy had to fast for an afternoon he would probably faint. There is no structure these days, no rules. Back in my day we had rules, I made sure of that. I forced people to study the catechism; I fixed the breviary (desperately needed, I must say); and I totally revamped the missal. Today, from what I am regrettably forced to hear the young museum visitors discussing, it seems as though a child’s loftiest aspiration is to flip his dot.com and buy an NBA franchise. I actually made a real difference, and I did it on a budget.

The ascetic life, that was the life for me. I hear it day-in and day-out here, and it makes me want to wretch: “We have club-level seats for the Ravens tomorrow!” “I upgraded to first on my flight back from Naples!” (Not even the real Naples, mind you.)

“You’ve seen Hamilton, have you not? I’ve been twice.” The level of indulgence to which people have become accustomed has spiraled out of control. Give me my favorite hairshirt, a bowl of cornmeal and my trusty Bible, and I am happy as a clam.

In fairness to the public eye, as to the svelte, if not gaunt, nature of my appearance, this Passerotti character did me no favors. I much prefer Giovane’s take – a far more accurate rendering, in my humble opinion. The fingers are discourtesy enough, but Passerotti really went overboard with the nose. Not even close to the aquiline beauty that adorns my face. However, it is an eye-catcher, is it not? I do wonder how many visitors would simply pass me by were it not for that impressive mantelpiece of a nose grabbing their eye.

Just look at this boy. Probably scrolling through Instagram or some other app that is an utter waste of time. The opportunities wasted, the shallowness of it all, such indulgence. He is looking me at strangely now, though, in a way I’m not accustomed to seeing in one of his ilk. It’s as if there may be a flicker of insight there – for once there might be hope! If only I could have my voice back I might be able to reach him….

Part II Good grief, what an assignment. Write an essay in the voice of a character in a painting? Where do they get this stuff? And of all the paintings in this place, I end up with this guy? He’s so haggard and his clothing is comical – he looks like he just got sprung from a long stay at Alcatraz and became lost in the old ladies’ section at Goodwill.

And the furrowed brow and stern gaze – it’s almost as if he’s trying to scold me. Oh, ~24~

well – the clock’s ticking – let’s see what trusty Wikipedia has to say. Tap-tap, tap-taptap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Huh? Really….? Wow – I had no idea. This guy was a rock star, and only six years in office – that’s just like the Beatles! Man, I am starving, and it’s only eleven. I wonder if there is a Chipotle around here… Arrrrghh – focus, you dummy, you need this grade. Ha! Says here this guy grew up tending sheep – get it? Wait, watch it, cannot say that about a Pope – could be trouble. Ghis-li-er-i? Sounds like the Dr. Seuss guy. Rubric, rubric – where did I put the damn rubric? Oh, here it is – my page marker in Golf Magazine, remember, dummy? Let’s see…. perspective… voice…man, my feet hurt. There has to be a leather chair around here somewhere. What time is it? I wonder if there is a new Blacklist this week… C’mon – focus! Gotta get an A in this class or it is all over – no hedge fund, no Dallas Mavericks…. Let’s see, “Write from the figure’s point of view” blah blah blah “…what is he thinking” blah blah blah “…smooth transitions, plot, theme, mood, voice” - yeah, right. Here is what my voice is saying: nap time.

Part III “Hey, you! Young man! Yes, I am talking to you, Justin Bieber.”

“No way. Absolutely no way! You’re the old dude in the painting, right?”

“Very good. Most perceptive thing you have said all day. All week, I imagine.”

“What is going on? Where am I? And how on earth did you get here?”

“I am not really sure, to be honest. This ability to communicate has only happened a few times before, and every time it ends rather abruptly, so listen closely, will you please?”

“Uh, okay.”

“You know about my sheep-tending, right? And traipsing about barefoot, and fasting and all of that?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, it is all true. And let me tell you, it was not easy.”

“I can certainly imagine.”

“Actually, no you cannot. But what you can learn is this. All people, no matter their origins, are capable of great achievements. I went from tending sheep to becoming Pope and reforming the Catholic Church across the globe. I truly changed the world.

However, this was not without hard work, discipline, and sacrifice. Get a haircut, tie your shoes, show some respect and, most importantly, get to work. The future is yours.

You too can accomplish much, but in order to do so you must get going and you must focus. My time has passed, but your time is just beginning. Do not waste a minute of it.

Do not waste a minute….oh, no – I am fading….back to my prison…” ~25~

Part IV Oh, blasted Passerotti – I am back in the frame. That was a quick one. I am not so sure that young man fully understood the message – I fear I may have been cut off at the end and, my, did he need a stern talking to. Usually they wake up having to catch themselves from screaming, and look! This one is still drooling on himself! I must remember to talk a bit faster next time, maybe use smaller words. Here comes his acquaintance, undoubtedly to rouse him.

“Yo, wake up! You’ve been out cold for a half-hour at least. The bus is about to leave. I cannot wait to post these pictures of you drooling on yourself!”

“Thanks, man. I forgot where I was. I was having a bizarre nightmare, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was about, and I didn’t get a single word written for this assignment. I guess I’ll just have to make something up – won’t be the first time. Let’s get rolling – I want to get started on this paper on the bus. I have this strange feeling that I need to get serious, and I don’t have a minute to waste. Wait a second – ‘Do not waste a minute….do not waste a minute….”

“What are you talking about, dude?”

“Nothing, never mind. Hey, are you sure we’re not leaving someone behind?”

Jack Mellin ’17

This story is based on a painting by Bortolomeo Passarotti, Portrait of Pope Pius V.

~26~

Untitled

Blair Reilly ’18

~27~

The Color of War In our world there are Skies manufactured by people Punctured and leaking in times of war The soft coal colored clouds Beating like black hearts So many humans So many colors And then, there is death The ashen taste in your mouth While he defines your existence As he swoops down to the streets once full of life So many humans So many colors Some of them close their eyes Waiting for the final demise A song in the dark As the stars set fire to their eyes Silence The absence of sound or noise Related words: quiet, calmness, peace A feather drops to the ground In the distance a train screams There were no people on the street anymore Only rumors carrying bags More than ever now the street was a place of silence Silence was not quiet or calm And it was not peace

~28~

Death On the surface; unflappable, unwavering Below; unnerved, untied, undone Each soul would greet him like their last true friend With bones like smoke and their dreams trailing behind Their life’s stories stranded on paper Broken down for him to walk on So many humans So many colors Regret Sorrow filled with longing, disappointment, or loss Related words: rue, repent, mourn, grieve What had happened was an ocean sky with white cap clouds It was the beauty of destruction The Color of War Julia Olds ’19

This poem was inspired by The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak.

~29~

Memory Project ~30~

Jane Huang ’18

A flower grew among the sparkling sun, Bright beams of light shined down on the petals, Bees buzzed and left the garden one by one Colors bloomed yet never stopped to settle.

Summer’s rain misted the garden with glow, Opal dust laid upon each single leaflet, Soft breezes of pleas’nt wind began to blow, As the golden sun changed to dark secrets, The luminescent moonlight shined bright, Emerald luster appeared beneath the forest, Millions of legs appeared in the dark light, Leaves rustled during late August.

And not one soul left the flower bed, The sun rose again and filled with red.

Alexa Roberge ’17

~31~

Untitled

~32~

Katie Dubinski ’18

Sherwood Forest Sherwood Forest is a peninsula jutting into the Severn River - 450 acres, 350 of which are pristine, old-growth forest. As green as green can be in the summer, and grey and wind-whipped in winter. Three hundred and forty homes are packed tightly into its northeastern tip, ringing the waterfront like dull ornaments atop a Christmas tree. One of those ornaments – 652 Maid Marian Hill – is where I was born and raised. I know Sherwood like the back of my hand, and its people, its nature, and its traditions are as much a part of me as my own skin and bones. When I come back to Sherwood, which now is a daily routine but soon will be different, I mark chapters of my life against its unchanging façade.

There is only one road going in and out of the forest, long and windy to the point that every turn is a blind one at night. Roughly a mile removed from the outside world, a brown gatehouse with two yellow foam-wrapped metal poles stretched out on either side, like the arms of the familiar crossing guard in elementary school, sits between the road’s two lanes. The gatehouse is empty, only remaining as a tribute to the old gatekeeper who is generations passed but still known by name by every soul inside. One of the few visible intrusions of modern technology, in Smothers’ place now sits a small keypad.

The need to stop and enter a host’s code exposes one as an outsider; insiders glide smoothly past, opening the gate with a remote, a rite of passage granted to new drivers along with the use of the family’s lowliest car. I remember being fascinated by the clicker, fending off siblings and straining from the back seat to press the precious button.

Now it is taken for granted, or rather considered a necessity – a must-have at seventeen.

As the invisible beam is acknowledged with the granting of entry, reflexively I roll down the windows and similarly grant entry to the familiar scent of oak trees, ivy, and the sweet decay of the forest floor. I slow my pace and in tandem my pulse slows, a practiced adjustment to the unique vibe that lies within – not slower, not faster, just different, and a welcomed different. The problems and concerns that weighed heavily outside the gate seem to melt quickly away, like the last snow of winter I can’t wait to see. The road winds through the remaining forest until the trees open up to give way to blue sky wrapping around a brilliant sun, heat beating down on the green grass of the soccer field, the outermost field of Sherwood. The field looks much smaller now than it did years ago, but it is not the field that has changed; yet, despite the growing gap between us, it calls me just as strongly. I see young children kicking a ball and a rush of memories floods my mind – the untold hours spent on that very grass, the joy of ~33~

victories, the agony of defeats.

Homes are uniformly green or brown, with just a few white. These are the only colors the simple cottages are allowed to be, so as to blend in with the trees and counter the tightness of their arrangement. Each one is constructed of wood and stands two stories high; they are beautiful in the simplicity of design and harken back to a simpler time.

In each driveway sits a green golf cart, wheels caked with dirt and grass, the soft and sacrificial skin of the land underfoot. Charging cables run like umbilical cords from cart to house, a requisite daily regimen rarely missed since the consequences of undercharging are dire, or so they seem. As if on autopilot, I reflexively make the necessary turns, without the slightest thought. Like the cart returning to its parking spot or the cow to its barn, I find myself drawn as if by a magnet back to my home.

On the main road there is a small general store – green of course – that serves as both a general mart and a restaurant. While renovated many times, the building retains its barn-like appearance, a nod to the days when the preferred mode of travel in Sherwood was the horse. The distinct and delicious smell of the sizzling bacon destined for Charlie’s, the proprietor’s, signature bacon cheeseburgers invokes one’s appetite even in a passing car. Swarms of children impatiently clutch at the two parental dollars given to them for a snack, lining up to purchase all manner of sour candy and chips. I remember the thrill of that first solo transaction and how much better a Snickers bar tastes when acquired on one’s own. Snickers has given way to cheeseburger, and the money is now hard-earned, but I must admit the thrill remains. At night, the flickering of the fluorescent “OPEN” sign just before it darkens marks the hour of the night when young children must venture home on their bikes, leaving their game of “truth or dare” to be finished another night. While looking at that sign, I can feel the fear of truth and the thrill of dare – the stakes are now different, but the game is the same.

Across from the store sits a massive clubhouse, three stories high. A tower branches off from the roof of the building and reaches towards the sky fifty feet up, at the top of which hangs an ancient church bell. We met each morning underneath this bell as knee-high playgrounders in summer camp; we performed on the clubhouse stage at the annual talent show; we spent countless hours deep in the basement, mesmerized by the various creatures on display in its nature lab; we bowled in the bowling alley and later earned snack money setting pins for the adults; we danced our first slow dance in the dance hall; and we received our hard-earned trophies there on trophy night, the biggest night of our lives. No structure in Sherwood so fully captures the span of our childhoods and nothing could ever take its place. I never know what fond memory will strike me as I roll past, but one always does. Of greater focus now are the varnished oak ~34~

boards in the clubhouse’s main room, the hallowed Stewart Hall, which boards hold the names of Sherwood’s annual golf and tennis champions, along with service awards the community holds in the highest regard. Unlike the many aspects of the forest that seem to have shrunk as I’ve grown, these boards are still as tall as ever, names dating back to Sherwood’s founding in 1915, with respectful blank spaces during the years of World War II. Down the steep hill behind the clubhouse sits the Sherwood swimming pool.

Even when covered and under a blanket of midwinter snow, the memories of long summer days spent splashing and lounging bring a sense of warmth at just a glance.

Now peers serve as lifeguards, watching over the new children of the community, as time marches on. The deck of the pool is rough, like sandpaper, but always warm. I remember the early life lesson of the tradeoff – rough, but warm. As in life, warm almost always wins. Ever so rarely, one of the lifeguards will need to jump in, but usually just to calm a frantic toddler, panicking and unaware that the floaties he is wearing won’t let him sink. Inevitably and irreversibly, just as I do now, the toddler transitions from the safety of his parents’ arms to the dangers and rewards of the deeper waters.

Adjacent to the pool lies the short, nine-hole golf course that weaves its way through most of the community. The course is a true memento of Sherwood past as it has been virtually untouched since its construction. There is no watering system; the tees are astroturf and the greens are sand (one of only two on the entire east coast), odes to both the frugality of Sherwood and the recognition that kids will be kids. The course is how it has always been and, I am sure, how it always will be. The grass is normally long, patchy, and dry, but that doesn’t stop the same people day in and day out from enjoying a quick round with many of the same friends they’ve had since childhood. Admittedly, as I look out across the fairways I swell with pride at the junior championships I won, and I picture my name on the big board in Stewart Hall.

As is my custom, before heading home I take a lap around Beach Road, perhaps Sherwood’s most prized asset, a truly unique stretch of paved road that runs along the entire tip of the peninsula, blue-green Severn on its outside, lush green forest on its inside. Main Pier, the longest pier I know, sits sturdily atop the water, rock solid no matter the conditions. The pier’s green roof stretches until the swimming lanes start, each lane line covered in barnacles and moss waiting to scratch any swimmer straying too close. At the base of the pier there is a small beach where young kids play in the murky water, tentatively walking out one step at a time in fear of crabs hiding in the seaweed.

They laugh at each handful of sand thrown and shriek at each submerged log on which they step, mistaking it for the monsters known only to them to roam these waters. At ~35~

the end of the pier is the American flag waving over a group of teens hiding from their parents, recounting their clandestine activities the night before. I smile as I pass realizing just how far I have come.

My life and Sherwood Forest are inextricably linked. I feel almost as if I have grown out of the forest, just like each of its endless number of trees. Like the trees, acorn becomes sapling, sapling grows and is shaped by the others around it. The flood of memories that hits me on my every return is testament to the bond that exists between me and this wonderful place. Its unchanging features and traditions allow me – in fact, force me – to measure myself, my growth, my aging, against its wonderfully static being. It is a one-way street – happy memories, but now the past. When I pass the guard house on my way to the outside world, something changes, degrades. It is the slightest of feelings but it is real, without doubt. I roll up my windows, turn up the volume and step on the gas. I always look forward to my return, to the warm flood hitting me once again.

Jack Mellin ’17

~36~

Untitled

Meghan Chu ’18

~37~

Ateorone The walls along the dark, square room were barren and concrete. In the center, eight beds lie facing each other in a circle. Each bed stood so that the people within them could easily see and speak to any of the seven others. There was no creaking or squeaking among the beds. Not because they were new or well-crafted but because their inhabitants remained still and motionless. No strand of light reached through the concrete to tell the time of day. The only source was a dim, cylindrical bulb which sat in the center of the ceiling. And right below the light, within the Socratic circle of beds, was a large box. The room marinated in silence… then, without any thought of it, everyone arose from their beds at once.

“Aha! We beat you!” Lucille shouted towards her opposing team—Randolph, Diana, Evelyn, and Abraham, who were sitting to her right along the circle, respectively.

“Unfair!” Randolph shouted, sticking his tongue out at Levi, who sat left of Lucille.

“Levi broke the rules,” Randolph explained, adjusting his toupee.

“No, I didn’t!”

“Did to!”

“You didn’t even know the rules when we started, Randolph,” Afro interjected.

Desiree, who was between Afro and Abraham, agreed with Afro. Everyone broke out into an argument until Abraham, who hadn’t yet spoken, chirped up.

“Everyone… Everyone! It doesn’t matter who won. We all know the game now; let’s just have another go.”

“I’d be down for round two,” Evelyn said.

“Yeah, as long as Levi doesn’t break my mallet again,” Randolph said. Afro scooted up in her chair.

“Hey, you guys…” she said.

“I won’t be breaking anything if you don’t charge your horse right in front of me!”

Levi snapped.

“Hey, you guys…”

“I still think it’s funny that Randolph asked why we had to wear collared shirts to play polo,” Lucille jeered.

“Hey! You guys!” Afro shouted. Everyone glanced at her, seeing her concerned face. “…Before we started our lucid dreaming session… did…did you notice that letter there?” ~38~

On top of the wooden box, which sat in the middle of the room, was a letter with a golden trim. Everyone stopped moving and speaking at once. All eyes gazed upon the letter.

“No. No, I did not. Afro, did you put that there?” Randolph asked.

“Of course she didn’t put it there!” Diana said, hitting Randolph with her hand.

“We would’ve noticed.”

“Where in bloody hell did that come from?” Levi said. Losing her patience, Desiree rose out of her bed and grabbed the letter. As she returned to her covers, she started reading it aloud:

I’m sorry. I must tell you. You’ve forgotten you are dreaming. Knowing that will make it easier in the end. Trust me. I’m you.

“What? Is this some sort of joke?” Lucille said.

“No no, no no. This isn’t a dream… We just woke up from a dream. I’m real,” Diana explained to herself. “We were lucid dreaming together, our minds connected and all. This… this is supposed to be for fun. We signed up for this,” she reassured herself.

“We signed up?” Afro spoke up again. “I can’t remember how I got here. I… I… I can’t remember,” she shuttered, shaking her head.

“It’s important not to panic. I’m sure we remember a whole lot. Let’s go around and explain what we can remember. Starting with Afro,” Abraham said, trying to determine why she looks so familiar.

“Ok… I am 37. I work on the Rothschild estate as the nanny to Miss Penny, the only daughter in the Rothschild family,” Afro said. Abraham suddenly remembered everything and sat frozen in fear.

“I guess I’m next,” Levi said. “I’m 32. I work as private tutor on the Rothschild Estate.” Then Lucille went.

“I’m forty… something. I am also the nanny for Miss Penny Rothschild,” Lucille said. Evelyn had a confused look on her face. She spoke.

“Wait, is everyone here connect to the Rothsch—” “You know what? Enough of this,” Randolph interrupted. “Let’s go back to polo.

I won’t mess up the horses this time I promise.”

“And… I came after you left, Afro!” Lucille said, as if she were putting together the facts as she was speaking. Afro did not respond. “You were fired.” Afro looked away. “And then there was a terrible mur—“ “I agree. Can we go back? Please? I think the letter is for someone else. Let’s stop all this worrying and such,” Diana said with a smile. There was silence.

“How do I know you all aren’t just a dream?” Evelyn asked. ~39~

“Please. Evelyn. Stop.” Diana said, looking all around her. No one could see the walls of the room. It was too dark. Only the beds were visible under the light. Even faces were shadowed.

“How do I know I’m not just making all of this up? How do I know you all exist” Evelyn asked.

“How do we know you exist” Desiree jabbed at Evelyn.

“I think, therefore I am,” Evelyn said confidently.

“I remember reading that quote. You could just be my mind playing tricks, taking from my memories,” Desiree exclaimed.

The room became full of fear. People were shouting at each other. Tears welled in eyes. People didn’t want to “not exist.”

It started getting darker. It started getting loud. It started getting darker as it started getting loud.

“Stop it! Stop it all of you!” Abraham commanded. The room instantly became silent. “Desiree, give me the letter. Let me look at it,” Desiree began shaking.

“Of course,” Levi murmured under his breath. “If he can’t read the letter then this is a dream. You can’t read something twice in a dream.” Desiree shifted to the furthest side of her bed.

“Let me look at it, damn you! Let me look at it!” Abraham demanded.

“Stop it!” Desiree cried. “Mr. Rothschild don’t!” Abraham grabbed the letter from her hand, and upon looking at it he shuddered. He walked directly to the crate in the center of the room. The light became darker and more focused. It only shone on Abraham and the crate. The rest became darkness.

“Don’t you do it!” a voice cried from the black.

“Don’t open that crate!”

“That devil. She did this to us. That murderer!”

“Why? Why!” someone was crying.

“Stop speaking!” Abraham ordered. In the silence, Abraham jammed his fingers under the crate. With all his might the top loosened. He pulled off the lid and looked in the box. Abraham screamed.

“It was you. It was you this whole time.” Everything faded.

Paul Wyrough ’17

~40~

Colton

Ben Carsley ’18 ~41~

The Things Severn Student Carry on Their First Day The freshman gingerly closes the car door and pretends not to notice the embarrassing goodbye wave from his mom. He carries a large backpack, a backpack out of proportion with his small frame. It is filled with everything he could possibly need: a textbook for each class, and extra folders and notebooks and pens and pencils and a brand new graphing calculator. He carries with him nervousness about his first day and a not quite memorized schedule.

The sophomore quickly closes the car door after a goodbye to her father and swings her backpack over her shoulders. She carries two bags. Her backpack is filled with just the necessities: a few notebooks, a textbook or two, and a pencil case. She carries a soccer bag with equipment for her after school practice. She carries the excitement to see all of her friends again and the not-so-subtle confidence that comes with no longer being a freshman.

The junior carries the built up stress that comes with the year as he nervously pulls into a parking spot. He walks into school, noticeably swinging his keys just so that everyone knows he drives. This portrays nonchalance, but in reality he is already anxious.

He carries with him the AP summer assignments that took him hours to complete.

He carries in his heavy backpack, bursting with multiple AP textbooks, a laptop, and notebooks. He is already planning to spend his free period studying.

The senior swiftly and confidently pulls into her favorite parking spot by the gym. She is weighed down by everything she carries in order to get through the day. A small, stylish backpack, overstuffed almost to the point of breaking with AP textbooks, notebooks, and papers hangs off one arm. Her hands are occupied by another textbook, water bottle, lunch bag, and phone. Her car keys sway around her neck from the lanyard.

She carries so much: the responsibilities of being the captain of her team, the leader of multiple clubs, and the many college applications that have yet to be completed.

She walks into school with others members of the senior class, all mindlessly twirling their lanyards, weighed down by the keys to their luxury cars. They carry backpacks filled with textbooks and homework. They carry their laptops, their favorite sweatshirts, and cups of coffee. But they also carry everything else. They carry the weight of mature burdens, old and new. Their family’s financial issues, the divorces of their parents, the accomplishments of their parents and siblings are all carried. These seniors carry with them the overwhelming weight of maintaining their reputations and keeping up with their obligations and expectations. They carry mental illnesses: depression, ~42~

anxiety, and attention deficit disorder. They are each concerned with incomplete college applications, dropping grades, and standardized testing results. They carry everything.

Haley Kerridge ’17

This is an emulation of the style of Tim O’Brien in his The Things They Carried.

~43~

Singapura

~44~

Yasmeen Meek ’18

Routine

Routine for work: Pump the pump again, ten times over, letting gas flood the ignition chamber, the plastic bubble used for injection by hand squeaking with each pump. Dragging the trimmer out of the truck, my eyes glance casually over the dirt and the motor oil and some gas that was spilled already on my jeans, which were by contrast still rough with the starchy resilience of new fiberous denim. A stain of industrial acid streaked across them from a mechanical accident down at the pool pump house. The truck looked like some of the workers around here­; they’d been worked until they either tempered like steel or bent from age and the humid temperatures. My arm throws the pull without the need of my focus. The motion feels familiar and as always is a pointless attempt the first time. The sudden exertion wakes me, more than a shower and my quick breakfast did, more than the sunny walk to the land manager’s office did, and now I’m a couple miles into a deep woods I’ve know since birth with two men, who may as well be call boys, I’ve never met. Their harsh eyes and voices match the rough sideburns each parade across their cheekbones and jaw lines—they have begun to resemble their fathers’ beards, I’m sure. My father and my grandfather told me often of the virtue of this work. I fiddled gracelessly with the choke, somewhat perturbed with this particular trimmer, as I thought previously I had mastered the fickle and machinated beast. In time, I directed my frustration at the choke and pull. With each successive attempt, the resistance of cogs, the tension of the cord, the ache in my wrist and elbow from days of the same irregular yanking from my shoulders and hips, were followed by dissipated breaths of impatience.

But with each pull, and with the repetition of my voodoo routine—a cycle not unlike the superstitious wind-up of a free throw shooter with his basketball—I gathered together the stray revolutions and minuscule pantings of the two stroke engine. It arose—more with casual enthusiasm than with an industrious vigor. Both our days were only beginning.

Grass flew about me as the trimmer purred. The microcosm of bushes constricted by vines, of dragonflies and mockingbird nests, take flight with each swooping whine of our machinery. There hasn’t been a day I didn’t feel a part of myself resist and flee my own invasive task. I felt a traitor and on days off I walked with foreign familiarity— the memory of a prodigal son—on the same paths and under the same trees. But the whacker hummed, reassuring my gloved hands. Two, three, four hours in total isolation, accompanied by mindless static—the industrious buzzing of man conquering nature. I would have far preferred the washing tides of thought, the humility of sitting with my hands on soil, the tranquility of hermetic silence and isolation. At last, Bowhaska paused ~45~

the massacre. He pointed, ear plugs in, with primal desire, towards enormous bushes.

Between thorned-ropes, colored by decaying shades of green and brown, were berries, which the both of us eyed with childish glee. As the fruit bore itself before us, I again felt the victory of exploring my childhood hinterland. Years later, the bounty of wooded fantasia tasted as sweet. Our minds ached with monotony, our senses wearied, and the afternoon thickened with midsummer’s heat.

If the patch had not been so plentiful, we would not have taken time to unburden ourselves of our machinery and protective layers. Rough leather gloves, baseball caps—mine from my dad, his from a feed store—and plastic goggles sweating with condensation. With these, the authority he held over me and the privacies of age and formality were torn away. The delicate berries melted between our roofs and palettes.

As we ate, the forest began to hum peacefully, with our trimmers back in the truck, and soon we, too, spoke without inhibition. His fiancé was torn from him—helplessly—most people thought he was ill, he knows of the rumors people started—that he’s on the autism spectrum. All the little evils had stuck to him like thorns, like thorns that we pluck from our hands as we pick more berries. Only, he has yet to find the sweet fruit held beneath the others’ thorns. Nature, as I found that day, is always more kind than man. Eventually, we buried our words, and they fertilized the trees. The trimmers hummed for a second time that afternoon, and, again, the forest relented to our wills.

Ben Carsley ’18

~46~

Untitled

Jimmy Diamondidis ’18 ~47~

Livin’ on a Prayer 12:57 Okay, I really need to get to bed. I have an early practice tomorrow, and I can’t afford to be tired for another practice this week. I mean, I’m tired enough as is, I don’t need any help from Lily texting me any more tonight. Oh, but she just responded . . .

1:13 I think that my eyelids are melting over my eyes, but my mind is still racing; I seriously just need to go to bed. Okay, okay. Let me just find the . . . outlet and plug in my phone.

Ugh, where is the damn cord. And turn out the light. Wait. Oh, never mind, my bag is downstairs. Crap, my pills are downstairs. Get my phone, be quieter stairs, don’t want to wake everyone up, where’s the light, switch, grab my bottle, the Pill, take it. I am I the only one who finds it so stupid that pills are only filled about half way up the bottle?

I mean, what’s the point of making the bottle so big if it’s not filled the whole amount?

Upstairs, my bedroom, plug my phone in again. Okay, now I can finally go to sleep. Just why not make a smaller bottle?

That was annoying of her today. “What the hell do you know about driving?” Well, what the – ONCE UPON A TIME NOT SO LONG AGO -- hell do you know about driving, Maddie? You’ve only been driving with a permit for a month now. And you still blow stop signs. Remember that last week, when you didn’t have Mom or Dad in the car, and you went to Rob’s house before they came home. I should have told Mom about – TOMMY USED TO WORK ON THE DOCKS, UNION’S BEEN ON STRIKE -- that when she scolded me for being ‘cheeky’ with you. What the hell does cheeky even mean? That would have shown your bratty smile. You can be quite the little . . . next time, Maddie, what am I saying, I think Eve’s apple is getting to me. God help me, I’m getting angry for no reason again. How to get my mind off it, how to get my mind off it, how to get . . .

Can I just say that Leslie’s new haircut is just perfect for her? Just look at how it shows her face, but the bangs give her just that perfect mysterious look . . .

Twist my torso, crack my back, ahh. I loved ballet the other day. The class was perfect, just the right blend of . . . it was just right for me – HE’S DOWN ON HIS LUCK, IT’S TOUGH, SO TOUGH ~48~

-- and Eliza liked it too, for not liking basic stretching in the first place.

That was the best time we’ve had together in so long. In the mall, when those guys hit on us, and she gave them the dirtiest look I’ve ever seen. It was hilarious . . . and then that top on you. You said that the dress looked better on me than the top looked on you, but I think you looked phenomenal. Your hair with the dazzling -GINA WORKS THE DINER ALL DAY WORKING FOR HER MAN -- green, just sensational, simply sensational. And I sent Sandra another picture of your food in the food court while you weren’t looking. Ah, crazy friendship, that’s us. If nothing else, we got tradition.

Ugh, but that comment today. I just could throw the cat on you right now, Maddie. But I need to relax, yea, just relax. Unclench my fists . . .

I still have to finish that report. Oh, and it’s due in two days. And I have all the reading, plus textbook pages, and book questions, and another science report, how can I get all this done? I mean the reading will take – SHE BRINGS HOME HER PAY, FOR LOVE, FOR LOVE -- me a least another three hours, but then I have to read for English and answer those questions. But I still have to clean my bathroom and practice is for three hours tomorrow ...

Okay, breath, don’t cry, okay, breath, stop crying, you will be fine, I will be fine, right, right, okay. Think of, think of, think of . . .

The sandy beach is incredible. The waves are crashing with such force I feel as if, at any moment, I will be grabbed by the hand of Poseidon and dragged under the sea, never to return again. But the waves just recede back without taking any hostages. I find the umbrella that is always waiting for me with a blanket nearby. I put my cover-up on the blanket and rush into the sea. I come up and a breaker is coming, wait, dive under, deep as my mother always said, I feel the foam, power, force of the wave touch my back and travel down my vertebrae until it jumps from my feet to the shore line. I come up again, the sun is beating down on me with such intensity. I wonder what it thinks of me. Who knows?

Maybe the sun is lonely so far away. Come join me sun . . . plenty of room in the ocean . . . ~49~

Jumping from planet to planet, waving as I go along. I can’t imagine being alone for so long, just out in space having your rays meet people, but never doing so yourself.

That sounds like a punishment worthy of Hades. I’m coming, I shout. No need to be lonely any more. No need to say goodbye to your rays. Say hello to me. Explain what it’s like to be flying through the sky, through the uncontrollable sky . . .

The eagle soars as I feel the clouds around me. Resting on a cloud, I look down and see cars sailing along avenues. What does everyone think as they drive? What if I could know what everyone was thinking?

See everything from their perspective?

I look up. The sky looks to endless, eventually curving around the earth. Is this what Zeus saw? And then stars begin to pop up like fireworks on a tainted night.

Always bright and burning.

SHE SAYS, WE’VE GOT TO HOLD ON TO WHAT WE’VE GOT IT DOESN’T MAKE A DIFFERENCE IF WE MAKE IT OR NOT WE’VE GOT EACH OTHER AND THAT’S A LOT FOR LOVE WE’LL GIVE IT A SHOT 1:38 Hopefully, I will get to sleep soon, I’m so tired and I just can’t fall asleep. Why can’t my mind stop running? I’m not in a race. I was so proud when I won that game in practice this morning. I felt bad about – WOAH -- beating Peggy, but she didn’t seem to care, which I was so grateful for, I hate it when – WE’RE HALF-WAY THERE -- she’s mad at me. I always feel so guilty. And she always – WOAH -- shows me in the end, that it was no big deal. I always try not – LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER -- to stress about it though, but that always stresses me out more . . . ~50~

Oh I was so stressed out about those try-outs. I don’t – TAKE MY HAND, WE’LL MAKE IT I SWEAR -- know why. Anything that is worth stressing about, I don’t, or think I don’t, and everything that I shouldn’t stress about, I do, definitely do. Like that time in third – WOAH -- grade, that was horrible, and of course it turned out to be nothing. And try-outs were nothing, just as they always have been. So by logic I shouldn’t be stressing about Peggy, but of course human nature takes over and says No you will stress -LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER -- Now. Well I am, certainly am.

2:01 I was so happy when Jack finally asked Eliza out. I mean they – TOMMY’S GOT HIS SIX-STRING IN HOCK -- have only be texting for hours on end for the past two weeks. Something was bound to happen, and then Hey Eliza, Hi Jack . . . I was wondering if you . . . I would love to . . . let me just call . . . give me one minute . . . okay Thursday it is . . . see you there. Along with interludes – NOW HE’S HOLDING IN WHAT HE USED TO MAKE IT TALK -- of silent cheering coming from the crowd, ehmm, cough, me, cough, ehmm. After practice is always the best time for that, she looked great after working out. She’s one of those people whom sweat makes them glow and look like a workout model instead of – SO TOUGH, IT’S TOUGH -- the blob that I become. I honestly think that if it were possible, I would sweat in buckets at a time. I always love a good love – GINA DREAMS OF RUNNING AWAY -- story, especially when it’s real. I know a couple who had a crush on each other all of high school, but was always too nervous to do – WHEN SHE CRIES IN THE NIGHT, TOMMY WHISPERS -- anything about it. Two years after college they met at a café in San Francisco at a work convention and started going out. I am very thankful that they came together or else I wouldn’t – BABY, IT’S OKAY, SOMEDAY -- have my best friend, Eliza.

~51~

2:24 How and why am I still awake? Why does this always happen on important nights when I have to sleep? Any other night I sleep just fine, but tonight I’m in Madrid. Of course there the airport workers were on strike, only on the day that we were leaving. Same thing that’s happening now. I’m ready to go but my flight to sleep just won’t take off.

WE’VE GOT TO HOLD ON TO WHAT WE’VE GOT IT DOESN’T MAKE A DIFFERENCE IF WE MAKE IT OR NOT WE’VE GOT EACH OTHER AND THAT’S A LOT FOR LOVE WE’LL GIVE IT A SHOT 2:47 I miss her so much. Wipe my face, soak my shirt, push my face into the pillow. Why did she – WOAH -- have to be taken? . . . gained a fabulous person that day. I hope she knows how much I miss her and how much I love her. Aunt Colette, why did that drunk man have to hit your car? Why why why . . . why why why WHY? No air, no air. Breathe, damn it, just breathe.

No air, no air. Inhaled, gasping inhale. I just want – WE’RE HALF-WAY THERE -- you back. More sobs, use the pillow to mop up tears, flip it over. Why did you have to go? You were the best . . . thank you for – WOAH -- all of the advice that you gave me and still give me. I can feel when you – LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER -- think of me or try to . . . appreciate it. Heart-breaking sobs of loss, get – TAKE MY HAND, WE’LL MAKE IT I SWEAR -- up, find the album, look through the pictures of her on the floor, cat hair on the floor, tears soaking the floor, sobbing – WOAH -- over the pictures, praying, sobbing, sobbing, I love you, I miss you.

LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER 3:14 Falling asleep with a tear-stained smile.

Grace Fieni ’18 ~52~

Scorpio

Elizabeth Crowell ’17

~53~

The Things Severn Students Carry Initially, when others glance at the young, petite girl with olive skin and long brown hair, they see another ordinary student carrying objects and supplies based on need. She carries a fifteen-pound North Face backpack, filled to the brim with books and items of pleasure. She carries a TI-84 graphing calculator, a CamelBak insulated water bottle, a physics textbook, and the responsibility of caring for her younger brother. She carries the understanding that everyone has a unique story and perspective. She carries a dark bronzer powder, to give off the impression that she had sunbathed all summer, when in reality she found herself spending more time at the hospital than at home. She carries headphones for the days in which music provides an escape, candy (a pinch of sweetness during the peak of the day), and a desire to better understand the world and its ways.

The things she carries are beyond her control. She carries 120 pounds of body weight and the weight of her clothes on her skin. Yet, in combination with her bag full of school supplies, the weight did not live up to that in which she bore. She did not understand why she felt so heavy, as if the entire world at once was pushing her to the depths of the sea. Returning home, she emptied her backpack of eight #2 pencils, four notebooks, an I-pad, a calculus textbook, a lunchbox, a tube of lip-gloss, headphones, car keys, a cellphone, a calculator, a water bottle, and a laptop. Yes, the things she carried were heavy, but they were not what was weighing her down. Even with her backpack off, she found herself laden, as if gravity acted twice as strong on solely her.

The things she carries transcend the physical plane. Along with the necessary items required to get through the school day, the young girl carries insecurity, curiosity, the pivotal loss of her mother at only seventeen, self-doubt, pressure to succeed, anxiety, fear, and every emotion in between. She carries the highest degree of love for the individuals in her life that are both with her and no longer with her. She finds herself at the top of the highest mountain and at the bottom of deepest ocean all at once. She carries with her extraordinary delight and painful sorrow. She carries the feeling of loneliness, while realizing that is impossible for others to fully understand.

She often carries more than she can handle. For the most part, she can conceal the overwhelming weight of everything she carries, but sometimes she cannot. She realizes that each and every person has his or her own struggles to carry, so she remains hushed.

Eventually, she learns that it is okay to drop the things she carries that are in her control.

On some days, she does not carry fear, and on others, she does not carry the internal pressure to be perfect. She carries a wish for the future, a hope that some day, the weight of all she carries will not be so heavy.

Emily Huber ’17 This is an emulation of the style of Tim O’Brien in his The Things They Carried.

~54~

Food Truck

Gabby Ciraolo ’18

~55~

The Elephant Has No Mercy

~56~

James Cope lived, in his mind, the most undesirable life he could have imagined.

He was 32 years old and had been married for ten years. As he put it, marrying young was like leaving the party at nine. His wife, Lilly Cope, was the sweetest, most beautiful, and caring person he had ever known. Her gorgeous blonde hair was just as vibrant as it was when they met. Her blue eyes were the first things that caught people’s attention, and once she smiled at someone, there was no chance they weren’t going to fall in love. There was only one tremendous problem in James Cope’s mind: every word that was thrown from her mouth to his ears made his insides boil.

She would never argue with him or even have an interesting conversation. James started to wonder if she was having just as poor of a marriage as he was.

James’ four-year-old son, Sammy, was the joy in his life. He was the only thing that James had actually pictured having at this stage of his of life. He was such a sweet kid, but he never seemed to bond as strongly with him as he did with his mother, which made James even angrier at Lilly.

To top it all off, he worked as a professor at his local community college.

While this job seemed to be rewarding and intriguing, James couldn’t think of anything (besides Lilly) that he hated more than teaching. The early mornings, the annoying questions from his students, the loudmouths, the shy ones, and even the ones interested in learning—it all just sincerely bothered him. The only salvation to this life that he lived was Joanna “Mickey” Rollins, a former student and his current mistress. He remembered clearly the first day he met her— her look, her voice, and even what she had said.

“Mr. Cope, I need your help,” said a frantic Mickey.

James, like always, had his face buried in his phone, but once he heard her voice, his head slowly looked up. As he looked her up and down, all he could think of was how perfect this girl was. She was short, much shorter than Lilly, with luscious brown hair put up in a bun. Her eyes were a hazel green and radiated in the light of the room. Even her voice was smooth and relaxing to listen to. Then it hit him. Mickey was the exact opposite of Lilly.

“Yes, um, how about we talk about it over some coffee?” said the awe-struck James.

From that point on, dates were common between the two, and soon their relationship became intimate. Mickey knew James had a child and was married, but it

didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. Any chance James had to see her, he took it, whether to be away from his job or his family, he didn’t care. About a year after James first met Mickey, he was debating whether to file for a divorce with Lilly. He needed to rid her from his life as soon as he could. He wanted to ask Mickey for her opinion first.

The day he asked her to lunch to talk about the whole decision was clear and unseasonably cold for August.

“You know me best, Mick. What should I do?” said James desperately.

“Look, I know you love me, James, but you have a responsibility to take care of Sammy and think of his future, too. Being a caring parent while divorced is difficult,” said Mickey.

“But she makes my life miserable, Sweetheart. I can’t be around her without wanting to strangle her! She doesn’t want to do anything special, and she even refuses to argue!”

“I know it’s hard to stay in this situation, but I know you can do it, James.

You’re a strong man and a loving one. I know you will do what’s right.”

James took Mickey’s advice to heart. He really did want what was best for Sammy in the end. He decided to actually converse with Lilly on the matter. He thought to himself that maybe if he just talked this over with Lilly, then he could fix the problem at hand at least temporarily.

After Sammy was asleep, Lilly started to head upstairs. “Goodnight, James,” she said, the exhaustion clear in her voice.

“Wait,” James said nervously.

“What is it, Honey?”

“We need to talk about our future together. I feel as though we don’t do anything productive in this relationship anymore.”

“Come on now, James, we are raising a child together!”

She had a point, but James needed this conversation to go on. He needed to tell her what he felt.

“I haven’t even been around to raise him! How can you say I helped in his childhood so far?”

“Look, I know you’re busy, James, and you provide for our family, so it doesn’t even bother me that you are not here for us.”

Did she really just say that? Did she really just say that it was okay that I wasn’t being a good father? ~57~

~58~

That was the last straw for James. The woman he once loved had crossed the line. The conversation ended with James filled with rage, but again not saying anything too preposterous.

Every day he would think of new ways to get rid of her and new ways to be with Mickey more. He resorted to drinking around Sammy to see if she would start to question his actions, but she blamed it on the school for putting too much pressure on his back. He once didn’t come home for three days, but again Lilly supported his every move. He planned out how he would divorce her, but even he knew that would still not quench his hatred and feelings toward her knowing that she still had influence over Sammy. There was only one thing he could do to end the constant emotional pain: he had to kill her.

A few weeks had passed and the weather began to warm up. James texted Lilly asking her to a romantic cruise on a catamaran he rented for the night. When she asked why, he told her he wanted to rekindle some of love they had lost. Of course, Lilly agreed.

The night was perfect. The wind blew slightly and the sun made orange and yellow streaks across the sky. Lilly and James drove together in silence, yet Lilly seemed to enjoy looking at the sky. When they got to the lake, the boat was already set up and ready to sail. James had learned to sail well in high school and used his abilities to sail far out into the lake. He had packed a cooler with wine, cheeses, and meats for their dinner.

“This is nice, you know. Thank you,” said a tranquil Lilly.

“Of course, Darling, anything for you,” James replied.

“You know, I was thinking, and I think you are right. We have been unproductive lately, but I am happy you are taking the initiative to try to fix this,” Lilly said.

James hardly paid attention to the comment and mumbled an answer back. All that was on his mind was when he was going to strike.

About an hour into the boat ride, they were eating dinner, again in silence, and James rose and started walking toward the console.

“Where are you going, James?” shouted Lilly over the wind.

“Oh, I am just going to go turn us around. It will take over an hour to get back, and the winds are not in our favor,” said James as he pulled a bat from below the steering wheel. He had carefully placed it there after sneaking it on in the cooler.

Lilly was staring over the almost dark sky, listening to the boat slice against

the water. Her blonde hair still swayed in the wind. James walked over slowly and quietly with the bat in his right hand.

“Hey, James—” her voice was cut out by the thud against her head.

She lay there motionless with a large gash in her left cheek, bleeding profusely all over the boat. James looked at her, and for a moment felt sorrowful, but then knew this was what he had wanted all along. He cautiously rolled her body overboard into the water, blood following her down into the depths. There were no boats to be seen while James washed the blood off the boat with the hose. The boat ride back was peaceful, almost too peaceful for James, but all that was on his mind now was Mickey.

Over the next year, Mickey never really asked what happened to Lilly. James told her that she had left a note saying that she was just as sick of the relationship as he was. Mickey had moved in with Sammy and James a few weeks after the sailing trip. Sammy, who had just turned six, would sometimes ask about his mommy, but he didn’t seem too affected by the entire incident. He even called Mickey “Mommy” sometimes, which made James happy.

On a stormy night, the rain was falling hard and the lights flickered on and off throughout the house. The doorbell rang. James forced himself into a standing position from his chair to get the door. He opened it to see Lilly standing there, with a knife in her hand, a grim face, and a scar on her left cheek from the bat. She didn’t look like the calm and happy Lilly he once knew.

“Come on, James, you have to know that what comes around goes around,” she said as a smile crept onto her mouth.

“But—but how?”

She said nothing. The only sound came from the knife, digging deep into James’s heart. He stared into her blue eyes with questions formulating in his head, but he collapsed on the ground, motionless. Lilly disappeared into the world, leaving her friends and family to believe she was truly gone. James had received what he had deserved, but Sammy was left without his parents to be raised by his father’s mistress, the woman who caused him to lose his parents, and to lose his life.

Trevor Marvin ’18

~59~

Shells

~60~

Aidan Buckley ’19

A True Love Story You’re in a desert Day by day your life is dreary Absence of pleasure Until death do us part? Do you hear me?

You are locked in place No going back You look in the mirror—a sad face How come she’s gotten so fat?

How do you rip out all those years and walk away?

When you have children to raise, and connections to maintain Does that mean you won’t stay?

Think of the meaningless life, think of all of the shame What does it really mean to settle?

You still love her, that much is true Talking does squat. Soapbox gets heckle Shoo these thoughts away, is what you’ll do You’ll keep on for now, you’ll keep family love through You’re driving one day and you begin to cry You were pushing those thoughts away, But they pry and they pry Your life is a sad, hollowed out tree You tell yourself: The exception, of course, Being those lovely little three You return home once more To feelings all the same Disdain, anger, bitterness Regret, sorrow, pain You take off your ring You don’t mean any harm It’ll be back on, once she’s off your arm She finds out you’re married, though ~61~

You think of the wedding bells As an alarm, but she stays right with you Taping back together your heart You laugh, and you tell her All the king’s horses and men Would give up, so you should, too Maybe she could have done it, mended the pieces You shoo away the thought, You are afraid You are not like that The guilt sometimes hits you Like a sting or a bite How could you have done that?

That wasn’t alright You tell yourself you know better And to stop your lust while lying at night And yet you find yourself guilty again Missing her, missing flight Always missing things you shouldn’t be You want to burn those bridges You want to create distance, to let rivers become sea But she is the only drop of sweet In the pool of bitter, dark… listen You can shut yourself out And return to the pond But you were taught it’s good to have feelings And those feelings are healing Healing the broken bonds You don’t do it often But the steam inside builds up And home life is hell When the inner-pressure makes you far from a grown-up Sometimes to find peace You go and release ~62~

And after, your pond is tranquil again for a moment Keep it on the low, the down low So down low even your friends don’t know You got three in the nest, they’re almost out now Maybe once they are gone You’ll take your leave and bow You like this one Maybe once you’re done You can hop from sinking ship to new ship, and run Babies almost men And you’re almost out But a new toll is shed When her eyes widen, trying to doubt She has stayed the same Crazy, mean, unreasonable, while raising the three on the shelf Yet you have become a stranger, a man with a new name Not only unfamiliar to her But unfamiliar to yourself You lie, and lie, and lie And hate yourself for doing so But you hate your situation more You hate the world that lead you here And almost lie out of spite for the unrealistic Angry at the countless flics and the countless songs And the countless relatives happy together, seeming strong Angry at your parents, making it seem like their love never flopped Angry at a world, always worshiping that which doesn’t exist Love is different than what you expect So you find yourself lying to her Your lies disgust you Not at first, at first the lies are just an inconvenience, But soon is instilled a sense a responsibility ~63~

Such responsibility is what tears you apart Each new day you see her breaking inside She has all these theories that you just push aside She doesn’t know what to believe The man that she loves Or the hairs out of place, left of your collar and sleeve You see her person twist, the betrayal too much For her weak self to take Her hands at her scalp Screaming at the mailbox She’s lost it And she’s lost it because of you You clench your pillow at night, hoping it isn’t permanent You hope the damage you’ve done can be undone She finds out, she finds out in the worst of ways You had so many chances to tell her sooner, had many years, many days But now she’s standing in front of the bed, looking at you and the stranger next to you Her soul broken and searching for answers Words are all that’s left of what you can do You were in a desert You loved her… you still love her But you were in a desert

Paul Wyrough ’17

~64~

Annapolis Sunrise Impression

Clare Ryan ’17

~65~

The Word Damage While Hurricane Katrina destroyed cities and towns along the East Coast in 2005, our alcove of the Severn River was mainly left to its own devices. The harshest damage near my family’s house occurred at the beach in our neighborhood, where the tide had waded onto the land. The flooding was extensive, but most of the main buildings were intact. However, this left debris littered across the beach and some structures in disrepair.

A week after the hurricane, my daughter, Grace, and I walked down to see how well the beach had recovered. She was wearing my favorite dress – the scarlet, strawberry-spotted shift.

It had a simple neckline with thick straps and no sleeves. Each hem was embroidered with white scalloping. It was made of a cool, cotton material, intended for either summer or fall use. She had her mahogany brown hair in two high pigtails, brunette curls cascading out of the red ribbons tied tightly around her thick hair. Her hair reached her shoulders – in the pigtails – which was long for a five-year-old.

Despite being a week after the hurricane had swept through our shores of the Chesapeake, debris remained scattered in places, but most everything else had recuperated semi-satisfactorily.

As we strolled down Old County Road, she constantly pointed out that this tree or that branch had fallen. She did speak, but she had started talking at a later age than most children. This had worried her mother for many months, but I had known better.

Watching her, closely watching her movements and reactions to sounds around her, showed me that while she had remained silent for a long time, she fully comprehended what was happening in the world around her. As a toddler, she would minutely change her motion when her name was said, often in conversations between her mother and other mothers, where Becky would say, “I’m so worried that Grace isn’t speaking. I don’t know how good her verbal skills will be as she grows.”

Grace’s silence wasn’t misunderstanding; it was a choice to listen instead of speak, for her to notice details and grasp them without feeling the need to make a comment. Only on rare occasions did she voice her opinion, assumedly when she felt it necessary to do so.

After exactly five houses, we turned left onto Askewton Road and climbed the monumental hill – for a five-year-old – up to the peak of the road. More debris covered this road since it was less used, which led to more pointing on her part and nodding on mine. As we approached the water, I saw how murky it was, as if the darkness of the storm had still not lifted. Turning right on Severn River Road, we had another hill to scamper down before we reached the beach. While the tide had receded, the treasures that it had brought had not. This meant entering the field adjoining the beach with sand scattered everywhere, dried seaweed on shore, and the occasional piece of trash flopped on the ground. ~66~

We walked in silence, simply taking in the changes to our beloved beach. I watched her reaction to everything. She seemed shocked, but not disheartened as most children would be at seeing one of their favorite playgrounds wrecked. She slowly took in her surroundings, at one point releasing my hand to inspect a specific part of important playground business.

Then, she looked up at me with shining green eyes and said, “That’s a lot of damage.”

At first, I was furious. How could my sweet little girl say “damn”? Yet, as I looked at her, she appeared content and without any feeling of err, quietly gazing at the river.

And then I realized that instead she had said damage, a word much larger than I believed her vocabulary to encompass. She had so rarely used complex words; it had not occurred to me, originally, that she even knew the word damage, let alone how to use it correctly.

However the more I thought about her use of it, the more it stood to reason. While she had never been taught the word, she must have heard it on many instances and derived its meaning through conversation. A sense of pride swelled up in me.

I responded, “Yes, Sweetie, it is.”

Grace Fieni ’18

~67~

No Cycles

~68~

Gabby Ciraolo ’18

The bitter coldness of a fall night shapes the environment. With the diminishing sunlight the sky becomes dark against summer’s wishes. The night sky no longer illuminates with green flickers of light. The breeze blows delicately, and the leaves lay at rest on the dirt soil. In the midst of the nightfall, the emerald grass that sits perched on earth’s surface becomes chilled, and in the morning, is veiled with silver dew.

Madison Akers ’17

This is a sentence imitation modeled after Jill Ker Conway’s writing in The Road From Coorain.

~69~

~70~

We hope that you enjoy this seventh edition of The Mainsheet as much as we enjoyed putting it together for you. The submissions this year ranged from single sentences to pages-long short stories.The topics varied from the everyday to the fantastical. All were welcome. Unfortunately, we do not have room to print everything we receive, but we thank everyone who submitted their work. Enjoy!

Mainsheet Staff

Ben Carsley Jimmy Diamondidis Grace Fieni Paul Wyrough

Faculty Advisors

Julia Maxey Sandy Sanders

~71~