2019 Upper School Mainsheet Literary Magazine

the mainsheet a literary and arts magazine Severn School 2019

Five Ways of Looking at the Severn River I. A lullaby of the ocean hymns with currents of blues and bliss.

II. Bubbles of sea foam that swirl underneath pillows of sand.

III. A cluster of wonders filled with spontaneous colors glistening with purity.

IV. Ripples of spume flow through tides of the unconquerable.

V. A bold, confident oasis of tranquility that gently floats in the deep, quiet, and unknown.

Hailey Schendel ’19

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Welcome to the ninth issue of The Mainsheet, Severn School’s Literary and Arts Magazine.

Within these pages, you will find an impressive collection of work done by students both for classes and for their own enjoyment. Here, you’ll discover that our students are able to model their writing on the works of masters while also creating their own stories and visual art from whole cloth. It’s always a pleasure to share our students’ efforts with you, and we know that you will enjoy perusing what you’ll find within these covers.

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Table of Contents Fish Watercolor, Lindsay Grimes.................................................................................................................Front Cover Five Ways of Looking at the Severn River, Hailey Schendel............................................................................................1 The Storm, Leia Liberto...................................................................................................................................................7 Mr. Linden’s Library, Lily von Rosenvingen.................................................................................................................8 To Sleep or Not to Sleep, Aarushi Negi..........................................................................................................................10 Waterpolo, Sheena Powers.............................................................................................................................................11 A Close Reading, Jack Wellschlager...............................................................................................................................12 Adventure, Lindsay King................................................................................................................................................14 Mohammed Ali, Ayanna Negi........................................................................................................................................15 The Great Con of Germain, Jared Reilly........................................................................................................................16 A Tribute to MLK, Jr., Yeala Grimes...........................................................................................................................19 Greens on Yellow, Ayanna Negi......................................................................................................................................20 Style Imitation, Reilly Mitchell........................................................................................................................................22 Lucky Stones, Lindsay King...........................................................................................................................................23 Inner Eye, Hannah Powell.............................................................................................................................................27 Style Imitation, Eileen Doherty.....................................................................................................................................28 Resist, Josie North..........................................................................................................................................................29 A Single Pop, Lily von Rosenvingen............................................................................................................................30 To Bathe or Not to Bathe, Morgan Skinner...................................................................................................................31 My Father’s Legacy, Reilly Mitchell.................................................................................................................................32 Miracle of Living, Jordan Cox........................................................................................................................................34 Heron in Flight, Aidan Buckley......................................................................................................................................35 What I Wouldn’t Give, Hayden Lamb...........................................................................................................................36 Girl, Lindsay King.........................................................................................................................................................39 ~4~

Style Imitation, Teddy Cromwell...................................................................................................................................40 Mental Warriors, John Huber........................................................................................................................................41 Coconuts, Megan Hiller..................................................................................................................................................44 Hurricane, Leia Liberto..................................................................................................................................................45 Growing Up, Taylor Layden...........................................................................................................................................46 The Legacy of Antigone, Julia Yousseff .........................................................................................................................47 To Shoot or Not to Shoot, Gavin Johnson......................................................................................................................51 Memory Project, Hannah Powell....................................................................................................................................52 Hands, Cierra Hargrove................................................................................................................................................53 Minor Details, Ally Dixon..............................................................................................................................................54 Escape, Jordan Cox........................................................................................................................................................58 Memories at Grandma’s House, Brooke Arnold.............................................................................................................60 Pop Goes the Seed, Ayanna Negi....................................................................................................................................63 The Skull, Ryan Countryman.......................................................................................................................................64 Fallen Angel, Hannah Powell.........................................................................................................................................65 Another Cup of Coffee?, Hailey Schendel......................................................................................................................66 Style Imitation, Will Klepper..........................................................................................................................................68 The Garden Lies Ahead, Baillee McNitt........................................................................................................................69 Pop Goes the Seed, Megan Hiller....................................................................................................................................72 The Crime of Conviction, Alex Lashgari.........................................................................................................................73 Annapolis, Ally Dixon....................................................................................................................................................75 The Man in the Tutu, Julia Christie................................................................................................................................76 Hands, Jack Wellschlager..............................................................................................................................................79

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The Storm We believed not even an ocean could come between us So I think that’s why it felt like I was drowning when you left

I was dragged along the ocean floor while you watched me from the safety of your shore When you left I sunk deep So far under I couldn’t see the sunlight that you once gave me All I saw and all I felt was dark Yet while I was suffering under water I couldn’t help but spend my time wondering if you were okay And that says a lot, doesn’t it Sometimes I stopped holding my breath Sometimes I liked the feeling of water filling my lungs Sometimes I enjoyed the scrape of sand along my skin A twisted version of a punishment I felt I deserved

The ocean we believed would never tear us apart has now betrayed us I’m still not sure if you felt it too Or if you only experienced a river A mild inconvenience in your journey through life

I was drowning in an ocean that threw me off course for a time that has not yet begun to end I don’t know when I’ll see the sun again without fear of the anchor wrapped around my feet The anchor that once Tied me To you

Leia Liberto ’19

~7~

Mr. Linden’s Library Forbidden. The excruciating word is repeatedly flowing through Beth’s little brain. The word that makes her want to disobey. Forbidden. Why is she forbidden? Forbidden from Mr. Linden’s Library.

Beth grew up in Rosewood Manor, the magnificent, yet aged estate which was surrounded by trees for miles. She lived there with her father and brother. Her father, whom she always called Mr. Linden, was reclusive. He often spent time in his grand library, which was in the center of their elegant home. John, her older brother, was the opposite of father. He was very gregarious and always knew how to make Beth smile.

John had always been protective over Beth, and there is a reason, for he knew something that his sister did not - the true story about their past. ~ “Hurry,” whispered Veronica. “They will be here at any moment and we need to get them out of here.”

She was speaking to her husband, Peter, who was searching through the many books in his enormous library.

“I found it,” exclaimed Peter who then rushed over to Veronica. He was carrying an old book covered in dust, the words barely legible. It was entitled, “The Book of Ivy.”

“I will get the children,” said Veronica as she hurried out of the library in her beautiful dress, the ends brushing across the wooden floor. She returned moments later with a young boy and an infant girl, John and Beth. Respectively, Peter quickly brought the book towards them.

Bang! It was the invaders. They were coming to overthrow their realm, The Ivy Realm. They were killing everyone in their path in order to engender a greater kingdom. The couple knew they were going to meet their demise, but they refused to let their children go down with them.

“John,” said Veronica, with tears rolling down her cheeks, “Your father and I need to tell you something very important. We are being invaded by the people of the Gamond Kingdom, and you will probably never see us again. I need you to promise me that you will protect Beth. Protect her from the knowledge of what happened today, and protect her from ever returning to this realm.” John nodded, although he was still confused.

Kneeling down to be eye level with his precious son, Peter showed the book to John. “This is The Book of Ivy,” said Peter, “It is a portal to another world, another land. In that land, you will find my brother, Mr. Linden. I have already notified him that you and Beth will be living with him. He will become your new father, and Beth shall never know of our existence.”

There was another loud bang and then another. The invaders were nearing. The couple reached in for a final hug and goodbye, with teary eyes and sniffling noses. Peter opened the book and placed it on the floor, and ivy started to grow out of the center of the book. The ivy grew taller and taller until the leafy branches fully engulfed the children. They then appeared in a dark forest next to a grand mansion.

“This must be Mr. Linden’s house” John said to Beth, trying to remain calm. He reached down, picked up the book and headed to the manor.

John walked up to the enormous door, and slowly lifted the heavy door knocker. It crashed with a bang, and Mr. Linden opened the massive door. He had grey hair and wrinkled skin, dressed in a pair of khaki pants, and a large, black coat, which was clearly expensive. He took one quick look at the children, then hurried the nervous boy and ignorant girl inside. ~8~

As planned, Mr. Linden generously offered his home to the children who grew up as welladjusted children, Beth was oblivious to her unfortunate past. Mr. Linden attempted to destroy the Book of Ivy so Beth could never find it, but no matter how many times he tried, it kept reappearing in his library.

He gave up and told Beth that she was forbidden from entering his library, so that she would never return to the Ivy Realm.

Beth grew up curious as to why she was never allowed into the library. She was always tempted to enter, even though she had no real reason for this allurement. One cold December night, her curiosity got the best of her. She snuck into the library and scanned the bookcases. All of a sudden, she heard a voice, a quiet voice whispering her name. She followed the sound and found that it was coming from a book, it was the Book of Ivy. She then heard footsteps, it was Mr. Linden. She quickly hid the book in her bag.

“What are you doing in here?” screamed Mr. Linden. “You are forbidden from this library! I am warning you, don’t open a single book!”

The startled girl ran to her room, confused as to why her father was so upset. She still had the book, though, and it was still calling her name. She decided to open the book, although she knew better.

When she opened the book, out grew an ivy plant, which sucked Beth’s spirit into the book, and left her physical body lying on her bed. Her soul was transferred to the book, and she now knows about the homicide of her true parents.

He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late. . .

Lily von Rosenvingen ’22

~9~

To Sleep, or Not To Sleep To sleep, or not to sleep, that is question: Whether ‘tis wiser for a pupil to ration The limited hours of rest among seven days, Or to down a pint of Keurig’s finest And, by consuming, cure dormancy. To blink–to attempt No more. And by an attempt to say we heed the advice of a dozen “Sleep Awareness” posters plastered on chalky cement walls: ‘tis an illusion Secretly to be envied. To blink, to attempt; To attempt, perchance to doze–ay, there’s the catch: For in those blanketed hours of repose what work will pile When we have halted our academic clock for this “necessity,” Must make us pause–there’s the alarm That makes nemesis of incredibly snug dreams; For who would endure the dark-socket hemispheres, Th’ 4:00 AM buzzers, the pedantic mentor’s assignments, The surprise of unpunctual AP Bio pop-ups, the nonstop cycle, The irritation of overused contacts, and the scoffs That caffeine-driven robots from parents receive, When she herself might her dilemma resolve With a mere decision? Who’d surpass a silken cushion, To toil under the barbaric restrictions of extracurriculars, But that terror of rejection letters after a snooze, The dubious college decisions, from whose release date No senior returns, challenges the circadian rhythm, And makes us rather trudge through foggy fatigue Than leave our destinies in wavering pandemonium?

Thus homework does make chickens of us all, And thus our intrinsic resort to logical solution Is vanquished with the dim light of achievement, And ventures of promising power and impulsion With this dim light their potential withers away And lose the tenacity to sleep.

Aarushi Negi ’19

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Sheena Powers ’22

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A Close Reading of “The Desolate Field” by William Carlos Williams Vast and gray, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and gray, and— In the tall, dried grasses a goat stirs with nozzle searching the ground.

—my head is in the air but who am I…?

And amazed my heart leaps at the thought of love vast and gray yearning silently over me.

William Carlos Williams’ “The Desolate Field” is a poem about a landscape. It is a poem about a sky, a field of grass, a goat, and the color gray; it is also a poem about knowing, not knowing, and about having shelter in ignorance. It is a poem about the world, and it is a poem about the world. William Carlos Williams is an imagist poet— his poems are distillations of distinctly singular moments of imagery.

In this particular poem, Williams uses the image of a “Desolate Field” to explore the properties of the unknown, and through use of both repetition and contrast, he suggests that, while sometimes frightening and often disregarded, the vastness of human ignorance is truly beautiful.

The repetition of the words “vast and gray” is clear throughout “The Desolate Field,” but rather than serving as a monotonous reminder of motif, its meaning evolves in interesting ways throughout the poem. Appropriately, the poem begins with “vast and gray, the sky.” This line instantly creates the image of a wide, neutral sky— an image most readers would associate with an overcast day and, ultimately, dreariness. However, Williams follows this image with the lines “…is a simulacrum // to all but him whose days // are vast and gray…”. This further description of the sky immediately calls into question the image that was established in the first line. By suggesting that the sky is a simulacrum, or a representation, of this vastness and grayness to all except he who actually experiences the “vast and gray” throughout his days, Williams is essentially acknowledging the readers’ initial assumption. When presented with a vast and gray sky, as I discussed, it is likely that readers assumed it to represent dreariness— to be a “simulacrum” for this dreariness; however, the narrator declares that the dark, gloomy sky does not represent the term “vast and gray” for all who actually experience the full meaning of those words. At the most basic level, Williams introduces the term “vast and gray,” and then he declares that a sky with these properties is not a proper representation of the term to one who truly knows it, thereby, through repetition, subverting readers’ expectations of what Williams is referring to with the words “vast and gray”; to the narrator these words do not call to mind an uninteresting, flat sky— they represent something completely different.

The definition of “vast and gray” is defined not only by repetition, but also by elegant use of contrast. The lines “In the tall, dried grasses // a goat stirs // with nozzle searching the ground.” directly contrast with the lines that follow: “—my head is in the air // but who am I…?” In the first set of lines, the ~12~

narrator observes a goat with its head both in tall grass and pointed directly towards the ground, searching— the surrounding field completely escapes the goat’s grounded view; in the second set, the narrator has his head “in the air,” meaning that he is almost certainly looking around at his surroundings. Additionally, while the first set of lines concretely establishes the presence in the grass as being that of a goat, the second set asks the open-ended question “who am I.” The ground is contrasted with the sky, and the specificity with which the narrator identifies the goat contrasts with the vagueness with which the narrator identifies himself. In this contrast, one of Williams’ major claims comes to surface: that an unobscured view of the world offers more uncertainty than a sheltered one. After introducing this idea through contrast, Williams moves into more repetition of “vast and gray” to complete the statement of “The Desolate Field”’s theme.

After defining it early in the poem, then detailing its effects in the middle of the poem, William Carlos Williams once again repeats “vast and gray” in the final lines to complete his description of “the unknown.” With the first four lines, Williams establishes that “vast and gray” does not refer to a dreary sky; if one were to take “vast and gray” as meaning that which is unknown, then Williams seems to claim that uncertainty is perceived similarly to an overcast sky—poorly—by those to whom it is foreign, but that it is seen as something completely different by those who are deeply familiar. In lines five through nine, Williams demonstrates how one’s mindset is changed when exposed to the unknown in how the narrator is very confident on what animal is searching the ground from within tall grass—a goat— but decidedly unsure of the identity of one who is fully exposed—himself; essentially, Williams is suggesting that exposure to the unknown causes one to doubt himself or herself. The final lines—ten through thirteen—complete Williams’ statement on the unknown: “And amazed my heart leaps // at the thought of love // vast and gray // yearning silently over me.”. In these lines, the narrator muses upon how love, which he describes as “vast and gray,” lifts his spirits. The words “vast and gray,” which have previously been described as being unlike a dreary sky, as well as being potentially conducive to an identity-crisis, are now being connected to something as pure and as joy-bringing as love. In this way, the “vast and gray,” and by extension the unknown, is shown to be something that can bring to one true delight. The narrator’s heart “leaps” while he considers how there must be, out in the deep horizons of that desolate field, one who loves him— who “yearns silently” over him. By providing a concrete example of the unknown’s beneficial properties, Williams concludes his statement: while it is often misperceived, and while it has the potential to cloud one’s perception of himself, if one accepts wholeheartedly its presence, the unknown offers a truly singular treasure— wonder.

Jack Wellschlager ’19

~13~

Adventure Adventure is the thing that smiles That reaches out its hand, And shows the way less traveled on, And never has a plan, And although a great risk it is; And scared might be the mass That lust shall mask conformity That adhered those in past.

I’ve found it in on a normal day, And across lands afar; Yet, someday, in transparency, This yearning is sure to scar.

LIndsay King ’20

This poem is a loose imitation of Emily Dickinson’s poem, “Hope is the Thing with Feathers.”

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Ayana Negi ’22

~15~

The Great Con of Germain

The air around me now is dark and cold, it is infused with a dankness that pervades all my senses and that would interrupt any pleasant conversation. The space beyond the walls murmurs with the distant sounds of raucous celebration and zealous youthfulness that refuses to recognize its transience. Louis XIV has just been crowned King of France in Rheims, a prestigious town not far from here, and the peasants outside are celebrating his ascension with un petit gouter. I sit alone in a room I’ve rented at an inn; and although it cost me most of my remaining coin, I thought it an indulgence worthy of an old painter in his final hours. The incessant ticking of a grandfather clock floats through the air; creeping through the walls, as though it were in fact the dogged pace of death closing in on my frail form. I am put in mind of a story that has followed me for many a season, a tale I thought perhaps important to transcribe before my final hour arrives. It is a story that I overheard when I was more sprightly than now, from an old French swindler who was wiser than even he knew.

’Twas the year of Our Lord 1620, and on the warm summer’s eve where our scene is set, a troop of performers are passing through the prosperous City of Nancy. Walking and playing jovially through the cobbled streets, a merry band of Venetian performers were strumming their lutes and fiddles in a jaunty air.

The City of Nancy is an old market town in Lorraine and has always been home to artisans, nobles, and tricksters – the latter always having been the best entertainers. There were boulangeries selling sweetmeats that they had made for un petit dejeuner, but they would serve at half-price for supper. Later that night, any pastries unsold would be distributed to the street urchins strewn around the square. Infants lacking a cot to sleep on, but they had platoons of buskers and minstrels to stimulate their less emaciated senses. There were plenty of shopkeeps selling their wares and blacksmiths barking about the quality of their steel and the skill of their workmanship. Also inhabiting this burghal were multitudinous thieves who would dart in and out of the large crowds despite the gendarmerie being always close at hand. These thieves were more often unsuccessful than not. The city was notorious for its pickpockets, and travelers to the great market town would often secure their coin purses with bits of string to stop wandering hands.

I often found coin of my own in this square by painting portraits for wealthy travelers who wished for a memento of their time in Nancy. It was frugal work, but I subsisted on my income so long as the city was bustling with people, as it often was. On this particular evening, the golden sunset was fading into a pleasant gloaming, and the square was full of travelers looking for victuals or merriment. The street urchins were also looking for a meal, many who had not any sustenance that day. The children of Nancy were often led to a life of petty crime by virtue of an empty stomach, the unfortunate fact of which the ever-watchful gendarmerie were fully aware. I, myself, had upon occasion been the victim of the ploy of a starving child to find some additional coin; I found their filching hands in mine own purse. In those colder years, I was often close to the street myself, but on occasion, when I had a coin to spare, I could afford to donate some meager alms to the poor dickens in the plaza.

While waiting for patrons to notice my petit magasin, I noticed a hunched, unassuming character step up onto a wooden crate and clear his throat rather portentously. He wore a cowl that served in part as a mask, which covered up one of his eyes. The cap was of pitch in its color and had the peculiar effect of making the stranger more personable and yet distinctly unrecognizable. His torso was adorned with rags of red and white, and his pantaloons and slippers were no less tattered, but he had a glint in his eye that sparked curiosity, as though he had a unique message to convey. He looked about my age, but perhaps life had been harder on him. I paid him little mind until he began harking to the crowd, “Come closer, come ~16~

closer, to hear a tale of great trickery and intrigue!” The people who approached heard that his name was Germain, that he was a storyteller, and that he had once been a king of a distant land called Babylon, but that he had been fooled by a trickster who had usurped his kingdom. The audience approached and were visibly intrigued by his claims of royalty. As they drew nearer, Germain began his story:

“Once upon a time, I ruled a kingdom by the name of Babylon that was built at the meeting of two rivers. The land was fertile and beautiful, and its people were well fed and handsome. The country was unrivaled in its riches, and it prospered because of the Tigris and the Euphrates that flanked it on both sides. I ruled over this kingdom as my father did, and as did his father before him. We prayed to the gods of these rivers and hoped they would provide us the water to nourish our crops and sustain our animals, and so our country flourished. For generations we had continued this tradition, until one day a stranger visited the palace. He was dressed rather plainly and was cloaked in rags; he claimed to represent the river gods and demanded we divert the water away from their farms so as to share with the neighboring kingdom. His request seemed brazen, but he had a pious authority about him that brooked no objection, and I, knowing the stories of what had happened to those who defied the wishes of the gods, was eventually swayed by the stranger’s injunctions.

I summoned my best builders to divert the water to the neighboring kingdom ruled by King Kutkh. When the task was completed the water supplies to our city gradually dried up, but I was convinced I had made the right choice for the well-being of my people. The following month our supplies began to dwindle, the crops began decaying, and the animals started to die of thirst, so I requested an audience with the stranger who had arrived before. When the stranger returned he was no longer cloaked in rags but rather adorned in gold and surrounded by an army. He announced himself as King Kutkh, and he claimed himself god incarnate, a trickster god, and that he was here to ascend the throne of Babylon. I refused him, but my people had been so weakened by the lack of water that all attempts at resistance were quickly overcome by King Kutkh’s forces. He eventually seized the palace, while stripping me of all I owned, and banishing me from my kingdom. Ever since have I wandered the world and told my tale, in order to warn people to beware of tricksters.”

Germain then paused as if recalling a time gone by… the audience, hanging upon his every word, were silent as death.”

Germain broke the silence, “Thank you all for listening. I will take no money or gold for my tale, but would rather continue on my journey. Farewell.”

The crowd cheered for Germain’s story as he began to leave his box and shamble away while leaning on a wooden crook for support. During the recounting of this tale, the audience was so enthralled by the art of the storyteller that they hadn’t noticed that small orphan children were sneaking in and amongst them, to steal every coin from every pocket. Germain vanished into an alley and the crowd quickly dispersed.

During Germain’s story I had been sketching him, and in an effort to finish my sketch so as to paint him later, I followed him down the alley. There, I descried him hunched over on a step surrounded by street urchins, who had emptied their sacks to share in what treasures they had filched from the crowd.

It wasn’t until then that I noticed how light my own pockets had become. Stunned by his deception and incensed by their crimes, I was about to confront them when something stopped me. Seeing the gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes of the children made me realize their need was far greater than my own. And, in all fairness, Germain had warned me to beware of tricksters, and it was perhaps my own fault for being so easily beguiled. I walked away, and henceforth, I was indeed more wary of tricksters, and was never taken ~17~

advantage of again.

Alas, as I listen to the relentless ticking of the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway, I remember Germain and the lesson he taught me. Though I may regret much in my life, I do not regret letting Germain have my purse all those years ago. Now, I am just an old man clinging to his brushes; and as I look down at the painting I have finally completed so many years later, I wonder what might have become of old King Germain of Babylon and if he ever returned to his kingdom. — Anonymous

Jared Reilly ’19

This story was inspired by an anonymous painting.

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Yeala Grimes ’21

~19~

Greens on Yellow Corn Neighborhood was a wealthy neighborhood where everything had been the same for the past one hundred years. Nothing had changed, except the birth of technology. Wives cared for their children and husbands worked late until the lamp posts glowed on the streets. There were huge evergreen trees, three story houses, and children staying up until midnight to play capture the flag. With light green shutters, clay colored brick, and a smooth driveway the house, 4523 Yellow Lane, was an ordinary dwelling in Corn Neighborhood. What was unusual about 4523 Yellow Lane, however, was not the house itself, but its inhabitants. The Smiths had moved to Corn Neighborhood over ten years ago. Neighbors tried to welcome the newcomers, but they never left their tall walls. In fact, it seemed as if they never left the top bedroom where a clear white light occasionally flickered in the presence of inhuman-like shadows. In all ten years, Yellow Lane had never seen another light on in the house.

Soon, the property began to change. In early June, the soil became looser in the yard. Every so often, the ground would tremor, as if a minor earthquake had struck. Lights in the neighborhood would switch on and off unexpectedly. Confusion struck Corn Neighborhood, as it had been always a quiet community.

“What is this? Witchcraft? Wizardry?” a confused nine year old boy pondered.

“I do not know, but whatever this is, it’s scaring me,” answered a worried mother.

The people of Corn were naive; they did not realize that the real answer to the strange events was out of this world. The events were becoming more frequent. People were becoming more cautious around the odd house with one light. The nine year old boy and his friends stopped playing capture the flag. Finally, Jim, the next door neighbor decided to crack the mystery. Jim was a bald, plump man who flaunted a grey Rolex watch. He had more facial hair than hair on his head. He rang the door bell to 4523, but no one answered. Next, he tried circling to the backyard, but no signs of unusual activity were to be found. Alas, he gave up and decided to return home. As the days grew longer and the temperature rose to a mere 105 degrees Fahrenheit, people became restless. The sky seemed to change color from a regular blue to a ripe, twisted orange. When it thunderstormed, the sky looked as if it was in battle with itself, as it constantly whipped violent air and showed furious clouds of matte black.

One day, in the midst of another perilous storm, lights started beaming from the bottom of 4523.

Smoke bellowed out of the driveway, suffocating the trees and grass. More blinding lights started shooting like lasers from the bottom of the strange house. The smoke was like dry ice and blocked people’s visions and turned regular breathing into coughing hacks. Suddenly, Corn Neighborhood became enveloped in a sea of silence. The nearest evergreen was on the verge of breaking. The neighborhood was so quiet, one could hear the slow splitting of the thick wood from a mile away. The house rose up from the loose ground and metamorphosed into part of the twisted sky as the laser lights flashed underneath it. It entered the atmosphere and became higher than the Empire State Building; it was taller than any plane could ever reach. People stared in awe of the sight they had just witnessed.

Intrinsically, everyone knew 4523 would never return. They felt as if they had seen the end of the world and this was the afterlife. The experience was life changing. The house had defied gravity. Corn Neighborhood had been so sure that something like the 4523 incident could never have happened in their neighborhood. Aliens?

“Science would have never allowed it. There is no way some extraterrestrial was living on Yellow Lane, especially without me knowing. Think about it. Corn Neighborhood is a perfect environment for ~20~

us, but not for anyone else. Anyway, we would have been smart enough to know about that, us intelligent human beings. Fake news,� remarked a stubborn Jim. Corn was never the same. The 4523 incident engendered a whole new mindset for people of this small neighborhood. Not a single resident underestimated anything. Anything was possible. If aliens could live on earth, then pigs could actually fly. Women could be the breadwinners, working until the lamp posts glowed, and men could take care of children. People could defy gravity. Witchcraft? Wizardly? Possible.

Everything is not what it seems.

Ayanna Negi ’22

~21~

The leaves fall as the days begin to cool. With its bright reds and oranges it covers the ground in a patchwork of color. The trees are barren. Each step creates a crunch, and the hues soon turn to brown. The cycle ends when the last leaf falls and the trees are barren, signaling the beginning of a bitter cold winter, one without color.

Reilly Mitchell ’19

This is an imitation of the style found in Jill Ker Conway’s The Road From Coorain.

~22~

Lucky Stones

“Shit!” Screeeechhhhhhh; hold on, and let me clarify: my dad is not a frequent curser. However, for one week during this annual trip up to my grandparent’s house, anything deemed ‘normal’ in our family, such as appropriate vocabulary, seems to get lost along the ride. The seven-hour-long car ride. Seven endless hours—sometimes even eight—packed in the Volvo with two anxious siblings fighting the luggage for enough space to snuggle up comfortably. It is as if we become little minnows inside an over crowded fishtank that is being continuously tapped by mindless children. From the outside looking in, they see a family of creatures who swim with the artificial current as one school; but to the minnows, each seemingly light knock on the glass creates a shift in the carefully balanced system, thus offsetting the peace and rippling through the fragile sense of order. The fine line of bliss within our squished car is especially challenged on one certain road, about three quarters of the way there, that leads us to Skaneatlas Lake. The place that shaped me. The main stretch of this road dances gracefully and creates the illusion of a pendulum, with smooth, rolling hills that spring up and dip down over and over. It was like a rollercoaster! Now, however, this unique road never fails to upset at least somebody’s stomach. Nothing is worse than the suspense of ‘are they actually going to be sick.’ Trust me, there is not enough space to accommodate that. Yet, despite the hassle of traveling, we all look forward to this escape from reality; I guess the human conscience is drawn towards the sense of comfort that tradition evokes. Anyways, where was I? Ah, yes. Shit.

“For God’s sake, Dad, you miss that turn fifty percent of the time! I really don’t know if I believe that you grew up here since you can’t even recognize your own driveway,” I tease my dad with a giggle.

He rolls his eyes in response and matches my light joke with a smile. In an ultimate test of luck, he hauls the one thousand pound car in a U-turn smack in the middle of the narrow road with complete dismissal of any possible oncoming traffic. As he predicted, we made it fine; there are hardly any people in Upstate, New York.

Entering the gravel driveway has always been a favorite of mine. It is refreshingly rewarding to see actual confirmation that the sluggish traveling comes with a worthy purpose; any dreariness or cramping instantly disappears as the uneven pebbles underneath shake the car. All electronics, any distractions, and petty quarrels are suddenly ignored for these golden few seconds, as everyone excitedly peers out the windows in hopes of seeing Grammy Peggy, Grandpa Jeff, and their chocolate lab Erica awaiting our mess of restless anticipation. By the time the car rolls to a stop, we are practically climbing over each other in a hurry to claim our awaited reward.

I tumble out of the backseat to reach the fresh air as quickly as possible. The chilled breeze engulfs me like a wave, luring me to the lake; I skip past the side of their house in pursuit, with Erica tagging along behind me. Although I am not sure whether it is the quick sprint or the sudden realization of beauty, my breath is swept away, stolen from within me. The water’s perfect reflection of the baby blue, cloudless sky complimented by an endless array of green trees that cleanse the lungs with freshness exceeds the simple phenomenon of breathtaking. I stand before the scraggly handmade wooden dock with barely enough width for two people to pass string intently at the pureness in front of me. Not only is there an incomparable view that is mine to enjoy, but there is also a rush of memories born here that come crashing over me. Along the pebbled beaches aside the grand Skaneatlas Lake was where my grandmother first introduced lucky stones to me many years ago. These are special stones that naturally have holes, of various sizes and amounts, that lie on the slim, rocky beaches bridging their lawn to the lake. It takes a keen eye to spot these; we sometimes would sit for hours in silence shifting through the masses of gray ~23~

in hopes of finding an addition for the collection. Lucky stones are very valuable indeed. While it is true that they do not hold quantifiable wealth, they are perhaps beyond such a concept because within them is fortune and love. When my grandmother used to give me them as a child, I could not quite grasp the meaning of these simple stones. But now, I recognize their deeper wealth; the holes embedded in these lucky stones represent the journey of their existence, and tell of their resilience through the forces of nature and humans alike. Collecting these stones and appreciating their stories taught me to understand that every single person has had a different, unique life that lead them to wherever he or she is currently. A splash of cold water brings me back to a present state of my current surroundings. With a smile, I turn to continue this rediscovery of my grandparents’ home, and to thank my lucky stones for blessing me with such an extraordinary place.

Through the screen door and into the kitchen, which is always full of fresh tomatoes and garlic from Grammy Peggy’s garden, I walk straight to the candy drawer out of pure habit. My grandfather always keeps a stash of wintergreen gum and chocolate here; I grab a Kiss and rest my elbows over the smooth, marble counter of the island, peeling the silver wrapping to reach the concealed treat. How funny is it that he leaves kisses, I think to myself. I look over my right shoulder, where next to the screen doors the oven sits under the stove and beside the sink. Above the sterling silver faucet is the windowsill; an array of little trinkets are lined up, displaying their differences in the shared natural spotlight of the sun. On the other side of the room is an old wooden bookshelf that climbs all the way to the ceiling. The radio resting on the middle level could be considered outdated, but I like to think there is more to it than that. This very radio possesses in its music the power of unfiltered love. It uses this power over anyone who listens, like my grandparents who will sometimes turn on the radio after diner. When this happens, Peggy grabs my grandpa Jeff, and they just dance as if the world was theirs. They sway to the beat of the Betsy Cline, holding each other close. At first, second hand embarrassment engulfed my thoughts; right before me were two old people in my family dancing in front of everyone! Gross! However, looking back I see the true power in these moments they impressed on me. My clouded judgement faded as I grew older and saw the importance of these small displays of happiness. After over fifty years of marriage, they are still as deeply in love as two seventeen-year-olds on a summer night in August. The ancient radio magically has the power to pull them together, bringing light to the appreciation and respect they have for the life they built together. It amazes me. There is no other way to describe how captivating, inspiring, and warming it is to witness love in two people. I have quite a bit of ambitions for my future; nonetheless, to me a life without love is meaningless.

I twirl around to that imaginary tune in my head, moving along into the dining room. There are pictures upon pictures surrounding the oval table, which I’ve seen hundreds of times but still enjoy. There are snapshots of the past that I didn’t even know were photographed; there is a photograph of me and my cousin dressed in fairy costumes made up of my grandmother’s colorful scarfs. We had been set up in a little green tent in the front yard, which we transformed into our very own fairy world! Another framed photo beside it shows all of the cousins as bare-bottomed babies sitting in a row; a grin takes over my face as I study the goofy expressions on our faces. Other pictures capture holiday celebrations, with everyone sharing the same smiles despite the aging from years gone by. My grandfather loves to collect these memories. Each year for Christmas, he will compose a photo album in an Apple Book catered to the gift recipient. Grammy adds her personal touch by captioning each page with witty comments or cheesy jokes; we have over five of these at home, but I always find new hints of personality after every go-over. I now try and capture as many moments as possible, as their perspectives have flowed through to me. In the rush of our busy lives, it is important to slow down once in a while and appreciate what memories are being formed; capturing them ~24~

with photographs has this same effect. The old fashioned value that my grandparents place in pictures warms my heart, and a silent thank you passes through my thoughts for not letting these memories slip away.

The room of photographs leads the way to my favorite retreat. The TV room. No worries, most of my time spent here does not involve mind-numbing television shows; instead, it has given me the gift of knowledge. The (almost) floor-to-ceilling windows bring in the most beautiful natural light that cascades over the room with a sparkling white glare. Sometimes, if my energy levels become too low for functional activities, I close the paisley printed curtains to temporarily block the sun and sink into the white, twoseater couch. After the tiring endeavor from that painful car ride, I allow myself to fall into its most amazingly soft cushions, which engulf me as I curl up in my favorite napping spot ever. The two chairs and TV that face this couch are placed brilliantly, as well. Often, my grandfather will sit down in one of the chairs across from me and then talk for hours about whichever book he is reading and then taking interest in whatever classes I am pursuing. Whether we talk of some obscure Russian historian novelist, physics, or algebra, these discussions always leave me with a heightened curiosity in life. He is a man who loves to learn, and does so through reading. I think I may get that from him, as I often find myself lost in a good book, loving the stories behind historical events, and the patterns that are without fail in algebraic expressions. My grandfather worked as an engineer most his life, and he is always fixing something around the house. Yet he also reads books more than anyone I know; he would spend a few days on one book, then move on the next novel as quickly as he can. He will also read textbooks, chasing down as much knowledge as he can. Grandpa Jeff inspires me. More recently, I have found myself enjoying textbook readings, looking at the chapters like pieces of a complex puzzle I can only hope to understand. My love of learning comes from him; there is nothing that compares to the intellectual conversations we share, which strengthen my relationship with him but also closer to understanding the world around me. With these thoughts, my eyelids drift together, and a wave of unconsciousness rolls over me.

After a good thirty minutes, my refreshed self rises from the couch at the calls of Grammy from her room.

“Lindsay! Come ‘ere, I want to show you something! I promise it’ll be quick just come see!”

Peggy shouts, her voice echoing through the house, as if there was not enough space to fit her entire character. After a few more calls, I enter her room, leaving the comfort of my slumber. Immediately, I bounce onto her king sized bed, which is covered in a plush gold duvet; the worn-in mattress accepts the weight of my body, offering the warmest of hugs.

“What is it, Gram,” I ask as half my attention stays with her while the other is peeled to the screen doors that look out on the lake. The two dogs, my white doodle and her chocolate lab, chase each other around the lawn, making me smile as I think about how happy their reunion must be. Gram’s response quickly grabs my attention back to where she wants it.

“Take a look at these earrings. I got them when I was in Arizona last month; there was this lady who sold them to me—she was a Native American. Look at the handmade beads that she strung herself to create that pattern. They are just so cool, and I thought you’d enjoy them,” she shares with me the memorized story with excitement in her eyes. It is contagious. The earrings are of a vibrant blue and yellow, with varying sizes of beads that formed a tribal pattern. The beaded strands fall about four inches down, which is the perfect length for dangles. I take one from the pair in her hand to feel their weight, which surprise me with feather-like lightness. Every single pair of her earrings have stories behind them; just as the lucky stones carry with them unique journeys, Grammy’s jewelry is always unique in their ~25~

origins. She keeps them hanging on a dainty curtain in her bathroom, displaying the hidden stories for anyone she chooses to share them with. She has given me a few pairs, too; I love all of them. In fact, I often wear funky earrings now. They are empowering. Peggy has rooted her unique style in mine over the years by encouraging self-expression. She believes in who she is, thus showing to me how to find that same confidence when defying social norms. Sure, it may just be a collection of hand-made jewelry, but their significance holds so much more depth; these magnificent earrings that Grammy introduced me to have helped me find assurance in my voice and my personality. I am forever grateful for that gift.

Later in the night, after most of the initial excitement died down, the rare opportunity for relaxation came forth. Everyone else seems to have the same idea as I; sunsets here are nothing short of phenomenal.

Sitting on the edge of the dock, my appreciation for this lake house sets down upon me like the sun with an orange sky. I look out at the ombre yellows and reds across the sky, changing the water to appear entirely opposite of blue. The the sailboat on the buoy twenty feet out, named “Peggy� by my grandfather, bobs up and down from the ripples of slight movement. I look down at my feet, which since having arrived here have traveled back out to the most beautiful spot on Skaneatlas Lake, at the end of the scraggly, wooden dock my grandfather built himself. They hover above the water, not long enough yet to reach the chilled water. Like the lake below me, there is so much depth, so many memories and moments that belong to this house. How does one place even illustrate such a wonderful place? It seems impossible to me. There is something that draws us back, a crucial component of the lake that reels me in each summer; no matter how far we travel, for whatever duration, we always carve out a sliver of time to come back. This one week out of every year seems so small and insignificant if looked at from an outside perspective. But in reality, it comes to mean so much more than the appearance can show. This lake and my grandparents that luckily live here make up who the epitome of who I am.

ALTERNATE: My grandma Peggy wants to move. It is not that she does not love the lake house; in fact, I think that love is the thing that holds her back from going through with these plans. She wants to move in order to be physically closer to either my dad or uncle; she misses seeing our families. I guess they must get lonely out here sometimes, when the deafening silence of calm becomes overwhelming. But what my grandfather and I argue is that there is no justifiable price tag that can be placed on this house. There is too much internal value here for such a materialistic brand. Everyone knows this. It goes unsaid that the house is more than simply a house; it is a home, complete with character and irreplaceable memories. I really hope that they see that as much as I do. I know someday, when reality factors in, the inevitable must occur; however, until then, these annual trips will continue to shape me, and I can only wish on my lucky stones it does the same for everyone else.

Lindsay King ’20

~26~

Inner Eye

Hannah Powell ’20

~27~

Aroma of salt and freshness fill the airways. Green is tangled in the splashes, white flying up in harshness. Hard splashes take a fresh victim. Filled waterways surround the unknown, the underneath is a mystery. Tangled up, weeds fighting away, the fight continues on, crashing down quickly, overcoming everything the fresh light shows through.

Eileen Doherty ’19

This is an imitation of the style found in Jill Ker Conway’s The Road From Coorain.

~28~

Inspired by Severn’s Unity Day

Josie North ’22 ~29~

A Single Pop In a split second Maybe less Maybe more Everything can change You go from one thing To the next No explanation No warning One person One thought One event And With a single pop Everything can change

It may be confusing You may wonder why But in reality This is bound to happen You are made to change This can be good Or this can be bad It’s up to you to decide Because With a single pop Everything can change In a split second Maybe less Maybe more

Lily Von Rosenvinge ’22

~30~

To bathe, or not to bathe, that is the question: Whether ‘tis easier on the body to suffer The grime and filth of a contemptible day, Or to take arms against a layer of bacteria And by scrubbing end them. To clean-- to bathe, No more; and by a shower to say I prolong The woes and thousands of seconds That each day holds-‘Tis a decision That I do not wish to make. To bathe, to clean-To clean, perchance to stumble and fall: ay, that’s the predicament; For in that stream of heat where cleanliness may come, When soap suds blur the vision, Must make us blind-- there’s the shampoos, conditioners, and fragrances That makes the shower so long in time.

For who would choose to bear the stench and filth of a day, Th’ foul odor of grotesque sweat, the working man’s routine, The sting of tingling nostrils, the bath’s delay, The heat of an unscrubbed tongue, and the bristles That teeth merit of cleaning takes, When he himself might slip and fall on a sudsy bar of soap In haste and carelessness? Who would remind thee, To slow down and clean thyself thoroughly, But that desire to bathe quickly, The disgust that moves the dirtiest of men From their couches, disregards the temptation of television And encourages us to face the water Than disregard it and withstand the filth?

Thus soap does make clean of us; And thus the natural desire to rest Is forgone by means of cleanliness And relieves the conscience and body, With this tranquility bacteria is no more And the body slumbers at peace.

Morgan Skinner ’19

~31~

My Father’s Legacy

Everyone treats me like an adult and celebrates me for my inheritance, when on the inside, I am longing for my father and scared for what my new life entails. Before the Italian War began in 1551, my father and I lived a lavish, wonderful life together. My mother had died giving birth to me, so my entire life had been only my father and I, and we led a happy life together. When I was younger, we used to picnic on the countryside on the weekends, and attended polo matches in the summertime. I had everything I could ever want and more, and my father made certain of that. I attended a prestigious school, and we went on luxurious holidays to Spain and Holland. Everything changed with the beginning of the war. My perfect life with my father came to an end.

The first few years of the war were brutal. Thousands of soldiers died on the front lines. My life with my father still remained happy and peaceful, and I thought that the war would be over soon. One rainy Sunday morning in August of 1556, a knock sounded on our front door. A man in uniform spoke briefly with my father, then went on his way. That evening, my father sat me down in his study and told me the unimaginable. He had been chosen to be a commander in the war, and he would be leaving the following morning. I began to cry, but a slap from my father reminded me that real men do not cry. A man, that is what I would be from then on. At just twelve years of age, my childhood slipped from my grasp in an instant. As a gift for his departure, my father gave me a dog, a white and brown spaniel of sorts, to keep me company during his absence. I called him Augustus, and he was my closest companion from that day forward. A French woman named Marie joined the household as my new caretaker, but even her warm soul could not fill the void that my father’s departure had left in my heart. The morning of his departure I held back tears as my father said to me, “Massimiliano, you have grown to be a wonderfully clever young man, and I know you will do me proud in my absence. I am confident that we will be reunited again after the war, however long that may be. Goodbye for now, my boy.” Every memory with my father flooded my mind, and I tried to stay strong. I told myself that by the time he returned from the war, I would be a proper man and able to make him proud.

As the days went by, the hole in my heart did not decrease in size. My father and I had done everything together, and now he was gone, just like that. To pass time, I began devoting myself to my schoolwork, and I took a particular interest in literature. I could lose myself in a fantasyland for hours while reading, which was a welcome distraction from the anxiety and fear I felt for my father. Every day was the same: wake up, eat porridge prepared by Marie, go to school, return home and read until dinner, eat dinner with Marie, and read until I fell asleep with Augustus at the foot of my bed. The days blurred together, and I could not tell one day from the next. Even my thirteenth birthday felt like the same old robotic routine. I had not even realized it was my birthday until Marie made me a cake for dinner. All that crossed my mind was my father and the danger he might be encountering.

A year had passed since my father had left for the war. He wrote to me on occasion and tried to reassure me that he was alright. Although he was not at the front lines, I always doubted that he was safe from danger. One dreary evening in late September, my worst fear came to fruition. A slim man in a neatly kempt uniform knocked on our front door; my heart instantly dropped. “Mr. Stampa, the Italian military regrets to inform you that your father, Giovanni C. Stampa, has been killed on the twenty-fifth of September 1557, while bravely serving our great country as first battalion commander for Unit 28.” In one instant, my entire world shattered before me. The one person I truly cared about in this world was gone.

The next few days went by in a blur: my father’s funeral and relatives trying unsuccessfully to comfort me. Everyone kept coming up to me, telling me what a great man my father had been. But I knew better than anyone what a generous and loving man my father had been, and these well-intentioned remarks only added to the pain is was feeling. The most shocking part about my father’s death was the inheritance. I had known my father was a wealthy man, but at the mere age of thirteen, I was to inherit more money than ~32~

I ever could imagine. Twenty million euros was an overwhelming amount of money for me to wrap my head around. All of my relatives and father’s friends referred to me as an heir, and they tried to include me in adult conversations, although I was still just a boy, and a sad, confused boy at that. From that moment forward, I was treated as an adult, and I was expected to make important decisions about my inheritance, although I barely understood the posh way most adults spoke. After all of the chaos surrounding my beloved father’s death lessened, it suddenly became clear to me what I needed to do with the inheritance and with my life. I knew I needed to help others in my position, other orphans who were lost and scared. With the help of Marie and Augustus, too, I used a portion of my inheritance to buy a large house and converted it into a school for orphans like myself. Since I was technically considered an adult at age thirteen, the city permitted me six boys and six girls to stay at my school, all under the age of nine. My extensive knowledge in literature bewildered the imaginations of my pupils, and my uncle Lucius taught them mathematics and biology. My uncle had taken a particular interest in my school and became a vital role in its operation. The school helped me distract myself from the pain I still felt following the death of my father. The grief did not go away, but I knew I would be making my father proud, for education was something he valued most.

My pupils lived at the school until they were thirteen; afterward, they either joined the workforce or helped me continue running my school. Alessandra had been one of my finest students, and by the time she was thirteen, she had blossomed into a radiant young woman. Her amber hair fell in loose curls at her shoulders, and her almond eyes were kind and forgiving. I tried at first to resist, but eventually I gave in; I was falling hard for Alessandra. It seemed odd, former teacher and pupil now romantically involved, but I was only four years her senior, and she reciprocated her feelings towards me. Soon Alessandra joined me in running my school, a job that which she was naturally gifted at. She opened up to me about her coming to be an orphan; both of her parents drowned on a voyage returning from Spain. I confided in her my lingering sadness and longing for my father, and she did not judge me for being unmanly, but rather comforted me and allowed me to cry. Within the year we were married. We had a beautiful wedding ceremony overlooking the Italian countryside, and I felt my father’s presence with me that day, as if he was looking down on me with pride.

Alessandra and I wanted to start a family and vowed to to always be there for our children, for our parents were not able to. On a sweltering afternoon in June, the twenty-third to be exact, Alessandra gave birth to our beautiful twins, both of whom had her striking amber hair. We were overjoyed, a daughter and a son at the same time was a wonderful blessing. We named our daughter Valentina Marie, the first name being Alessandra’s late mothers name, the middle name being the name of my caretaker while my father was at war. While I love both of my children the same, I was extremely partial to my son’s name; Giovanni Carlo, whom we named after my father to carry on on the legacy of the person who meant most to me in this world. The pain of losing my father never did fully vanish, but I saw aspects of him in my children, such as his giving heart, striking blue eyes, curly hair, and love for his family. Little things like these, I suppose, are what kept me going and allowed me to live my life, while knowing my father was looking down on me from above and was pleased with the man I had become.

Reilly Mitchell ’19

This story was inspired by “Portrait of Marquis Massilmilano Stampa,” a painting by Sofonisba Anguissola done in the year 1557.

~33~

Miracle of Living The morning sun filled with glee rises To Greet me When I awaken from my slumber with its blinding beams of light. Then and there every Mind is at ease - there is peace - Before the hour Of which I awaken, I dream of The field I had once lied upon on an early spring morning; where the Dandelions, glistening from the morning dew, reached out towards the sky, and the light Illuminating from the sun’s rays kissed my skin, and All the while the passerines harmoniously sing a gentle song: a dark Lullaby that is Animating. Tragic, yet gleeful. a Song crafted by means of a mysterious miracle.

Jordan Cox ’19

~34~

Aidan Buckley ’19

~35~

What I Wouldn’t Give

~36~

After a couple of moments, the constant motion of the river dissolves into stagnation; the human mind is trained to eliminate such continuous stimuli. As the sounds of surrounding nature fade into monotony, my mind so easily distorts time. There is an odd dichotomy to this distortion; while there, a minute can contain the same amount of intrigue as does the average hour of my life, but when I leave, the entire visit feels all too short. The confusion of time that affects the nature is sorely lacking from the house. A few years of neglect have made ruins out of what was once my temple of childhood magic and enjoyment. Looking back on my past now, there is little I would not give up to visit my grandmother’s ranch (in its true form) one last time. In the meantime, memory will be my pitiful substitute.

Unlike most of my friends, I could not simply go to see my grandma. I had to wake up at a seemingly impossible hour, drive to the airport, and fly a distance that my young mind could not fathom. After landing in an alien land filled with palm trees and dry, hot air, my family and I drove out of the Orange County airport and towards Upland where the final leg of the journey awaited.

After a stop at In-N-Out and thirty minutes of driving, we arrived at the base of Mt. Baldy. The drive up involved a spiraling road. About halfway up, our ears would pop, and my brother and I would assume that our grandmother’s house must be at least as high as a plane. After passing through two tunnels, we arrived at her ranch. The main house was accompanied by three smaller homes, which my grandmother rented. The plot of land that the ranch sat on was surreal compared to our world of quarter-acre Gregorian-style properties. After the adventure of traveling to the ranch that my young mind just endured, the most incredible part was the lady waiting outside as we drove up to the ranch.

My grandmother was, simply put, what I wish I could be. She was an endless supply of compassion and fun; every day she could find something to do with my brother and me that we would love. Her childlike enthusiasm for life rivaled our own, and her ability to convince my mom to let us explore was a real-life superpower that my brother and I have yet to yield. She loved to garden, and with each visit, she would show us what she was growing and tell our young, short-term minds that no, the plants are not ready to eat yet . . . they still need to grow for another two months (basically a decade to our lives).

My grandmother’s ranch, where she had lived for the past thirty five years, was a small piece of Eden for us. The land around us was steep, filled with the pervasive incline, and the earth seemed to be out of rotation to my mind that had so far been accustomed to the flat topography of Maryland terrain. The small hills nearby were contrasted with the far-off peaks that could be seen through the trees. The river that ran through the ranch had a quick current and enough smooth pebbles to fill our little pockets time and time again only for our mother to refuse to allow them to be brought back because, as she would proclaim, “You boys already have so many at home.”

The wildlife of the ranch was both a marvel and a horror. While the lizards and the birds captivated us, the tales of bears and rattlesnakes would haunt us during our particularly emotional bedtimes filled with crying. Our fears were eventually defeated each night by our mother, who assured us that the bears would not come in the house. I hold that this fear was warranted though.

When my aunt was younger, a bear broke into the house while she was home alone, and she had

to call my grandfather who drove in his jeep with his high beams on and his shotgun in the car. The beams were enough to scare the bear, and there was never a similar incident again, but that did not stop our infantile imaginations from fearing that the bear would come back for revenge.

The main house was picturesque. It came as no surprise to me when I learned that my grandma would rent out the property for weddings. My parents were married there, and I could understand why they chose the ranch. Some places have an aura to them that leaves an imprint on whomever visits them. Yellowstone National Park humbles all who visit it with its sheer beauty, and Manhattan surrounds tourists with its Metropolis overload. My grandmother’s ranch gave an inviting and warm imprint, and the appearance showed this. The front door was sandwiched between two statues of dogs holding baskets of flowers. To the left was the outdoor bar area and the right was the kitchen, which was on the corner of the house and had windows along both sides. Behind the main house on the right side sat the studio room. This is where my grandmother would sew, write letters, and pursue her other interests. None of this was of much importance to my brother or me, because the biggest television that we had ever seen was in that room, complete with an impressive collection of VHS tapes, which were almost all children’s movies. Our step-grandfather, whom we called “Papa Sam,” was a devoted fan of television, so there was at least one in nearly every room. Above this area was a small loft only accessible by ladder. This area was off limits to us unless there was an adult present for fear that we would fall.

When we were finally tired from our days of adventure, my brother and I would sleep in our mom’s old room. It was a cozy time capsule with a bed for two. All of my mom’s old belongings were still there, along with the old style of bed sheets and photos of a little brown haired girl who was unmistakably, my mom. It was incredible to us that our own mother, of all people, was once a child just like us! This was groundbreaking new evidence against our assumption that adults just appeared at forty years old with a house and a car. In addition to the memories it surely held for my mom, this was the room where I broke my arm after escaping from time out in my crib at age three. It seemed that in every room lay a novel of stories to be told; a high density of familial experience.

The centerpiece of the ranch was the kitchen. It was pretty big with an inviting counter-table in the front, a stove to the left side, and an island in the middle. My grandma loved to cook (especially bake) and her kitchen was the perfect toolbox. The kitchen was in the right corner of the house and many of the best parts of our visits were experienced there. I fondly recall my brother and I getting breakfast, sitting by the heater in the wintertime, and petting her border collie, Clancy. However, all of these memories are forever confined to just that: a painful reflection of experience, which holds us an arm’s reach away from the blissful times we had there.

Visiting now is a very different occurrence. The years of neglect that the ranch has been subjected to have begun to take a toll on the house and land. The cause of this starts with a divorce.

My grandma divorced my Papa Sam after more than 30 years of marriage (I later learned the horrible person he is) and came to live with us for a while. It was wonderful to have my previously unattainable grandma living in our house until I noticed that she was acting differently. This was when I was introduced to a sinister, ten-letter, Germanic word: Alzheimer’s. In order not to completely erase the ultimate joy of these stories, I will skip to the conclusion. My grandma is now living in a home near my aunt, and the grandmother I once knew has practically disappeared from the disease. When we visit California now, it is to see other friends, but we do occasionally drive to the ranch to see it. My grandfather lives on the other half of the ranch, which was given to him in his divorce several decades

~37~

ago, but the man who bought my grandmother’s ranch has neglected it and my Eden becomes slightly more ruinous with everyday. It is hard to consider it the same place now. This is a painful parallel to my grandmother.

I try my best not to be sad about this predicament. I look for guidance in a most unusual source: the Greeks and the Romans. Many of their great achievements in architecture are now mere crumbling pieces of what they once were. Though people try to preserve them, they inevitably deteriorate. In spite of this, people do not feel sad for the Greeks and Romans; instead, they rejoice in what was and celebrate what it means for today. I try to follow this same mindset for my past.

It pains me to see my temple of childhood turn to ruins, but I have chosen to celebrate what I have done and how my times there have shaped the person I am today. My grandmother lived with so much happiness and excitement, and I know that my she would want me to do the same.

Hayden Lamb ’20

~38~

Girl

Lindsay King ’20

~39~

The primordial force of the wind molds the environment. With the sun it melts away the landscape and sweeps away the refuse. There is never a lull in the constant invisible motion of the atmosphere. The trees are blown aside, and the water rises over the land in the gale. In the recurring ebb and flow it cuts through the terrain, and like the flood it is God’s chisel with which He shapes the world.

Teddy Cromwell ’20

This is an imitation of the style found in Jill Ker Conway’s The Road From Coorain.

~40~

Mental Warriors An excerpt from the poem “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” by Maya Angelou: “But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.”

A caged bird, singing of freedom, on the “grave of dreams.” A caged bird enclosed in an oppressed body and encased in a “fearful trill,” yet still has the grit, determination and power to open its throat and relay a brilliant message. These birds are tenacious, no matter the paralyzing ordeals surrounding them. It does not matter that the bird’s wings are “clipped.” It does not matter that the bird’s “feet are tied.” All that matters is that this bird echoes its delightful song.

The human brain is a chaotic, restless organ. Emotions, doubts, memories, knowledge, life– all are caged into an anarchic complex. This king reigns over seven hundred dynamic muscles, thirty five trillion cells, five liters of blood, one hundred billion neurons. Actions and feelings succumb under the irrefutable demands of the furious brain, and lack liberty to express themselves freely. Like a raging flood, madness buried in the mind’s lair will cleanse the soul of joy, hope, and happiness. Solitude will penetrate the conscious mentality of the troubled, erasing any glimpse of self-confidence and potential involvement with the opportunistic world.

Eight billion people. Eight billion brains. Eight billion uniquely crafted minds.

My brain was crafted with perturbed substance.

A concealed spirit would not escape from my throbbing soul. Could not escape. I found myself drowning in an ocean of shyness– afraid to ring my vocal chords, terrified of foreign eyes glaring at my introverted figure. As I drowned, anxiety feasted upon my paralyzed body, withering away the notion of fitting in and belonging. Caved desires within scraped and roared like a lion, yet I could not dethrone the king–the mighty king. Inner beauty gleamed inside of my skin, yet the brain masked it with cursed remarks: “No friends. No focus. No confidence. No living without panic and worry. No voice.”

Frequently I would observe the seemingly calm, rhythmic atmosphere of society: human nature surfing the waves of the world with gentle ease. I would watch like an outsider stranded on a vacant beach, distant from the active tides, where everyone fit in and laughed and interacted daily. I was a someone ~41~

without a functioning mind, a capable man without the essence to speak, a complex of flesh and bone unable to take action.

Yet steadily the trapped lion clawed its way to the surface of my dazed mind. Courage and sheer strength overshadowed the all-encompassing dictator–generating voice from empty breath, springing action into numb muscles, burning sectors of spirit aching with doubts and negativity. I felt sensations of freedom, life, and focus sprout from the roots of my personal identity to the entirety of my figure.

Many are born with introverted brains; these brains are too meek to reflect the beauty and love and passion which they possess. Brains that refuse to retrieve the hidden treasure buried within layers of confused, awkward flesh– treasures that only the soul can uncover. I call on to all of mankind–extroverts and introverts, the cocky and self-haters, the carefree and worriers– to appreciate and seek the hidden beauty within fellow reserved counterparts. May the mental warriors of the world be praised, uplifted, loved–not judged, belittled, or tormented.

For a lonely lion, no matter the degree of strength, can not fight the war alone. An atmosphere filled by taunts, scorn, and pity only fuels an oppressed brain’s authority as king and tragically condemns the caged lion to a doomed fate. Let us all delve into thorough understandings of those who continually suffer from crippling anxiety and self-doubt; a revelation is long past due.

An excerpt from “What is it Like to Live with Social Anxiety?” by Thomas Richards:

“A man finds it difficult to walk down the street because he’s self-conscious and feels that people are watching him from their windows. Worse, he may run into a person on the sidewalk and be forced to say hello to them. He’s not sure he can do that. His voice will catch, his “hello” will sound weak, and the other person will know he’s frightened. More than anything else, he doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s afraid. He keeps his eyes safely away from anyone else’s gaze and prays he can make it home without having to talk to anyone.

A woman hates to stand in line in the grocery store because she’s afraid that everyone is watching her. She knows that it’s not really true, but she can’t shake the feeling. While she is shopping, she is conscious of the fact that people might be staring at her from the big mirrors on the inside front of the ceiling. Now, she has to talk to the person who’s checking out the groceries. She tries to smile, but her voice comes out weakly. She’s sure she’s making a fool of herself. Her self-consciousness and her anxiety rise to the roof.

This is anxiety. This is the never-ending, domineering sensation of fright ominously looming among innocent, desperate souls. This is the fright that robs individuals of enjoying the simplicities of life. Sufferers seek for an escape–beg for an escape–from their squandered brains, paralyzing thoughts and turmoiled lives. But it remains like a stalker; it carefully observes one’s brain of any remnants of confidence and obscures them with dull clouds of doubt and terror. Despite these nightmares, the anxious still have the courage to rise out of bed in the morning, and they are willing to face their petrifying fears of simply existing.

For some mental warriors, the consistent fear fluctuates into sensations of normality–for others the insecurities and timidity persist throughout their lifetimes. But what they all share is a common characteristic–courage: the courage to overcome, to perservere, to seek a purpose, to live hopeful in a hopeless mindset, to discover more about themselves and others amidst a tireless struggle. ~42~

“I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection.

‘Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but they whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves their conduct, will pursue their principles unto death.”

-Leonardo da Vinci

And so those with abused minds camouflage their sorrows under expressions of joy and love.

Grinning while facing obstacles, being brave by confronting blood-curdling fears, saying “hi” to someone depsite the imminent feeling that he/she will faint: this is the definition of strength and courage. A “firm heart” and a motivated soul mask turmoiled brains, and shun sections of bitterness entangled in the psychic messes of the troubled. Yet the process is a tireless war composed of daily battles, each one capable of slaughtering the herioc, fearless lion.

I had to shun my chaotic brain. Everyday situations required me to summon the normalcy and passion deep within my soul, not only for others to see but for myself. At a young age, not only was I lost in the social realm, but I was lost in my life purpose. Directionless, purposeless, aimless would I wander the halls of my elementary and middle schools, while wondering if I would ever find a voice and an inner identity. I needed to uncover the invisible glories and the noisy spirit silenced by my hectic mind, so I could begin to understand and love myself.

I reveled in isolation, yet simultaneously my soul combatted this deteriorating and unhealthy state, pleading for involvement and friendships. Listening to my energetic, lively soul generated mind-numbing emotions through my head, distorting beauty into confusion and timidity. The psycological terror was brutal, yet I came to the realization that discovering more about myself and others would require endurance and power. Only through determination and a will to speak would my soul come sprouting out of my muted figure.

And this is why we must praise those who possess distorted brains, yet still trek on the tense journey of regeneration. Easily could a soul lose hope, give up, sacrifice itself at the hands of the brain.

However, when one claws his/her way through seemingly insurmountable opposition and reaches the light at the end of the tunnel, it captures the true essence of fighting for a lasting impact. It is a fight whose purpose is to squeeze every ounce of affection and appreciation and brilliance out of crippled conscience.

Mental warriors sacrifice their comfort and undergo suffering to transfer their obscure brilliance into the physical world; brilliance that is desperately needed on our dim planet.

Maybe one day civilization will honor the heroes of psychic duels and come to praise spirited lions.

A lion’s roar does not always echo; however, it is always gleaming with passion and bravery–it’s golden hair illuminated with an elegant glow. It may not always be recognized, it may not always be seen or understood or accepted, but it always fights. For friends, for a voice, for the glories of the soul to be heard and relayed to the world. The lion slaughters menacing anxious control centers, and allows hearts to glisten without fear.

The lion is an unrecognized hero.

I have confidence that one day, the lions will universally earn their well-deserved prestige.

John Huber ’20

~43~

Coconuts ~44~

Megan Hiller ’22

Hurricane Seeing you today For the first time in over a year Left me breathless Left me with water in my lungs And in my eyes I tried to breathe through the water filling me But I was a small boat in a hurricane and Your eyes were not the calm they used to be I was shaking I was crumbling I had no sail No crew No structure Seeing you today Tore me apart in ways I’d never imagine Seeing you today Made me feel as if there’d be no tomorrow

Leia Liberto ’19

~45~

Growing Up With apologies to Sara Teasdale I was born to a very kind family, (And I seemed perfectly healthy,) I grew up with everything I ever wanted (For my parents were very wealthy,) I grew older and began my own journey, (It was so depressing and dark,) It attacked me and stole my soul (And I now had no spark,) But it hadn’t had enough, (It continued to steal pieces of me,) And I who had been raised normally (Began to lack the happiness key.)

Taylor Layden ’20

~46~

The Legacy of Antigone

In a play 2,500 years old, where the actions of one man and a girl have disastrous and complex consequences, it can be hard to understand the underlying ideas of the characters and author. Antigone, a play written in approximately 441 B.C.E by early playwright Sophocles, occurs after the tragic events of the more famous Oedipus Rex, and features Oedipus’s ill-fated daughter and uncle. With the fall of Oedipus and the fatal battle of succession between their two brothers, Antigone and Ismene stand alone with their uncle, Creon, sitting on the throne. In an act of rebellion, and against a royal decree, Antigone performs burial rights for her unrespected fallen brother, and she pays for it with her life. This ancient play has sparked the interest and discussion of scholars for decades, from the confusing motivations and actions of both Antigone and Creon to the possible question of values presented by Sophocles through Antigone. One such scholar, Bernard M. W. Knox, attempts to tackle Antigone’s deepest drive for her actions in his 1964 article, “Love is the Source of Antigone’s Heroic Spirit.”

Knox presents in his article that rather than Antigone’s outward motivation of religious perseverance and a moral high ground, her true “guiding force” (Knox) is the love she has for her kin.

When Antigone must face death, she is moved by her love for her deceased family, and that in her death, she joins them. He suggests that she is “entombed in the land of the living” (Knox); she has considered herself dead and speaks to her deceased family as if one of them, she accepts death as she seeks to reunite with her “unreplaceable” family. The idea stated, that she is driven not by her stated reverence for her gods but instead for her love for her brother is family is mistaken. Her reverence for the gods is wavering and inconsistent, but the suggestion that her “true guiding force” of love for her kin is stronger and more consistent is not shown in the text. While her family is a significant part of her motivations, Antigone’s attitude towards her living and future kin is reflective of her true feelings towards family. Her interactions with her theoretical family and her living cousin disprove the notion that she is guided by familial love, and her actions and speeches regarding the burial of her brother go so far to suggest a different motivation unrelated to the love she claims to have. Antigone is driven by two things: a desire to die in a way under her control, and to die in a seemingly heroic manner, unlike the tragedy of the rest of her family. The theme of her ancestry is an end by twos: her father and her mother, and her two brothers, leaving her and her sister.

Antigone is driven by creating herself an honorable death and fate for herself outside of what she seems to be doomed to suffer, regardless of her feelings towards her kin.

There is evidence of the love she does not have for her family in how she considers her future.

Moments before being taken away to her final tomb, she launches into a lengthy speech, comparing herself to tragic Greek figures such as Niobe and emphasizing the woefulness of her situation, stating that, “Had [she] been a mother of children, and [her] husband been dead and rotten, [she] would not have taken this weary task upon [herself] … If [her] husband were dead, [she] might have had another, and child from another man …” (909-910, Antigone). Knox, through these words, discredits the idea that Antigone’s motivations are religious or reverential. The dead do not discriminate in their debts: “Hades desires the burial of a husband and a child just as much as that of a brother” (Knox). What these lines convey is how unwilling she would be in another situation, such as one in which she already has a legacy through children, to lay the deceased to rest. The play states and the author emphasizes the nature of irreplaceable relationships, but such a disdain for her kin because of the nature of their blood relationship reflects the kind of Antigone’s love, and brings into question the degree she would have “loved” her brother and risked her life had her parents remained alive, and theoretically been able to replace him. ~47~

Knox’s foremost argument is that Antigone is moved by her love for her family members, especially the “irreplaceable” (those whose familial relationships are impossible to recreate, such as one of a mother or sibling) or dead of her household, but her harshness towards her sister, and complete disregard of her cousin and fiancé, Haemon, suggests that this is not the case. At the start of the play, as Antigone is working to convince her sister to help her bury her brother, she berates her sister’s choices and remarks while claiming herself to be a dutiful sister and worshipper of the laws of death.

Be as you choose to be; but for myself I myself will bury him. It will be good to

die, so doing. I shall lie by his side,

loving him as he loved me; I shall be a

a criminal – but a religious one. (71-75) Antigone’s words demonstrate a stated religious motivation, a love for her sibling, a desire to die, and a guilting of her sister. Knox has already disproved the force of religion. Antigone jumps on the chance to accuse Ismene of being unloving, identifying herself as the truly good sister. In this passage, she also immediately assumes that she will die death for her brother. Here, it is possible Antigone claims a selfless reason (burying her brother) to hide a more selfish reason (to die and be known as virtuous and heroic).

Her assumption and desire for her death and her command towards her sister to spread the word of her actions suggests she wants to die and be known for it, disregarding how her actions would affect her living loved ones such as her betrothed cousin and her sister. To fulfill a need for heroism, she is willing to cause untold suffering for Ismene and Haemon, eventually leading to the death of the latter. Is this truly love she has for kin? A sister, a cousin, like a brother, is not a replaceable relationship.

Antigone, not led by religion nor a familial love, is driven by a desire to be seen as dutiful and heroic. As Antigone works to convince her sister to join her in burying her brother, Ismene suggests that she will help her in her silence, as to protect her sister. However, Antigone reacts to this by claiming she will hate her sister more for this, and that “No suffering of [hers] will be enough // to make [Antigone] die ignobly” (95-96). No suffering will be enough if she were to die unknown. Antigone’s actions demand recognition. Had Antigone planned on circumventing the punishment of death for her brother’s burial, her instructions to her sister to not keep silent on Antigone’s actions would have been beneficial for gaining the support of the people. But her previous words betray her intent to die and be laid side by side with her brother. So, if her words are not to gain public support, they can only be to ensure her death and be acknowledged for her actions.

Later, Antigone further demonstrates a disregard for her kin over her own motives for martyrdom.

After her sister’s capture, Ismene attempts to share the blame, to die with her sister; however, she is pushed away by Antigone, who dooms her to being left alone and denies her the right to lay by side with their family. Antigone and Ismene have a short argument soon after the former’s capture. Antigone assaults Ismene with her words, citing Ismene’s previous hesitation to join her in burying their brother as siding with Creon, and against Antigone, “Ask Creon, all your care was on his behalf” (540). Antigone stresses their differences, “Life was your choice, and death was mine” (555), further pushing her away. Later, Antigone makes a brief mention of her fiancé, not as a call to him but as a bite against his father, Creon – “Dear Haemon, how your father dishonors you” (572). Antigone has created an image of herself as doing the perfect, or right actions, while demeaning her sister’s valid fear of death and fate. And now she denies ~48~

her sisters new desire to be with her sister, mocking her in their last moments. One could argue that this is out of love for Ismene; but is it love to create animosity and prevent death, or to grant her sisters wishes?

However, if Antigone’s harsh words were simply to maintain Ismene’s safety over her own wishes, she never would have asked her to risk her life. In her separation, Antigone denies Ismene the ability to stand against Creon with a shared death regardless of her previous choice. Antigone forces fate upon Ismene, of life rather than sacrifice, at a point where there was still a choice. In claiming love, she denies her living sister to express the same love Antigone supposedly has for their brother. She becomes the sole martyr.

Likewise, she mentions her mother’s nephew and soon to be groom but once – she does not consider nor seek nor warn him, displaying a lack of trust and care in Haemon. The love he had for her is apparent in the last parts of the play as he kills himself over her body, but her disregard of the consequences of her actions beyond her own death does not suggest love, but selfishness.

Now, the whole city knows of her plight, and she will no longer suffer ignobly. Spoken as she is brought to her final tomb, Antigone calls out again for the recognition of her deeds:

Look on me, Princes of Thebes, The last remnant of the old royal line; See what I suffer and who makes me suffer Because I have reverence to what claims reverence. (940-943)

Her words shout for a cry of recognition for her actions, actions that the city now largely agrees with, as seen often in the Chorus and Haemon’s words. Antigone, in suffering death, wants to be heroic, citing divine and familial duties to the people. Oedipus and Iocasta, mother and wife to her son, represent a tragic tale of death, incest, and ultimately, pain and sorrow. Eteocles and Polyneices, the twin brothers of Antigone and Ismene, battled for the throne, and with it lost their lives traitorously, and nearly the city of Thebes as well with a foreign army. Antigone, by the nature of her family, seems doomed to suffer a similar fate. This quote, in claiming her reverence and in calling out to those of Thebes, assures that her death will not be seen in the same negative light as her parents or her brothers. She has begun to create her own fate, distinct form her family curse. She ensures her legacy in a way that will give her an eternal life beyond religious afterlife. In calling out to Thebes, the last remnant of the old royal line is preserved in the minds and stories of the people not in the context of Oedipus’ daughter but as her own, unique, ideal princess.

Her rejection of her sister and her cousin allow Antigone to shine alone for her actions, revealing her true motivations.

Antigone has chosen her own fate; even as Creon condemns her, she rebels. As Creon tragically rides towards her tomb-like cave to free her, Antigone takes her death into her own hands. “In the furthest part of the tomb we saw her, hanging // by her neck. She had tied a noose of muslin on it” (1220-1221). By tying such fabric around her neck and dying, Antigone has given herself a form of autonomy, to kill herself by her hand rather than starve to death. Her sister alive, she has broken the curse of two’s. And by her actions, she is remembered as a martyr for divine reverence. Her desire to die, achieved by her hand, and her desire to leave an assured legacy in guaranteed by her death; she does not wait to be saved. Had she done this only out of love, or religious adherence, she might have waited to be saved. But, she did not, and now her impact has been left on Thebes.

Knox’s article was mistaken in identifying the guiding force and motivation for Antigone’s actions; rather than a love for her brother and family moving her towards death, Antigone performed her words and ~49~

her brother’s burial rights in an effort to change her fate and ensure her legacy. Reading Antigone’s actions as a way to differentiate herself and to appear heroic makes Sophocles work a greater tragedy than it may appear. In an effort to appear heroic, to appear dutiful, and to bury her brother, Antigone leaves a greater trail of bodies than had nothing been done. Not only did she die, but Haemon, and his mother, leaving Ismene and Creon alone. She ensured her own legacy by cursing, and while she has broken her fate, ending her life by her own hand, she has unknowably caused Haemon’s life to be cut short. In her actions, in her desire to be recognized as good, she has doomed several to a legacy of loneliness, death, and evil.

Julia Yousseff ’21

~50~

To Shoot or Not to Shoot To shoot, or not to shoot, that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to regret The wasted and missed of opportunity to score, Or to take a chance against doubts in self And by scoring end them. To catch—to miss, No more; and by a goal to say we end The drought and the thousand competitive desires That net is heir to: ‘tis a connection Devoutly to be wish’d. To catch, to shoot; To shoot, perchance to achieve —ay, there’s the goal: For in that dodge of faith what may be the outcome, When we have run by this oppressive defender, Must give us space —there’s the respect That makes the wheels of offense turn.

For who would bear the checks and slashes of defenders, The oppressor’s slide, the proud midfielders’ downfall, The pangs of coaches words, calling the plays, The insolence of attackmen, and the turnovers That patient time a shooter waits, When he himself might this chance take Against a skilled goalie? Who would try, To shoot and score under such perilous plight, But that the dread of something after the game, The undiscovere’d success, from whose bourn No player returns, puzzles the team, And makes us rather bear those losses we have Than push to heights that we play not to?

Thus anxiety does make cowards of us all, And thus the confident hue of aggression Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of defense, And enterprises of great speed and checks With this regard their confidence turns awry And miss the chance for glory.

Gavin Johnson ’19

~51~

Memory Project ~52~

Hannah Powell ’20

Her hands were so different than mine, Like a foreign thing.

As a little girl I played with them, Pinching the skin, Watching it slowly fall, Tracing each vein to its origin.

They juggle a million things within a day, Tossing, spinning, balancing, rarely dropping one.

Artfully skilled in every profession, They transform with every task.

A master chef, With a precise flick to season the pan.

An executive CEO, Each finger gracefully flying across the keyboard.

A skilled doctor, Expertly bandaging a scraped knee.

A compassionate therapist, Wiping every tear that fell down my cheek.

They take care of everything And everyone around.

Enveloping people in happiness, Yet keeping them in line: A strong fist that rules with compassion.

A grace, beauty, and power I strive to achieve.

Cierra Hargrove ‘20

~53~

Minor Details

“I know you will make a difference in the world and I love—”

These were the final words from my mother. Though I can presume how the sentence may have ended, they still remain the last remarks I will remember of her. Oh, how I wish that she could see me now…though, I’m getting ahead of myself; I should really start back to when my life all began…

It was December 16, 1665, on a harsh and windy afternoon in Amsterdam, when I was given to foster parents by the names of Eleanor and Joseph Carlton. I was the age of five when they told me the story of how my biological parents were taken by the “Black Death.” They explained how this plague was, and still remains one of the most widespread killers of the Middle Ages. Though I am very fortunate to be living with my parents in an extravagant dwelling, they constantly remind me to stay separate from any other human being out of fear that I could catch the plague. This entails that I cannot and have never been out of my residence before. I have never felt the sunlight shining on my face, nor experienced going to the marketplace, nor have been able to meet anyone besides my mother and father. While I am eternally grateful for my parents and am appreciative of the luxuries I get to partake in that many families do not, I cannot help but wonder what the world is like outside these walls of isolation.

Aside from the plague and the mysteries of my biological past, my life has turned out to be extraordinary, even only at the age of eight. Though, as I have grown, I begin to wonder more and more about my biological parents. I wonder where my long golden locks come from, and if my parents had the same dark, chocolate eyes as I do. I marvel about who my grandparents were and if my relatives ever knew about me. As I fall asleep at night and begin to snore so loudly you can hear the sound from all the way down the hall, the curiosity of if my parents used to do the same, always evokes my imagination. These thoughts have never failed to exit my mind, as I do not feel like I can continue to develop my own identity until I learn more about my past. The only keepsakes that I have from my undiscovered history are a pearl necklace that Eleanor says my mother used to wear, along with a golden, luminous watch she had owned as well. My foster parents are very fond of my mother’s watch, as they keep it mounted under a glass container to protect its value. I never fully understood the mementos, for I only wear the pearl necklace as a reminder of my past, but otherwise they hold no significance for me, though I wish they did.

Living in a lavish society has never fazed me; I never think of how my family became so well off—as it was quite unusual for anyone living in Amsterdam—until today. “May, can you come here for a minute?” Eleanor calls from the kitchen floor. “Just one second,” I reply. My full name used to be Mary, but now, ever since my new parents came along, they started to deem me, May. “May!” she shouts again.

“I’m coming, Mom!” I walk down the stairs to find my mother standing next to my father and immediately I am perplexed, as my father is usually working at this time of day. “May, sweetie, can your father and I see your pearl necklace that you are wearing?” I reluctantly start to unclasp the jewelry piece from my neck and warily hand the pearls to my mother. “Why do you want it?” I ask. My mother exchanges looks with my father, ushering him to respond to my seemingly difficult question. “You see, May, the economy nowadays is starting to crumble, and I’m afraid we are going to need to sell this necklace in order to keep our extravagant home,” my father explains. It puzzles me why the economy is suddenly starting to go south and why financial issues are becoming a problem when they never have before, though, having no knowledge of the outside world, I nod at my father and watch as he and my mother leave to go sell one of the last pieces I have of my biological mother.

Weeks and months go by, and I still remain dormant in my spacious dwelling. I occasionally beg ~54~

my parents to let me out of the house to explore my surroundings, until my mother finally put her foot down and scolded me for acting so ungrateful and selfish, which marked the end of my efforts to discover the outside world. I continue to gaze at the ceiling and observe as the hands on the golden watch (still settled in the glass case), tick every second that goes by. This had become my daily routine until one day, when my mother announced she and my father were going to try and sell my pearl necklace again after previously failed attempts. I take their departure as my only opportunity to explore the unknown province of the outdoors. I know I do not have much time, so I grab my coat and open up the doors to a whole new area of undiscovered territory.

I take my first few steps, and finally, I am out of the walls I know all too well. At last, I feel the sunlight beaming on my face and the colors of Amsterdam’s city glows like a fluorescent light amid a dark sky. “PEOPLE!” I shout (out loud accidentally). “Real, living, humans that do not happen to be my parents.” I gaze towards the crowd of humans hustling through the town and am in awe of such a beautiful scenery filled with laughter, light, and mountains that reach the top of the vibrant, blue sky. Though, peering out at the pack of women, men and children, I feel a cold chill go down my spine as I hear my mother’s voice in my head saying, “Do not ever leave this house, or you will be exposed to the horrors of the Black Death.” Yet, looking at all the smiling faces, I cannot begin to picture any of these people to be infected with a life-threatening disease, so I continue my journey and head towards the marketplace.

Upon arriving at the square, it appears more extraordinary than any place I had ever dreamed of before. There are carts of wool and crops and fabrics all with vendors keeping watch of their supplies and advertising their products. There are hundreds of faces talking and laughing and walking together hand in hand. There are even some cattle nearby all huddled in a pack being tended by their owners. My eyes cannot stop wandering from one area to the next, taking in every last detail of what could possibly be my first and last day in the city. Traveling through the marketplace, I hear whispers and abrupt sentences, and am able to make out the words, ‘princess,’ ‘economy,’ and ‘trouble,’ in almost every conversation that flies past me. “Excuse me, sir, but do you happen to know why people are talking about a princess and the economy in trouble?” I ask a nearby stranger. “You haven’t heard! The princess of the town is nowhere to be found, and it is causing the economy to suffer, because no one is keeping track of the city,” he explains.

“You’re kidding!” I exclaim. I cannot believe that a mere princess is the source for all of this disaster.

Flabbergasted, I begin to walk past a vast building with two extensive paintings on the outside door. One is of a man dressed in a shirt and tie with a book and a skull placed before him. His eyes are kind, and painted with so much detail, that they capture the immeasurable collection of personality traits that this man has to offer. The second painting is of a frail, yet beautiful woman. She is in a lace collar and cut-stone earrings, with a velvet curtain and marble column behind, clearly reflecting her wealthiness. I start looking at the woman more closely and find myself to see she is also wearing a pearl necklace and is holding open a fashionable, gold watch. I study the lines on her face and the shape of her nose, and grasp every inch of her appearance. The pearl necklace immediately brings my mind back to the piece of jewelry my mother and father are selling today, and I cannot help but find the pocket watch looking all too familiar.

I look back once more at the portrait of the man next to her and find small, fine print under the man’s painting. Squinting my eyes to try and make out the caption, it states: “Read with the watch: the couple urges the viewer to look beyond simple pleasures that pass like the ticking of a watch and prepare for the death that comes to all.”

“Read with the watch…simple pleasures…ticking of a watch…death…,” I recite silently as I attempt to comprehend the meaning of the caption. “Read with the watch…simple ~55~

pleasures…ticking of a watch…death…,” I repeat once more, until… “Oh, my goodness!” I sprint back towards my luxurious house as fast as my legs can take me. “Excuse me. Pardon me,” I announce as I shuffle through the crowd of people, my heart pounding as fast as the speed of lightening. Finally, I arrive at my doorstep and to my surprise, my mother and father have yet to return, so I quickly fling open the door and head towards the glass case.

I gaze at the gold watch and close my eyes in attempt to recreate the image of the other gold watch in the painting. I gently pull off the glass case and place the piece in my palm. I examine the front, then turn it over. “Read with the watch…simple pleasures…ticking of a watch…death…” continues to play through my mind as I inspect every inch of the watch. Then, I attempt to pick open the hardware, hoping its grease has not sealed it shut. CLICK. “IT OPENED!” I exclaim. Aside from the expected clock embedded on the inside, I find a tiny, folded up piece of paper. Unraveling the sheet, I notice it’s a letter. “Dear Mary,” it begins. “I do not have much time but I am afraid that if I do not write anything to you, that your whole world may be left forsaken. I do not know if I will ever have the chance to raise you as my own, but just know you will remain forever cherished in my heart. I urge you to remember where you came from, and if you ever feel alone, remember you will always have this letter to guide you. Be extraordinary, my darling, and remember that no matter where I am, I will always look out for you. Though you are born to the throne, do not get caught up in the luxuries of life; look past the simple pleasures and appreciate the time you are given. You are an Orange, Mary, but that does not mean your father and I want you to act like royalty. Never forget me. I will forever and always be your mother. I know you will make a difference in the world and I love—”

“Oh, my goodness! My-my-my mother? My mother! My mother wrote me this letter and she put it in the watch so I could find it, but why?” I wonder. I keep replaying the letter over and over…“I do not know if I will ever have the chance to raise you as my own,”… “Though you are born to the throne,” …“Simple pleasures,”… “You are an Orange, Mary,”… “I know you will make a difference in the world and I love—” … “Oh, my goodness! My mother was in danger of some sort, and that is why she wrote me this letter; it was her chance to say goodbye. She ends it without saying “I love you,” because she could not, because…because she died. I am an Orange? I am royalty! My mother is the woman in the painting at the marketplace! That is why the watch and the pearls looked familiar! That must mean the man in the other painting is her husband, and…and my father. But—if my mother says I am an Orange, then that must mean I am apart of the Orange royal family, which must mean…oh, my goodness…I am the princess that went missing!”

“Wait…one thing is not adding up. If my mother could not finish this letter, then she and my father could not possibly have died from something as slow moving as the plague…she must have been murdered…but by who?” Suddenly, I hear the sounds of a lock turning and of the door creaking open.

“Hello, sweetie, we are back from the city, and guess what you will not believe…we sold the necklace! We can finally live without fear of falling down with the economy!” My mother exclaims as she comes barging through the door with my father. I pull my head up from the letter with a tear streaming down my cheek, and my mouth wide open with a fearful state of shock written all over my face. “Did-did you know about this?”

I ask holding up the letter. “Honey, please put that back where you found it, wh-why did you even take it out in the first place?” My mother asks suspiciously. “DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS?” I shout. “May this is enough, come on now—” “My name is not May, it’s Mary…Mary Orange…and I seem to be the lost princess, but you already knew all of that, didn’t you?” I retaliate.

“May, what are you trying to say?” my mother questions. “I found this letter and the more I ~56~

look at it, the more I realize that my mother and father did not die of the plague; they had to have been murdered…and so I kept asking myself, who? Who would have known that my parents died, and who would have told me it was because of the plague? Who also sold my necklace from my mother, to try and become wealthy. So, it got me wondering, why someone would want to kill my parents, and I realized they would have wanted to take the money from my parents and use it for themselves to avoid becoming poor. That led me back to the question of who would have the audacity to do that? So tell me, did you do this? Did you kill my parents to take their money and power, and then care for me and keep me inside for the rest of my life? Not only to keep me from the plague, but to keep me from finding out about my true past as well?” Eleanor and Joseph stand there like two deer in headlights, stunned by the mountain of information I just plunged into their lives. “It is true,” Joesph finally asserts. That was all I needed to hear, as I grab the golden watch and sprint out the door, never looking back at what used to be the only world I ever knew.

I head towards the tall building with the portraits of my biological mother and father, and show the letter from my mother to the guards at the door. Within just a couple of weeks, I become the official princess of the city. I return back to my old identity as Mary Orange, and I help lift the town out of an economic crisis. In the end, I never forget those words from my mother, “Though you are born to the throne, do no get caught up in the luxuries of life; look past the simple pleasures and appreciate the time you are given.” I decide to hold these lines with me throughout my reign as princess, as they were the words of wisdom that led me to my past, and ultimately to what has now become my future. These words reminding me to appreciate the time I have in my life rather than the materialistic objects, has changed my life forever. This time, I get to decide the fate of my future, and this time I get to depict how the next chapter of my life will begin, so I choose to start it by saying: “Because of you, I know I will make a difference in the world, and I love you, Mom.”

Ally Dixon ’20

This story was inspired by “Portrait of a Woman,” a painting by Pieter Nason done in the year 1663.

~57~

Escape Stop it! You’re scaring him!

He’s afraid!

He cries And You kill him.

What’s better than being dead?

To die right now would be just alright.

He only cried for twenty minutes, But at night he lay awake in agony.

His heart attacks put him to sleep.

His glass bones and paper skin absorbing his blows Like made of some sort of spongey material.

The only other way out is through.

Imagination: it is infinitely expanding, We should take the future - I mean it! And run quick without thinking.

I’m ready!

I’ve waited Years For this moment, Years

Years

Years.

I can’t do it!

We need a new approach for you and me.

Just you and me together.

~58~

Careful! The lid is already open. I didn’t know, but It can’t fool me!

Together for hours and hours, and then the sun’ll come UP, And it’ll be tomorrow.

Oh my god!

I didn’t realize…

I am Alive! And he! Alive!

The sky! It’s Alive!

The air and sky blissfully unaware of the beauty.

True blue sky…

Isn’t this great? It’s just the three of us: You, me, and the sky.

Jordan Cox ’19

About the poem:

This poem was crafted solely off of quotes taken from various characters of the T.V. Show SpongeBob Squarepants, including Mr. Krabs, Squidward, Patrick, and most importantly Spongebob. I chose to base my poem on this show because this show has always been viewed as a very lively, positive, and happy show that people of all ages watch. However, there are many dark scenes and lines embedded in this show that I had noticed when I watched as a child, and I wanted to highlight some of the ones that stood out to me the most. This piece includes parts of quotes from the following seasons: 1 (episodes: 1 and 14a), 2 (episodes: 24a, 32a, 40b, 23b, 16, and 37b), 3 (47b, 48a, 12, 43b, 4, 50a, 45b, and 60a), and 4 (15b, 72b, 68a) as well as lyrics from two songs sung in the T.V. show titled “The FUN song” sung by Spongebob and Plankton and “Together” sung by SpongeBob, Patrick, and a group of prisoners.

~59~

Memories at Grandma’s House

It was always a long drive from home to my grandma’s house. When I was little my sisters and I would scream in our carseats asking “Are we there yet?” Now, the road was empty and dragged onward. Where sunshine used to stream through trees and leaves danced in the wind, the forest around now seemed vacant and cold. No one spoke as we drove. We arrived at the end of the road and parked in front of her house, which was looking tinier than I remembered against the spacious forest behind. As we stepped out of the car, I heaved a sigh. We used to run up the paved driveway, nearly tripping over ourselves racing to see our grandma. She’d open the door and we’d rush inside, yelling and laughing as we hugged her. But she wouldn’t be here now.

We dragged our way to the front door, my mom sister and me, and my mom put the key into the old rusted lock and turned. The creaking of the big oak door made me shiver, and I was suddenly overcome with the memories of my grandma opening the same door and welcoming us inside. My grandma was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. She had long, gray hair and striking blue eyes, and her face was creased with smile lines and wrinkles. She always had earrings on, too. Even though she was only seeing her grandchildren, she would always dress up and make a special occasion of us coming. Her hands were knotted and gnarled from years of playing the piano through the pains of arthritis, and even though her skin was dry and cracking, she always had her nails painted bright red. Her body may have been old, but her soul was still very young and alive. And the house around her vibrated with life.

My grandmother was never one to sit still. She always was cleaning, rearranging furniture, tending to her cats, repainting the walls a brighter shade, sewing, playing records and dancing, cooking, singing along to old show tunes; she did anything she could to keep moving. Above all else, she was a creature of habit. She continued dressing like she did “back in the olden days”: a touch of rouge, some power, a spritz of perfume. Here and there I still caught the fleeting scent of that perfume, the old vintage kind that took you back to ballrooms with big crystal chandeliers and handsome gentlemen dancing with fancy women to the tune of jazz music. She would tell us all about that when we came up to her house for a visit. She had many passions, but mainly the “golden age” of America, when Hollywood and glamour was in style. She grew up in the heart of it, so it seemed she remembered it fondly. She would tell us of how she and her friends dressed up to go to the “cinema” and watch “picture shows” all day.

When she was a young girl, my grandma told us, she felt as though she belonged to everyone, but at the same time, she belonged to no one. Her father was a drunk, and he didn’t come around the house.

Her mother, one of twelve children, grew up neglected and took it out on her own children. She was absent most of the time, too. Her siblings were much older than she was, so more times than not she was left to fend for herself. Yet, although she was without a biological family, she wasn’t always lonely. She made her friends and neighbors her family, and she spent her days dancing on the street-corner outside Uncle Moe’s (“not a real uncle, but a dear friend,” she explained) general store for spare change and befriending the stray animals in the neighborhood. However, as much as she tried to busy herself and find distractions, she couldn’t help but ache for her own family sometimes. Thus, her paradox was created. Everyone knew her.

She was ‘their friend’ or ‘their neighbor’ or ‘their darling’, but in the end, when it came to relatives, she belonged to no one. I sighed, remembering her stories, and stepped inside the house.

My grandma’s house was laid out over two stories. When you entered the front door, you could choose to go one of three ways. To one’s left, there was the “parlor room,” complete with a sofa, antique grandfather clock, and shiny grand piano. To the right is the staircase, and finally, if one went straight, you would enter the kitchen and the sitting room. As I walked into the house, I sighed at the lack of life I remembered so dearly, half expecting the inside to be the way they were when I was younger. However, the truth is that the house has laid dormant for years. My mom used to come and and check on the house once a month, but otherwise, it was empty. ~60~

I went right and upstairs now, each step I took croaking loudly in the otherwise quiet house. I was feeling nostalgic, so I decided to go into my grandmother’s room. Like all other parts of the house, my grandma’s bedroom was a glimpse into a world forgotten by all but those who lived in it. She had wicker furniture and kept old lace doilies on each table. She had long, cascading drapes on every window and curtains hung on wooden planks over her bed. Her old records (complete with Doris Day, Aretha Franklin, and Johnny Mathis) lay stacked in a corner, and her vanity lay dusty but neat; every cream, powder, and perfume was in its place. I was about start packing up what was left in the closet, but then a little ray of light bounced off something on the vanity, and I knew I had to investigate. I approached and saw an old picture of my grandma with my grandpa. It was taken on their wedding night. She beamed, covered in white lace and flowers, and he sported a grin to match. I don’t really remember my grandfather, as he had died of cancer when I was little. And even though my grandma was widowed at an age where she could have definitely married again, she never did. She continued to wear her wedding ring. We’d ask about him sometimes, but she never gave much away. My grandma would just smile and her eyes would shift to the side, signaling her mind drifting away. She never said much about how they met, but that once they did she knew right away he was the only one for her. She said he could make her smile even if she was “doubled-down with the pox,” whatever that meant. Though her words revealed little, we could gather through her body language and old memorabilia that they loved each other very much. One day, my grandma put roses out, and I asked her why. She explained that it was her anniversary. I was little at the time and didn’t know what that meant, so I bounced away and forgot about it. Then later that night, just as I was falling asleep, I heard the soft crackle of the record player and the low, crooning voice of a jazz singer. I snuck down the stairs and saw my grandma dancing alone in the kitchen, her eyes shut, her mouth smiling, and her mind, no doubt, somewhere far away. Billie Holiday (her favorite) drifted softly across the room, and in that moment I saw her not as my grandma, but as a woman who had lived long before I had come along. And I got the feeling that even if I were to come downstairs, I couldn’t rouse her. She would stay caught up in her trance, just her and Billie.

My grandma was a very accomplished woman. She was at the top of her class in high school and went on to graduate from college when she was fifty, a dream she always had and never gave up on. She was a skilled badminton and volleyball player, and kept a box of ribbons and medals she had won long ago. But she never displayed them. As a child, awed by all the shiny gold awards she had, I asked her why she never displayed them like I would have. She just smiled and told me that her greatest accomplishments were her family. I was never old enough to talk to her seriously about motherhood, but she sometimes reflected on it in terms I could understand. She once got me a little baby doll for Christmas, and presented it to me in a little pink box with sparkly tissue paper. I unwrapped it and looked up at her, about to question the gift, but she simply smiled at me and leaned down, close enough so she could whisper: “This little baby requires lots of special care, but once she grows up, she will give you the most joy you’ve ever known in life.” I didn’t understand her because I was small, and it was just a doll that wouldn’t need any food or water, but I took very good care of her nonetheless. That doll sat on a little rocking chair on the corner, and a ghost of a smile passed over my face as I thought of all the tea parties we once all shared together.

I went down the hall and saw an ugly splash of dark blue on the otherwise peach-colored wall. I sighed.

The very last time I was in this house with my grandma, we had just walked in and heard her shuffling around upstairs, so we went to investigate, just my mom and I. She was in the guest bedroom, searching frantically through drawers and boxes. My mom asked what she was doing, to which she whispered back a bewildered, “Who are you?”. My mom and I looked at each other and my heart dropped. This was not my grandma. My mom calmly explained what was going on, and who we were, but she wasn’t convinced. “Get out of my house!” she spat back angrily. My mom became very flustered and tried to grab her wrist, but my grandma shrieked and pushed away, then, she grabbed the nearest object she had to fling at my mom to defend herself. There was a can of dark blue paint she had from a previous repainting, and because this was nearest to her, she picked it up and hurled it toward my mom. She missed but it struck the wall, exploding and leaving a large blue bruise-like spot. Not long after, it was arranged for her to be put into a home. The house that once pulsed with life now stood silent, uncertain of what ~61~

to do with itself. Without the little old gray-haired woman playing records and gliding about, the house was missing its spirit.

The house she was moved into didn’t possess the kind of life my grandma needed. In fact, I think it took it out of her. I went to visit a few times, and she would always ask me, “have you met my granddaughter? She’s a pretty girl like you.” The last time I saw her she was old and frail lying in a white room devoid of color. She had no idea who I was, or frankly, who she was either. But her last words to me proved more meaningful than any previous words I had heard before. She called me close, which was surprising because she never let anyone close to her anymore. I had to strain to hear over the beeping of the machines, but she whispered to me “Always tell people you love them. You don’t know how much time you have left,” and that was it. I cried for days and mourned for months after her death, but there was nothing I could do. My grandma was gone, and she took the life and happiness she had with her.

It took me a while to agree to help my mom finish packing up her house. Her sister had moved miles away and couldn’t help, and all my grandma’s close family had passed long before I was born. So it was left to my mom, sister, and me to decide what to do with all the belongings she left behind. Packing her house up was a long, draining experience, because all while I packed up her possessions, I felt nostalgic and wistful and melancholy all at once. I just wanted to see her one more time, dancing in the kitchen or rearranging furniture, but I knew it wouldn’t happen. My grandma had known what was coming before it came. She started selling and giving away her possessions long before any of us realized what was happening, and gradually, the material representations of her life disappeared. The house felt like a skeleton compared to what it used to be. I was reluctant to throw away even a bobby pin, because I’d stop and think, “Oh, she’s always looking for one of these.” But it was too easy to fall into old habits.

I put myself on autopilot for the rest of the time I was there. It was too painful to relive all that was and all that would never be again. But finally, by the end of the night, we had finished. The house was bare and was once again just a house, with no indications of what used to be. My mom wanted to leave as quickly as possible once we finished, and I knew she was hurting too. Thus, we gathered ourselves and went to the car. I was always more on the sentimental side so I brought home her old record player and her Billie Holiday collection, and also the old wedding photo and doll. As I slowly climbed in the car, instinct told me to turn around and wave goodbye. She would be there on the porch, leaning on the railing and waving us goodbye, never going in until she saw our car disappear. I don’t know why I did it, maybe just out of habit, but I climbed into the front seat and then turned. And I regretted it immediately. My stomach felt queasy and I watched as the old house stood, its wooden floors and hallways creaking and crying for someone to give it life again. But no one could. Not like she could. Finally I watched as the house at the end of the road in the middle of the forest became smaller and smaller until it was almost a speck of sand on a wide and endless beach. Then, from somewhere in the back of my mind a voice whispered, “She’s there, like always. Waving on the deck.” And I believed it. As the house disappeared from me for the very last time, I smiled. Then my sister asked how much longer until we were home. It was always a long drive from my grandma’s house to home.

Brooke Arnold ’20

~62~

Pop goes the Seed Pop goes the seed Explosive and damaging A domino effect One after another All gone Pop goes the seed Which held life Happiness Wealth Beauty Pop goes the seed Destroyed by those Who loved it the most Pop goes the seed At first Ignorant fellows Greedy Unsatisfied Pop goes the seed Stubborn Evil More And More Greedy Money crazy Power crazy Crazy Naysayers Unwilling to change Until Pop goes the seed Ayana Negi ’22

~63~

The Skull

~64~

Ryan Countryman ’22

Fallen Angel

Hannah Powell ’20

~65~

Another Cup of Coffee?

To drink coffee or not to drink coffee— that is the question: Whether tis easier to be awake And face the world with exuberant energy, Or to feel dissociated with fatigue And, by inducing stress artificially, the pain disappears.

Too hot, too cold— No, pour!—and by caffeine to say I love The intriguing aroma and the instant energy spark That relieves each day— ’Tis a savior Tasting every single drop.

Too hot, too cold— To indulge, perhaps to crave.

Ay, there’s the predicament, For in that cup of sweetness what feelings may arise, When we have consumed all of this brown nectar, Must taste the cream.

There’s the sugar That alleviates sensations of so long misery.

For whom that cannot bear the somber and dread of days, The 8 a.m. classes, The gloomy mornings, The dark circled of eyes , The shattered hearts, The emotions of hesitation, And the failures That slowly transform into rambunctious energy, When he himself takes a generous sip With an after taste?

~66~

Who could feel invincible, To re-charge and tingle under a single pulse, But that the tanginess and strong taste of pleasure, The heart beats faster from whose intake No rancid smell, engulfs the bloodstream And makes us rather feel on top of the world we have Than cry to others that we hold lethargy?

Thus consequences if there is no time, And desperate effects of not consuming Is caught over with the suppression of emotion, And desire of a single moment and many temptations With this coffee their body depends on And wishes for more of caffeine.

—Another pour now, The young man shouts.—More! in thy cup Be all my lively self.

Hailey Schendel ’19

~67~

The beastly force of the tornado shapes the land. A combination of wind and debris lifts and destroys everything its path. Nothing is safe from its destruction. The only safe haven is below ground where survival is still rare. In the valley, the constant threat of whirlwinds, with their destructive tendencies can cleanse the area leaving it barren as if not a soul had ever resided there.

Will Klepper ’20

This is an imitation of the style found in Jill Ker Conway’s The Road From Coorain.

~68~

The Garden Lies Ahead

Deep in the heart of the Southern Alps of New Zealand, a rich canopy of green leaves keeps the harsh, glaring sun off our backs for a while. We are surrounded by the songs of nature: birds sing down from their trees, frogs croak in the gentle mountain stream that runs along the trail, and an unknown animal rustles the bushes to our left. It feels as if we have been hiking for days, but my mother reminds me it’s barely been three hours. I find that hard to believe. The path I follow is worn down and dusty from years of foot-traffic, and, in places, the mountain has reclaimed the ground entirely, covering it with twisting vines and gnarled bushes designed to keep us from continuing on. Each step kicks up a small cloud of dust, and our shoes are all a dull shade of brown. It feels almost as if the mountain does not want us to continue on, like it is hiding something so precious that only those who are willing to struggle are worthy of discovering it, and so we push on.

The trail winds and winds; the switchbacks seem to never end. Above our heads, the once glaring sun peeks through our leafy ceiling, making the thick undergrowth shimmer as we walk along. The scene barely feels real, and I become so in tune with the beauty all around me that I lose focus on the technical climbing, causing me to fall. Deep crimson bubbles up on my knee, but I barely feel the scrape and pick myself up; the red slowly muted by the dust. The mountain does everything it can to turn me back, but I refuse to listen.

My mind wanders back to my friends nearly 10,000 miles away; there’s no cellular this deep in the remote mountains of the island, and I can’t help but wonder what they’re up to. It’s strange to have a silent phone for once, and for the first time in months, my head feels clear. In the absence of constant communication, I feel more in touch with myself and my family than I think I ever have. The weight of my camera is heavy around my neck, and I scold myself for bringing it in the first place. The presence of the camera begins to make my struggle feel artificial, as if I am only climbing for the photo-op. I place it in my backpack, and something tells me not to get it back out again. Already, the mountain is teaching me, and so I push on.

Before coming here, I read that Southern Alps are the backbone of the South Island. Its spiny ridges extend for hundreds of miles before plummeting down to the ocean floor. Long ago, powerful glaciers carved deep valleys into the region, but the only proof of their power now lies in the charging rivers that flow between the peaks. The people who live here believe that the drama of the landscape was carved out of the island by the gods who once roamed the Earth. Without ever seeing the land in person, some are quick to toss the tale aside as yet another fable. However, one glance at the variety of life and terrain reveals the reasons the Maori believe this tale; the Southern Alps are unlike anywhere else in the world. It is here that one may hike for hours up a windy mountain face and find nothing but fog, but take one wrong turn down a winding lake-side road and stumble upon a place that remains untouched since the time of the dinosaurs.

Everything in the region, from the cliffs that plummet deep into the water to the hidden peaks obscured by the clouds they graze, is designed to keep those who do not belong from reaching the top, and discovering what lies there.

On occasion, the clouds do break atop those windswept mountain peaks to reveal a scene that closest resembles the Garden of Eden. When a day as rare as this arrives, tourists and locals alike push against the wind and sun to reach the peaks, where views of rich glacial valleys extending for miles before dipping behind steep cliffs greet those who are able to persevere. I suppose this is how it has always been; in order to preserve one of the last truly wild places on earth, nature has evolved to keep unwanted visitors ~69~

from invading. However, if one shows the mountain respect and is able to recognize the need for one’s struggle, the mountain may guide one to the top. The view here is more beautiful than any other place in the world, and it looks as if the region was the masterpiece of a god with an eye for beauty and mystery.

The rocky peaks are too dramatic to have been forced up by the earth, they must rather have been carved out by a master potter. He sculpted delicate peaks so high they scrape the clouds and impossibly deep fjords, filled with creatures that have yet to be discovered by man. Standing atop any of the hundreds of peaks instills a sense of understanding in the surveyor; she may simultaneously feel a complete belonging in the world, as well as a kind of loneliness. It is a wonderful feeling to understand which part in the master show she plays, if even for an instant, but as this knowledge fades, she is left in shock, and the stage begins to blur back to darkness.

My younger sister picks a flower from one of the many bushes alongside the path, a simple, white mountain flower, and brings it over to me.

“Look at this, B! Isn’t it so pretty?” she calls, proud to have found such a perfect specimen. I reach out and my sister places it in my hand; it’s been warmed by the sun and still feels like it has life in its petals. I give it back to my sister, and reach my own hand out to pick one for myself, but something stops me.

“It’s so beautiful! Mom would love to have one of these,” chimes a voice long forgotten, the voice of childhood me. I used to love picking flowers for my mother, so what is stopping me now? This time is no different from any other when I was younger and would pick the prettiest flower for her. I can imagine finding the perfect flower, and after pulling it from the rest, I would walk triumphantly over to my mother and place it in her hands, who would respond, “Thank you!” and promptly place it on the ground as soon as I turn around.

I lower my hand. My sister darts by me, no doubt on her way to show our mother the flower she has plucked from the bush. I am overcome by a wave of sadness; this mountain is perhaps the first place I have encountered where there is almost no human impact, and, for whatever reason, the act of taking the flower away from its bush soils that one part of the trail. The mountain will never be the same; an actor has been stolen from the stage.

At last, our green tunnel parts ahead, and, leaving behind the cool, shady protection of the path, we find that our struggles were not in vain. Arriving on the top of one of the many windswept peaks, we discover a hidden land more incredible than anything described to us before. A lazy glacial river winds through the valley, disappearing in the distance behind one of the many surrounding snow dusted peaks and spiny mountain ridges. On the exposed side of the mountain, shrubs grow sideways from the howling winds, while the opposite side is sheltered by a shelf of ancient stone, hosting white wildflowers that dance in the wind, decorating a rich hillside of green and brown. I glance up to the deepest blue sky imaginable, occasionally dotted with puffy white clouds that brush by the tops of mountains. All of this and more is reflected in the mirror-like stillness of a pond in the middle of the peak, protected by a wall of spiny bushes that serve the same purpose as the rest of the obstacles on the mountain, to ward off unwanted visitors. The pond is the crown jewel of the mountain, and the water shimmers like a thousand polished diamonds as the sunlight reflects off it. This place does not feel of this earth, and as I look around me, for a brief moment I feel completely centered. With no worry of time or place or exhaustion, I am at peace. This place is completely wild, and yet has a kind of order to it that calms my spirit. Everything has its place, and I know that I also have mine. I wish I could share this with my family, but I doubt my siblings would listen, and so, I push on. ~70~

The way back down the mountain is not nearly as difficult as the way up. My family and I slowly climb back down the path, passing the place where the flower remains next to the path, past the splashes of the waterfall. We climb down, down, down; down past the stumbling block that tripped me before, down past the trees draped in their rich robes of green, down past the songbirds who sing a quiet, gentle tune, down, down, down, down until we reach the end of the path. I feel distant, and something within me wishes I could have remained on the peak forever.

After hours of driving, my family and I watch as the sun slowly dips beneath the giant mountain faces, softening their rough ridges. The intensity of the sun’s glare softens as it gently slides up the faces before the sky explodes with a wealth of colors, and the mountains seem to grow upwards, celebrating the life all around them. The sun sinks below the horizon, taking the celebration with it, and the sky darkens quickly. The clock reads 11:05 pm. The mountains are silent. The town quiets for a bit, before once again roaring to life, breaking the gentle calm I have felt since I arrived at the peak lifetimes ago. The time has come for me to return home, and while I do not wish to ever leave this place, I know that I will always carry with me the mountain’s lessons, and so I push on.

Baillie McNitt ’20

~71~

Pop Goes the Seed Pop goes the seed Down into the soil Pop goes the roots Watch them uncoil Searching for water The roots go deeper Faster and faster because they are eager The shoots sprout above Grasping for sunlight Pop goes the leaves Like wings they take flight Guiding the plant out of sight Out bursts the bud Into the sky Pop goes a pedal Watch them untie

Megan Hiller ’22

~72~

The Crime of Conviction

Thirty-nine executions have been carried out by the United States when the accused is innocent of the crime, according to the DPIC. This is only a fraction of the number of those executed, 1400; nonetheless, these are 39 lives ended for no reason. These men were found guilty in a court of law, yet thousands of variables were present in each case. There were racist judges, trigger happy juries, and incomplete investigations. I believe that having even one of these lives being taken unjustly is a complete failure of the justice system, and a legitimate reason to reeval-uate how the United States punishes criminals. Voltaire’s statement, “It is better to risk saving a guilty person than to condemn an innocent one,” was correct when he said it and even more valid in this time of technological ad-vancements. A guilty man, if released can be brought back to justice through further investigation, while an inno-cent man who is condemned to the death penalty is condemned forever, which is inherently unjust.

In 2019, the way in which a detective pursues a crime is much different than it has been in the past, even 30 years ago. There has not been a time in our history in which humanity has had access to the sheer amount of technology that we have access to now. DNA testing has taken great strides from fifty years ago when the structure of DNA was only crudely imagined. The power of DNA testing has reached the point where there are commercials for genomic websites like “23andMe,” and “ancestry.com” on everyday television. Even the police have been able to crack open cold cases with such technology, which before would have let the guilty party go unidentified and unpunished. On February 18, 2019, Jerry Westrom was charged for a 1993 murder of a woman. Many may ask, how was this 26-year-old cold case finally cracked? Some might immediately think of the most logical option, a confession. Yet, in reality, Westrom was connected to the crime as DNA at the crime scene closely resembled the same DNA registered under his name on a mainstream genealogy website. The police confirmed his DNA by tracking him to his daughter’s hockey game, and after everybody cleared out of the stadium, the police retrieved his napkin from the trash.

They took the napkin to a forensics lab where the residue from the napkin matched the DNA evidence left at the scene 26 years ago. Police detectives all over the country are investigating these procedures after seeing the success. Mike Freeman a Minnesota detective said, “You know, I bet we have some cases back home we can use this on.” Seeing the extent to which genomic testing can impact a case, capturing a murderer who was free for 26 years, one can consider, do cold cases exist any more? With this knowledge, one can safely assume that when DNA is in play, a guilty party will eventually be identified and punished. Voltaire’s quote had another focus in conjunction with letting the guilty walk, condemning an innocent man.

The criminal justice system was established in America to control crime and impose penalties on those who violate laws, thus protecting the citizens of the country. The antithesis of this is killing an innocent person for a crime that he or she did not commit; there is nothing just about this. One example of 39 unjust murders by the criminal justice system is the case of Cameron Todd Willingham. He was put to death after he was charged with arson that led to the death of his three daughters. The police, in this case, overlooked glaring evidence and that was later found to prove the fire as an accident. Sympathy must be felt for him; he lost his three beloved daughters in a fire, carried the weight of their deaths all on his shoulders, and then took his last breaths strapped down while a lethal needle was slowly injected into his arm. Must any innocent man go through this pain? His wife as well felt massive pain all the way from the trial to the execution to after. Just like her husband, she was forced to fill the void the deaths of her daughters created; typically, a husband and wife would come together and support each other emotionally, but this was not physically possible as he was locked up in prison. Then, she had to see the love of her life, the ~73~

last remembrance of her daughters, be killed in cold blood by the state of Texas. The new possibility of apprehending a guilty man and the impossibility of saving an innocent man condemned, support Voltaire’s argument immensely.

One major argument critics may bring up against my case is the existence of double jeopardy in the criminal justice system. Double jeopardy is a procedure in which the accused may not be tried more than once for a crime they committed. Some may say, a new finding of DNA may not even help in a case if the accused has already been tried and allowed to walk. I agree with the premises of this argument, as indeed the accused could not be tried again for this crime, but that is where my agreement ends. The use of DNA test I referenced was to crack cold cases, where nobody had been tried before, and therefore double jeopardy would not apply. Nonetheless, say the DNA evidence found would be applied to a double jeopardy case. Criminally the accused would not be able to be further prosecut-ed, but civil trials could ensue. The person would be forced to pay for his crime and would, therefore, be punished. In addition to the civil suits, the accused would be labeled as a criminal and may quickly become a social outcast, never being able to shed the term. Furthermore, with the knowledge that the accused had commuted a crime before he could be surveyed more carefully in order to keep the public safe. Finally, if none of the civil trials, social isola-tion, or close monitoring every occur, it is still better than an innocent man’s life being taken away and forcing his family to suffer.

Risking the dismissal of a guilty man if it means being sure an innocent man is not punished, is the morally right answer to an unclear case. The guilty man may soon be accused and successfully convicted of the crime due to advancements in DNA testing. This saves an innocent man and his family from immeasurable amounts of grief. The decision to prevent an innocent man from being condemned protects the general public as a whole. The crime of convicting an innocent man is worse than the crime committed, no matter the case.

Alex Lashgari ’20

~74~

Annapolis Lacrosse and crabs are his world, Overlooked, forgotten, Boats and old bay is all I can say, DTA, blue angels, Naptown, croquet, State of “Merlin”: They tell me you are forgotten and I believe them, for it is easy to mistake Baltimore as the capital instead of you.

And they tell me you are overlooked and I answer: Yes, it is true that you are so small it is hard to remember that you are there.

And they tell me you are “just a preppy town” and my reply is: There is no doubt Vineyard Vines and The Lucky Knot can be found in everyone’s closets.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who ridicule my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Show me another city whose pride is so strong, people choose to wear the flag on their sleeves.

One so patriotic and buoyant where midshipmen can be found in almost every home and watching croquet in floppy hats and dresses is in actuality, an act of admiration.

Appreciation and value is all you can see from the flowers left on the bricks of Bestgate Road, Irrelevant, Excessive, Privileged, Building, breaking, rebuilding, Underneath the lacrosse sticks and crab traps, bliss is stretched across his face, Underneath the hardships of floods and shootings, lay smiles from ear to ear, Smiling as if there is no burden too heavy, no mission too strenuous, Smiling and laughing at the thought that he could ever be forgotten, Smiling because he knows the truth remains evident through the liveliness of the people.

Ally Dixon ’20

This poem is an imitation of Carl Sandburg’s poem “Chicago.”

~75~

The Man in the Tutu As a young boy, my mother and father had always attempted to influence the art of painting and drawing upon me, yet I had never succumbed to the pressure. They were both artists, but I had always preferred writing as words were simply easier for me to pair with thought rather than colors and shapes, and I was always attracted to the challenge of creating images with intricate words as opposed to blatantly obvious colors. I am sure this has much to do with the fact that I had never come across anything — no person, no animal, no object — that I was unable to describe to my fullest content. Nothing, before I returned to Paris, had left me speechless.

The angry mob was the first sight that caught my attention as I stepped off the Flèche d’Or at the Gare du Nord train station in northern Paris, France. Frankly, a worn wooden crate would have seemed just as interesting if the echoing jeers had not been there, as Paris was, had been, and always will be colorless and dull. Paris’ lack of charm and energy was the exact reason I had not wanted to return, but I had anyway. The city struck me so much because, aside from being my hometown, its structure and atmosphere of Paris resembled the pages and lines of a book: musty, gray, but filled to the brim with stories — as much as I hated it, I could not stay away.

The scene I was met with after exiting the railroad car was opposite of the usual bore of the streets of Paris: A crowd of men and women swarmed a figure that I am sure I would not have noticed if it were not for the flashes of white clothing dancing aimlessly through the cracks between the angry bodies.

The shouting intensified as I approached the mob, and I could soon decipher what was being said about the prancing shape: “L’ idiot!” “L’ atrocité!” “Homosexuel!” Not long after that word registered had I realized who the white garments were attached to, and I found myself forcing my way through the sea of bodies to rescue who I realized, to my horror, was my old friend from primary school: Albert Mimieux.

The sight of Albert stunned me. The structure of his face remained the same as it was fifteen years ago — before I had left Paris — but his once smooth and boyish skin was now littered with scars and wrinkles as if one day in the past, he had decided to erase his facial features and had drawn on new ones out of discontent with himself. His shoulders sagged along with his stomach, which I could see too clearly because he had no shirt on to cover himself with. In fact, the only pieces of clothing on him were white suede boots, a mangled pair of handmade angel wings, and a bright sparkling ballerina tutu. Despite being striped with mud and bruises, and I was hardly to tell the difference between them, the tutu remained undimmed by any dark force in the station — it projected a blinding light that stood out in a room full of so much hate toward it. The rest of the dazzling garments also severely contrasted with Albert’s physique and posture, for it was clear that he had given up on escaping from the crowd of visibly angry people, though he continued to run the internal perimeter of the crowd to find an opening. I recalled why so many people were this angry at Albert, because he was caught in the middle of a romantic relationship with a well-known professor at Lyon University. I assumed that he had found himself in a female ballet dancer’s costume after being seen walking the streets of southwest Paris despite the endless violent threats at his sexuality. After a failed attempt at escaping the continuously growing crowd of hateful Frenchmen, Albert was dragged to the nearest train station to be exiled by his own community.

With just a short glance at Albert, I could tell he was quickly defeated simply by his weary posture. After another wave of taunts and insults, he tiredly put his weight on his back foot and reached his bony, shaking hand out toward the group of people, as if to say, “Go on, I can take it. It’s not like I can do much about it now.” The angry mob gladly took his invitation, for within the minute he paused his frantic ~76~

scrambling I felt my surroundings violently surge forward, and I saw the ring of people close in around Albert. Having seen enough, I burst through the last line of bodies and grabbed Albert by his exposed shoulder. His skin was ice cold and scaly, but I hardly gave it any more thought because without a word from either of us, I turned around and plowed back through the sea of people and toward the exit of the station with Albert in tow. The two of us hurried down the street and refused to glance behind us out of fear of the hoard of angry people on our heels. Two blocks of three-story townhouses rushed by us as we neared the flat where I had spent my childhood, and a nostalgic feeling crawled its way into my throat. I looked over at Albert, who had silent tears running down is dry-cracked face, and the nostalgia quickly left. I turned my attention to the front porch of the apartment. Fumbling with the keys to the front door, we spilled into the house. Albert and I caught our breaths as we sat on the chairs placed in the foyer and listened to the crowd of people banging on the wooden door next to us. He looked up at me in a heartbroken manner, and I felt my insides churn out of pure pity for my beloved friend.

In Albert’s eyes I saw pain. The strain in his face and his contorted brow told stories of the fifteen years that I had been away from my hometown, and how he had gone through the past three with no one on his side. In his eyes I saw the hatred for himself, the dreams that never came true, and the blame he assumed because of them. I saw his daughter Louise, who he had lost custody of after being declared an unfit guardian. He had gone broke, all because he was fired from his job and was replaced by someone “manlier” than he was. I saw how he lost all his close friends, his acquaintances, and the respect he gave him because they were afraid of their community possibly believing that they agree with his romantic endeavors. What showed the most in my friend’s eyes, though, was the pain of losing the love of his life; he could never show his face in his ex-lover’s neighborhood, nor northeast Paris in general, ever again out of fear of being killed for indecency.

Albert glanced up at me and, upon seeing me staring back, quickly shifted his eyes to the floor again. “I apologize,” he muttered to himself, though I assumed that it was supposed to be directed toward me. “What for?” I asked. “I’m a burden to everyone I come into contact with. I ruin everything I touch. I ruined his life here, and now I’ve ruined yours.” He was talking about the professor.

“I don’t think you’ve ruined anything,” I replied.

“Then you’re as blind as he was, and as I was. I can’t exist here anymore.” His voice broke with those last words. “I’m certainly not blind, Albert. You have found yourself in a terrible situation, but in no way is it a reason for you to give up on your life here,” I reassured him, but deep down I could not fully believe myself.

“I’ve lost everything. You don’t mean that. You couldn’t possibly mean that.” I wanted to.

He slowly lifted himself from the chair and headed down the hallway into the nearest bedroom, and as I heard him changing into extra clothing he found in the old drawers, I felt guilty as I found great interest in my friend’s misfortune. I eagerly wondered what could possibly be going through his head at this moment. For Albert, the world was against him. His peers, his community, himself. I thought to myself how remarkable it was that he had found reasons to stay in Paris despite how hated he was. It was possible that he was unable to leave, since most of the city could identify the man simply by the rumors. The rush of thoughts caused me to involuntarily pick up the graphite pencil and smudged pad of paper that lay on the coffee table in the foyer, and I began to draw. I recalled Albert’s wrinkled faced, his sagged skin, his bloodshot eyes, and his remaining hair, which was all too absent for his age and was an obvious product of the past month. I then guided the pencil to Albert’s unmistakable posture, his bent knee and defeated ~77~

shoulders, and then the tutu and accompanying boots and wings. Finally, I concluded the sketch of the scene of this morning with Albert’s facial expression, which I made deliberately more hopeless than what I had seen at the station, which was a fake, but stronger image. I felt as if though I should include what was actually going on in his head, not what he wanted to show. As I was finishing the creases around his eyes, I heard the shatter of glass and a large THUMP come from the room down the hall.

I sprinted toward the closed door, fearing the worst. It had only briefly crossed my mind that he may try to end his life once we had escaped the station, but I was too preoccupied with Albert’s physical situation at the time to put any urgency behind it. If he had took his life in the five minutes that I had left him alone, I would have never been able to forgive myself. We had spent too much time together as children growing up for him to leave so soon: he shaped me into who I was. Holding my breath as I sped through the doorway, I found it eerily vacant. All that seemed unnatural was the absent window panel and my missing friend. I felt nauseous for fear of what I would see outside of the window, which was three stories above the barren alleyway on the side of the flat. Moving toward the windowpane and peering down, I saw nothing but a significantly more crumpled pair of angel wings and a single suede boot, which were both even dirtier than they had been twenty minutes before. My friend, the other shoe, and the tutu were gone, and I cannot say that I have seen him since.

Julia Christie ’20

This story was inspired by “Homme au Tutu,” a painting by Prosper Mérimée done between 1803-1870.

~78~

Hands Freckles–from years of SPF-related neglect –sit upon a pale backdrop.

A life of contrast.

Painted nails– an effort seldom appreciated, but often made.

These same hands I’ve known for 18 years, always familiar, always family.

To me–identical, but they know better.

One diagnosis, three scared children, and countless appointments these hands have seen.

They’ve been filled with toxin– for the good of the whole– sacrificing nerve endings for happy ones.

And though they know better, I know best– I know her embrace to be just as full, her meaning to be not at all lost.

So while an emptiness remains within– seldom seen but always felt– a fullness remains without.

Even now bringing the same love– the same thought– beyond those hollowed nerves.

Jack Wellschlager ’19

~79~

~80~

We hope that you enjoy this ninth 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

Chela Cunningham ’21 Yeala Grimes ’21 Julia Olds ’19 Chris Sixby ’22 Morgan Skinner ’19 Caroline Summers ’19 Tate Taczak ’19 Jack Wellschlager ’19

Faculty Advisors

Julia Maxey Sandy Sanders

~81~