2018 Upper School Mainsheet Literary Magazine

the mainsheet a literary and arts magazine Severn School 2018

Ten Ways of Looking at a Severn Student I Such a school is obliged to have Its solitary row of pine trees Picturesque and pastoral, yet modern With its brick facade. On a Saturday morning the campus awaits —an empty vessel. Amidst suburban topography, here grows A natural habitat for children of affluent Easterners.

Enter, Holden Caulfield.

II A school bus drives by and its passengers Sneer at a carpool line Full of luxury sedans.

III A student sits pulling at her long, tangled hair.

Short, anxiously bitten nails grasp an exam.

Glazed eyes, Feet tapping, The fog doesn’t lift.

IV Stacked high in every class trash can, Coffee stained tables leaving no room for drowsiness.

A life saver, A crutch, A necessity.

V The red-orange soles of dirty bucks Scuff the shimmering rotunda floor.

Students leave their marks On the school everyday.

VI Tradition is soaked in the walls, Service leaks freely, given by students.

Mr. Teel smiles, Generations pass, Character endures. ~1~

VII Button-down oxfords And Vineyard Vines ties, Mask individuality And discourage dissent.

VIII The turf, baking in the hot sun Athletes exercise, racing along the field.

They hustle through the practice with driving ambition, Looking forward to a college career.

IX Lagarde and the Admiral Are one.

Lagarde and the Admiral and the student Are one.

X He stood up at the board, Pacing back and forth, Talking to an imaginary class.

Written by Miss Maxey’s Period 5 AP class: Ben Carsley, Ben Elstner, Ryan Jack, Caroline McNeil, Yasmeen Meek, Addison Porter, Caroline Robertazzi, Colin Shanahan, Olivia Smith, and Camille White

~2~

Readers, you will find in this eighth issue of The Mainsheet examples of written and artistic work completed for classes and you will find works created independently by students exercising their talents. In several cases within this issue of The Mainsheet, you will find “imitation” poems that follow the patterns of the masters. You will find individual sentences that mimic the style of Jill Ker Conway. You will find our very own traditional essays modeled after Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried. Each one of these works, while striving to match the style of an acclaimed writer, represents the individual efforts of young artists finding their own words and ways.

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.

Enjoy.

~3~

Table of Contents Before the Fall, Yeala Grimes........................................................................................................................Front Cover Ten Ways of Looking at a Severn Student, Period 5 AP Class........................................................................................1 Expression, Leia Liberto..................................................................................................................................................8 Bucks, Anna Sfakiyanudis...............................................................................................................................................9 A Life Realization, Nathan Thompson........................................................................................................................10 An Unexpected Adventure, Aarushi Negi......................................................................................................................12 Abstract Music, Kendall Jacobsen.................................................................................................................................14 The Allegory of the Alternate World, Blair Reilly...........................................................................................................15 Untitled, Katrina Reinhart.............................................................................................................................................20 Shall I Vanish From This Earth, Blair Reilly.................................................................................................................21 Imitation Poem, Abigail Tindall......................................................................................................................................23 Skillful Hands, Tate Taczak...........................................................................................................................................24 Imitation Poem, Cierra Hardgrove.................................................................................................................................25 Stardust, Colette Rouiller...............................................................................................................................................26 Turned to Dust by a Supernova, Julia Christie................................................................................................................27 Memory Project, Yeala Grimes........................................................................................................................................28 Beard Turned Up to Heaven, Hannah Powell................................................................................................................29 Indebted, Nick Angelino.................................................................................................................................................30 Ticking Thoughts, Morgan Skinner................................................................................................................................33 Don’t Blink!, Jimmy Diamondidis................................................................................................................................34 A Modest Proposal, Tate Taczak....................................................................................................................................35 Echo, Hannah Powell....................................................................................................................................................38 Style Imitation, Caroline Bayless....................................................................................................................................39 Sitting in a Courtyard, Abigail Tindall...........................................................................................................................40 ~4~

The Consequence, Solana Page........................................................................................................................................41 Untitled, Katrina Reinhart.............................................................................................................................................49 Memory Project, Grant Shanahan..................................................................................................................................50 Mr. Linden’s Library, Morgan Mooradian...................................................................................................................51 Red, Emma Campbell...................................................................................................................................................52 Tool Study, Kendall Jacobsen........................................................................................................................................54 The Stem, Chela Cunningham.......................................................................................................................................55 Latin Dedication, Annie Bennett and Flo Pribble......................................................................................................56 The Skies Can Keep Their Secret, Jordan Cox................................................................................................................57 Imitation Poem, Jordan Cox............................................................................................................................................58 A Long Way From Home, Colette Rouiller...................................................................................................................59 Five Ways of Looking at the Sun, Morgan Skinner.......................................................................................................60 A Necessary Change for a “Necessary Evil,” Jack Wellschlager.....................................................................................61 Untitled, Em Williams....................................................................................................................................................65 “Hate” is the Thing with Scales, Lauren Gibbons-Neff ...............................................................................................66 To a President, Leia Liberto...........................................................................................................................................67 Untitled, Camille White.................................................................................................................................................68 Untitled, Megan Mohr...................................................................................................................................................69 A Personal Inferno, Andy Thompson...........................................................................................................................70 Ruby, Hannah Ramsey..................................................................................................................................................74 Skinny Stem, Morgan Mooradian.................................................................................................................................75 Race to Sky Top, Caroline Bayless.................................................................................................................................76 Peep, Hannah Ramsey...................................................................................................................................................78 Imitation Poem, Katie Manning.....................................................................................................................................79 Save Pave the Bay, Mackenzie Boughey........................................................................................................................80 Shovel Poem, Macy Iams.................................................................................................................................................82 Untitled, Camille White.................................................................................................................................................83 The Quiet Sounds, Grace Fieni.......................................................................................................................................84 ~5~

Untitled, Maddi Meyer...................................................................................................................................................85 Irish Roots, Jimmy Diamondidis...................................................................................................................................86 Latin Dedication, Mallory Gersh...................................................................................................................................87 Dream Before Falling Asleep to H.P. Lovecraft, Ben Carsley..........................................................................................88 The Things Severn Carries, Grace Fieni.........................................................................................................................90 Untitled , Chela Cunningham.......................................................................................................................................92

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~7~

Expression I used to crave expression through art Through strokes of color I craved it, I begged for it The ability to create something beautiful on canvas However, I soon found that I am better at expressing myself through An intricate display of words on paper Words better express me on their own Through my manipulation they rewrite my story I couldn’t learn to paint But learning to write, I did long ago Long before I learned words had so much power within them Now I crave expression through Twenty-six letters I fear I still haven’t learned all the Power That’s come with it Leia Liberto ’19

~8~

Bucks

Anna Sfakiyanukis ’18

~9~

A Life Realization

Sometimes, life reaches up and slaps you in the face. It’s a sucker-punch that catches you off guard; like stepping off the curb without looking because the light turned and almost getting clipped by a car making a right on red. One day, I moved through life without engaging with it, following the mundane cues of the universe while unaware a truck was barreling toward me. ***

My alarm clock’s piercing digital clatter shot through my body at the impossibly early hour I have to get up. The noise is truly a cruel and unusual punishment I endure everyday. In a fog that takes me hours to clear, I slowly rolled out of the warm cocoon I had concocted out of several blankets and two too many pillows. With a sudden appreciation of my ceiling, I lied on my back pondering if Friday should be counted as the weekend, and if I really had to go to school. I threw back my covers and braced as the cold air hit my skin, and all I could think was, “Why is this happening to me?” Robotically, I went through my morning routine without engaging much beyond myself. Some distant point of my mind recognized my mom speaking. I grunted a good-bye to her and climbed into my dad’s car to journey to school.

The day transpired normally: a test here, a fun class there, more talking around me and at me. I listened, took notes, answered some questions. Before I knew it, classes were almost over. I stared at the clock and watched every tick of the second hand. With my bag in hand, I raced out of the classroom and checked my phone. Weird. I had several missed calls and text messages from my mother. She knows I was in class and could not use my phone. I sent back, “?” and went to the library to study before basketball practice as usual. Again, more books before bouncing balls and the drone of the coach’s voice for two hours. My arduous day ended after practice, and I was ecstatic to go home and sleep for an hour before studying. I called my mom, and my call went right to voicemail. I thought, “Doesn’t she know what kind of day I had?” All I could do was wait.

Ten minutes, then twenty, passed. Still nothing. After nearly an hour my phone finally rang with my mother’s ring tone. She was still half-an-hour out. I pestered her with questions about being late - her promptness is her virtue. Her responses were slow, she hesitated, uncharacteristic to her form. I knew something was awry. My mom began to speak in her “parent voice,” the one she often uses to teach life lessons. Her words - “dangerous procedure,” “six months,” “CANCER” - made me freeze. This was impossible, completely not acceptable. A wave of misery washed over me and blocked all sense of location and feeling. I slumped against a wall, and I cradled my head with one hand and my phone with another. “I love you. I wish I said it more but I’m sor...” My voice trailed off as I fumbled for words.

I could never imagine a world without my mother. I could never imagine watching her suffer through cancer, endure chemotherapy, or undergo dangerous procedures. I wish I could go back and fix all of the times I took her for granted. I became suddenly aware of the silence in the gym. Everyone else was gone. I never felt so alone. Each brick in the wall, each forgotten article of clothing on the floor in the gym suddenly came into focus. It was like my life became real to me. There were no more fumbling through routines or procrastinating.

When my mom arrived to the gym, I climbed into the car and really looked at her for the first time in a long time. She looked tired, but she still had a smile on her face for me. Our eyes met and I tried to smile. It was a feeble attempt. “It’s going to be O.K.,” my mom said. “I know. You’re strong,” was my reply as I turned so she could not see the tears well-up in my eyes. We travelled a ways in silence before ~10~

she told me about the plan for her treatment. She spoke plainly and with intent. I listened intently, really hearing her, realizing and quickly learning this is how you live life in the moment.

Nathan Thompson ’19

~11~

An Unexpected Adventure Whoosh.

The leaves of slanted coconut trees gave way to a warm, soft breeze stirring from the calm Caribbean sea. Seagulls eagerly squawked for open food with keen eyes and raised noses.

It was Wednesday, April 1, 2015. My third day of spring break vacation. With the start of a new day in Punta Cana, the shoreline had not yet begun its recession process; clear, turquoise water glistened invitingly as residents of the “Dreams Resort” strolled in cafés for their breakfasts. Patches of foaming seaweed seemed to creep down the sand like baby turtles to wait for their safe haven, the sea, to accept them again.

I – however – was not relishing the beauty of the entire, seaweed-populated scene. I had more important thoughts on my mind, seeing as I had managed to evade the morning traffic at the delicious dining hall. “DAD,” I yelled, “will you be my partner for the egg toss?” Pleading, I attempted to gain his partnership for an alliance before my sister stole the opportunity.

Oh, the egg toss, I thought. How could I explain it? In my perception, this competitive game was equivalent to the Summer Olympics. An annual event, the egg toss was my chance to prove my athleticism. Somehow, this game sent a fiery energy coursing through my veins, beginning in my feet, circulating into my legs, diffusing through my chest, escaping into my arms, and culminating at my head.

“Sure,” my dad replied, apparently unfazed by my energetic mannerism.

“Does everyone have a partner?” asked the activity coordinator.

Responses of “yes!” and “just a second!” showered the coordinator, and she began to walk toward the center of the beach, instructing teams to form two lines facing each other. My father and I followed the woman; we passed a row of vibrant red and yellow canoes lined in a row against a rusty wooden board. We reached our respective spots and stood in place.

It was time.

The coordinator briefly explained the rules and grabbed two cartons of eggs from a table. An excited whisper circulated around the crowd. Within a minute, the coordinator turned on a radio for music, and the game began.

I gently tossed the egg to my dad, who was a mere two feet away. “Be careful!” I squealed as he positioned his hands for the catch, securing it in his hold moments later.

One step back.

Now, it was his turn to throw. The pearly, oval object left my father’s hands and, as if in slow motion, spiraled elegantly in the air.

Plop.

Like one’s head falls onto a plush pillow, the egg dropped into my hands softly.

One step back... Now another… * * *

Several minutes had passed, and my father and I were tenaciously holding our rank among the remaining four teams in the egg toss. The distance between us had increased to a staggering twenty five feet. However, this obstacle did not abate my determination. Breathe, relax, I thought to myself. My ~12~

father held the egg, prepared to haul it in a “Hail Mary” fashion.

One moment, the egg was in my father’s hands. The next, it was in the air, soaring up toward the sky, reaching its absolute peak, settling for a second’s rest, and then hurtling down toward the sand. As the egg flew closer and closer toward me, I felt my surroundings disappear; a sole spotlight settled on the pure, bright egg.

Oh no, I thought, it’s too far away. It will never reach me. Immediately, I began moving toward the egg, trying to find the perfect location for a safe catch. All the while, the egg was gaining speed. As I decided upon an ideal position, I held my head eighty degrees above my standard line of sight to maintain a constant view of the egg. The object spiraled closer…and closer…and closer…

Suddenly, I heard a distinct noise accompanied by a distinct sensation.

Splat.

A cold, slimy substance trickled down my arms and legs. I reached up to touch my face and hair with my spared left hand and was met with the same sticky material. Opening only my left eye – as my right eye had suffered the attack – I looked down at my right hand. In it was a cracked egg with whites and yolk oozing out. Well, I guess that’s it, I sighed, disappointed with the outcome. “The egg cracked! WE ARE OUT,” I yelled to my dad, who walked to me.

“Great game,” I told him, with a sorrowful expression on my face. Instead of the sympathy that I had expected to encounter from my dad, I saw an amused expression. My dad started to laugh, at first reservedly – seemingly because he did not want to upset me – but gradually these chuckles transformed into a full-fledged, hearty laughter. “We did well as a team, but I think your appearance tops the game turnout,” he told me.

I strolled to a nearby mirror and peered at myself through the glass. Who I saw looking back at me was not a middle-school girl, but a jungle inhabitant. A girl with disheveled, sticky hair that arose abruptly in the most peculiar of places. Within seconds, I started laughing, too. Not only at my appearance, but at the absurdity of the entire situation. Here I was, at a beautiful resort, standing face-to-face with a mirror, pitying myself, with egg whites and yolk drizzled clumsily upon my forehead. “You know what?” I giggled, “This was undoubtedly the most eventful game of egg toss that I have ever played.” I jogged to the clear, turquoise-hinted sea to wash the egg off of my arms, legs, and head. The refreshing, cool water cleansed my body until I had returned to the my pre-competition state of cleanliness – although, admittedly, the slime relentlessly stuck to my hair until I scrubbed it off forcefully with shampoo. After I washed off the egg residue, my father and I walked to the pool to join the rest of the family, all the while joking and laughing about the competition.

Aarushi Negi ’19

~13~

Abstract Music

~14~

Kendall Jacobsen ’19

The Allegory of the Alternate World Clara first figured out that she could do it when she was about twelve. It was nothing spectacular; all she did was sort of slip into the other world. The alternate one. One day she decided that she really wanted to escape, and there she went. She was lying on her side in bed attempting to fall asleep, and all she did was gently roll over onto her stomach when everything changed. She was suddenly on her feet, looking out into her vast backyard. It was a sunny day when she first went. She heard the birds chirp, that one cardinal who always hogged the seeds from the birdfeeder was still there, hogging the seeds. The grand oak tree was still there, and it cast the same mid-afternoon shadow across the yard like it did in her other world.

Clara had wondered how she got there; it was as if she simply fell through the comforting mattress of her bed and popped out all the way on the other side of the universe. But it was a side of the universe that looked just like hers. Such a phenomenon confused Clara of course---she was only twelve--and her life was so connected to her one world. The original one.

It turns out that Clara did fall through the welcoming confines of her bed, but she could only do it when she wanted to. It was weird, learning that she was not just confined to the corners of her earth, but that she could expand and explore. It was kind of absurd, the whole thing.

Clara stopped visiting for a while, concerned with the events on her own earth, and didn’t revisit the world until she was about seventeen. Clara’s life on her own earth was just---dull. She did not have that many friends as she progressed through middle and high school, and her Friday nights were filled with a lot of Jeopardy reruns and staring at the wall out of boredom as she attempted to do her homework.

She hung out with her parents on the Saturdays, usually going out to lunch in town with them; that’s all they really found enjoyable. Other than that, she’d really just sit around in the sunroom, watching the light filter through the paned windows and spread across the floor, fragmenting into small slithering strips of off-white glow. She spent a lot of time on the internet, constantly refreshing all of her social media apps to see if she could cast her attention to something else, and it worked. Clara realized that she could make her life look so interesting with just the addition of a few camera filters to a photo or her accumulation of followers, many of them being people to whom she’d never spoken. It was her ticket to the inside of the social circle. She could even make lunch with her parents seem like a blast.

Perhaps it was so easy for Clara to travel to the other world because she could slip away so easily from her own. It’s not like she was 100% desired in her world, except by maybe her parents, but that percentage probably lingered around 95%. Her one closest friend, Maggie---well, she had a boyfriend.

One of serious terms. And Clara was inevitably turned into the third wheel, a position she was confused and a bit sad about. Especially because Clara’s presence around Maggie was belittled---and for the past few years, Maggie had been Clara’s rock, and Clara had been Maggie’s rock. And this shift to Clara was somewhat proof to her that her loneliness would continue.

So, Clara fell into this void of attention, interest, and meaning---she did not have much to look forward to or much to look back on during her mid-teens, only her occasional visits with the guidance counselor to whom she would vent about her lonely state of being. However, during this dilemma, Clara realized that she could still return to the other world, the one that was waiting for her, beckoning her, calling her to visit again through the portal. It contained anything and everything that could make up for ~15~

her present condition.

Who knows if with age she discovered this, but when Clara began to visit again, she realized that she could enter her other world through any place at any time, thus significantly widening the possibilities for escape beyond that of her mattress. She went when she was bored, distracted, or lonely. She could slip through walls at her command, simply float down through her desk and chair at school and be released into the alternate world, standing there upright on her feet, ready to travel even further.

The appearance of the alternate world was not strange. There were no extremely modern forms of technology---no zooming private spaceships, no flying cars, no shining clean city streets. This world looked exactly like Clara’s present world. Everything was visually the same. The school building was the same, her house was still the same---her room still a mess. However, people acted differently there. Clara could not really tell when she was twelve, but as a seventeen-year-old, she could definitely tell. Because that girl, that really popular one---Alicia Thompson---tended to look more like she did in her Instagram pictures than she did when Clara saw her in present school. And Alicia looked nothing like her Instagram pictures in real life.

But in the other world it was like the photo filters that she used were reflected through her alternate image--her skin glowed a tan color, and her eyes were piercingly green under her long, fluttering, mascara-covered eyelashes. She actually greeted Clara in the alternate world, which was something that was a pure shock to Clara when she arrived back there at seventeen.

“Hey Clara! Want to go to the town center with us later? Mary, Christine, and I are all going!”

Alicia had said.

Clara still remembers exactly what she thought when Alicia said this to her.

Finally, all of my likes on her pictures are paying off. I could stay in this world forever.

They were all so welcoming over there. Andrew Garcia, the boy with the elegant, impossibly perfect brunette hair, with the smile that shined as brightly as the midmorning sunlight---not to mention the one completely out of her league---was the second one to greet her.

“Clara! How are you? I feel like we never talk.”

It was like the image that she had of him from going on his page so many times back in the present world had finally come to life.

She sat with him and Alicia very frequently at lunch when she went into the alternate world. No more eating lunch alone in the library. Clara could just slip through the wall and pop out on the other side to sit at their table. It was all that she thought she had ever hoped for, all that she thought she had ever needed.

All of that time spent scrolling through Instagram in her present life, all of that time seeing how amazing and absolutely unbeatable Alicia’s life was, all of that time longing to be a person of Alicia’s status was finally paying off.

It made Clara hungry for more. When she would get home from school on Fridays in the present world, she’d take a quick shower, dry and style her hair, and then spend at least an hour trying to perfect her makeup---things that she never used to do. Then she would usher herself into the alternate world, knowing that Alicia and the rest of the girls would be waiting for her, and dying for a night out. But they already looked perfect, all of them were direct replicas of their “girl’s night out” photos on each of their Instagram accounts. It was Clara who really had to work for her transformation.

And that is when Clara began to question the alternate world more than she initially did. At first she just went there, taken by the appearance of others and the appearance of herself. All of the attention that she ~16~

drew was uncanny, as if all of her popular Instagram followers that followed her just because they went to the same school chose to interact with her instead of just to see her presence on the internet and look away from her in the hallways in the present world.

They were exact replicas of their online appearances---Alicia with her perfectly toned skin and styled hair, Andrew with his million-dollar smile. Clara was the only one who seemed to have control of herself in the alternate world; she was aware of where she came from and how she got there, but she questioned if Alicia and Andrew could actually travel between the two worlds or if they just had their distinct selves existing in each realm. She was the only one who felt truly real on the other side, but she couldn’t help being pulled into the unusually welcoming attitudes of Alicia and Andrew and the rest of their friends.

Clara still spent loads of time in the alternate world, mainly because whenever she went back to the present there was nothing there for her; life there was many times more boring than her life in the other side of the portal. She felt much more included in the alternate world than she did in her place of origin, which made the travel all the more easier. However, Clara did wonder where Maggie was in the alternate world. She saw Maggie’s boyfriend occasionally from across the cafeteria at lunch when she would eat with Alicia’s group---but she never did see Maggie. Maggie did not have much of a social media profile back in the present world---she actually did not have one at all. Clara was always convincing her to get one so that they could keep in touch more, but Maggie never got around to it. Clara’s presence on the internet was much more developed, her Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and Tumblr accounts all linked. Maggie simply had a phone number.

And maybe that’s why Clara could never find her in the alternate world---she had no distinct alternate self on the web to replace her. Alicia definitely had an alternate self, and so did Clara. Alicia’s was nice, inclusive, and beautiful, much like her Instagram page. She always responded to people’s comments on her posts, and she always commented positive things on other people’s posts. But in the present world, as Clara remembers, Alicia was the most exclusive person she had ever met. Only talking to those that were her friends and those that decided to fall under her influence, Alicia had the reputation of Regina George from Mean Girls. Even her makeup appeared stiff-like on her face; her eyes did not reflect a bright emerald color but a dark, muddy green, and her complexion was not glowing but stagnant, as if it was a characterless, pale fog. How could Alicia transfigure like that? Clara had noticed her own sort of transfiguration as she entered the alternate world as well, but she never thought she changed into a completely different person. All that happened to her was a change in her desire to socialize, her desire to connect with other people. She had always been very active on social media in the present world, reposting, reblogging, liking other people’s photos. It was her way of validating herself; it gave her a place in the digital society. And in the alternate world she was part of a society of some sort, the high school one, the one that she thought she would first need to be a part of in order to give herself a place in the future.

So Clara felt comforted through that fact. It was a relief that people were actually noticing her for once, a deviation from the cloud of loneliness that shrouded her in the present.

But the longer that Clara stayed in the alternate world, the harder it was to leave. She knew that she could not stay there forever, she knew that it was all temporary, just a dream of sorts, but she could barely pull herself away. She felt so much of a connection with everyone in the alternate world, a connection that she simply did not have with them back in the present. Their appearances, their personalities, their inclusive tendencies---as well as Clara’s new tendencies to socialize and include herself---were holding her there as if she was being blocked from leaving by the restraints of her own ~17~

mind.

Clara could even sense that people were worrying about her in the present world---probably her parents---confused as to why she hadn’t come down from her room in some time, or why she was choosing to magnify the distance between her and Maggie. Clara was not doing that on purpose. She was simply captivated by what the alternate world could offer, entertainment, company, and the shot at a new, nonboring life.

When Clara would return to the present world, mostly out of guilt for leaving those who care about her behind the portal, she knew that she would always have a part of the alternate world inside of her, somewhere. She knew that she could access it when she slipped through the portal, but not in her present life. If only the people in the present world were not so real.

It was like she could become “unreal” in the alternate world, unreal like Alicia, unreal like Andrew, and especially unreal like Maggie who seemed to not even exist. Clara did not have to feel real things in the alternate world. All she had to feel was the loosening of the ties that restrained her---there was nothing holding her back from social interaction with the upper levels of the high school hierarchy. In the present world, all she could do was throw Instagram likes at Alicia’s group from behind the screen, but when she travelled it was as if she surpassed the screen, finding a way to get past it, inside of it, assimilating herself into the social area she had always wanted to be in. Everyone was so connected in the alternate world. It seemed to Clara that they all knew so much information about each other, like how they were feeling, how they were doing in school, and even what they were eating for lunch. Clara had seen personal “rants” about feelings before on social media, but it’s not like she ever actually saw them come to life. People cared in that world a lot more than they did in the present. That’s why Clara stayed there.

It was one of her last times seeing Maggie before she left. She constantly recounts the moment when she told Maggie, begged her, to please get on social media so that they could stay in touch. Clara remembers Maggie laughing. “What do I need to be on social media for? Who cares?” she’d said with a smile on her face and light in her eyes, joking as always. Maggie never truly knew where Clara went when she was gone, Clara never told her. She just cherished the moments when she could finally see her. It’s not like they saw each other much anyway; they both went to different schools and had different lives. So Maggie just accepted the growing distance, knowing that she would always be there for Clara when Clara had the time to talk.

But Maggie should have been warier of their friendship. Clara was drifting further and further away than she anticipated. Maggie had no idea of the alternate world’s existence, no idea that it was captivating Clara, and no idea that she herself did not have a place in it. Clara was about to live a life without Maggie, and Maggie was about to live a life without Clara. But neither of them could have stopped it; the drift was inevitable. Clara was taken by her alternate appearance, and Maggie had no alternate appearance to be taken by.

That was probably the saddest result of Clara’s leaving. Mostly because Clara herself barely had any control over it, all she could do was be sucked into this other world by her subconscious, inadvertently forgetting everything that was real in the present world. She slipped away from Maggie and her parents, her present world responsibilities, and everything that meant something to her, such as her motivation to learn and complete her schoolwork. All of it gone by the promises of the alternate world. Clara did not know if those promises were true or false; all she knew was that the world was captivating, inviting, and willing to accept the person who she wanted to be, not the person who she was. ~18~

And so Clara stayed there for as long as she could remember, while not looking back. It eventually became physically impossible for her to get back through the portal. She was way to invested in her alternate life to even put in the full effort. Her alternate life, her fabricated one, had taken the wheel. And I guess she was right when she thought: I could stay here forever.

Blair Reilly ’18

~19~

Untitled

~20~

Katrina Reinhart ’19

Shall I Vanish From This Earth Shall I vanish from this earth, the passing will not be mournful.

How could passing be so melancholy, when it opens up many new doors?

Shall I vanish from this earth, I wish to remember the fine texture of the clouds, the proud way they march across the sky, the softness of their bosom, so delicate that one could assimilate without obstruction, sink effortlessly into the beauty of the white-grey fog without restriction.

Shall I vanish from this earth, would I know the whereabouts of my passing?

In what such places would I end up?

Somewhere far across the universe perhaps, moving as one with a celestial body, becoming a celestial body, returned to the form of stardust that I once was— that we all once were.

Because that is what we happen to consist of, all that we can be, just stardust with an optional intellect.

And if I could be stardust in the far reaches of space, well that would be an admissible change.

Yet shall I vanish from this earth, will my body vanish, too?

Or will it just be the fundamental aspects of my soul, guided through the currents of the cosmos, brought to something new and different and undeniably profound?

My body may stay but my soul would be set free, free from the constraints of bodily condition, free from the oppression, free from the implications of being human.

Because what are we if not a soul?

Just an empty vessel, carrying out the orders of our society, like a submissive machine, like a soldier blindly following orders into an unforgiving war, not knowing that our souls exist apart from others, that one is not tied to another, that one has the freedom to stop, to take a step back, ~21~

to change their lives by the conviction of their core.

Shall I vanish from this earth my soul will rise above, transcend the grasps of the physical world, evaporating up and up like the gold-lined mist on a humid summer morning, that hangs over the chilled lake until warmed by the sun and beckoned by the rays which allow it to vanish, to pass, to recreate itself again.

My soul will be stardust, a wonder, the sparkle seen in a lover’s eye as it passes, the twinkling lights which adorn the town streets in wintertime, the dewdrops that dot the tips of the grass in the purple and pink colored hours of the early morning.

Shall I vanish from this earth I will be around, I will be the sparkle in a lover’s eye, the blinking lights, the dewdrops.

I will be radiant, universal, undisturbed, with no past, no present, no future, only the feeling that resides in me.

Blair Reilly ’18

~22~

A steady determined slug, I stopped where on the winding pathway it lurched stopped to observe its painstaking process as it moved forward, forward, forward, away from, the breathtaking beauty that lay behind.

And me as I stand Lost, separate, alone in the astounding vacuum of nothing Desperately attempting, trying, traveling towards that breathtaking beauty Till the destination I desire appears, Till the knowledge of man leads by in that direction Till the hint of time leaves a trace, O me.

Abigail Tindall ’19

This poem is an imitation of Walt Whitman’s “A Noiseless Patient Spider.”

~23~

Skillful Hands As I look’d towards the paws pawing, And the palms palming —or my grasp slipping, When they slowed, O Skillful hands, I found them commonplace: (Ordinary, man is ordinary, and this Life a reflection of His work.)

As I watch’d the ploughman ploughing.

Walt Whitman As I watch’d the ploughman ploughing, Or the sower sowing in the fields, or the harvester harvesting, I saw there too, O life and death, your analogies; (Life, life is the tillage, and Death is the harvest according.)

Tate Taczak ’19

This poem is an imitation of Walt Whitman’s “As I Watch’d the Ploughman Ploughing.”

~24~

One must have a mind of the garden To see the things happening above and below The rich dark soil that fuels all life, And watch each beautiful green bud unfurl its potential and Explode into color; while tiny winged creatures Buzz from one place to a million places, Making our beautiful planet possible with their daily task.

Only to plant the earth with their own hands, can one Appreciate the origins of a small delicate seed That has the strength to push its way to the surface And taste the golden rays of sunlight and feel The drops of rain falling from the clouds.

Snow and wind and storms and hardship and struggle ever present Cannot deter the life underground and The life around us that will always prevail.

Cierra Hargrove ’20

This poem is an imitation of Wallace Stevens’ “The Snow Man.”

~25~

Stardust ~26~

Colette Rouiller ’19

Turned to Dust by a Supernova I sat on the doorstep waiting for her return From her galactic journey Among the aerolites and asteroids I anticipate her telling stories of the eclipses The nights spent in nebulas and earthshine And wonder to myself Did she miss me?

Or have I been replaced by the constellations?

More than a parsec away Lost in orbits and the smoldering photosphere I am sure she is still out there I am sure she remembers me Her memory is not clouded by satellites Taken away by shooting stars Turned to dust by a supernova

Julia Christie ’20

~27~

Memory Project

~28~

Yeala Grimes ’21

Beard Turned Up to Heaven* There is a creaking wooden scaffold, That is worn down with tempera and the weathering of time, A roughened canvas draped beneath To catch splashes of still-wet intonaco and vermilion, Branching from the chapel windows to the lunettes gaping above.

The fresco causes cramping in his trapezius’, Straining from the tilted angle of his head.

Scraping away the giornata Washing color over the parched plaster To bring life to Adam’s eyes.

Stories of the Creation are brought to life At the altar, With the course hairs of sparse bristles On a tattered Sable paintbrush.

Spandrels decorated with gold leaf and dyes, Telling a story that continues to echo In the pendentive of the chapel.

Eyes wide and welcoming, Adam reaches out with splintered fingertips Towards the secular beings below.

Hannah Powell ’21

*Taken from a line in a poem Michelangelo wrote while painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling

~29~

Indebted

We humans are inspired by others. We humans learn from others. We humans become the people we are because of others. Some people can pinpoint these others: the sources of themselves. Some people subconsciously develop from the lessons that others give. Some people owe themselves to many others, to many inspirations. Some people can find themselves in few others, few inspirations. When finding oneself, it is often useful to know from where one came. It is often useful to know who one came from. I came from my grandparents.

My mothers’s parents, Tina and Lee, Gram and Grandad. They started parenthood by having my mother at ages twenty-four and twenty-three, respectively. They lived a hard working, poor life for their twenties, thirties, and forties, while saving every penny they had for trips to Europe. My grandmother, an astronomer, was a professor with my grandfather, a nuclear physicist, at the University of Tennessee. They were teachers to many, but to me, they are my family; they are my childhood. I am who I am because of them being them. I am indebted. Yet, that is not who I am, that is what I will forever be, because they gave me an invaluable gift. Me, they gave me, me.

Many learn something from their family, many are indebted to their family, many are not generally different from me, and many, as I am, should recognize what they have learned. One should recognize who one came from and one will discover why one exists in the way one does.

Why do I exist the way I do? It is simple—my grandparents gave me everything. They gave me entertainment, they gave me happiness, they gave me adventure, they gave me curiosity, confidence, compassion, work ethic, education, life. They gave me life.

The entertainment came from the countless games, activities, and moments we shared. Board games, card games, spoken games, and random games. From late nights of playing Clue to the early mornings when I would wake my grandfather up and lie in bed with my grandparents to play games with him, games like guessing the word he wrote on my back with his finger. The entertainment could not be contained; the fun was omnipresent.

We went through endless activities, like a bike ride for so long that our backsides were sore the next day. Activities like shopping at the grocery store made fun by intense moments of maximizing shopping efficiency, or making fools of ourselves by dodging people and piling four children into one of the carts with a car attached: a car for two. We spent entire days boating on the lake, with water sports and laughs both abundant. The happiness came with the amusement and everything else. Happiness was easy to come by when I was with my grandparents, and it seemed infinite.

Then, they gave me adventures. Ranging from a walk in the forest in our backyard to a ten day trip to the French and Swiss Alps, the adventures were plentiful. The adventures led to curiosity, curiosity about the world, plants, animals, science. They then redistributed my curiosity, my need for knowledge, into their own worlds; I wanted to learn about nuclear physics, astronomy, chemistry, and biology. They then fostered my curiosity and gave me the confidence to pursue it; they told me I was intelligent. My grandfather always lost to me in mind and strategy based games. Whether he allowed that to happen or not, I gained confidence nonetheless. My confidence and adventurous spirit are illustrated in the song “I Lived” by OneRepublic.

~30~

Hope when you take that jump You don’t fear the fall Hope when the water rises You built a wall Hope when the crowd screams out They’re screaming your name Hope if everybody runs You choose to stay …

I owned every second that this world could give I saw so many places, the things that I did Yeah with every broken bone I swear I lived

My grandparents gave me this song, it described them first, and now it describes me. The resilience and confidence to tackle hardships and the adventurous spirit of the song parallel the personalities of my grandparents. It was played at my grandmother’s memorial service first, and one day, it will be played at mine.

Their worlds, part of which was being professors in nuclear physics and astronomy, is from where the compassion likely came. They included everybody, and they valued everybody. Their graduate students adored them. My grandfather was known as being incredible with children; patience and kindness is key.

My grandmother was known by many people as the kindest person they had ever met. They shared their compassion with everyone, including me. How they had time to do so many activities with family and friends, yet still work as professors, displayed their inspiring work ethic. Specifically my grandfather, who could often be seen working past midnight on his computer after everyone else went to bed, a feat he had to perform to spend time with his family, and a feat that only he could perform with his inspiring work ethic.

Then came the education. They knew I was smart, and they did all they could to develop my intelligence. Trivia games were often played. My grandmother showed me countless Ted Talks on various fascinating science discoveries. Before having dessert, I had to answer a math or science question.

Learning made fun, that is what they gave me. After everything they gave me, saying I am indebted is an understatement.

I received my grandparents’ gifts with open arms and mind alike. I absorbed the positivity to the point where everything about me could be traced back to the first rays of sunlight to hit the morning ground that said, “Let there be Light, let there be Warmth, let there be Life.” I let the sunlight seep into my skin, to charge my personality. My young, impressionable, photosynthetic mind was transformed into a bloomed summer flower.

Then the sun sets. On comes darkness. Stomach pain, gall bladder cancer, pancreatic cancer, stroke, crying, stroke, dying, cremation, memorial service, crying, darkness. Gram is gone. No, she isn’t.

Yes, child, she is.

Goodbye, I love you. ~31~

Out of the darkness came a new petal—a jagged, wilted, brown petal. An eyesore, it commanded the attention of any onlooker. The other petals, beautiful, strong and white, were lost in the tunnel vision locked on the wilted petal.

Edwin Arlington Robinson writes the following in Dark Hills: Dark hills at evening in the west, Where sunset hovers like a sound Of golden horns that sang to rest Old bones of warriors under ground, Far now from all the bannered ways Where flash the legions of the sun, You fade—as if the last of days Were fading, and all wars were done.

My sun fades as well, but my warrior is boneless and above ground. My warrior is now a pile of ashes on a shelf. Her days had faded and her battle was over. Yet, I can not help but think that I had lost, not she. I ask myself: where did the sunshine go? The night seems endless, the horizon is hidden in the darkness. Half the sun is gone, the other half is hiding. Darkness prevails.

Months pass—darkness. Finally. The sky is illuminated, and the sun will be risen soon enough.

When it rises, only half the sun is in the sky; yet, the day is equally bright. The other half of the sun shines twice as bright through memories of the past. The memories spark the thinking. Why am I warm? Why are my petals so beautiful? Why am I alive? The memories have the answer: the sun.

Helen Keller states the following:

Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.

My narrative shares similarities with Keller’s idea. I did not realize all that my grandparents had done for me until I reached my difficult moment, that is when my character developed and I began to act upon the gifts that were given to me.

I look at all the gifts my grandparents gave me, all the values they taught me, and all the lessons I learned, and I know who I am. I know my weaknesses and my strengths. I often do not like to be wrong, and I do not like to lose, which I do no like to admit. Yet, I am kind, caring, and happy. I am thoughtful, humorous, and intelligent. I am driven to be the best person I can possibly be. I am driven to become a chemical engineer with more delightful memories in my head than dollars in my bank account. I am the smiler, the laugher. Thank you, Gram and Grandad, for giving me all that I am. I am indebted to both of you.

Nick Angelino ’19

~32~

Ticking Thoughts The girl sits still at the table, Another girl beside her, typing away, A pencil lying still— mockingly, almost As if to say, it could be used for so much more.

The clock on her iPad, Ticking time away with every swift swipe on the keyboard.

The stress she feels increases With every passing second.

Sipping quickly from her water, She worries about a lack of creativity.

The silence surrounding leaves room for thoughts to linger.

Is she a good enough writer?

Friend?

Student?

Person?

She finds herself questioning her morals, and Her time here on earth.

Did she make an impact?

She knows only time will tell.

Only a few minutes had passed, As she sat there in silence, While the time on her iPad continued to tick away.

Morgan Skinner ’19

~33~

Don’t Blink!

~34~

Jimmy Diamondidis ’18

A Modest Proposal The irrelevance of grammar and spelling in the modern English literature

“Intellectual laziness and the hurry of the age have produced a craving for literary nips. The torpid brain… has grown too weak for sustained thought. There never was an age in which so many people were able to write bad-ly.”

-Frank Leslie, Popular Monthly, volume 27, 1890

Since the dawn of the written language, literature has been defined by authors who strictly abide by a set of self-proclaimed rules. These authors have historically imposed their rules on others, thus creating an example from which no other author could deviate. This set of rules is known as grammar. In time, society developed in such a way that allowed people to devote their livelihoods to the refinement of writing and an elite class of writers was born. As this class expanded, its members became more particular about deviations from their set of rules and began to censor any written information that was not in accordance with their standards. Artificial praise surrounded pieces of literature that elegantly utilized the rules; authors and readers alike became distracted from the content of the works they were consuming. This sequence of events, however logical, has developed in such a way that empowers people who adhere to rules; this system does not necessitate that authors create intelligent literature. Herein lies the root of our problem. Authors fabricate an elevated status reserved for the elite among them. These elites feel empowered by this exclusive definition of power and feel as though they have the right to restrict the number of new authors and offer critiques on society. The author of the excerpt above, affected by the aforementioned heightened sense of power, proposed an inaccurate critique of his society. In a magazine article, he warned of the apparent “decline” in intelligence that was an imminent threat to his or her beloved language. It is in my humble opinion that this disillusioned author confused the decline of grammatical compliance with intelligence. However, despite the obvious nature of his or her claims, the argument was given credence and published due to his or her strict adherence to the rules of grammar. In accordance with societal norms, if an aspiring author were to write an article refuting the misinformed claims of the above passage, no publisher would consider it unless it was devoid of grammatical mishaps.

When a brilliant idea wants to be shared with the world, it is an injustice for it to be held back by the meaningless restrictions grammar and spelling pose. When meaning and feeling is conveyed through a piece of literature, its author should experience a sense of pride. However, under our current system, these authors are weighed down by lengthy revision processes and harshly critiqued if any of the unnatural, artificial rules of grammar are bro-ken. Oftentimes, readers turn aside a brilliant piece of work because it contains slight deviations from the rules of the “elitist” students. These English “scholars” have created a feedback loop in which they use each other to legitimize unreasonable rules with the intent of discouraging all but the most privileged of the academic world. The problem becomes even more prevalent when viewed from the perspective of the youngest writers. The vast majority of students are repelled from this beautiful yet artificially tedious field of study due to its restrictive nature. Although it may not immediately manifest as a prime deterrent, the effects on the grades of these young minds provide the final reason for their disinterest. Ultimately, these rules may prove to be the cause of the weakening that was observed ~35~

in 1890, and not, as the author wrote, the inability of the writers. The overemphasized grammatical restrictions are causing a shift away from the creative and purposeful aspects of writing.

To solve this distressing and immediate problem, we must enact several dramatic changes. First, we must, as of this instant, cease to follow grammatical, spelling, and syntactical constructs of our oppressors. We must return to the essential nature of writing and dedicate our efforts to improving the content of our writing.

Never again shall we focus on the presentation of our material; rather, we must ensure our thoughts are understood and appreciated by the people who read our work. However, leading by quiet example is not enough to quench the grammatical beast haunting our epoch. We must go further to kill this constricting beast. We must fully realize this transformation and destroy it at its heart. I propose we eliminate all persons adhering to, upholding, or preaching the out-dated restrictions imposed upon our written thoughts. We must shun all those who study and practice this ancient form of oppression. We must break the loop that our language aristocracy has created and rise up from the old system’s ashes. Only once we have achieved a complete purge of the old, will we be able to begin a new, honest re-gime.

To be sure, too numerous are the advantages of my proposal for this initial declaration. The first and most tangible among these is the abundance of time to which writers will be granted access. The era defined by countless hours wasted revising will come to its end. This unallocated time may attract new writers and, as for established authors, it could be used to create more literature. Eventually, the increase in competition and production will increase the quality of the works published. Authors will have to fight for publishing rights and only the most interesting of authors shall prevail. These new works of literature will be liberated of the old, syntactically inclined, overcomplicated, and pointless; the new system will usher in a time of great innovation for the writing community. The writers of old will no longer have the power to manipulate and restrict the flow of ideas. Ultimately, new writers will understand that the implications of this freedom to be to most important of all. This revolution will free the public of the monopoly that grammar holds over our current generation. This fight is not merely the fight over the abolishment of an inconvenience; it is our declaration of freedom of the oppressive rules of the elitist scholars. Our ideas shall no longer be oppressed by the confines of the old ways.

Implicitly, an old, powerful, and oppressive regime will not be vanquished without the presentation of a counter argument. To a person who has thought great lengths upon this issue, it has become apparent that only one such counter-argument exists: grammar and spelling help to convey meaning precisely and accurately. Understandably, this claim may appear to have some validity to the old consumers of literature.

However, we as a consumer must realize the biased and monopolized view from which this argument is presented. Every word considered legitimate under our current system has been reviewed and edited by writers who have something to gain from maintaining the broken system. As I have already explained, these prestigious authors have gained popularity through their adherence to the system. Proposing an upheaval of the system from which they had gained power would defy logic. As for the reluctant consumer, any opposition should be regarded with caution, as any change, however beneficial, is always met with some resistance.

Certain presumptuous scholars of historical linguistics may object to the seemingly idealist view with which this proposal aligns itself. These scholars may feel as though the revolution I propose is merely an accelerated transformation of which language has always been a participant. They may feel as though the gradual shift in the acceptance of contractions and similar devices are sufficient fluidity for the oppressed.

However, this appeasement does not fix the oppression our society faces. It does nothing to correct the injustices and it allows time for the grounded elite to adjust their rules to prevent upheaval. We are merely ~36~

allowing them to adapt and retain their power. Ultimately, this solution, despite its gradual decline writing standards, will never give freedom to the public voice.

I recognize the vast majority of the current English aristocracy would object to my claims on the grounds for which I have discredited them: a bias that would allow me to benefit from my proposed solution to the oppression that our society faces. To those readers who hold such an opinion, I would like to present some evidence that will discredit their attempts at discrediting my proposal to discredit the confines of grammar. To best understand the incredulous nature of such claims, one must first understand the nature of this document. To present an argument, especially one that has any semblance of coherence, one must have had previous education on the topic of which they refute. In regards to this specific argument, the aforementioned previous knowledge lies in my many years of study of the English language. This education included countless hours poring over arbitrary rule after arbitrary rule that most scholars call grammar. I had to first learn the intricacies of our current language standards before I proposed their nullification. Through this deeper understanding, I had unwillingly aligned myself with the very same people I now propose to overthrow. Through this unforeseen consequence in learning the English language, I gain nothing from my proposed transformation and, therefore, I will not personally gain from my solution. I merely wish to free the public from the oppressive nature of our literary elite.

Tate Taczak ’19

Tate’s essay is a satirical piece modeled on Jonathan Swift’s famous “A Modest Proposal.”

~37~

Echo

~38~

Hannah Powell ’20

The water is all that makes up the course. With the current and the waves it creates organized chaos and all sorts of confusion. There is no sailor who can completely control it. The wind whistles through the sails, and puffs graze the water. In the recurring cycles of anticipation and nerves, her muscles tense like freezing water, but like the regatta before, she conquers the seas ahead.

Caroline Bayless ’19

This passage is modeled on Jill Ker Conway’s style in The Road From Coorain.

~39~

Sitting in a Courtyard Warm blue scarf drapes smooth shoulders an ocean of nostalgia but alone, clocks tick

Abigail Tindall ’19

This poem was modeled on Amy Lowell’s much longer prose poem, “The Blue Scarf.” The assignment was to reduce the substance of the poem to a mere fourteen words.

~40~

The Consequence The extravagant light blinds my vision I awake to a migraine The sound of white noise crackles in my ears A stale taste overpowers my mouth I see nothing but tall stalks I am forever encased As I come to my senses, the stalks part Before me stands my fondest memory The best part of life that has come and gone I, her whole life, her only a part of mine Yuki, forever loved She opens her mouth and speaks My location is explained This is what I envision hell to be like I am not dead, only visiting I have been in a car accident I am one of the few that get to see the afterlife I embed trust within Yuki She leads the way And the journey begins Corn stalks surround me Heights so great My vision is obscured I am unknowing of what lurks on the other side Sharp twists and turns are scattered about I am in a corn maze Without a doubt Above and beyond I hear a piercing screech An eagle boldly lands at my feet My transporter of the lands to come ~41~

Three endless mazes are stretched ahead of me Each with its own torture and sin Yuki and I on his back Broad wings stretched about Soaring through the haze We dive deep into what is to come Before entering the first maze A bubble absorbs my guide and me Sending us drifting in Where dark, luminous clouds appear A toxic smell floods my nose My eyes burn from the uncomfortable air Screams of horror erupt about The saltiness of tears fall onto my tongue The ground is hard and sharp The inhabitants barefoot and clothing less Touching the ground with my hand Shoots blisters all throughout Instantaneously, all the inhabitants run Cover is non-existent And a poisonous rain falls hard Gone as fast as it came Every person weeps Every person screams Every person tries to block out reality And every person bangs at their head One person is separated One person is able to speak One person allowed to come out of the madness Joey Chestnut The overseer allows one minute Ask as much as I can ~42~

Before everything starts again And the horror continues “Who are you?” I ask “Joey Chestnut. I won the hotdog eating contest,” Joey proclaims “Why are you all in sorrow?”

“We see what we have done.”

“What just came?” I question “An acid rain that burns our flesh.”

“What is it similar to?”

“What the animals feel, because we want meat I can’t get out I’m forever lost Where is the exit Please!”

He proceeds to holler It begins again Like that, he is gone Lost within his eyes “In their eyes, they see the animals,” Yuki says, “Every hour, of every day, of every year Being taken, killed, and made for our enjoyment.”

Like a movie being played over and over again “The acid rain comes Stays for an unknown time And leaves Returning three times an hour,” Yuki says The eagle lets out his screech Stopping everything in time Yuki and I climb onto his wings And leave with haste With no time to waste We travel to the next maze that lies ahead ~43~

Smaller than the last With just as many people Another corn field Another scene Another sin And another scream Upon entrance Smoke engulfs my lungs Stinging my eyes And blocking my nose This must be the polluters with Their carelessness Their abuse And their selfishness Each run around maniacally Trying to escape from the unseen Screaming for their life But it hoarsely comes out Their lungs Filled with smoke Block their airways And their vocal cords As before a single person is allowed to pause Their torture to soon continue Who will it be?

Do they deserve to stop?

American Electric Power The biggest power polluter Nick Akins CEO and president “My lungs are clogged ~44~

I am unable to breath You must help me,” Nick proclaims No love in my heart for him Nor emotion or sympathy I watch him gasp for air “This is how the rest of the world feels and now you do, too,” I say Struggling for air Unable to stand He pleads once more No conversation He is whisked back Screaming beginning once more Yuki must explain For he was unable to “He sees his worst enemy chasing him Unable to get away He can barely scream for help His lungs are filled with smoke,” Yuki says I myself am unable to breath The eagle My great protector Swipes Yuki and I into the air Time is not on my side I am awakening and I must explore the last maze Needing to know the last sin Hastily diving down The eagle leaves Yuki and I Making a quick departure Disappearing within the air

~45~

Rather than still The corn lurches Rather than running The people are thrown Horrific screams echoing Limbs flying Potent smells And dry taste The overseer Already knowing Pulls out a soul Allowing questions to be asked “Tell me everything,” I say “My name is Azealia Banks I am an animal abuser As well as everyone else here,” Azealia says “I have done the unthinkable I want to go back How do I get out?”

And like that she’s gone The corn sucka her back in Her cry for help Unanswered Not deserving attention Yuki begins, “She has abused animals In private and public Broadcasting her actions In one way or another Everyone here has abused an animal These people pay for what they did It will never end.” ~46~

Yuki goes on to say, “They are thrown from stalk to stalk Crashing into each other Being picked apart Their hair is torn out Their skin is ripped off They are beat against the ground They are the animals.�

My end is near And the eagle appears Finally, I am taken from the horror With just one last stop Before a sad departure Yuki and I pick a pumpkin Remembering each other With this ever-lasting prize Her kingdom and realm Controller of the patch I must leave her side One last time My eyes grow heavy A flash of light appears On and off it clicks He is checking my eyes What seemed like forever Was just five minutes I am alive from the crash Feeling worse than ever Real or fake?

No one will believe me The doctors will diagnose me as crazy ~47~

Waking up feels like a nightmare of its own The sins that corrupt the earth Are dealt with in hell I know what it looks like I have seen it firsthand Joey Chestnut Nick Akins Azealia Banks All will pay Don’t repeat their actions Make a change Do something different It could be you Solana Page ’20

~48~

Untitled

Katrina Reinhart ’19

~49~

~50~

Memory Project

Grant Shanahan ’20

Mr. Linden’s Library He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late — too late for me to warn her to run away, get out before the dark, rotting vines swallowed her whole, making her part of the book. All it wants is to fill its pages with the stories of its victims. Mr. Linden himself tried to destroy the book, but at night, Mr. Linden’s body had been pulled into the book, to be lost forever. I never thought I would try to read that monster. Reading it will cause me to be its next target. Even one word will be enough for the monster to wake, thus causing my story to become the next chapter in its pages.

I walk into the library while shaking like I am wearing a swimsuit in a snow blizzard. All I can do to keep myself going is to think-one more step, then I will be even closer to destroying that cursed book.

It stole the life of my best friend, the life of my family, and the life of Mr. Linden (the man who raised me after the demon stole my parents). I take the last step before I am close enough to stretch my arm out to grab the book swiftly and run like my life was closer to death each second I wasted. Once I reach my room, I lie down and start reading. If I finish the book before sundown I will survive my slumber in the night. I begin to read. I read through the early morning sun and into the late afternoon. As I am about to finish the last few chapters of the book, my eyelids become heavy and I drift into a deep sleep. I sleep with dreams that have the essence of peace (no nightmares crawl their way into my brain). All this sleep after reading the words of the monster’s pages. Somehow, in a bit of light sleep I can feel the start of the vines crawling on my skin and wrapping around me while getting ready to tug. However, the quick person I am, I manage to wiggle my way out of their grasp and onto the fluffy carpet. I then quickly stand, and I grab the knife from inside my nightstand drawer. As fast as I can, I cut the spine of the book to kill the vines growing from inside and to split the book in half. The book then starts to turn a rotting green, as if it had been a cartoon zombie’s skin in reality, so I cut it in half again. The quarters of the book then start to split themselves, and end up being eight pieces. They start to grow into the forms of people, the rotting skin recovers into the people they once were.

I see Mr. Linden and my best friend first. Then my parents arise followed by some others who must have fallen victim to the book. One was dressed in a bonnet and long dress. This makes me realize, this book must have been written a long time ago for someone like that to be trapped in there. “Honey! It’s so good to see you again!” both my parents scream as I run into their welcoming arms (both of them have not aged a day). “How could you do that to me you fool?!” the girl wearing the bonnet roars like an odious lion.

Morgan Mooradian ’21

~51~

Red. “Dad, where are we going again?” It’s 85 degrees outside and we’ve been walking for far too long; when he said “a few blocks,” I didn’t realize he meant the Bataan Death March.

“For the third time, Emma, we’re headed to Chinatown for brunch,” he responds, walking briskly like he always does in big cities. My dad is one of those people who packs everything he can into a day, and I swear his natural speed is set at Mach 3. On our first day in New York, he signed us up for a sixhour walking tour throughout NYC. It was fun, of course, but by the time we arrived back, I practically collapsed.

We come to a crosswalk, with the red hand on the opposite side yelling at us to stop. My dad simply looks both ways and jogs across, while I run along behind him. He takes a quick left, I turn the corner, and there it is: a big banner of lights, with dragons on either side, and “Welcome to Chinatown” printed in the middle. We continue down the sidewalk, where we are surrounded by crowds of people.

As I look at the the people more closely, I can’t help but notice the similarities between us.

Straight black hair, slightly chubby cheeks, and almond-shaped eyes that look forward with determination.

I was born in China, adopted by my Caucasian parents, and raised a true American. Yet, as I walk these streets, I may as well be a native rather than a tourist.

That woman over there, is that what I’ll look like in twenty years? Thirty? It may seem weird to look at strangers and wonder these things, but I certainly can’t find myself in my parents. They’re both of Irish descent, with easily sunburned skin and high cheekbones. My mom has thin lips, caramel eyes, and a smile that immediately brightens a room. My dad is squat and muscular; it still irks him that my stepmom is taller than he is. An old soul with denim blue eyes and salt-n-pepper hair, he often jokes that the salt part is because of me.

When I was little, I’d always try to find people who resembled me. When I actually did, however, I usually didn’t relate to them. They could all speak Chinese fluently; I could only say ‘water,’ ‘watermelon,’ and shakily count to fifty. I went to a Chinese summer camp once, and the entire time I simply felt lost.

Growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood, I didn’t want to stick out. I didn’t want to speak another language that no one else spoke or eat food that wasn’t what everyone else was eating.

Anytime someone mentioned China, at least four tiny heads would turn in my direction, just to see if I matched the description. I was the Chinese kid.

It’s when I hit late elementary school that things really kicked into gear. In fifth grade, the new kid would make racist comments, and he even called me a “fat Asian” once, for whatever reason. He mentioned that “all Asians are smart” when we were discussing stereotypes, and I felt my face flush like I was under a spotlight. The summer of sixth grade, I went to my favorite camp, and on the way to the pool, a boy my age walked up to me. He proceeded to awkwardly ask if I could “see like he sees.” I asked him what he meant, and the little imp took his fingers and pulled the sides of his eyes towards his ears.

I didn’t understand: how was I different from my peers? I was American, with the same influences they had; why was I supposed to know how to use chopsticks? I came to realize they behaved this way because of my appearance, and I slowly began to see “Asian features” as negative ones. Some mornings ~52~

I’d look in the mirror and notice that my eyes were heavier than usual. My eyelids were less pronounced, more like monolids, and I would go to school a little disheartened. I saw my race as a barrier between the ‘normal’ kids and me. All I wanted was to eradicate this wall, and it seemed like the only course of action was to change myself.

The entire situation is a conflict of nature versus nurture. I certainly look Asian, but everything that I have been taught and impacted by is American. From my family life, to my school curriculum, to media, everything has been American. My morals, attitude, and personality were all created from this culture and from my parents. I did not get my sarcastic wit from my biological mother, nor did I receive any life advice from my biological father. These features are far more important than my physical ones, which I now realize aren’t a real issue.

There was one day in English class in sixth grade; we were having a discussion about different ethnicities and their customs. A friend of mine mentioned that I was adopted and my classmates asked to hear more. “Well, I was born in Kunming, China, and there’s a theory that I was left in a hotel lobby three days after I was born. There, I was found and taken to an orphanage.” Suddenly everyone was hooked. I explained how I was the “runt of the litter,” and the other children would steal toys from me, and that I stayed there for almost a year. They were fascinated, and my friend even said that he wanted to make my life story into a movie.

Over the next few years, the part of myself that I had tried to erase became a badge of glory. I began to understand that I’d rather be different, an individual, someone with a story to tell. My race, while an important part of who I am, would no longer control my view of myself. I realized that my character, the person who shines through my actions and words, is far more powerful than my skin and hair. Gone was the girl who worried about what other people thought, who looked in the mirror and scrutinized what she couldn’t control. Instead, I wore my differences with pride, flouncing around in neon orange and pink, daring anyone to question my oddity.

Now, walking through the streets of Chinatown, I am a tourist who looks like a native. There isn’t much orange or pink here, but rather a strong presence of China’s sacred color: Red. The color of passion, love, confidence; red is exactly what I need. A passion for justice concerning my background, love for the various influences that combined to mold me, and confidence in who I am and what I will become. Here, I am the color red.

Emma Campbell ’21

~53~

Tool Study ~54~

Kendall Jacobsen ’19

The Stem When the waters sank deep into the profitless soil that no longer bared edible fruit, it did not know that its drops would nourish the sterile ground once more And from the ground sprouted a stem And the people were astonished And they questioned And they doubted The practical didn’t welcome the unexplainable Under-nurtured and outcasted the stem swallowed what sunlight it could Adapting to the changes And despite The words of the people The plant grew

It grew not from the sunlight But from the warmth of self-love From the internal flame Everlasting flame Self-installed, self-soothed And despite The words of the people The plant grew Budding into something beautiful Blossoming into something Unimaginable Inconceivable The plant gained the power To alter mindsets Now the people spoke quietly Now the people stopped speaking Now the people understood How the plant grew Chela Cunningham ’21

~55~

DM Reginae Debbiae Qui vixit ann LXXXIV M VII D XXVII Debbia actore in Previgilli Omnium Sanctorium oppido, omnes riserunt.

Ea amatissima ab omnibus erat Carria Piscitor F Debbiae fecit suae matri Qui semper reminiscetur Videant utramque post mortem

To the spirits of the dead For Debbie Reynolds.

Who lived 84 years 8 months and 27 days With Debbie as an actor in Halloweentown The whole world laughed.

She was the most loved by everyone.

Made by her daughter, Carrie Fischer, For her mother who will always be remembered.

May they see each other after death.

Annie Bennett and Flo Pribble ’19

~56~

The Skies Can Keep Their Secret The Waves can’t wash Seashells away!

They only push them closer to the Shore - The Shore defends the Shells - And they - the Seaweed!

A Seagull - in its flight - swoops down upon the Shore - Sees the small Shell and unwanted Seaweed If the Bird picks up the Shell Who knows where it will go?

The Seashell - defenseless in Nature - No permanence in habitation - If I were the Seashell - In what nature do I have Control?

So continue to crash upon the Shore, Waves!

For the Seashell - when it finds the strength, Will escape the tyrannical grasp of your unmerciful Forces, In Time will come Might!

Jordan Cox ’19

This poem is an imitation of Emily Dickinson’s “The Skies Can’t Keep Their Secret.”

~57~

O listening always, always hearing!

O the music reaching my longing ears, O me while I unlock my mind to the rhythm, harmony, and pitch; O music, your vibrant colors, speak to me (it is light it is psychedelic;) O to cease filling my ears with your elegance, my soul perishes, To halt (O listening! Always listening!) and leave me to fill my spirits with displeasing nothingness.

Jordan Cox ’19

Jordan’s poem is an imitation of Walt Whitman’s ““O Living Always, Always Dying”.”

~58~

A Long Way From Home

Colette Rouiller ’19

~59~

Five Ways of Looking at the Sun I. Shining brightly, The Sun brings light to the darkness In waves of violent orange and red.

II. Peeling skin And red cheeks, The Sun is my worst enemy And my best friend.

III. The Sun, A burning ball of flames, Red, Hot like a Carolina Reaper.

IV. Larger than life, Smaller than the galaxy, Brighter than my future.

V. In vicious waves, Beams of light stream from the Sun To the Earth, Leaving behind scorched, brown ground, dirty water, And a perspiring world.

Morgan Skinner ’19

This poem is modeled on Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.”

~60~

A Necessary Change for a “Necessary Evil” “It is better to risk saving a guilty person than to condemn an innocent one”—Voltaire

A man that you have been chasing for two months has finally been captured by your fellow investigator and has been brought into the precinct. The man is to be brought under trial for the crimes that he has committed. This man murdered your best friend; you despise him. After a long period of debate, the man is sentenced to a lifetime in prison. You hold a deep seated desire for this man to be killed, as he killed your best friend, but you accept that a lifetime in prison will serve as punishment enough. While not the outcome you desired, there is still justice being delivered. In another situation, you are the parent of three. One of your children is an accomplished scholar who is universally loved by his teachers. One day, you get a knock on your door: it is the police. Your son has been accused of murdering and torturing a gas station attendant. You, knowing your son would never do such a thing, are appalled at the proposition. There are months and months of trials where the verdict never seems to be certain. On the final day, after numerous appeals, the judge slams down his sacred gavel one more time.

Your son has been convicted for the murder, and he has been sentenced to death by capital punishment.

During the following months there are more trials, more debates, more judges, and more guilty verdicts.

Every day you visit your son on death row and wonder what could have gone wrong. How could this have happened? How, in the land of the free, could your beautiful son be murdered for a crime that he didn’t commit? After more months without any change, your son whispers something in your ear upon your daily visit. “It’s tomorrow. They’re doing it tomorrow.” On the following day, your son is brought onto a clean white table, and a man preps his arm with a sterilizing fabric. He fills up a needle with potassium chloride, and he slowly begins to move towards your son. He slips the long metal needle into your son’s pale, young arm. Your son, an innocent boy who did no wrong to anyone, was murdered by your state. Now, is it better to risk saving a guilty person, or to risk killing an innocent one?

The death penalty is the situation to which Voltaire’s quote is most applicable in the modern age. One who believes in the abolition of the death penalty is one who believes it is better to risk saving the guilty person. Conversely, to be on the side of the death penalty is to believe that it is better to risk killing the innocent person. There are also those who believe in the death penalty because they do not understand, or accept, the amount of innocent lives that are lost because of it. The latter two people are the ones to whom this essay is addressed. I do not believe that ill will or loose morals are what causes people to hold these opinions, and I hope that with some exploration of the topic those of you who share the aforementioned opinions will soon understand the dangers the death penalty presents to society as a whole. ~61~

Misdoings deserve punishment; this is a universally held belief that is basic in most humans.

Misdoings of a very particular and specific degree deserve punishment in the form of death that will be administered after months of waiting in an iron cell and months of debating in a wooden one; this idea is slightly less fundamental. The death penalty, with all of its peculiarities, has come about as a result of mankind trying to apply its rules of civilization, order, and expediency to an idea as old as time: killing the man who has wronged you. In the age of chivalry, steel, and swords, murder was an acceptable punishment to those who have wronged you; however, in the age of courts, laws, and pens, murder has become a much more complicated topic. Rather than killing the man that you watched commit a crime against you, today there is an ugly process of appeals, assumptions, biases, and debates behind every execution. There is no longer nearly as much certainty involved, and issues arise with how guilt is deduced. Despite this fact, I do not mean to suggest that the old way of killing one another was correct. There have been many advancements in culture and society since the middle ages, and I simply suggest that because of them, the killing of another man is no longer something that can be plausibly carried out in a just way. The death penalty, like torture, crusades, and plague, should be left behind.

At the moment, thirty-one out of the fifty states that comprise the United States of America perform the death penalty. Out of the nineteen states that have abolished capital punishment, the date of abolishment varies wildly; the earliest state to abolish it is Michigan in 1846 and the most recent is Maryland in 2013.

This debate has been ongoing for a great many years; yet, it still has not met a cohesive finish. There are still thirty-one states, including Georgia, Utah, and Virginia, that can kill their own citizens. There are still thirty-one states that have men and women waiting years for when the men in the suits are done arguing and for when someone in a white coat can put aside some time in their day to murder them; there are still thirtyone states that need to be changed.

One may believe that killing a villain is a completely valid punishment, and that person is entitled to their interpretation of morals, but the reality is that this is not the primary cause of the debate surrounding the death penalty. Instead, many take issue with the fact that innocent people are killed as collateral damage because of the death penalty. Mistakes occur within the judicial system, and when that mistake-prone system is given the power to end a human’s life, innocent lives are lost. If innocent lives are lost because of mistakes in the death penalty, innocent lives will be saved by abolishing it. A study detailed in TIME Magazine presents the fact that 4 percent of death row convicts are innocent; this is described as being a “conservative estimate” (http://time.com/79572/more-innocent-people-on-death-row-than-estimated-study/).

Only 2 percent of death row convicts are actually exonerated, meaning that there is an entire 2 percent, at the very least, of the total people executed by the United States that are completely innocent. Out of the estimated three thousand total members of America’s death row, this statistic means that America has ended the lives of approximately one hundred and twenty innocent civilians through execution. The loss of even a single life is felt deeply by the members of a community, but the loss of one hundred and twenty lives has somehow been overlooked by Americans in the name of fleeting justice. Is the peace of mind felt by few when a villain has been executed worth the corruption of conscience felt by many when an innocent person ~62~

has been murdered?

It is no mystery what the sources of judicial mistakes are. At the head of every trial are both a judge and a jury. While becoming a judge is a long and arduous process, they are still human and they can still make mistakes. More troubling, however, are the jurors. Excluding felons and those who are afflicted with mental conditions, jurors only must: 1. Be alive.

2. Be an adult citizen.

A group of six to twelve jurors has a large amount of influence on every verdict, and these jurors clearly are not subject to extensive filtering. Some screening is done to try and strike out jurors with overt bias, but even this proves unsuccessful. Keith Tharpe, a black man, was sentenced to death in 1991 for the rape of his wife as well as the murder of his wife’s sister. As recently as 2018, the case has been reopened because of new information: one of the jurors was a flaming racist. This fact was uncovered when the juror, Barney Gattie, released a statement about why he believed that Tharpe was guilty: “Because I knew the victim and her husband’s family and knew them all to be good black folks, I felt Tharpe, who wasn’t in the ‘good’ black folks category in my book, should get the electric chair for what he did.” Gattie made an additional statement as well: “After studying the Bible, I have wondered if black people even have souls.”

By classifying the defendant as not being in the “‘good’ black folks category,” and by demonstrating his overt racism in believing that black people do not have souls, Gattie very clearly shows that he was not an intelligent choice for a trial involving a black defendant. In the original trial in which this racist man was a juror, Tharpe received the death penalty and was slated to be killed on September 26, 2017. The extremely racist Gattie was able to serve as a juror on a black man’s case; if an obvious oversight such as this was only uncovered in the past year, then it is almost certain that of the thousands of other death penalty cases there are many more errors that have gone unnoticed. With the recent discovery of Gattie’s racist tendencies, Tharpe’s trial is now to be reopened in the Supreme Court (https://www.nytimes. com/2018/01/08/us/politics/death-penalty-case-heard-by-racist-juror-is-reopened-by-supreme-court.html).

He was convicted in 1991; it took a stroke of luck twenty six years after the original conviction for Keith Tharpe to finally receive a just trial. Even trials that concern the death penalty have a large amount of human error involved, mainly because of the jury. To rely on a mostly random assortment of individuals to make the just choice regarding someone’s life or death is to grossly devalue the human life; if doing this is the best way that the judicial branch can find to decide upon capital punishment, there should be no capital punishment at all.

I do not suggest that we are all to forgive and forget, and I do not defend the vicious murderers of the nation. I only seek to assist in ridding our nation of the dark cloud that has slowly but surely accumulated above it. Those one hundred and twenty deaths are irreversible; nothing will ever remove those wrongful executions from our history. The past went the way of injustice, but the future has yet to be decided. Convicts that are sentenced to prison rather than the death penalty still have a chance for redemption. There is always room for new information to come forward, which puts no limit on the ~63~

investigation. Once one is killed, however, that deed has been done forever. It matters not whether new evidence is uncovered or anything of the like. Keith Tharpe very narrowly avoided this point of no return, even with the obvious errors concerning his trial. While the flawed judicial system may still occasionally place innocent persons into jail, the margin for error is much larger when one is not speaking of ending another life. The nineteen states who understand this fact give me hope for clear skies in the future, but a great amount of focus must be directed towards convincing the remaining thirty-one. I implore readers to think about the importance of even one single life. A single guilty person excused is simply an inconvenience to those who seek revenge. A single innocent life lost through execution is an injustice committed by the thousands of people who believe in the death penalty. I struggle with understanding how some who are informed still believe that these situations are equal; I struggle with understanding how some can claim that the loss of one hundred and twenty lives is a necessary evil, and I do not ask for you to forgive because I struggle to do so myself.

Jack Wellschlager ’19

~64~

Untitled

Em Williams ’21 ~65~

“Hate” is the Thing with Scales “Hate” is the thing with scales That slithers within the spirit And hisses at love without making a sound And never ceases - never And darkest - in the Serpent - is heard And searing must be the heat That could turn its Cold blood Warm Whose veins creep into the soul I’ve heard it in the most painful of places And within the foggy Forests Yet - not once - ever Has it asked for a piece of me.

Lauren Gibbons-Neff ’19

Lauren’s poem is an imitation of Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is a thing with feathers.”

~66~

To A President ALL you are achieving is a knife into a wound You’ve yet to cure hatred – the wound being hatred, you’ve yet

to start healing, feeling, alleviate; You’ve yet to solve the complications for Our People, And so their hungry souls call out to

Our People Leia Liberto ’19

~67~

Untitled ~68~

Camille White ’18

I rest a while in the sweltering sun, hear the roar of the surf crash against the large rocks feel the minuscule grains of sand grow torrid to the touch dip toes in the frigid water until it ebbs away simper at the beauty of the Hoplolatilus Starcki swimming by become caressed by the vitality of the waves excavate the trinkets within the sand attentive to the creaking of the pier-stakes the sunburn begins to transpire, white caps morph into treacherous caves rip currents engulf the tranquility of the ocean tiger sharks dawdle below the reefs clouds obscure the once sweltering sun as the beach waves goodbye with despondency.

Megan Mohr ’20

~69~

A Personal Inferno

Water laps on the side of my canoe as the morning mist on the lake engulfs me. The calm waters give haven for the fish to jump out of the water without concern. Trees ring the banks, and stand as sentries guarding the water. The scent of pine wafts on the breeze. The serene scene is blurred. My eyes have trouble adjusting to the dim light and my brain feels muddled. Flashes of crowded streets and racing cars flood my thoughts as I try to make sense of how I came to be in the canoe. My urban struggle and its associated decay are just a little less than a memory; they are exactly what I was trying to escape.

The wind begins to pick up. Tears form in my eyes from the dust kicked up as the wind blows.

Leaves from the shore begin to steadily march across the water to me. My hair flies back from the wind and my craft is pushed to a distant part of the lake. I thrust my oar into the water, clenching my teeth and fighting against the wind and trying to use the paddle to save myself. Water builds at the spillway raising my canoe up and over the blockade. I am swept down with the torrent and away from the lake. I fall out, engulfed by the water, feeling tightness in my lungs as I go under and hold my breath. Kicking my legs I get my head up, thrashing my hands in the air and reaching for my boat. I manage to throw my body to the bottom of the canoe, my chest heaving from exertion, I stare to the sky and see that the white fluffy clouds are replaced by a dense, dark cloud cover choking out the light. The foul stench of rotten garbage fills the air. Regaining my seated position I find I have no oar to guide me through the water as the black current pulls me downstream. On the banks, the trees are barren of leaf and needle. The earth is scorched and debris is strewn on the hillside and blows into the water. The current slows as the river widens unveiling a vast congregation of plastic, glass and other refuse clogging the water. Dull thuds emanate from the hull as the refuse hits my canoe.

As I drift in the water, a roaring sound quickly becomes louder as a water spout spins in the distance. I start to pick up speed, and I am drawn in its direction by a vortex pulling the water down like a black hole pulls light. The roar of fast moving water echoes in the valley behind the water spout and vortex. It is the sound of the churning waters of an impenetrable stretch of rapids. The river pulls me toward eminent disaster, and I am unable to navigate to the shore or change direction. While trying to turn around in the canoe, I plunge my hands into the murky water trying to overpower the current to get to shore. In my panic, I hear the grinding of wood as my canoe collides with another vessel. It is a skiff, and standing on top of it is Teddy Roosevelt. He stands tall and stares down his nose as he extends one hand to help me aboard his skiff. The other is clutching a long staff used to guide his vessel.

“Grab ahold, young man,” Teddy commands. My hand grips his his forearm and he drags me onto the skiff effortlessly, “Seems like I just got you in the nick of time.”

“What are those things?” I ask, pointing downstream.

“Those are natural cleansers,” Teddy replies, “They get rid of human garbage and cleanse the water. There is no way you would have made it through all of that, for the souls of all people are meant for the destruction, not preservation of nature.”

“How did you find me here?” I ask as I catch my breath. I am not even sure where I am.

“I was sent here from the ‘Caretakers of the Planet’ to protect those who may seek injustice and help remedy it,” Teddy says.

“Where are you taking me?” I inquire.

“I am taking you down the stream to the Promised land,” Teddy responds.

“Is that where this river leads?” I ask. ~70~

Teddy replies, “To get to heaven one must go through hell.”

Teddy plunges his staff into the water and pushes the skiff away from the danger. His movements are effortless, yet powerful, as if the skiff is not effected by the draw of the vortex. He angles toward an outcropping of land hiding a break in the river and a path around what would have been my demise. As we move downstream, the roar of the rapids becomes less until it is a faint rumble. Ahead, I see fuzzy lights on either side of the riverbanks. They look like the sun as it burns through cloud cover. The roar of water is replaced with the groan, buzzing and metallic clanks of machinery. Teddy and I see the blanket of pollution covering all the factories, trucks, and power plants lining the banks of the river. An ominous chain link fence topped in barbed wire lines the river banks, while metal walkways cross the water and connect the two shores. A thick smoke covers the entire land as tiny figures run along the fence and over the walkways from side to side. Clouds of smoke and toxic gas are blowing everywhere while people are running a race.

They are being chased by demons carrying whips to lash them if they slow down. I see runners doubled over, coughing and spitting blood as the demons mercilessly whip them as they tear at their flesh. When they cannot move anymore, the demons drag the limp human forms back to the starting line to start the race once they regain consciousness. As I watch the spectacle, a runner dives off the overpass into the water and grabs hold of the skiff.

“Save me,” the man pleads.

“Who are you” I ask.

“Don’t you know. I am Robert E. Murray, CEO of the largest privately held coal company in the United States. I help people. What they say is not true. It is a lie. It is a lie. They say coal is dirty, but it is a lie.” he says.

“What are you doing? Just finish the race and you will be free,” I say.

And suddenly the demon’s whip cracks through the air and grabs his neck. As he is being pulled up Mr. Murray says, “I will clean the air, I will clean the air,” in struggled breathes as he is choked by the whip.

Teddy digs his staff into the river and pushes us past the finish line of the race, a line that will never be worn down. A line that will never hear the cheering of a crowd as someone completes the race. He turns to me and says, “All this scurrying that people do does not seem to get them anywhere. Seems like everyone would be better served by living cleaner, simpler lives.”

Rowing through the water we pass more shoreline. The air becomes more clear, but there is still the stench of decay, like food that has been left in the sun next to a full dumpster. Around a bend in the river a new sight is seen. On the hills on either side of the river, rows and rows of people stand in lines spaced about ten feet apart up and over the rise to the horizon. They are buried up to the waist in the dirt. Dogs roam between them and carelessly urinate on them. Giant woodpeckers constantly jam their beaks into the back of their skulls. Bees build hives upon their backs. No matter how hard the people try to struggle, the earth holds onto them. Blood curdling screams of dire pain and agony roll down the banks as lumberjack elves use hand saws to cut off individual limbs. The moist rasp of the saw precedes each scream. I can see some people being worked on by two elves sharing a pull saw as they rip through the flesh of the trunk.

Blood pools around each person and slowly makes its way to the river. Looking closely, I see the stumps of the people already cut down. On each of those trunks are sprouts forming and taking the shape of the person who was cut down. They are regrowing only to be cut down once again. One of the lumberjacks cut too low, or the ground had eroded away from a person so only the person’s legs were cut and his arms were intact.

He manages to pull himself to the riverbank using his arms and dragging his torso. Teddy takes the skiff near the shore. We watch him dig his hands into the dirt and approach us slowly. Loud screaming voices ~71~

came from the crawling man.

“Help me!” the man pleads.

“Why should we?” I ask.

“Because I can help you. I am Michitaka Sawada. I have a lot of money,” He says.

“How did you get your money?” I ask.

He groans, while replying, “The world needs palm oil. I gave it to them.”

“By slashing and burning the rain forest,” Teddy rebuffs.

“Yes, I did do that, but now I know that it is wrong and how it damages the planet,” he says convincingly.

Before I could say anything, an elf spears the man in his torso with a sharpened hook on a long pole and drags him away. Sawada digs his nails into the ground in protest, but is lifted up and dropped into a wood chipper and is spewed over the ground as a chunky, bloody paste.

The river begins to slow as we move past the forest of people. Grotesque and deformed seagulls appear flying overhead. Their calls are a warning about proceeding further. The smell of trash and garbage permeates the air. As we proceed, I see a huge pile of garbage easily a mile tall. A large conveyor belt extends from the pile and hovers over a pit. The seagulls pick up trash from the pile and drop it on the belt.

Teddy pulls the skiff to the shore and I get off to look down into the pit. Inside the pit are scores of people cut and bloodied by the falling debris. They move around hunched over in pain. Their stomachs are bloated and some are on their knees wretching and vomiting. The trash rains on them and threatens to bury them if they do not consume it. All the people are picking up the trash and eating it, choking it down to save themselves from being smothered. They run to each falling scrap, knocking each other down to get to it.

I yell down into the pit, “Why do you eat the trash? Just let it fall.”

A voice comes over the commotion, “If we stop, the birds will attack. They will tear at our flesh and pluck our eyes out of our heads.”

“Why are you in the pit in the first place?” I inquire.

“We spent our lives littering without conscious and being wasteful,” another person replies.

“Please get us out of here,” another yells.

Teddy calls me from the skiff to say it is time to leave. I stumble down the bank and climb aboard. We push off in silence and slide down the river with the current. I hold my head in my hands and think about the horrible sights I had seen. When I look up, I see that Teddy is staring at me, and waiting for it all to sink in.

“I spent my life trying to preserve and conserve our natural resources,” he says softly exhaling.

“It pains me to see what has been done to the planet. Everyone has the responsibility to take care of our natural resources.”

Teddy’s words were not an invitation for me to speak. I sit quietly and look ahead as he turns and pushes the skiff forward. In the distance, the low rumble of churning water returns. I can see a light, a break in the bleak landscape around me, at a point where the river runs. Teddy increases his efforts pushing us forward until we are plowing through the water. I can see ahead where the river meets the horizon. It looks like it just ended in space. I am confused and start to ask what is going on when I realize the genesis of the roaring sound.

“This is where you get off,” Teddy yells above the water’s rage. “Good luck.”

With those words he gives one final push, launching the skiff out of the water, into the air over a massive waterfall. My body flies through the air, into the light and clear, crisp air. Weightless, I turn and ~72~

spin until I do not know up from down. Consciousness escapes me.

I wake in the bottom of my canoe to the sound of birds chirping in the trees. My heart is racing and my muscles ache. My clothes are wet, but I cannot tell if it from the lake or sweat. Slowly, I rise and look around and the picturesque scene of the lake and trees that I remembered. The air is filled with the familiar pine and fresh water smell that I had grown to love. My excursion to the woods to get away from the city was not an escape, but the beginning of a greater journey for a much bigger purpose.

Andy Thompson ’20

~73~

Ruby

~74~

Hananah Ramsey ’18

Skinny Stem I was planted, I grew from a little seedling Never thinking twice about being different, looking different, I grew up with a skinny stem While everyone else had normal stems, I was always scared I’d blow away, Or I would break when the wind blew soft or strong, I was always scared to be looked at differently, Everyone else had petals bloom bright and colorful While mine bloomed a solid yellow ring around my face, Leaving me standing out in the crowd, Scaring me more than ever before, As I grow I notice Differences are good and allow others to see me as me, Not who or what they think I should be, I now embrace my skinny stem, Not letting the breeze scare me anymore, I now know my stem won’t break from the breeze or detach from the ground, Instead I stand tall and proud of my skinny stem and the ring around my face, Not letting anything stop me from looking up to the bright sun and smiling all day.

Morgan Mooradian ’21

~75~

Race to Sky Top

I am seven years old, and I have one front tooth and freckles on my lips. It is my second trip to Mohonk Mountain House - a Victorian castle resort nestled in the Shawgunk mountains of Upstate, New York. A 7,000-acre nature preserve surrounds us. I love it here! Sweat drips down my forehead with anticipation, excitement, and a twinge of nervousness. This is my first time facing the Labyrinth - a twomile, uphill rock scramble - without any adult supervision. The staff at the Mohonk Mountain House helped psych me up for the daunting climb. My parents lather my brother, Connor, and me with sunblock and warnings to be safe along the trail. With a full stomach, I walk briskly to the Labyrinth entrance. (We just finished a delicious barbeque lunch at the granary - sweet and juicy corn on the cob, a cheeseburger, and soft served ice cream.) As I cross the wooden bridge, the gazebos line the lake path like a line of crooked teeth; I jog past Connor to position myself first. I fasten my hair in a tight ponytail and double knot the laces on my Sketcher light up sneakers. I am ready to slide between rocks and scale boulders. My brother, now just a few paces behind me asks, “Ready to go?” I sprint into the Labyrinth - boy, am I ready!

Connor and I come across the first obstacle - the Slanted Pass which requires us to shimmy sideways between two craggy rocks and up a rickety ladder. I almost lose balance, but I plant my foot on the ladder and continue; I am a few rungs in front of Connor. Painted red arrows guide hikers through the complicated path, but after years of explorers traveling the path, these arrows have faded. A bit winded from my previous sprint, I scan for my next directional cue. Connor slips past me. He has completed the course so many times that he has committed it to memory. Up and over the rocks, Connor continues in the lead.

But he loses it at the notorious Nutcracker pointy rock (the name is self-explanatory and especially daunting for boys)! I dodge past him, and we emerge from the tree-covered portion of the rock scramble. The first bailout point appears; we see adult hikers ahead of us who take the bait. They abandon the Labyrinth for the less intense (and interesting) Sky Top path. The maze of boulders has defeated them. But not us - we are just getting started! However, before we reach the “master portion” of the rock scramble, we have to conquer the Lemon Squeeze. Tiny but mighty, I easily slide through, thus giving me a healthy lead on Connor.

Next, Connor and I move out from under the tree canopy, where pine needles coat the earth, to the sun-drenched boulder plateaus - and it is a squelcher. I am thankful for the NO-AD sunscreen #60 my mom rubbed on my cheeks, neck, arms, and legs - but I will never admit it. Jumping from rock to rock, as if starring in my favorite recent reality TV show - American Ninja Warrior - we finally reach the infamous Crevice. The deep split in the mountain towers over me. As I plot my approach to this formidable leg of our hike, I glance behind me to see Connor staring at the mountain range and down to the lake - instead of chasing behind me. He gives me another advantage - idiot! Next red arrow - and I am on the move again.

My ears pop from the change in altitude, amplifying the sound of Connor closing in on me - I have to hurry.

Again he stops at the top of the Crevice staring out on the trees and the harnessed rock climbers across the lake. This is my chance. I sprint up the next two ladders and ascend the final beat to Sky Top - victorious!

Mom and Dad coincidently meet us at the Labyrinth exit. They took the leisurely switchback path up to Sky Top tower. The stone structure was built in 1921 to honor Albert Smiley who founded Mohonk with his brother Alfred in 1869. I race ahead again up 180 stairs (yes, I counted) to the highest point at Mohonk. The inside of the Sky Tower is chilly and windy - so refreshing. The breeze rips through my hair, most of which has fallen out of my ponytail, and my face is smeared with dirt. I have a few cuts from stumbling on the rocks, but they are all worth it. Connor says calmly, “You know; you can see six states ~76~

from this one spot on a clear day.” Huh, I thought, still out of breath. Oh, this is why he was staring out at the landscape. For him, the hike was really about the scenery and being one with nature. I look out at the picturesque view, and I suddenly feel guilty for running through the Labyrinth. I could have spent time with my brother like the Smiley brothers intended; instead, I spent time competing. We sit at the top of the tower for another hour while looking at birds - the bald eagle soaring solo. I appreciate the beauty of the bird, but I am more thankful to be witnessing it with my brother beside me. We also guess which trees - towering pines, massive oaks, and shedding poplars - belong to which state. I look down the mountain at the beautiful Victorian architecture of the Mountain House and the lake. Swimmers and boaters are enjoying the afternoon, but we are too high up to see who is mastering the log roll or reeling in a trout.

Nature is all around us. We soak in the breathtaking 360-degree view. Our stomachs start to grumble, and I wonder what is on tonight’s dinner menu. We missed four o’clock tea time - again. I’m not a fan of the hot tea (or the senior citizens who drink it), but I love the aroma and taste of homemade chocolate chip cookies - maybe tomorrow.

My family and I venture down the mountain to get ready for dinner. As we trot down the trail, I cannot help but remember that I still beat my older brother. I had to make it known to everyone who had joined us at Sky Top. “I beat Connor up there!” I exclaimed.

Quick to respond Connor says, “Ha! I wasn’t racing. If I had known, I would have actually tried!”

Okay nature-boy, this deserves a rematch!

Caroline Bayless ’19

~77~

Peep

~78~

Hannah Ramsey ’18

You left me — Honey — two Memories — A Memory of Care A Present Father would approve, Had He been thereYou left me Vibrations of Need — As rhythmic as the Sea — Between Crest and Trough — Your Impulsiveness — and me —

Katie Manning ’19

This is an imitation of an Emily Dickinson poem.

~79~

Save Pave the Bay

There is no doubt that the Chesapeake Bay is one of Maryland’s greatest treasures. Spanning over 64,000 square miles and connecting six states, the bay offers a variety of riches such as blue crabs, oysters, and rockfish. For countless years, the Chesapeake has provided millions of people with the opportunity to enjoy water-based activities -- every summer, the bay is overcome by countless boats, and an even larger amount of swimmers. The people of Maryland are proud of, and incessantly flaunt, the Chesapeake, for it has defined a unique culture.

Yet, all good things must come to an end. According to the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, the bay is failing in the areas of pollution, and receiving the grades of one C, two Ds, and even an F. Surprisingly, this is a marginal improvement over/from previous years -- nevertheless, it is still dismal. Careless boaters are leaving trash in the bay for unknowing animals to eat, erosion containing damaging pesticides are ruining the quality of water, companies are illegally disposing of harmful waste, and bacteria are infecting organisms. The citizens of Maryland are swimming in, boating on, and essentially glorifying a dangerous and nauseating waste.

Marylanders are proud of their Chesapeake and do not want it to be polluted. However, recent studies have shown that the cost to fix the problems that plague the bay could cost an upwards of $12.8 billion. Some marine biologists have even noted that this staggering amount may not entirely finance the restoration of the Chesapeake as the rivers upstream flow through states with relaxed environmental laws.

I would like to propose a straightforward solution that would entirely eliminate the pollution in the Chesapeake while still allowing Marylanders to enjoy life outside. Not only would this resolution solve the issue of pollution, but it would offer new opportunities to the public and potentially reshape tradition for the better. Furthermore, it would be less costly than the non-guaranteed $12 billion restoration project.

It would be in the best interests of Maryland to drain the Chesapeake. Without the bay, there would be no water to pollute -- it is as simple as that. Erosion, dangerous chemicals, waste, and bacteria would no longer pose a threat to both nature and society. We would not have to worry about the fisheries’ issues, as there would no longer be fish in the bay. Habitat degradation would also no longer be a concern.

The Chesapeake Drainage Project would consist of two ingenious phases.

First, a dam would have to be built along the Susquehanna River at the Maryland/Pennsylvania line. If backed-up water at the dam happened to flood into Pennsylvania, it would not be our problem ­— let them deal with it. Once that dam is complete, another would be constructed at the lower section of the bay to create a barrier between Maryland and Virginia. Because the legislators of Virginia often pass regulations that only affect their portion of the bay without reflecting on the repercussions they cause in Maryland, it is not necessary to confer with them before starting the project. At that dam, the water from our side of the Chesapeake would be pumped into Virginia’s territory. This includes all aquatic wildlife, pollution, bacteria, and anything else found in the Chesapeake.

Phase Two of the Chesapeake Drainage Project would involve coating the bottom of the bay with asphalt. Once all obstructions such as sunken boats are removed, Maryland would spend around $492,000 to hire construction workers to smooth the bay floor and apply a thin layer of asphalt.

The Chesapeake Drainage Project is without a doubt the best resolution to the enduring problem of pollution. Organizations such as the Chesapeake Bay Foundation are biased toward their beloved bay. Instead of accepting my logical proposal, these organizations present concepts that will never fully eliminate pollution in the Chesapeake. They propose that civilians who discard of trash in the bay should ~80~

pay hefty fines — yet, there will always be those who litter. Although many costly strategies exist, erosion is not entirely preventable. A plan to lower the level of bacteria does not exist. It is the duty of the people to ignore these vile organizations as they do not truly care about the Chesapeake.

Although this proposal is clearly the long-awaited answer to the question of water pollution, there may be some who object to the draining of the Chesapeake. Citizens will complain about the lack of summer evenings spent out on the bay. Maybe a few sailors will miss their boating. In a sickening display of nationalism, Marylanders may even argue that the loss of the Chesapeake is a direct attack against their cultural identity. These naysayers are being irrational and close-minded to such a reasonable proposal. To those who lament the loss of swimming in the bay, may they discover the horrifying reports detailing all of the bacteria and microorganisms that live in the bay -- not to mention the flesh-eating diseases. Jellyfish pose a serious risk of injury, as well. Who wishes to swim in such an environment?

It is no surprise that the people of Maryland value the Chesapeake Bay. For an estimated four hundred years it has been used for entertainment, fisheries, transportation and numerous other industries.

Today, it is very likely to witness at least twenty-two people walking around Downtown Annapolis in their boating gear. However, it is time for the state of Maryland to focus on other, more significant interests and begin new traditions. Perhaps Maryland should revive its official sport of jousting -- it is much more fun to ride a horse at a very high speed and attempt to lance an opponent than to go tubing on a nice summer day while jellyfish and other abominable creatures attempt to harm you.

Contrary to popular assumption, sailors and their boats will not become useless due to the lack of water. There are 200,000 registered boaters in Maryland -- it would be an utter waste to discard such costly vessels. In lieu of boating, swimming, tubing, and the other currently-favored water activities, a new, invigorating pastime will be introduced: boat-car races. Simply attach a boat to a chassis with wheels and let the entertainment begin. These mechanisms can also be used as transportation across the asphalt and may lessen the immense amounts of traffic found on Maryland’s bridges. Boating laws would still apply to the newly-constructed area. The construction of clean, chlorinated water parks could prevent boredom, as well.

Why need the ugly, brackish water of the Chesapeake when you can enjoy artificial water?

All innovative and tradition-challenging ideas are met with close-minded criticism. Yet, it is time for Maryland to focus on the future and finally take the initiative to end the suffering that water pollution has caused. I would argue that this is not a loss of the Chesapeake Bay, but a rebirth of a new and improved Chesapeake. Furthermore, people would come from all around to see this new wonder, increasing tourism revenue to the state. The citizens of Maryland need to think outside the box -- or rather, think outside the bay.

Mackenzie Boughey ’20

Mackenzie’s essay is a satirical imitation of Jonathan Swift’s famous “A Modest Proposal.”

~81~

When I Rise Up by Georgia Douglas Johnson When I rise up above the earth, And look down on the things that fetter me, I beat my wings upon the air, Or tranquil lie, Surge after surge of potent strength Like incense comes to me When I rise up above the earth And look down upon the things that fetter me.

It comes like a surge like a powerful wave after a buildup of water starts to moves towards the shore. It comes like a surge that’s been waiting to make its mark and stand strong and tall with hopes of becoming known to the world. It is potent as a mighty tornado, winds gushing with the strength of all the forces of the Earth. It wants to make a difference like those before it. It wants to incense people’s minds with the thought of power saying “no more”. It comes ravishing and hungry for equality. It comes with hopes to rise up for those without voices or without courage to stand up for themselves. It comes to me.

Macy Iams ’19

This is a shovel poem, based on Georgia Douglas Johnson’s original poem. Notice that Macy has selected lines that she admires from the poem and has used them at the ends of the lines in her own poem.

~82~

Untitled

Camille White ’18 ~83~

The Quiet Sounds Footsteps become louder the longer that you close your eyes. While you sit there on the hard metal bench, the audible surroundings become stronger, more prevalent. You hear the breath of all of the bugs and the leaves and the trees. You hear your own breath in harmony with everything else. People are too tiresome and constantly out of rhythm with each other. Trying to be heard the loudest out of everyone, looking for attention, for validation. Nature doesn’t care. It simply continues to live. It continues to breath and make noises, to listen to itself and the other plants and animals around it.

You feel like gravity shifts. You are horizontal and your eyes are closed. You could be facing any direction. Your hair hangs off the edge. There is a feeling of freedom for your scalp. The rest of your body relaxes, and you shift more deeply into the bench. Your head perfectly fits in the corner. You begin to hear the dull pounding of your blood in your head. The constant sound of blood rushing through the veins; swooshing and sliding its way to the correct destination before leaving, oxygen-less. You breathe deeply and feel your lungs fill to the brim with air. As you exhale, the entire world exhales with you, as if the universe is taking a sigh of relief. You breathe in again. This time, the air rushes in so that all of your limbs feel like balloons. The sensation, the clean air, clears your mind. You think nothing can be more peaceful than this bench.

The snap of a twig startles you out of your trance. However, whether out of fear or comfort, you do not open your eyes. You begin to hear the sounds around you again. The trickle of water from the nearby brook is calming, and allows your muscles to release their tight grip on your bones. A bird, of what kind you do not know, chirps a quiet lullaby. The beautiful music rings through your ears and reaches your brain until the corners of your mouth are pulled upwards as if by magic. Yet, this is not magic and you know it. The mystical feeling of the bench is not that it’s impossible, only that it’s different. You never take time to stop and simply sit. The feeling of regret, of missing out on some key part of the universe for so long, overwhelms you. The darkness under your eyelids begins to swirl and nauseate you, while your regrets collect around you and the bench.

High above, a cloud moves and uncovers the sun. This new brightness shines down on your eyes and gives the colors that you see on your eyelids more vibrancy and dynamics. The dark chaos of before recedes into the oblivion in your brain to be lost until another day. You place your hand on your chest and become aware on the expansion of your lungs with each breath. The movement calms you, allows you to listen once more, while your regrets trickle away with the stream.

A light breeze begins to ruffle through the trees. It reaches your face and laughs at you as it tickles your nose and hairline. Your scalp itches, so you move your head from side to side. You let your left cheek rest on the metal, while feeling the curves and textures of the bench become indented into your skin.

After a while, a dragonfly begins to soar around the bench. Its wings create a simple hum. Maybe he is red, or blue. You do not know, and you keep your eyes closed to retain the mystery. You try to map out his constantly changing position, but your hearing is not able to accurately tell how far away he is. You imagine that he saw another dragonfly, perhaps one with whom he is friends, as he begins to fly away.

As time passes on, you mold into the bench more and more, until you fear you have become metal as well, to spend the rest of your days being magnetic. But again, you know this is not true, but only a whimsical feeling, a dream that would allow you to never face reality, a wish within the quiet sounds.

Grace Fieni ’18 ~84~

As I weave in between the bold, towering columns, twisting this way and that, moving faster and running harder I stop suddenly to watch a blur pierce the sky.

It careens through the air, seeming to target and aim, and fire. it plummets towards the earth, screaming on the way down.

Everything is silent as the bird emerges from the silky surface, grasping its prey.

Others pause as well to watch the beauty and the horror, We stand alone, but also together.

Maddi Meyer ’20

~85~

Irish Roots

~86~

Jimmy Diamondidis ’18

DM DIANAE FRANCISCAE VXORIS FVTVRI REGIS DIANA ERAT PVLCHERRIMA ET INTELLIGENTISSIMA QUAE ADIVVAVIT AEGROS ET MISEROS CAROLO REGE FVERIT FVTVRA REGINA VIXIT ANNIS XXXVI M II DIEBVS V WILHELMVS FECIT MATRI SVAE CARISSIMAE

To the spirits of the dead Diana Francis, wife of the future king Diana was the most beautiful and most intelligent Who helped the sick and poor With Charles as king, she will be the future queen She lived 36 years, two months, and 5 days William made this for his most caring mother Mallory Gersh ’19

~87~

Dream after falling asleep to H.P. Lovecraft I was seized, at once, at dark, by some tempting lethargic breeze And as it swelled across the room like a tide in flow, I found myself Settling into an umbrage, in between pools of dark and expectant waters, sunken far beneath my Farthest self, numb.

Sleep is a mystic remedy Without it, Who would have dreamt of magic or myth?

I cannot remember when I last drank in Such a gorging taste. All the while, my memories are A tumult, thrown towards disparate Homes as my day festers into a dream.

With each stumble into sleep, I kindle resting fires, Latent in day, vigilant at night.

But this night, I was shaken, for my dream looked back at me With the face of a giant; This vision, a skullish head, must have been one of Our numbered mountains, for it towered above the night Without comparison This figment must have dreamt of me, not I of it, for What corner of memory could have held this Titan?

This fogotten progenitor.

It lauded in colossal silence— The color of topsoil, black with the texture of fertile clay, It gazed past The pious rites conducted beneath its chin, and above the heavenly seats of Its Supplicants, towards a point in the sky that my eyes fail to reach.

Over our heads loom chalices, immense hands, Holding depths of water, ever-overrunning as rivers of crimson and black.

Its lies upon a Great Sea Beast, writhing in its scaly toquoise shell.

All who watch It saw the weakness of this murderous creature, we watched how Mass of the whole sky seems to mill the beast into obsidian dust, Sown into the stars.

Even the Sea Beast Submits.

The cowled heads of other sleeping spirits held up their Offerings and departed. ~88~

I departed, but I did not abadon this vision.

As though with the ire of steel, I had been marked.

I was left with a familiar sign, a memory of dream.

When I recall it, I am called back to It. The spring breeze has yet to leave my hair, and the tide Of sleep rises now without obeying the cycles of Our Moon.

Dream arrives as it wills; welcome it.

Ben Carsley ’18

~89~

The Things Severn Carries

Watching the hallways, students, teachers, and sometimes perspective parents crossed the line of sight. Some were in a hurry, others walked slowly, hoping to avoid class for as long as possible, while a third group was too entrenched within their thoughts to see what was truly happening around them. After the five minutes between first and second period ended, the hallway relaxed, the quiet almost creating an audible sigh of the building, until a junior, coming from an APUSH test, ran through the floor, hoping not to be late to chemistry again.

Lily Carthorn, this junior, carried a bright green backpack, hoping to stand out. In her hands, she held the heavy APUSH textbook, burdensome both physically and mentally; the weight made her dread the next nine months of having to carry the book and the long hours of work that it would entail. On her ring finger dangled an almost empty water bottle, blue in appearance, a reminder of the lack of time she had to simply refill it. In her backpack, Lily carried exactly three notebooks, a folder for her music sheets, two working pencils, two broken pencils, and nine different colored markers, because each notebook must be perfectly color coordinated. She originally started with twelve markers, but within the first few weeks of school, many had ‘borrowed’ the markers without returning them.

After Lily shifted her weight into the last remaining chair in chemistry, her mind wandered to the test she had just finished, and the weight of unknown success or failure set in. She remembered her sister, who had graduated the year before, and all of the work and worry she easily handled without much effort. She remembered the smile, the simple gait of the carefree attitude her sister held. Lily wished she could carry that feeling, but she could not.

In a classroom below Lily, Mrs. Livingston was planning for her next period class. She had been staring at a picture of her family – her husband and thirteen-year-old son – for the past seven minutes. She had reached a point in her career where she became tired of carrying the weight of high school, of dealing with eccentric parents, and of being overworked. She did not know what it was that made her feel unsatisfied with her position, but she had begun to consider leaving. Linda Livingston carried the frustration of losing a part of herself that she loved, the frustration of becoming dejected with where she was in her life. She had expected to be at a mature, satisfied point in her life, but her thirty-ninth birthday last week had not made anything clearer.

Instead, she carried the guilt of not caring what others thought, of not caring how her job turned out.

In the next building, Ms. Rune was carrying a new Expo marker across the room to her whiteboard.

During her lecture, her last marker had run out. However, Vera Rune carried much more than a marker. She carried the responsibility of preparing her sophomores for junior year Spanish class. She did not feel adequate for her job and carried the nervousness of a first-year teacher.

Ms. Rune also carried the discontentment of an unmarried women who desperately wanted to become a mother. As she glanced around the room, her eyes focused on the only freshman in the level three class, Rachel Tona. Every year, Vera Rune found a student that she hoped her future child would be like — a student who was quiet, but smart and caring, like Vera – and like Rachel.

As second period drifted forward, others drifted through the hallway. Rachel Tona quickly scurried to the bathroom, too afraid of seeing an upperclassman to look up as she walked. She held the new hair clip that her mother had eagerly bought her in one hand. In the other, Rachel played with the key to her house, an item that she was never without. The feeling of safety and comfort that the key brought allowed her to lift the burdens of other places. The new feeling of high school was still a heavy weight that Rachel carried; she feared the embarrassment of finding herself around others with whom she was unacquainted, which included ~90~

397 of the 400 students within the school. Buried under thought, she was about to open the door, when it swung open suddenly to reveal Carrie Linstrum, a senior for whom Rachel quickly jumped out of the way.

Only after picking up her dropped key did Rachel realize that Carrie looked like she had been crying.

Carrie, the only daughter among three brothers and a single father, carried the weight of the rest of the year. She should have been carrying the stress of college applications, but instead the allure of college, a life away from everything that she knew, was too potent for her to worry. She ambled through the halls, unsure of where to rest the things she carried during her free period. Her bookbag was surprisingly light this year; apparently many of her teachers preferred online textbooks. Instead, it was filled with a planner, a laptop, and a few pens.

Within herself, though, Carrie dragged an enormous weight. She felt empty inside, no longer enjoying the company of her fellow students. She carried the guilt of not being excited for her senior year, of hoping that the next nine months would not be so long or so painful as to make her cry like she had that day. Carrie looked at each day as another experience of having to project her image, while being fatigued, emotionally and physically, by the weight of her emptiness.

Gracie Fieni ’18

~91~

Every year, we celebrate the literary efforts of Severn students at the Mainsheet Coffeehouse. Part of that tradition is holding a contest for the “best� poem written using magnets during the event. The 2017 winner of that contest was Chela Cunningham, whose work appears above.

~92~

We hope that you enjoy this eighth 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 Anna Sfakinayudis

Faculty Advisors

Julia Maxey Sandy Sanders

~93~