Issue 3 2015

RT

volume XIV issue III

the roundtable

volume XX, issue X

of stuart hall high school

April 2015

month year

Literary and Art Edition

Inside

Read online

A plot-twisting story by Zack Hammer Spectacular artwork by Edward Emery An eye-opening perspective from Nick Shkolnikov plus more! roundtable.sacredsf.org

Stuart Hall High School | Schools of the Sacred Heart, San Francisco | Volume XIV, Issue 3 | March 2015

the round table

roundtable.sacredsf.org

a forum for students

Table of Contents Shoe Hype...........................................................4 Brother................................................5 New Years..........................................................6 Talent at The Hall...........................................6-7 I Love you, Nicolas Cage.................................8 Vengeance of Hebdo...........................................9 Blindfolded in Fear...........................................10 The Candle........................................................11 Early Autumm..................................................12 Windows To The Soul......................................13 Transition........................................................14 Stuart Scott......................................................15 Out of Water................................................16-17 Comics...............................................................18 The Bell.............................................................19

Scan this QR code to go to the round table online!

Read the latest school news.

Front cover photography by Max Depatie ‘17 Back cover illustration by Edward Emery ‘17

Journal Editor Photography William Rodriguez Austin Woo News Editor Stephen Everest Layout Editor Will Paulsen

Staff Brandon Seltenrich Nick Shkolnikov Nick Hom Zack Hammer

Staff and Publication Information Jackson Rhodes Gabe O’Brien Sam Cormier Harry Billings Phoenix Aquino-Thomas Owen Fahy

stuart hall high school

Faculty Advisors Lori Saltveit Amanda Walker member

Online content: Please visit the online round table at: http://roundtable.sacredsf.org/

Corrections the round table goes to great lengths to ensure that all material is accurate, timely, and factual. However, errors sometimes occur. If you notice a factual mistake, please send an e-mail to lori.saltveit@sacredsf.org with “Reader Discovers Error!” in the subject line. the round table | Founded 2005 by Nick Dietz, Corey Linehan, Tom Pardini, Joey Plonsker, Ms. Sarah Slonaker

editor’s corner

by Austin Woo ’15

If there’s one thing I’ve learned so far during this second semester, it’s that “senioritis” does not exist. Teachers simply will not allow seniors to slack off. While I was looking forward to taking it “easy” my second semester, many of the seniors and I have realized that its better that we finish off our last semester strong, to create good habits and have a smooth transition from high school to college.

On another note, second semester has also brought new members to the roundtable staff. We were happy to add Gabe O’Brien, Harry Billings, Jackson Rhodes, Michael Tellini, Sam Cormier. We’re excited to have a growing staff! Because of the positive feedback from our last, literary issue, the roundtable decided to produce another installment of a literary and art journal. This issue features guest illustrations and thought provoking written pieces. If you are interested in school news and current events, check out the online version of the roundtable, led by Steven Everest ‘15 by going to http://roundtable.sacredsf.org/ or scanning the QR code from the Table of Contents.

T

Best Wishes, Austin

Shoe Hype

by Phoenix Aquino-Thomas ‘18

How Air Jordans took control

The shoe hype all started with Air Jordans, which have been around since the ‘80s. They’ve been the topic of what’s trending, and what all the rich kids are spending their money on, in order to “up” their “shoe game”. Ever since their introduction to the world of fashion, they’ve been a way to express someone’s identity, and even make a statement. These shoes were mainly created for basketball, hence the reason Michael Jordan wore them.

There are many reasons why The Red Jumpman climbed up to the top, and stayed there.

Every time Michael Jordan stepped out onto the basketball court, he wore a fresh pair of Air Jordans. The brand exploded on the market once he started wearing these shoes during his career with the Chicago Bulls, and they’ve been the most sought after sneakers in the shoe market since. Everyone

wanted to be like Michael Jordan. tell him “I’m cooler than you.” It

Back in the ‘80s, Michael makes the wearer of the Jordans feel Jordan transformed the sport of like a tiger and the Converse kid, basketball - his ability changed the a deer. The tiger eats the deer for game, and his shoes changed the breakfast and moves onto the next sports merchandising industry. one for lunch.

When Air Jordans debuted in

These shoes have had an 1985, they were the ‘rebels’ of the influence on famous people. Sports basketball shoe market. Their red players love to wear them as a and black colors were completely statement. Pro basketball players different from the all white shoes the love wearing Jordans around the pros were wearing. Their lightweight court. Rappers love their footwear design along with their superior as much as they love their cars. And performance made them a great what better way to express that option for function and fashion. Part than a pair of Air Jordans? They’re a of their hype was due to the fact great fashion statement, and most of when they first came out, Jordan all, exemplify wealth, which is what was actually banned from wearing most famous people have anyway.

Jordans during games due to the fact It’s a win-win situation. Their that they didn’t match the uniform. excellent quality and timeless look

Today, Jordans are more than have set Jordans’ place in the world basketball shoes. They’re a way to as the best shoes, period. express your identity. They’re a way

Hail to the King. to send a message to the Converse Photography by Lori Saltveit wearing kid right next to you and page 3

Brother

by Zack Hammer ‘16

a short story

I haven’t seen my twin brother in years.

When somebody does something like that, you don’t want to. I don’t remember what my brother looks like, but I do remember who he was and what he put me through.

As a child and into my late teens, I suffered from a sort of narcolepsy; I would black out

Illustration by Duncan McDonell ‘16

page 4

randomly during the day, without warning. I would awake in a completely different place, sometimes wearing different clothes, with no recollection of where I had been. A disease like that makes childhood rough, and having a sociopath as your ‘other half’ forced my life into a living hell. It started out harmless enough, like him frying ants with a magnifying glass or making his own mouse traps out of scrap metal.

However, soon his thirst became harder to quench, and at some point he ended up bludgeoning our neighbor’s dog to death with a hammer. Once the neighbors found their beloved Checkers splattered across the driveway, they went straight to my father.

And of course, he blamed me.

Conveniently, one of my blackouts had led me out of the house that day, and with no proof of my innocence, what was I going to do?

Blame my sociopathic brother? No, it was far better for our neighbor’s dog to end up in the ground than me.

As I began to reach my teens and wildlife continued to disappear around our house, my disease continued to get worse. I was beginning to black out more and more frequently, up to two or three times a day. I talked to my dad, who shook it off telling me it wasn’t a disease, it was just the cause of stress and lack of a regular sleep schedule. I shared a room with my brother, of course, and often I would lay awake, wondering if this was the night he’d snap. If this was the night I would feel his cold hands around my neck. Yet every time I checked on him, he was sound asleep, sleeping far too soundly for a killer. The only time I would get any rest would be after I knew he’d killed, as I knew he would be pacified, if only for the night.

This pacifism, however, soon could no longer be achieved by killing animals.

I remember the morning like it was just last week. On the day of our 18th birthday, I awoke from the best sleep I’d had in years, which was exhilarating, because the last time I looked in the mirror and saw my brother walk into our room covered in blood was over six days earlier. With a smile on my face, I rolled over to look at my brother.

He wasn’t there. My smile faded. My brother was a notoriously late sleeper, and looking over at my bedside clock I saw that it was only a little after seven. Doubts began to cross my mind, just as I heard three sharp raps on the front door. And then came the four syllables I hoped I would never have to hear in my life: It’s the Police. Then came my father’s heavy footsteps trudging down the stairs, and the sound of the door squeaking open. I could only manage to think about how I was the one who would be blamed. It was never my perfect brother.

He’s never done anything. I heard my father call my name. I shuffled out of my room and down the stairs to my father, who was facing two policemen.

They were telling him that his son was a suspect involved in a homicide, and that they wanted to bring me in for questioning. My father’s brow furrowed as he turned to me. I stammered out that it was my brother and that I wasn’t a murderer, that it was always my brother. I expected to see that disappointed look in his eyes, the kind he got when he thought I was lying. Instead, for the first time, I saw the dawn of realization on his face. Then, at seemingly the worst possible time, my disease struck again.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed, with my father sitting in the chair beside me. Once he saw that I was awake, he grabbed my hand with both of his, and with tears in his eyes he told me how sorry he was and how I was right about my brother.

They told me that he had been caught and would be punished. He told me that we would find a cure for my disease and that my life would change for the better. Then I blacked out again.

That was years ago. After spending some time in the hospital, they said that I was cured. I moved out away from my dad and found a place of my own. I finally thought my life was perfect.

Until last week. I found a message on my phone telling me that my brother was going to be in town for a visit. They must have let him out of prison, and now he was coming back to kill me for ratting him out. What a death, to be killed by the person who was supposed to be your closest friend. Paranoia swept in: my brother would once

again control my life. For the rest of the week, I never left my house. I kept the door locked and ate all the emergency food I had in the basement.

Soon the narcolepsy returned. The stress of it all must have gotten to me, and of course I barely slept. Then, after a blackout, I found two bags at the foot of my stairs, filled with what I could only assume to be my brother’s clothes. He must have gotten in when I was unconscious. I began to lose all hope when reality finally set in. My heart began to beat faster. I couldn’t let him control me like he did when I was a kid. I raced to my room, hoping that he wasn’t there. I slammed the door and tipped my bookcase over, barricading the door and spewing books everywhere. I reached under my bed and found the strongbox with my father’s gun inside. I now look into the mirror, and see me holding that gun to my brother’s head as I write this out. I will never let him control me again.

page 5

New Years

by Nick Shkolnikov ‘18

a poem

At morning the sun rose, filling my room with a warming shade of bright orange.

Looking to my right, the window was slightly open.

A cool breeze flowed into my room which brought chills to my skin, creating an unpleasant feeling throughout my body.

Being cold and warm made me realize what today was: New Year’s Eve. Filled with excitement, I steadily walked into my living room where the sun beamed with a golden flare that blurred my eyes.

Getting ready to plan out this day, I thought about what will make this new year different from all the rest.

I never came up with an answer, only thinking of questions.

Hours went by, then the sun started to say goodbye, waiting to pop out the following year to say good morning.

The dark started to come out slowly, being patient for the sun to leave which brought out the moon, who was glistening in the pureness of the dark.

Friends started to join my family, preparing to say their farewells to 2014.

Still thinking of what might come of the new year, I could not decide what awaited me.

Thinking and thinking made time run away from me.

It was 11:55 p.m., and then it hit me.

Everything I did would be a memory stored away, and all I can do is make new memories for the new year.

The countdown started from 20 then 13 then eight then one and it was over. The New Year was here.

Everybody screamed with joy, making their voices fly through the room.

It was a happy moment, for all of us.

A new memory.

Talent at The Hall

by Austin Woo ‘15

In this issue of the roundtable literary and art journal, the artwork of Edward Emery ’17 is featured on the back cover and the opposite page. At SHHS, Edward is known for rowing, though what many students don’t know about Edward is that he is passionate about drawing. Edward often gets his inspiration from San Francisco. “When I was in middle school, I was into street art. A friend of mine was a prominent street artist and for as long as I can remember, I just liked drawing things,” says Edward, “but I’ve primarily gotten my inspiration from people in San Francisco and the city itself.” Unlike many “traditional artists,” Edward’s art process is freeform. Edward says, “My artwork is freeform. I don’t go through a particular process.” Edward’s artpiece, Ghost on Wheels, that is currently being displayed in the Learning Commons, began in Visual Arts 2. He says, “My art piece depicting the ghost in rollerskates is centered around the theme ‘the Spirit moves in mysterious ways.’

I interpreted this literally and added a bit of humor to it.”

page 6

Illustration by Edward Emery ‘17

page 7

I Love You, Nicolas Cage a satire

Nicolas Cage is the single greatest actor on this planet. Other actors, such as Leonardo Dicaprio, Harrison Ford, and even George Clooney, have nothing on Nicolas Cage. These other so-called “good” actors don’t put real emotion into their roles the way Nic does. Their acting seems fake and even forced, compared to Nic’s naturalistic performances. Oh Glorious Nic however, makes all his roles come to life; they seem genuine, realistic, and not at all over acted. Nic’s acting changes the dynamics of the movies that he stars in and makes the movies even more captivating and inspiring.

I don’t understand why people make fun of Nic. His acting is real and incredibly professional. Nic’s acting is so brilliant that he won both an Oscar and a Golden Globe.

On the contrary, Leonardo Dicaprio has not won any Oscars. Where are your Oscars, Leo?

Photoshopped by Austin Woo ‘15

page 8

by Austin Woo ‘15

Nic has been in a ton of movies that I have enjoyed. I mean, did you see him in Vampire’s Kiss? His acting was beyond amazing in that.

The best part of the movie was when he taught the alphabet. That movie also proved that he has the ability to be an exemplary elementary school teacher. I bet if he taught kindergarten, all the children would know their ABC’s. Another movie that Nic performed well in was Ghost Rider. Nic’s transformation from a dare devil stunt man, to an enraged flaming skull, proved to the world that Nic had the ability to be a superhero. Beyond these two movies, I think that Nic’s best work was in The Wicker Man. Nic’s acting was “on point.” It was the perfect balance of anger and sorrow. The best line in that movie was “How’d it get burned.” That very quote brought tears to my eyes - of joy, not laughter. On the contrary, I think Nic’s performances in Leaving Las Vegas, Moonstruck, and Raising

Arizona were atrocious; there was a lot of room for improvement in those films. Why didn’t he trade faces with anyone? Why wasn’t his skull ever once in flames? Where are the bees???

Nicolas is currently 51 years old and he has many more years to come. I hope that he continues his already successful acting career. I think that many others actors and want-to-be-actors should study Nicolas’s style and repertoire; they could learn a great deal from him.

Nic, if you are reading this, I want to let you know that I am your number one fan. I love you, Nicolas Cage.

Vengeance of Hebdo

by Harry Billings ‘18

a short story

T

wo men. That’s the description I got from the warden. Two men with guns. Usually we at least gather a description, but it seems that the entire nation is in a state of mass confusion.

Confusion stemming not from useless information, but from the lack of information. We don’t know anything. No suspects, no evidence, not even anything telling us that these tragedies are linked. I watch the lights of my patrol car wash over the dirty cobblestones of the city limits.

Illustration by William Rodriguez ‘16 Cars go flying by me, drivers glad to be clear of the security checkpoints, but with eyes still consumed with fear. It’s a chilling thought, and as my small radio keeps softly chirping, I pull my collar up to my chin and shiver. All of a sudden, my radio breaks up in a whirlwind of static. Panicked voices everywhere, bursting out suddenly. I can only catch a few words, but from what I gather they’ve been sighted, and they have hostages. I ask for a location, and a quick response comes. They’re at a gas station not a mile from my post.

I should be scared, I really should, but all I can think about is how close I am to these people who have ruined so many lives. That’s when I feel the white-hot ball of anger welling up inside of me. Not the cartoonish smoke-blowing-out-of-my-ears type of anger, but an all consuming rage. I’m already on the highway at this point, all my energy focused on getting to that gas station. There are no other cars on the road, and the quiet town is as sleepy as ever. The forest road narrows down into a small dirt road, about as wide as my car. I roll to a stop outside of the deteriorating station, only two pumps and a grimy shack.

The crunchie bars and coffee are not a welcoming sight. These have been my diet for the past month, all day and night out on patrol. I hear the unintelligible shouting from the back. I want to run to the hostages, but despite my anger my instincts kick in as I walk slowly around the corner. A dirty bathroom spills light out onto the otherwise dark alleyway. Despite the setting sun, I see the men, their hoods pulled far down over their bearded faces. They don’t see me, and for a second I think that I can stop this whole thing. But at that very moment, one of the guys pulls out his gun, a sleek black handgun, pressing right into the back of a hostage’s head. The explosion echoes for what seems like an eternity, the calm dusk of the forest suddenly interrupted. I can only stare in horror at the now bloodstained bathroom door, the screaming of the remaining hostages drowned out by the ringing in my own ears. It’s only then that I realize that the perpetrators are running. I yell at them to freeze, too late realizing my mistake. As I see his head turning toward me, I see murder lighting up the leader’s eyes. His bloodstained arms rise up until I’m staring down the barrel of his revolver. I never hear the bang, I just see a flash, and I’m falling for what seems like forever.

page 9

Blindfolded in Fear A short story

I am driving in a Jeep around the desert, trying to get a scoop on what is happening in the Middle East with ISIS. I’ve already heard these terrible stories being told; I’m a freelance journalist. I could work at a regular paper, but I get to write what I want, when I want. I look around. I’m from New England where it’s pretty cold, especially around autumn. In this dry climate, I am sweltering.

It’s still a few miles to Mosul.

Many people hear bad stories from Mosul. Terrorism is prevalent there.

Just then, in the distance, there is a large cloud of dust. I sit up and try to see what it is.

The dust keeps getting closer and closer until I can make out what is in front of me: another jeep. My heart sinks and I begin to tremble as I can see masked men standing up with large weapons. My driver

Illustration by Gabe O’Brien ‘18 page 10

by Gabe O’Brien ‘18

has quick reflexes and jerks the Jeep around so abruptly that I almost fall out. The driver gears up and the old Jeep’s engine roars, carrying us away. When I hear several shots, I get down. I now fear for the driver. Will he still be able to drive from the floor of the car? When I look up to see if my driver is okay, I realize that he is passed out. I move him to the front row passenger seat and take the wheel myself. When I begin to take over the steering wheel, I notice there is something wrong with the car. The car starts to spin out of control and out of fear for my own safety, I jump out of the Jeep. I roll onto the ground and scrape myself.

I can’t move now. That turned out to be a bad idea. I can’t even crawl.

That’s when the shadow of another Jeep washes over me…

I see only darkness.

There is a blindfold covering my eyes. There is a pervading smell of

mold. I must be inside a building; I feel the darkness creep over me.

I then hear people speaking an unfamiliar language outside. I don’t know whether I’m alone or if there are others just like me who are kidnapped. Just then, I hear the door creak open. The sun rays hit my eyes like knives. But it gets even brighter when the blindfold is taken off and I am led outside by a man with a knife…

The Candle

by Nick Shkolnikov ‘18

a poem

Photograph by William Rodriguez ‘16

One candle kept the dark room glowing.

One candle kept the dark room warm.

One candle made the room feel safe.

One candle made all the monsters go away.

One candle made the child feel protected.

One candle helped the child not cry.

One candle made the storm silent.

One candle made the world feel friendly.

One candle made the pain go away Until the candle started to flicker.

The candle began to melt.

The candle began to vibrate.

The candle began to shrink.

The candle began to make the room cold.

The candle began to make the room dangerous.

The candle began to scare the child.

The candle began to let the monsters out.

The candle began to fade.

The candle began to say its goodbyes.

The candle went out, and the sun rose.

The candle went out, and the alarm rang.

The candle went out, and the child was happy.

The candle went out, and the curtains opened.

The candle went out, and the door fluttered open.

The candle went out, and the smell of breakfast flowed into the room.

The candle went out, and the T.V. came on.

The candle went out, and the window opened.

The candle went out, and the child knew that the candle never left.

page 11

Early Autumm

by Anton Kozlov ‘16 with an introduction by Brandon Seltenrich ‘16

a short story

The juniors in Ms. Sitter’s American Literature class read many poems and other pieces of literature on the subject of the Harlem Renaissance, the birth of a new kind of AfricanAmerican culture in the twentieth century. Several of those works were by Langston Hughes, a significant Harlem Renaissance figure and poet, and delved into deep analysis of his writing style.

One of the pieces, “Early Autumn”, is a story involving a conversation between two people named Bill and Mary. They were given an assignment to write a piece in the same style as Hughes, from the perspective of a bystander in the original poem, i.e. a bus driver, a homeless man, Bill or Mary’s spouses, etc. Enjoy a glimpse at the best our class has to offer on this page and the next.

Knowing that his three-year-old daughters will not have the answer he looks back at the safe. Trying to forget the man he shot while drunk in California two months ago.

25 years ago he was able to have children, hold a job for more than a week, and most importantly see his children. He looks at the couple and has a flashback to the day she left.

And he thinks to himself, “Goodbye would have been sufficient, Mary. You could have at least said goodbye and let me continue my life with our daughters.”

She sits on the bed trying to make sense of what Lars has gotten them into. She lays back and stares at the ceiling, picturing the safe. She can’t believe he has forced the entire family to be on the run for a whole two months. Knowing he did the right thing she feels she no longer has the right to question the decisions he makes.

Now 25 years later he remembers the three names tattooed on his chest Camille, Carmen, and Mary. All three having the date January 2nd, 1982 and “Rest in Paradise” above his two daughters, a gun pointed As he sat on the bench he could not help but notice at the head of his wife. 25 years later and he cannot a young couple having an interaction resembling believe she remembered their anniversary date that he that of him and his girlfriend 25 years ago. He can used as the safes combination. not hear what they are saying, he is not able to see the face of the man but the women is clearly in From afar he hears, “ Goodbye!” being yelled by the old love. women.

“We’ve been in New York for two weeks and you already spent all of our money?” she said.

Without taking his eyes off of his safe, where the solution is, he answers, “Yeah...sorry.”

The man whose face he had not seen previously begins to approach him as he notices the last leaf of the beautiful tree fall, flying away in the wind, disappearing in the fog.

“Sir, are you alright?” he asks

She could not believe that the man sitting on the couch with the gray hairs was the same one she married only three years ago.

Hearing no answer or breathing he begins to yell for help. But it is too late. Lars had been dead for 22 years, just flying in the wind and disappearing into the fog, unnoticed by those passing him or occasionally “I can not believe that you went to play poker throwing him coins with Abraham Lincoln’s face on after all that we have been through. I can not keep them. doing this,” she said.

As the Paramedics attempt to resurrect him they open Seeing that he will not respond she goes into the his shirt and notice the three names tattooed on his other room as he stays with Carmen and Camille. chest and put away their equipment.

As she goes into the bedroom he says, “Hey girls, “We’d better call this one in. Date of Death , 1/2/04, come here. Do you know that daddy loves you? Do Time of Death, 19:24.” you know that daddy loves mommy?” page 12

Windows To the Soul

by Virgil McCorgray ‘16

a short story

Photograph by Jackson Rhodes ‘16

The boy had followed him there again.

Across the park he could see their faces: her looking at him, him to her. Their lips moved yet he only heard the soft roar of the waking city. Why she looked at him like that he didn’t know. He actually hadn’t seen the man speak with anyone since he had moved in. He looked strained, out of practice. The boy was happy he was taken off guard like this. He wanted for the man to be more uncomfortable but before he knew it the woman was gone and he was back alone amidst the fog of the moving crowds. He could see the man’s face. Pale. He finds a bench to sit and rests his face in his hands. He looks up and his eyes are tired, sunken, not like the boy had seen prior. Other times he had come to this place, the man had sat upright and watched the people go by in a deep calm. He was lost in himself, the boy could tell, but his eyes were soft, apologetic; they looked out into the world but

saw nothing, and the man was content like that.

The boy climbed down from his perch and began moving towards him. He let his hand slide into his jacket pocket. He traced the grooves in the cold steel as his legs moved faster and faster.

The boy could feel the noise fade away and his voice become an echo in his head. He could see him so clearly now, the boy almost forgot how far he had walked. The man wouldn’t look up, he stared straight into the ground. The boy could do it now and he wouldn’t have any idea. The migratory masses wouldn’t dare break routine either, at least not until it’s too late.

It was perfect. The boy heard a sweet ring in his ear as the man slowly raised his head and locked eyes with the boy. They were not sunken now, they were not tired, they saw right into him.

“Hello”.

The man said nothing.

He looked up at the boy’s face. He could feel his heart pulse with rage. His eyes were ignorant; the man knew as soon as he opened his mouth.

They were angry, looking out at the world and seeing nothing. God he is young.

Young enough, the man guessed.

He breathed deeply, stood, and brushed past the boy. As the man walked, he could feel his gaze, so he stopped and looked up at the sky. The vast ocean of the heavens he was waiting to join.

He stood for a long time before he turned around.

When he did, the park was quiet, he could hear the hum of the street lights and he saw her there again, illuminated like an angel. Only this time she was young, beautiful, and she was smiling at him, not saying a word. She gripped his hand tight and led him away into the dark where the boy could not go.

page 13

Transition

by Nick Shkolnikov ‘18

a perspective

It was early August, cold and foggy. I did not know what to expect on the drive to Stuart Hall High School. It being only the second day of school, I started to get nervous, knowing that my life was changing so much. The car stopped, and the passenger door fluttered open. Mr. Marquette and Mr. Farrell were waiting at the front to greet all members of The Hall. Looking around the school, I saw no one I knew, just a group of guys that came from different areas ranging from the city all the way to Marin. I saw older kids walk past us, not saying a word. The very first class I had was biology. I didn’t know where that class was so I just followed my fellow freshmen. As I got to the classroom Mr. Helms greeted each and every one of us. I looked around the classroom, noticing new and unique things that the biology room had. Looking carefully at the mural on the right side of the wall, I noticed a submarine and a seagull which made me feel welcomed.

Mr. Helms gave us a presentation and his expectations for this year.

And with that, the class was over.

Things moved fast. Then we met our advisors and advisory group.

My advisor is Mr. O’Connor, who came off as a friendly individual.

He said hello to four other freshmen including myself and introduced us to the rest his advisory. Then I met Austin, who looked composed and quiet. I then met four sophomores who talked over each other so I didn’t really catch all their names the very first time we met. We talked for a short period of time which felt like an hour, and then finally we were sent to our classes.

The class felt very short, and I didn’t know what to do next. While I was waiting there, I asked an older student what was going on.

He chuckled, saying we had a 20 minute passing period. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but after five page 14

Photograph by Max Depatie ‘17 minutes I realized that we had 20 minutes to just hangout and relax, a sort of break. I was very the first day which I was not a fan happy because my middle school of, but I got over it. The class ended never gave us 20 to relax and to and the day was over. The day felt transition to the next class. I spent very short but I looked forward to my time introducing myself to some coming back to my new home the other freshman, trying to get a next day. better understanding of them. After talking to my new fellow freshmen, I headed up to my Spanish class.

Because I had no experience with Spanish before, I arrived in class feeling anxious and nervous. Mr. Teixeira, my new Spanish teacher, then told us that he would help us every step of the way; he told me “ I will help you, all you need to do is ask.” Having kept that saying in my mind, I felt more confident about learning spanish. After Spanish class, I headed to history taught

by Mr. Downs. When I entered the classroom, Mr. Downs projected his voice to welcome us. He began the class with some history questions which a few were answered by my peers and me. After that, he asked us to introduce ourselves.

Mr. Downs then gave us a brief explanation of his class which included what he expected of us. We then shifted gears and started our first history lesson. He was the only teacher that assigned homework on

Stuart Scott

by Owen Fahy ‘18

a perspective

The SportsCenter anchor desk sat empty on January 5th, 2015. The man who should have been sitting there was not. Stuart Scott was dead, and America mourned for his passing. I did not mourn. I watched his ESPY’s speech one more time, and smiled. Stuart had not died; he had not lost the fight to cancer. Stuart said in his ESPY’s speech this past summer, “you beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and the manner in which you live.” Scott never stopped fighting, he did not stop working, and he did not stop being Stuart Scott. That is why Scott did not lose to cancer.

Cancer lost to him.

Stuart Scott left two kids, an ex-wife, his family, and his girlfriend. He left a world of inspired, adoring Americans. Many cancer survivors lost the man that they used as their beacon of light, in their very dark time. But, like Stuart Scott, they must push on. They must have hope in hopeless times, they must live when death seems imminent, and they must fight when the battle appears lost. They must embody what Stuart Scott embodied for them. Cancer is a disease, but not a death sentence. It is a challenge, not a penalty.

Stuart Scott did not just influence the lives of those with cancer. He touched the lives of every man, woman, and child who has heard him speak. Stuart Scott’s message is a reminder of the fragility of life and the opportunity to live it to the fullest. Here at Stuart Hall, we have this opportunity. We have been privileged with the gift of attending this school. We have the cornerstone for success in place, and in respect for Stuart Scott and for those without this opportunity, we must build off of this cornerstone. We must use our talents and gifts to influence the world around us. Stuart Scott’s passing is a calling. It is a calling to continue his message and embody what he stood for.

Stuart Scott hasn’t died. He continues to live on in the hearts and minds of millions of people everywhere. His story is just beginning to be told. Rest in peace, Stuart Scott.

Created by Owen Fahy using wordle.net

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Fall Highlights Out of Water - chapter two

by Zack Hammer ‘16

a short story

Earn stared restlessly at the ceiling above him. As he lay in the gloomy dusk of his bedchambers, his head swam with the thought of what he was about to do. He sat up and swung his feet over onto the cold stone floor, and paused on the edge of his bed. His heart was already racing, and he hadn’t even left the room. Earn took in a deep breath and stood up. Already dressed, he quietly pulled on his boots waiting by the door, and slipped out into the hallway.

Earn snuck easily through the palace hallways and eventually made his way into the courtyard. He darted across the grass, his face briefly illuminated in the waning moonlight, and edged into the shadows of the oak that sat in the middle of the courtyard. The branches of the tree easily overshadowed the palace parapets. Just as the sun began to peek over the mountains in the east, Earn began to climb the weathered trunk of the oak. He crawled along the branches until he was overlooking the palace walls, and he dropped down.

The palace sat atop a hill overlooking the city, and as Earn stood up, he gasped as he looked over the novelty that lay before him. Rough, weathered houses lined the cobbled streets, which were already beginning to bustle with activity.

Wooden carts filled with fruit and produce rattled over the stones on their way to the market. The temple bells began to ring, calling the devoted for the first worship of the day. The doors of various shops and businesses began to swing open, sending out clouds of dust and dirt. Earn took in every sight and sound, awestruck.

Earn peered over the edge of the walls, which were only about two stories high. He climbed over and dropped to the ground, less gracefully than he had hoped, but without injury. As he got to his feet he realized that this was the first time in his life he had set foot in the outside world. Giddy with joy, he ran down the road connecting the palace and the city, which merged onto the main road that lead through town. The streets were far from clean, with dirt and refuse lining the gutters, but Earn hardly noticed. The sweet smell of bread wafted from a nearby bakery as he walked, and noises and page 16

chatter from the nearby townspeople filled the street. Merchants haggled with their customers, music and laughter drifted out of nearby taverns, and the cries of various vendors could be heard from the nearby marketplace. As Earn continued towards the center of town, he stopped by the window of the blacksmith’s forge. The smith hammered away at a white-hot piece of metal, the smell of fire and smoke in the air, and sweat pouring down his brow. Earn stood, mesmerized by the master at work. The smith pounded the metal a few more times with his hammer, sparks flying in all directions. Then he plunged the newly-forged sword into a barrel of water, hissing and sending steam into the air.

As Earn reached the center of town, he found himself standing before the massive temple in the town square. Towering far above the other buildings, the temple’s whitewashed, stone walls shone in the morning sunlight. Earn stared up at the magnificent stained glass that adorned the front of the building. As he stood in awe, Earn felt a familiar grasp on his shoulder, and he heard Adelwei’s voice behind him, “Looks like we have a fish out of water.”

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Illustration by Justin Hom ‘15

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by Austin Woo ‘15

by Will Paulsen ‘15 page 18

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The Bell

by Gabe O’Brien ‘18

a short story

Another punch is thrown. I stagger back as if I was hit with a brick. Then an uppercut to the stomach. I fall back onto the ropes, barely able to stand up. He comes over again. He looms over me like a tall building downtown. Several more punches are thrown at my face and stomach. My body is stinging and I can barely see. I stumble to the side, trying to dodge his punches. He’s too quick. He throws a punch with his left, then his right. I can’t even lift my hands to protect myself. I just need to stand up for another round, then I’ve gone the distance. I just need to hear the final ring of the bell… * * * A day before the fight, I train harder than I’ve ever trained before. I am tired and I still need to fight. I throw on my sweatshirt, grab my bag, and leave the gym. I kick around an empty can while walking home, hoping that anything will take my mind off the fight. I get home and turn on a pot of coffee. I don’t even want to pick up a newspaper because I know that they will write about how it can’t be done; I’m facing a champion. You know, a lot of the fighters love the money and material that follow their success. I don’t even care about the glory. I just know that I owe it to myself to go the distance.

I need to prove this to myself. If I cannot do this, am I just a bum? I sip my coffee from the mug and stand up and look outside. The city can look angry when no one is on your side. I feel like giving up…

I wake up at 6:00 to go on my run. I see all the owners of the stores in the marketplace.

They’ve given me support and even given me money when I needed it. I don’t just need this win for myself, but for them, for everybody who has believed in me. I suddenly feel a sense of hope and obligation. * * * I get off the rings and throw a punch of my own. He is shocked that I punch him back. I think he grabs his face. I throw another one, and another, an uppercut and a jab to the stomach. I feel like I have the strength of all the people who believe in me now. The crowd gets up and cheers. I power through with another punch. I am invincible. Finally, my hook knocks him down. The bell rings. I am victorious.

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Image created by Gabe O’Brien ‘18

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“I challenged myself and wanted to see if I could sketch every president” “- Edward Emery ‘17

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