2014-2015 Lingua Franca

Lingua Franca Mission Statement: Lingua Franca is a literary-art magazine independently

produced by Sacred Heart High School’s students. We as students believe that this process prompts students to think and re-think as we create and revise.

Ultimately, we believe this strengthens students’ relationships to the Sacred Heart community and to the larger world.

Sacred Heart High School 399 Bishops Highway Kingston, MA 02364 781.585.7511 www.sacredheartkingston.com Letter from the Editors Dear Readers,

Space… a boundless, infinite domain in which all things exist together and all things manifest. Limitless and archaic, space embodies the values of creativity, ingenuity, and innovation. There was a multitude of reasons for culling the theme of space for the theme of the 2014-2015 edition of Lingua Franca. As editors we wanted to compose a theme that exemplified the change that our school underwent, as well as illustrating a meaning deeper than the surface layer.

This year Sacred Heart reopened the Kohout-Dingley Observatory. The observatory was renovated and upgraded, and now includes a state of the art Celestron telescope; renovations and viewing devices were funded by the DeCamp Family Foundation. These upgrades give students the capability to go beyond what the naked eye can see. The Astronomy Club used the telescope to observe nebulas, star clusters, and binary star systems. In the future they hope to examine planets such as Saturn and Jupiter, along with comets.

In addition to updating the observatory Sacred Heart did a complete renovation of the science department. The areas that received refurbishing were the Physics, Biology, and Earth and Space labs. The Physics and Earth and Space labs were adorned with televisions equipped with the latest technology, as well as all new furnishings and lab equipment.

Attached to the Biology lab is a green house where plants can be grown for scientific purposes. The hall leading to the new labs was also redone. It now includes display cases that hold scientific curios from around the world brought in by teachers as well as students. These include different minerals, bones, and chemistry equipment dating back many years.

With all these new happenings, we decided that the theme of space would truly tie everything together and give the magazine a central point of reference. Not only does the magazine want to play with the tangible aspects of space but also those that are more ambiguous and figurative. As our students are delving into the limitless aspects of science, we encourage our writers and artists with similar spirit to test their own limits. The space for new ideas, and originality is just as boundless as space itself.

Sincerely,

The Lingua Franca Staff Front Cover: Space Shot by Joy Moriarty, ‘17 *Joy Moriarty won first place in our school-wide “Write-a-polooza” competition for this piece. She has other works which appear in this issue as well.

Back Cover: Star Gazing by Olivia Colombo, ‘18 *Olivia Columbo entered several works in our “Write-a-polooza” competition which appear throughout this issue. Her painting of MLK, Jr. won a prize.

Table of Contents

Literature

Title Author Page A Light in the Dark

Jack Crowley

P. 1

Life is a Carosel Ride

Rose Crossman

P. 2

Why and How Come?

Carson Murphy

P. 3

Stroke of Genius

Tom Alger

P. 5

Beyond That Black Door

Jillian Blake

P. 7

Cynthia’s Song

Heidi Banden

P. 8

Walking on Water

Emma Cubellis

P.9

The Weird Boy with Glasses

Nick Fantasia

P. 11

Emmanuel with the...

Peter Carchidi

P. 12

Circles

Joshua Towner

P. 13

The Hands of Time

Steven Fehrm

P. 14

The Government You Know

Liam Bresnehan

P. 15

Kiki

Sean Flaherty

P. 16

First Day

Taylor Kaufman

P. 17

Un Appel à L’aide

Hannah Andrade

P. 19

The Ballad of the...

Jack Crowley

P. 20

The Three Little Pigs

Kaitlyn Melchionda

P. 21

The God Complex

Rachel Kelliher

P. 22

Dancing Mad

Teaghan Gokey

P. 24

Hamlet Emulation

Charles Mara

P. 26

Last Cry

Yanni Pappas

P. 27

Thank You

Nichole Henderson

P. 28

Driving Down the Road

Christopher Brown

P. 29

Untitled

Reagan Cavanaugh

P. 30

Eagle Plain Reflection

Charles Mara

P. 31

Dawn

Peter Reardon

P. 32

Fighting to the Finish

Natalie Hines

P. 33

Eyes

Jennifer Uribe

P. 35

New Dawn

Lynne Ann Murphy

P. 36

Conw’y Castle

Evan Coletti

P. 37

Vote for Pedro

Connor Bitterman

P. 40

The Last Campaign

Ian Coletti

P. 41

Friendship

Jackson Dunn

P. 44

Man’s Important Virtue

Jack Crowley

P. 44

Rolling a Double

Teaghan Gokey

P. 45

The Depths of Marin

Cora Quinlan

P. 47

Infinite

Caitlin Sullivan

P. 47

Title

Lanterns Daydreaming Floral Collage Stroke of Genius Skeletal Melody Pistols and Petals From Death Come Life Untitled It’s Read All Over We Three Kings Orchid Blooming Walking On Water Self Portrait Intangible Hammertime Phases If Only...

The Last Campaign A Bug’s Life Motherhood Mother and Son Sustain Tilly Face Feeding of 5,000 Dancing Mad Time Bolder Sunset Tree of Strawberry Butterflies The Beauty of Nature Emerald City Humanity A Feather in the Sky Reflections Tristan Color Outside the Lines Limitless Armadillo A Little Pinch of Pink Martin Luther King Jr. Untitled War Is...?

Harry Potter New Horizons

Artwork

Artist

Matt Johnson Matthew Dunn Olivia Colombo Tom Alger Ben Sleeper Joy Moriarty Matthew Dunn Dan Veitkus Joy Moriarty Sam Baston Yanni Pappas Zoe Volney Ian Coletti Amelia Beaton Matthew Dunn Francesca Keelan Joy Moriarty Ian Coletti Reagan Cavanaugh Mia Camelio Mia Camelio Siming Du William Gregson Teaghan Gokey Teaghan Gokey Anika Ruppen Maggie Slein Amelia Beaton Maria Fonts ChenMing Zhang Shannon Padgett Olivia Colombo Charles Mara Olivia Colombo Tabitha Johnson Olivia Colombo William Gregson Chloe Deeb Bridget LeBlanc Olivia Colombo Kelley O’Donnell Matthew Dunn Olivia Colombo Nick Cerrato

Page P. 1 P. 2 P. 3 P. 6 P. 6 P. 7 P. 8 P. 8 P. 9 P. 10 P. 10 P. 10 P. 11 P. 12 P. 12 P. 13 P. 14 P. 15 P. 16 P. 17 P. 18 P. 20 P. 21 P. 22 P. 23 P. 25 P. 27 P. 27 P. 28 P. 28 P. 29 P. 30 P. 31 P. 32 P. 34 P. 34 P. 35 P. 35 P. 36 P. 39 P. 39 P. 39 P. 44 P. 46

A Light in the Dark

Lanterns by Matt Johnson, ‘16

The sky is darker than the exterior of an opal, and the trim of the Milky Way Galaxy stretches its way across the night sky. But the ground is alit. Deep inside the sea of jungle trees lies a large pool of fresh water, with stone walkways forming a circle around a fountain, the epicenter, dripping with refreshing, essential, aquamarine liquid, while pink lanterns and flaming torches keep the ground bright and visible. Tribal members dance, chant, and sing in unison, and the torches they wield sway with their movements. Behind the aquatic foundation lies an immense temple, which resides up on a large structure of ceramic stone. An extensive staircase leads to its peak, with columns of Aztec stone stretching towards the heavens. The center of the temple is littered with precious gold artifacts and obsidian riches. From the top, one can see into the distance, over the large jungle and into the mountains, which look as if they are scraping the sky.

After many hours, the sun rises over the mountains, its violet hues making the sky look like a canvas, gushing red, yellow, orange, purple, and pink. The first of the jungle’s bird life begins to awake, and a

group begins to take flight, with each tree standing as tall and proud

as the one beside it. It is unknown where the men went, as the bustling

of the temple last night has been hushed, but they will return.

They always do.

1

Jack Crowley, ‘18

Life is a Carousel Ride Life can be an analogy A simple carousel ride Our path is set out for us all Swept along with the tide Then our ride starts to go ahead Our pace is getting quick As all the years start flying by I think I’m feeling sick Unaware of our surroundings Our focus is the road ahead Trying to enjoy everything Before we find we’re dead No one knows when the ride will stop Although it may be tough When we get on this very ride We know we will have to get off In this ride you’ll experience A lot of rises and falls Some days our guard is down and free Sometimes we put up our walls The ride is starting to slow down We’re staying at one place We know it’s coming to a stop We start to count the days We’re getting off the carousel The ride has come to end But now we’ll never get to know If we can get on again

Daydreaming by Matthew Dunn, ‘17

Rose Crossman, ‘18

2

Why and How Come?

By Carson Murphy, ‘16

My father and his brother Mike were big troublemakers while they were growing up; around town they were referred to as Why and How Come because every time anyone would talk to them that’s all they would say in reply. This is a story that takes place when they were about four and five, when they did mischievous things in their neighborhood.

Susie bounced all the way down the back stairs where her bike awaited her; she stopped, dropping the pink spotted helmet.

Upon seeing the bike, she questioned, Was this really her bike? ... Four hours earlier...

“Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, Batman! Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, ...” came on the old box T.V. in the corner of the room, as a red headed miniature Napoleon Dynamite came running in, and the taller older brother, Dickie, was listening in the same living room to the Beatles with the sound blaring as high as it could go. The two fought over who would stay and who would go, but the harsh footsteps of their stern mother interrupted them. She sent them outside and locked the door behind her.

3

A bright, new, bubblegum pink bicycle with pink, glittery handles and a white, flowery basket stood in the middle of the empty garage. “Nobody should have a bike like that,” said Mike. “That’s why we are going to fix the bike,” said Dickie, with a grin on his face.

The sound of angry footsteps stopped abruptly at the door. The man said, “Why and How Come painted my daughter’s bike black! Not only did they paint the body paint black but they also painted the mirrors and the bell as well.” The father, choking back laughter said, “What do you expect, they’re boys! They probably thought they were doing you a favor.” He handed the neighbor money for a new bicycle. As the angry neighbor walked back Why and How Come stood behind the screen door grinning ear to ear, knowing they wouldn’t get in trouble this time.

Floral Collage by Olivia Colombo, ‘18

4

STROKE OF GENIUS This was the most important race of my life! I’m at the The London Aquatic Centre, which houses an eight-lane pool. The facility was completed just a few years ago and is state of the art, down to the Omega time pads. There are thousands of people watching in the stands from every nationality. I am at the waiting area preparing for my heat: the 200 Individual Medley. The 200 Individual Medley is a very complex race, which consists of four different swimming strokes; butterfly, back stroke, breast stroke, and free style. The time to race approaches; my heat is only three heats away. I am starting to get nervous and continue to listen to my iPod. As the heat before mine leaves the blocks, my mental preparation becomes the most serious. I have already raced this race hundreds of times in my head and I’m ready to have it pay off. It’s time for my heat! The ushers lead me and the other seven swimmers to the pool. I then take off my headphones and step up to the blocks.

When I stood up on the blocks in Lane 4, I looked to my right and see Ryan Lochte in Lane 3, Michael Phelps in Lane 5, Mark Spitz in Lane 6 and Johnny Weissmuller in Lane 7. These are swimming gods and I’m competing with them. I hear the official say “Take your mark...BEEP!” We all leap off the blocks and enter the water and I’m focused on doing the best dolphin kicks, trying to maintain my speed until the middle of the pool,

5

then I break out in butterfly. Ryan and Michael are ahead of me, but I’m still in the race; there are three more strokes and back stroke is my best.

The 50 yard butterfly stroke is over; we turn and begin the back stroke.

I go off the turn. My heartbeat has significantly increased, my arm speed is like a propeller on an airplane and my kicks like white water during a shark feeding frenzy. I pull ahead hoping that I have gained enough of a lead because my weakest stroke is next: breast stroke. I go off the turn after about 20 yards, Michael has pulled ahead again and Ryan is right at my side. I tell myself I’m still in this and that freestyle is next, my 2nd best stroke. We go off the turn into freestyle. I pull neck and neck with Michael but there are four more yards to go. My heart is pounding, my lungs feel like bursting, and my arms and legs feel like lead, but I must keep going. I pick up speed and sprint to the wall with my head down and touch the time pads. The race is over and I look up at the scoreboard. I have won the race!

After the race is over, I turn to the left to congratulate the person that came in second, but my competitor isn’t Ryan Lochte, Michael Phelps, Mark Spitz, or Johnny Weissmuller. I am not in The London Aquatic Centre. I am at a Cape Cod Swim Club swim meet at Massachusetts Maritime Academy. I did get a best time and had an amazing race against swimmers from my team, as well as other swimmers around New England.

I approach every race within a meet as the biggest race of my life because I don’t have a team, or two other matches to make it up. It is all or nothing. I have one chance on one

day to prove myself, to win my heat, make championship cuts, or compete in the Olympics. Also, I don’t have any substitutes or breaks in swimming, so I have to “stay tough,” as my coach says, every practice and meet. Those last four yards make the difference between winning or losing or making it or missing it and I have to be able to push through the fatigue when no one else can.

Tenacity is an essential attribute of a swimmer . Swimming is even more mental than it is physical, so the ability to not give up when it becomes difficult is essential. This attribute can be used in the classroom and beyond.

In the classroom, why even show up if you are not going to try to challenge and push yourself? Also, if there is no paramount goal for you to keep your eye on you cannot apply the effort to push yourself to your full potential. If your full potential means winning or losing within four yards you cannot give in, like when things get tough with homework or a test. If staying up late doing homework and then getting up at 4 a.m for practice shows my tenacity, I feel a sense of accomplishment.

This lesson is one that is lifelong and even if I don’t reach my goals, I remember what one of my coaches once said after a championship meet, “You have all shot for the stars, even though some have landed on the moon.” The good go until they fail, but the great can fail and learn from their mistakes and come back stronger. As Winston Churchill once said, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”

Tom Alger, ‘16

Stroke of Genius by Tom Alger, ‘16

“As Winston Churchill once said, ‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.’”

Skeletal Melody Ben Sleeper, ‘18

6

Pistols and Petals by Joy Moriarty, ‘17

BEYOND THAT BLACK DOOR As I walk down that long, dimly lit hallway towards that black door; I feel a sense of thrilling, sweaty chill; Like frost on grass, in the sunlight.

I can hear my heart beating thump, thump, and thump.

As that black door gets closer and closer; Which to choose, which to choose, I take one more look behind me; Nothing to lose, nothing to lose.

As I reach for the door handle the floor squeaks.

I look at those arrangements of black doors, I open the door and step into another hallway, Then all of a sudden I hear a scream from one of the doors.

SLAM!!! The door shuts behind me; I look at each one, and then I notice the one in front of me starts My heart leaps out of my chest; I’m frightened. to glow, Down that hallway there are many doors, I take a teeny tiny step towards the door, Hesitantly I slowly open the door.

There is a small wooden table with a red candle sitting in the center of the room, Then right before my eyes the candle starts breaking and multiplying, Then a huge gust of wind blows through the room, the candles blow out.

I feel someone touch me, I scream, then blackout.

7

Jillian Blake ‘18

Cynthia’s Song Alone after the long voyage New earth under her feet Cynthia had no direction All she knew was the beat She rocked her body with the wind The ground was frozen hard Her footsteps marked the slow tempo All her troubles she’d discard All alone at the train station No one loved her anymore The trees rattled a solemn tone A sound she would fall for

From Death Come Life by Matt Dunn, ‘17

Cold black and white turns to color Each pulse like a piano key A river of tears turned to drought Cynthia’s hear was free The girl’s heartbeat with the rhythm Each breath like a cymbal A horse released from its bridle All seemed now so simple

Untitled by Dan Veitkus, ‘15

Her soul does a waltz in the moonlight A beautiful star dance Her whole body went up in flames The girl was in a trance Ears ringing with angels’ voices Her song had such a flow Music guided her to the truth With her last song she had let go Heidi Banden, ‘18

8

It’s Read All Over by Joy Moriarty, ‘17

Walking on Water Crystalline, azure waves Oscillating the wooden boat Rays of light ricochet off the water Lilac tones color the sky As the sun dips below The horizon of the sea Men relax, waiting for a man To teach them His knowledge To save them from themselves

9

When the darkness blankets the sky He still has not shown But there across the bay An opaque apparition appears It glides on the water Appearing through the milky haze Slowly, His face materializes A heavenly light illuminates his ashen skin His words break through the silence Echoing over the billowing wind Saying, “It is I, do not be afraid.”

Emma Cubellis, ‘17

Check out this QR code to see a time lapse of an orchid blooming!

by Yanni Pappas, ‘17

Walking on Water by Zoe Volney, ‘18

We Three Kings by Sam Baston, ‘18

10

The Weird Boy With Glasses

by Nick Fantasia, ‘18

ground with bleeding cuts on his head. Then I saw his mother. She was an unpleasant-looking, overweight woman with frizzy hair and her fist in the air, directly in front of him. I realized exactly what had happened, grabbed him with both hands, lifted him to his feet, and with my shoulder supporting him, escaped from the house in the alleyway.

We ran back to my house, him limping and me running, and I carefully cleaned his wounds. Once his cuts stopped bleeding, I got him one of my brother’s shirts for him to change into because his had blood stains all over it. When he took off his shirt, I saw all of the gashes on his back and arms that showed this wasn’t his first beating. I gasped once I saw them and he explained to me that his mother has been angry ever since his father had disappeared without a trace one night, taking his money and his belongings with him. She had taken her anger out on him for years and all he could do was take the abuse because he loved her too much to stop her. This weird kid with glasses, a startlingly deep voice, and a full backpack had been hiding the most revealing and unfortunate character about him, the abuse he had to deal with, underneath his facade that said everything was alright. Oh, and I found out his name was Lynx, and it means “Keeper of Secrets”.

11

Self-Portrait by Ian Coletti, ‘18

I met a boy the other day. He’s nice like when I was walking by him in the school hallway; he bumped into me because he was distracted by something, and all of my papers and supplies fell onto the floor. He was so sorry he kept apologizing to me a hundred times and when we picked up all of the materials, I said it was ok, and he asked me what my name was. I didn’t want to give him my name. He was a weird kid with dorky glasses, a startlingly deep voice, and a backpack that was full to the brim with books which weighed him down.

But then I took a chance; I told him my name, and we started talking. We were talking about all kinds of things like school, family, and our futures.

This weird kid with dorky glasses and a deep voice was more interesting than I had thought when I first met him. The next day, after school ended, I was walking home and saw him on the other side of the street, walking the same way as me. I went to call to him, but he took a sharp turn down an alleyway hidden between two large apartment buildings. I was curious, so I followed him. Little did I know, his destination was his “house” which turned out to be a shabby, run-down looking shack that had vines growing on it. Making sure

I was hidden, I listened to the sounds emanating from the house as soon as he entered. The sound of dishes smashing, dogs barking, a child wailing, and a mother screaming was all I could hear at that moment. Just then, I heard the boy howl with pain and what I thought was a vase breaking, simultaneously. I sprinted towards the door and bursted through it and saw the poor boy on the

Emmanuel With the Missing Finger

by Peter Carchidi, ‘18

Hammertime by Matt Dunn, ‘17

Intangible by Amelia Beaton,‘17

Nenny and I met the old man in the junk store. He showed us the music box that played music as beautiful as a spring day. He said his name was Emmanuel. Emmanuel, tall thin man, was missing the index finger on his left hand. He said it had been cut off in the war. He was fighting with an enemy soldier, both of them had knives. He said he see the sweat cut through the crusty grime on his face, then the enemy swung and Emmanuel said he felt a pain that made his hand feel like it was on fire. He fell to the ground, he said, and as the other soldier moved in, he suddenly stood stiff as a board and fell sideways. He had been shot by one of Emmanuel’s friends.

At that Emmanuel becomes silent and goes into the back room and doesn’t come out. Fearing we had upset him, we decide to explore what else is in the store. Hanging in one corner of the shop is a wind chime, four thin metal rods with a canary on top of the whole thing. Nenny wants me to ring it, but I say, No Nenny, especially since Emmanuel is upset. But she goes ahead and rings it anyway. The chimes make a sound that sounds like a summer breeze that gently rustles the leaves. Beautiful. We listen and listen to the chimes playing through the store. We stand there listening so long that Emmanuel comes and stands next to us. But we do not notice, and he is not angry. He just stands and listens with us. I am the first to notice that he is there.

I’m sorry, Emmanuel, I say. I told my sister not to but--. He only shakes his head, and I notice that there are tears in his eyes. These are my favorite chimes, he says. I have had them for twenty years and whenever I am sad, I ring them to remind of the good time I have had.

Then he has to leave because there is another customer. We keep looking at all the old things in the shop. Old desks, TV’s that are so clogged with dust, you could draw in the dust. I am looking at one of the old dressers when I see something underneath shining dully.

12

Phases by Francesca Keelan, ‘15

Circles The soft, kind splashes surround, The deluge pattering on the roof.

They surround us, they contain us, We are points on an infinite list.

A pungent smell adulterates the air, A fresh carcass withers away, dead.

We say we begin, we say we end, But we just go around again.

Joshua Towner, ‘17

13

The Hands of Time The girl was walking down the street To find the hands of time She walked all day and through the night The hands she found were mine The hands she found were good and true They helped her through the night The hands of time that helped her through Helped lead her to the light The hands of time that wanted her Would wait forever long She considered him sometimes, sure And never did him wrong The hands of time will wait for years And years and years to come Some day there may be wedding cheers Those days are yet to come Her broken heart where darkness gloomed He tried to make her change He talked to her and his heart boomed The feel he had was strange The boy she knew was mean to her He broke her time and time She knew she would get hurt for sure But not if she were mine.

Darkness comes where darkness has been She needed a way through Blocking me out would be a sin But nothing else is new The girl was walking down the street To find the hands of time She walked all day and through the night Her hands may come with time

If Only... by Joy Moriarty, ‘17

-Steven Fehrm, ‘17

14

The Government You Know

by Liam Bresnehan,’17

The government you know is not your friend.

Money for war, but not for poverty, For all you know they are plotting the end.

Police brutality will never end.

Controlling everything, even your bank, The government you know is not your friend Claiming protection for all citizens, Then the police kill innocent men.

For all you know they are plotting the end Crimes committed by the very men, Whom we trust to run the USA. The government you know is not your friend

At least we are all safe until exactly when?

The power of the police is too strong.

For all you know they are plotting the end The The For The

police killing men and demeaning, title of officer should protect us. all you know they are plotting the end government you know is not your friend

The Last Campaign by Ian Coletti, ‘18

15

Kiki I don't like Kiki because he constantly annoys me. Annoying me seems to be one of his favorite hobbies, because he always laughs like a little dolphin swimming along behind his family after he sees me get red like the stop sign at the end of the street. He always just follows behind Carlos like a mime, trying to mimic every move, trying to be cool I guess.

He has this disgusting like matted fur for hair, and he dresses like every other ratty boy in my school, in jeans and a white tee shirt, but he still seems to fit in at school, unlike me. The moment we moved the Mango Street, from Loomis, he made friends so quickly, I just cannot understand. Although he is my brother, and I am supposed to like him; I think he is as ugly as a hippopotamus, but apparently that is just me because everyone likes him.

He always has his dumb little play dates where he always goes over his friends' houses after school, but he never comes back here because I won't let him, the house is so ugly that to have someone come in and look at it would be terrifying, let alone to have them sleep here. Plus nobody even wants to come into Mango Street because they're all afraid; I'm sure if Kiki's friends knew he lived here, they wouldn't be friends with him at all.

I just cannot understand how he can have so many friends at such a young age, and I have so few friends at such an old age. It's just stupid. No one likes me because of my name, why can't I have a playful name like Kiki? Esperanza, I hate the name, why can't it be short like Kiki? I'm sure that is why so many people like Kiki, because of his name.

People must like him because of his young age, everyone likes little kids, even I like little kids, except for Kiki. Why can't I be that young, as young as Kiki so that I could have friends?

One time, when Kiki had a friend come over after school to play, his friend, Diego didn't even comment on how ugly the house was, or how messy

we lived; it seemed like he just didn't even care. It must be so easy to be that age, just not caring about anything, just having a fun time everyday; why can't I just be that age?

Then, another time, my mom came out of the house and asked if they wanted anything, like cookies and milk, but she never asks me that question when I am playing with my friends outside.

We probably don't even have milk and cookies in the house, and if we do, my mom wouldn't be able to find them because Kiki and Carlos probably hid them or ate them while doing their fancy little crossing guard job at school. I just do not understand, how can my brother have such a great life, when I have such a terrible life. Why can't I just be my brother, why must I be punished with this terrible life?

Sean Flaherty, ‘18

A Bug’s Life by Reagan Cavanaugh, ‘18

16

First Day

17

Motherhood by Mia Camelio, ‘18

A young mom opens her eyes groggily to her four year old daughter jumping onto the bed.

“Mommy! Mommy! Get up!” The mom sits up and swings her legs to the edge of the bed. She pulls her child close into her arms and carries her to the kitchen.

“Goodmorning, Sweetie,” an older woman remarked from across the room.

“Morning, Mom.” she explained. The smell of coffee waffed through her nostrils.

“Want some coffee, Mar?” a man motioned to the percolator.

“Can I have some?” The daughter tugged at her mother’s pant leg.

The mom nodded to her brother, looked down to the little girl and replied, “No honey, you’re too little.” The toddler had already changed from her striped pajamas into a neon print shirt with a tutu. On top of her head was a frizz-filled brown side ponytail with a red scrunchy holding it in place. Her shirt was leopard print with a black and pink tutu meeting it at her waist. The tutu was just long enough to meet her bright yellow leg warmers connected to a pair of red socks in black shoes.

“Why do you have a rat’s nest on top of your head? And why aren’t you wearing your new red overalls I got for you? You know, the ones that go with your turtleneck?” the mom wondered.

“This is what Stacy Ferguson wears on Kids Incorporated. Dah.” The little one explained back.

The grandmother banged pots and pans in the background as she put them back in the wooden cupboards.

The sink swallowed and gulped at burnt coffee. Lionel

Richie filled the remaining dead air with his hit “All Night Long” coming through the cassette player above the stove.

The sink swallowed and gulped at burnt coffee. Lionel Richie filled the remaining dead air with his hit “All Night Long”coming through the cassette player above the stove.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at Dr. Hartman’s office in an hour? Better hustle your bustle,” the grandmother warned her daughter.

“Oh yeah!” she replied, “Sweetie go with Uncle Richie, I’ll be right back down. See if maybe he can get you to match.”

The daughter skipped to her uncle’s side, he resumed to trying to make another cup of coffee.

The mom ran upstairs back into her room. In one swift movement she made the bed and cleaned up her daughter’s toys from the carpeted floor. In a following movement she laid out her clothes for the day ahead. A white button down dress hanging in the closet with black stilettos.

Mousse and hair sprays covered her dresser as well as fixtures full of bracelets, necklaces, and other accessories.

She jumps in the shower, the moment finally catching up to her. She starts her first full time job today, away from her daughter, away from her normal routine of jumping jobs. She takes a deep breath, engulfs the steam coming off the shower, and then turns it off. Outside she can hear cars passing by, stopping at the light a couple houses up at the corner by the packey.

She finishes getting dressed and looks in the mirror.

The white dress didn’t look as good on as it did on the hanger. She tore through her drawers, throwing clothes left and right over her shoulder.

“Mommy, that’s not the way to treat your clothes,” said the girl who appeared in the doorway.

“I know, Sweetie. Will you help me pick out something to wear?” The mom strolled over to pull her daughter into her reach and lead her towards her closet.

The girl pondered long, thumbing through the row of clothes.

“This one!” She explained.

The mom reached to the hanger and pulled out a tiny black spaghetti strapped dress. A lightbulb went off in her head.

“Thats perfect!” She replied and embraced her daughter.

She changed quickly, layering the black dress under the white button down and adding heels, along with some accessories to complete the look. She looked in the mirror once more, and touched up her hair with just a little more hairspray. She looked at her daughter who had a questioning look on her face.

“You can never have too much hairspray.”

She grabbed her bag and lead the way down the stairs.

The smell of burnt coffee overwhelmed her senses, forcing her to drag her daughter out of the room into another to find the grandmother.

“In here, Sweetie! Here’s the keys to the Grand Marquis.” the grandmother walked from the living room, she extended her hand with the keychain.

“Thanks, Mom.” She replied.

She kissed her mom goodbye, and yelled up the stairs to her brother the same. She pickedup her little girl to give her a great big hug and a kiss.

“I’ll be home before you even know it.”

She put down her daughter and kissed her again.

Running through a worst case scenario in her head, she calmed herself by thinking that her mom raised her just fine, so she will be fine watching her little angel for three hours. The grandmother assured her everything would be okay and nudged her out the door. She stood on the other side, silent.

Taylor Kaufman, ‘16

Mother and Son by Mia Camelio, ‘18

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Un Appel à L’aide A Cry For Help

I’m sure I look fine Sitting at a table laughing, smiling even Inside I’m dying C’est mon appel pour obtenir de l’aide.

No, I didn’t already eat No, I’m never just “not hungry” I thought being thin was more important C’est mon appel pour obtenir de l’aide.

Do you know what it feels like?

Staying up all night in sheer fear Fear of facing people you see every day C’est mon appel pour obtenir de l’aide.

I’m watching the world go by I can’t keep up with the spinning Now I’m frozen, watching reality pass me by C’est mon appel pour obtenir de l’aide.

The mirror is a monster That doesn’t show within Hating yourself isn’t worth the want to be thin C’est mon appel pour obtenir de l’aide.

Words are meant for beautiful things Far more special than I This is where my story ends C’est mon appel pour obtenir de l’aide.

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The happy girl with the broken smile is gone Now is when they call me beautiful Now is when they call me strong Now is when they look back and realize they’re wrong.

A simple how are you would’ve sufficed Maybe I would still be here It’s the call that no one heard I’ve faced my biggest fear.

I gave you all the signs That I was in the dark That quiet girl is gone, with her words left to haunt C’était mon appel pour obtenir de l’aide.

Hannah Andrade, ‘18 *Hannah Andrade won first prize in the writing category in our school-wide Writea-polooza competition for this poem.

The Ballad of the Greatest Crew

by Jack Crowley, ‘18 The year was Nineteen-Eighty-Six Seven stepped to the plate Didn’t know it needed to be fixed Already was too late

Sustain by Siming Du, ‘19

Many had extensive training Some had bachelor’s degrees Their lives were surely not waning And all had families The news had rattled on and on The day of launch foretold But they hadn’t encounted upon The weather so, so cold The day of reckoning was here The ship was set to fly They did not know among the cheer That this would be goodbye They set foot into the rocket And shut the main door lock Out of the intercom socket Came the sound of a clock Challenger was ready to soar Their seatbelts locked in tight But then the two u-rings tore It already stopped the flight Here I honor the greatest crew And their glorious lives The seven who jumped and who flew Drenched in the tears of our eyes

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The Three Little Pigs

and before I knew it, I sneezed. I opened my eyes and found sticks laying on the ground. A high pitched screamed made me turn and watched as a little pig ran into the woods. Again! What's wrong with me?

I huffed and made my way back to the woods.

Seeing an apple, I picked it and threw it up in the air to catch it in my mouth. Again, as I was walking I saw another path. So, I went down it and this time I was greeted by a small house made of bricks. I stalked towards the door and as I reached the door, there was a plate of cookies.

As excited as I was, I took a cookie and smelled it. Oh no, it was a cinnamon cookie. Cinnamon always makes me sneeze. Before I knew it, a big sneeze escaped from me. As scared as I was, I opened one eye and still saw the brick house standing up. I knocked on the door, it then opened and I was greeted by a small, little pig. "Hi!" He exclaimed. "Are you my new neighbor?" I asked.

The pig answered that he was my neighbor and asked to join him for dinner.

That's how the real story went. I didn't want to eat those pigs. I wanted to be friends with them. Today, the pig and I are still friends, and we still go over each other's houses for dinner.

Before listening to rumors, you should ask for the other side of the story and what happened, not just listen to one side.

You may all know the story about three innocent pigs getting their houses blown down and getting eaten by the big bad wolf. Well, only I, the "big bad wolf,” know the real story of what happened. Let me gladly explain: I was doing my daily walk in the woods and getting some berries for dinner. That's when I came across a pathway, as curious as I am, I went down this path. This path led me to a nice, small house made of straw. "New neighbors!" I exclaimed to myself while walking towards the house. I haven't had new neighbors in years, so this is exciting news for me. I came up to the house ready to knock, when a bee flew under my nose. I breathed in from my nose and sneezed.

I wiped my nose using my hand and looked up. I extended my arm and knocked on the door but there was no door. I looked around and I saw no house, just straw laying on the ground. "Oh no, did my sneezing cause this?" I thought out loud.

Then a high pitched scream caught my attention. I turned my head and saw a little pig running away into the woods. Let's get this clear: the pig ran into the woods. I repeat, the pig ran into the woods. I did not eat that pig nor blew down its house on purpose, just so I could eat it. Besides, that's disgusting, my third cousin is a pig.

Kaitlyn Melchionda, ‘18 I felt terrible, I didn’t mean for my sneeze to be that powerful. However, I got over it and walked back to where I was before. About an hour passed and I was still in the woods, eventually I saw another unknown path and I walked it. This other path lead me to another small house, but it was made out of sticks. Another new neighbor?

I walked towards the house and made my way to the door. Next to the door, a mailbox hung withsome daisies in it. My favorite flowers! I leaned forwards and took a big sniff, smelling the lovely flowers. Then I felt something in my nose

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TillyFace by William Gregson, ‘16

Feeding of 5,000 by Teaghan Gokey, ‘18

The God Complex I am merely the writer. Yes, I created all of this. Every single fairy tale, myth, and folk tale were my stories born out of my isolation. You can hardly judge me, though. For I am a Lost Spirit - a forgotten soul without a body, forced into airy exile. I am bound to the air in which I float; I am doomed to a forgotten life alone without the bodily senses.

I need these stories. If I can’t live my life, incarcerated in incorporeal existence by the oh-so-glorious Fates, why shouldn’t I be able to live the lives of others? When I write, I can lead my characters in a direction other than the universe’s. I can grasp another’s hand and direct it to my will. My will. Not the Fates’. Mine. It is part spitting in the face of God, and part being Him. I implore you to ask yourself: Why not? Sometimes my fates are more merciful than the original ones. Other times, they receive the cruel, hard vengeance they brought upon themselves by their actions.

You must be asking yourself: Are the characters real? Why yes indeed, they are very real. They only needed my guidance, my intervention.

Each had wonderful backstories (brought to you by moi); they only needed me working through them. How entertaining it is to weave stories from the ordinary lives of body-contained souls. To twist your own will and reality on another, forming a story is divine. Where do you think the Grimm Brothers got their gruesome tales? Who do you think told the original campfire stories? Ashputtle, Johnny Appleseed, The Witch of Duva, The Enchanted Tsarévich, Black Aggie, Little Briar Rose, Hanzel and Gretel: all these stories are my creations, my imagination come to life. Sometimes I even repeat them in different countries with only subtle changes. Very few know that they are true.

They are truly true stories, or, in my case, parlor tricks.

I can do horror stories. My favorite is Bloody Mary. I can reenact it as many times as there are idiots who do it. “Oh, come on. You can’t really believe that stuff can you?” The little blond-haired girl shakes her head in reply. “How many times do I have to tell you, Alice, anything - I mean everything - Drew tells you is pure crap. Bigfoot? There is no such thing. Zombies or whatever don’t exist. He’s just messed up from his daily ‘happy pills’” Alice’s older sister, Charlotte shoots back.

“It’s not his fault he’s depressed, and likes to read folklore and fairy tales.” Alice timidly replies.

“Yeah well, just because he said it doesn’t mean its true.” Charlotte replied, less sharply.

Feeling brave, Alice said, “Hmp. He isn’t your friend. And I’m almost in seventh grade. I can believe in anything I want for my friend.”

“Alright, I’ll prove it to you.” said Charlotte haughtily.

I followed Charlotte into her bathroom. She then shut off the lights and started to chant loudly for her sister to hear: “Bloody Mary.

Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary.” Poor Charlotte.

I had made this little number out of an old woman. I made her a witch.

Gave her powers beyond human comprehension. I followed it through until she had been burned alive at the stake. I made her curse anybody who dared to say her name in front of a darkened mirror three times because that was the amount of times they had to burn her until she died. To this day I still work through mirrors, scratching the eyes out of anybody who is stupid enough to actually do it.

I love my job.

I can do kindness as well.

Do you remember the story of the Seven Ravens? Probably not. I hadn’t intended for it to be a story in the first place. I was just passing by, busy leading Rapunzel to her desert. I was floating by a small family and overheard their conversation. I focused on the word ‘ravens’ and I said: Why not?

So I ended up watching the poor little girl grow old and taking the form of another little girl to hint on her brothers’ disappearance. Soon I became the moon and sun, rejecting her. Then I became the stars, accepting her. I admit to have stolen her magic bone that would open the glass mountain and implanting the idea of cutting one of her own finger bones out to use. I mean, what kind of story would it be without at least a little gore and heartbreak? Then the story got boring. The brothers come, the girl saves the day. Yadah, yadah, yada, the brothers lost their feathers and become real boys again. Hurray!

I hated that one.

See? I am The Author. I just create the stories. It’s not my fault that I don’t have my own. Take that up with the Fates. I just need something to do. After all, I’m just The Author. I am the one in control. I create my characters. I create my stories. I teach the lessons. I am the one who has the power to start wars, end lives, end wars, and start lives. I am who I am. And I am the God of Stories. I am a constant in the ever-changing world of stories. After hundreds and hundreds of years, I have realized: Why have one short life, a blip on the face of the universe, when you can have all of them at your disposal? I am God in literature; I am The Author.

Rachel Kelliher, ‘17

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Dancing Mad Cascading down the corridor The walls they hold a trance.

Reflecting pools with crimson eyes They form a solemn dance.

His twisted arms they force you in On black and white you fall.

But give him time the jester says His square will swallow all.

Like fireflies they twist and fight And just hoping to miss.

From dawn to dark they start again ‘Till they find death’s sweet kiss.

The ebony ink will bind you and no soul shall find you.

Through tendons pierced and skin sunk through-there’s nothing left of you.

Behind the ruined curtain lies A specter as the host.

Your presence here within this placeThat he desires most.

With the barrel pressed to your head there’s nothing you can do.

All that’s left is to sit and wait ‘Till bullets run through you.

The silver colt lies rusted with One bullet in the clip.

It waits with patience only ‘till You bet with all your chips.

Its golden flash turns bods to ash your consciousness to sand From one end in and one end out your soul drips to his hand.

The souls of sinners swell his chest Always hungry for more.

The dark jester shall never rest ‘Till blood is on the floor.

The dancing man, we’ll play again.

The spirit seeks revenge.

Another round is loaded in His game will never end.

What stain it’d leave on such grandeur But the dance cannot cease.

For the hall is chess, and you, king Are its most treasured piece.

Teaghan Gokey, ‘18

Opposite Page: Dancing Mad by Teaghan Gokey, ‘18

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Time by Anika Ruppen, ‘16

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Hamlet Emulation – To Camp or Not to Camp

To camp or not to camp, that is the question: Whether tis’ nobler in the mind to endure the harshness and pain of the great outdoors, Or to stay by the hearth, And by remaining, avoid them. To stay, to sleep – No more, and by a sleep to say we terminate The foot-ache and the thousand thorny pricks That boy is prone to; ‘tis a comfort Wholly to be desired. To stay, to sleep – To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the catch, For in that sleep of comfort what things may come, When we have shaken off this camping coil, Must give us a break; there’s the homage That makes trouble out of so much free time: For who would endure the rashes and bites of mosquitoes, Th’ scoutmaster’s error, the proud scout’s insults, The pangs of the loved outdoors, the light’s delay.

The arrogance of trees and the stumps The patient award of the dishonorable takes, When he himself his release might make With a bare refusal; who would burdens bear, To moan and sweat during a weary trip, But that fear of something deep in the woods, The unknown hazards from whose bourn No camper returns, puzzles the nerve, And makes us carry those irritations we have Than force us to others we know not of?

Thus conscience does make fools of us all, And thus the innate hue of resolution Is nauseating over with the pale light of thought, And projects of immense awe and inspiration With this regard their pulls turns astray And lose the strength of vigor. – Soft you now, The lonely forest. Nymph, in thy prayers Be all my mistakes remembered.

-Charles Mara, ‘16

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Bolder Sunset by Margaret Slein, ‘17

Last Cry Tree of Strawberry Amelia Beaton, ‘17

Inspired by Disney’s Pocahontas “Colors of the Wind”

Will we continue to snooze through the pine’s gilded skin?

And miss the tree’s leafy hats plunged in blazing gold, Will we ever learn from the “Colors of the Wind?”

My greatest fear is that we may win, With fuming ignorance against nature in the lopsided war, Will we continue to snooze through the pine’s gilded skin?

Do we find our feet crushing acorns that have potential within, Unperturbed they would delve with roots, lunge with branches and soar, Will we ever learn from the “Colors of the Wind?”

The roar of the sea of tree leaves in the affable whirlwind, If we dare to look up we could hear much more, Will we continue to snooze through the pine’s gilded skin?

With sliced wings into cages we cram birds in, All because of their plumage or how they fly, even whom they love, Will we ever learn from the “Colors of the Wind?”

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Everyday the balance of harmony we do rescind, Unknowingly fighting the song that permeates our very core, Shall we wake at dawn to appreciate the pine’s gilded skin?

It is time we finally learn from the “Colors of the Wind.”

Yanni Pappas, ‘17

Thank You

by Nicole Henderson, ‘15 I have been trapped inside this cold, dark cage I cannot seem to break away and be free I remember when a smile graced my visage I long to see what the happy hearted see.

I am the animal caged up in despair I am the creature held up in chains I am the one seemingly without care I am the one with a heart full of pains.

You are the one who comes to my prison You know my pain and know I’m not free yet You are the one who clears my vision You are the one who I never forget.

Together, you know we can face the storm Together, I know you make my cage warm.

Butterflies by Maria Fonts, ‘15

The Beauty of Nature by ChenMing Zhang, ‘17

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Emerald City Shannon Padgett, ‘16

Driving Down the Road

Driving down the road in my car, Old, shaky, and noisy, Trouble going near forty five, Cold and wet, not cozy.

Driving in unknown areas, At night and hard to see, Getting tired and dozing off, Need to find where to sleep.

Seeing dim light in the distance, Looks like a small civil town, Hearing loud noises from my car, It stopped and broke down.

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It was too late to call for help, I left the car and walked, As I neared the light was a sign, Read “hotel unlocked”.

I ran to find the manager, To rent a room tonight, I searched the whole hotel floor, There was no one in sight.

I ran into an open door, To find a master suite, I locked the door to stay the night, And took in all the heat.

It was now around four o’ clock, Heard knocking at the door, Took all I could and made a flight, I was to be searched for.

Christopher Brown, ‘18

Humanity Olivia Colombo, ‘18

There is no simple way to explain what life is. Everyone lives his or her life differently and goes down different paths. There are people who never have to work a day in their life and others that have to work ten times harder to get to an average level of acceptance in our society. Society has made things seem like we have to walk, talk, and look a certain way to be accepted. Sadly for us, God has made us into different shapes, sizes, colors, faiths, and situations. He put his strongest warriors in the worst situations to prove that we can overcome anything. But like I said, society twists things, so it seems that not having a family that is together the most of our worries. Don’t get me wrong, there are bigger problems in life like hunger and abuse. People these days don’t seem to notice because they are too busy looking down at their phones to realize life’s real issues.

Granted life has its up and downs and moments that we will hold onto forever. Life can also change in an instant; a crash, shot, or even our own will can change things forever. But have you ever really noticed how every choice you make can affect the lives of others? If you want left instead of right what would that do? If you want a career or an education what would that do? You are changing the way the world rotates and you don’t even know it.

Reagan Cavanaugh, ‘18

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Eagle Plain Reflection The poem I have chosen for my personal reflection is “Eagle Plain” by Robert Francis. The main theme of this poem is that the American eagle is indifferent to the fact that he is so revered and honored by us. The Eagle just goes about doing his own thing, and he has no idea of his impact on us.

This poem resonates with me because I am on the verge of becoming an Eagle Scout. Using all of the skills I have learned over the years, I will prove myself worthy of obtaining the highest rank in Boy Scouts. As an Eagle Scout, one does not seek acknowledgment of this great achievement. This is reflected in a quote from the poem, “…but even if he were near he would never make an audience.” The rank of Eagle comes with great benefits, such as college scholarships denoted especially for Eagle Scouts, better job opportunities, a higher rank upon entering military service.

But it also comes with great burdens, responsibility and humility. None of this I am afraid of or willing to neglect. Readily, I’ll accept these challenges, knowing that in doing so, I’m not looking for the glory, but rather just to be of service to the world.

Throughout my Scouting career, I have worked hard and learned many different skills to help me with numerous tasks. These range from surviving in the wilderness, cooking skills, and first aid skills, to performing daily chores and

A Feather in the Sky by Charles Mara, ‘16

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even playing chess.

With these skills, I will truly soar, like the eagle, to greatness and success. I do not do any of this for the recognition, I do it for my own satisfaction. And I know that I will strive to always do my best. For, “I am the Eagle, I am prepared.” I am prepared to help those in need. I am prepared to offer my skills and knowledge to fellow Scouts to help them fly. One day, I will be prepared to see someone I have offered my training to succeed. That individual will not want the glory, the recognition, but he will have the internal satisfaction of a good deed done unspoken. Adding a religious element, even if no one else sees what you did, God will always see, and eventually, reward you. The Eagle Scout’s virtue is to always be prepared to help whenever, wherever, and whoever is in need of assistance. And whether I am mountains or feet away, I’m always willing to lend a helping hand to anyone.

Even when people try to speak in glowing terms about the qualities of an Eagle Scout, I will try to act modest. But unlike the American Eagle in the poem, I honor myself by honoring others first. As the Boy Scout motto states, you should always, “Be Prepared!”

Charlie Mara, ‘16

Dawn

by Peter Reardon, ‘18 Sunlight illuminates the sky Darkness arrives, light fades Lightning strikes through the weather’s eye Leaves rustle with the wind Wolves howl at the moon before dawn Vast colors shine above Bringing a new world to look upon Renewed and yet reborn Ocean glistens, light dancing Reflect the start of day Sunlight rays, tiny waves splashing, Meet the sand by my toes As I look towards the horizon, Cool ground beneath my feet Strong wind I now feel emboldened Blessed with this scene again.

The world is a beautiful place So many things to see The world is greater than space It is beyond the sea The stars are shining up above Comets fly through the sky It is full of beauty and love I wonder why this is?

Mother Nature is full of life Animals and plants thrive They will not hurt you like a knife It is a peaceful place God calms the waves of the ocean It’s a wonderful sight It makes you full of emotion He gives you tranquility

Reflections

by Olivia Colombo, ‘18

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Fighting to the Finish

Imagine training all year for a few moments to show off all of your hard work. And what if what you do in the end can be totally unpredictable? Is it worth it? All athletes must acquire dedication and persistence; with these two qualities, you can accomplish anything. For instance, running. Most runners are constantly training and trying to beat their time. My dad was a very successful runner and in order to train and accomplish goals, he would run 8-12 miles every single day.

He always told my younger brother and I , “Each day missed will take you two days to get back to where you were.” In sports such as running or even swimming, you must push yourself past your limits and sometimes work to exhaustion, but the choice is up to you. I am an athlete. However, I don’t work alone. I work with a partner, although, I cannot always verbally communicate with my partner.

My partner’s name is Saratoga; she weighs 1,000 pounds, and at times can be unforeseeable. I compete in dressage, which I like to call “ballet for horses.” Unlike most other types of horseback riding, in dressage, Saratoga and I enter the ring; and for 5 minutes, we complete a test, a series of events which showcase our talents and ability to display grace and precision. Dressage is an Olympic sport and requires patience, dedication, and hard work. As a rider you must work with your horse to maintain balance and composure. However within less

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than 1 second, everything can go wrong. Horses are animals and unpredictable at times. Although horses are 1,000 pounds, huge animals, they are big “scaredy-cats.” Horses are very elusive animals and constantly ready to flee at the snap of a branch or any potentially dangerous threats. However, sitting on top of such a strong and powerful animal, being able to control their movements and balance, the feeling is truly unexplainable…

In order for a horse or any animal to obey and trust someone, there must be a strong bond, and chemistry between the two.

Unlike a sport such as running or swimming, in dressage, consistent training cannot always guarantee you success. In order to maintain harmony with your horse, both you and your horse have to be on the same page. If I get on with anger of tension, Toga can feel it, usually resulting in a bad ride.

Those bad days are so frustrating, and although I would like to scream and yell in disgruntlement, I cannot. I have learned to understand that Saratoga is an animal. Sometimes, she just doesn’t understand what I am asking, and just like us, she has bad days too.

However, through our rough days and obstacles we face, we become a better team and our trust builds between each other.Your horse is your teammate, your partner. You win together and you lose together. This sport takes much dedication, training all year round, through snow and rain, no matter what, all for 5 minutes in the show ring. There are always bad days, like any other sport, but in order to succeed, you have to create a strong bond, or relationship with your horse.

When you fall off, you have to get right back on. There are many days where I would rather stay home and

relax or hang out with my friends, but owning a horse is a big responsibility.

If it means missing out on certain parties or activities, I can’t let my partner down. Just as much as she depends on me, I depend on her.

Forming a strong relationship with Saratoga took time and patience and required trust. Just like a best friend, I came to know everything about Toga without her ever being able to talk back with me. I know that fall is Toga’s favorite season, when there is a cool breeze in the air and the leaves turn to fiery oranges and reds; chocolate glazed donuts are her favorite treat, which she only gets every once so often; and that Toga absolutely despises baths! Without a strong bond and understanding of one another, we would go nowhere. Not only do I have to have trust in her but she has to be able to count on me. Not many people understand but in order to ride, you cannot just “get on and sit there.” It can be difficult at times but it requires me to be strong without looking overbearing or tense. This last summer, Toga and I went to Mass Morgan, a horse show at the Big E in Springfield, which gathers prestigious riders from states all over the country.

This was one of our big competitions and essential to allow us to move up to the next level. Upon arriving to the show, we were informed that Saratoga has popped a split, which is a bone of the front of the leg. We were not positive if we would even be able to compete that week. After practicing and warming up a day before, we decided we would give it a try and compete, regardless of her sore leg. This sport requires the two of us. Without one of us, it is not possible. We both have to push to our potential and work hard.

It has to be a balance. One of us simply cannot be working any harder than the other, which can be difficult to maintain.

We rode 6 tests between 2 days and each day Toga’s leg became worse.

Many people would find it hard to believe or even communicate with such an animal, but Saratoga pulled through and really pushed herself.

By going through so many ups and downs with this animal, I can really feel what is right and what is wrong.

Through the cold winters, brutal heat, and bad days, we overcame obstacles and became closer and stronger than ever. The bad days are what cause us to be hungry for success. Through our failures, a yearning, fire grows within us, pushing us past our limits, mak

ing the victory even more appreciated and sweet. In the end, we won all of our tests and won Champion. The best experience in the world is entering the big ring, the winner’s circle.

People are in stands all around cheering and clapping. As we entered the ring, our name was called off on the loud speaker. Not only could I feel all the energy and excitement radiating off of the arena, but also Toga as well, as she lifted her legs exceptionally high and raised her ears, showing off. Not only do I thank Saratoga for being my teammate and learning and growing with me each year but also for my family and everyone who has supported me and allowed me to have this amazing opportunity and experience.

Color Outside the Lines by Olivia Colombo, ‘18

Natalie Hines, ‘16 Tristan by Tabitha Johnson, ‘15

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Limitless William Gregson, ‘16

Needs Title by Chloe Deeb ‘15

I look in your eyes; I see more than blue.

I don’t see myself reflected, or behold A void soul searching hard for love untrue.

In your eyes I see life that won’t grow old.

I see a reflection of hope for life.

A deep feeling of a very strong love.

You wish the world to cease all of its strife.

Your eyes ask if there is help from above.

Inside your eyes I feel a warm embrace; A place that I can feel safe and at home.

This love is shown through your entire face.

No longer do I feel the need to roam.

Your eyes show me a young and loving man, Whose knowledge is more than his years have spanned.

Jennifer Uribe, ‘15

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Armadillo by Chloe Deeb, ‘15

Eyes

New

Dawn Peaking through the darkened earth Angelic life begins to birth Sun awakes to dew in sight Stretching through to feel the light A bud so tender free to grow Knowing not where to go Demure untainted new life it seems Beginning life to many dreams A season passed when darkness lifted Going forward for it was gifted And then a change would take place The bud would bloom with beauty and grace And with sun and care it did thrive A rose so beautiful and vividly alive There it held for all to see Where would its journey finally be?

But rain and clouds would bring the storm While petals fell as wind would swarm And so it began to leave its life Tired, weary from all the strife It fell to empty grains of woe And fell asleep to winter’ slow The freeze would stay and cold so near Paralyzed now and stopped in fear For lost in doomful depths of dark Not remembered, forgotten and stark For another spring would sure to come But the rose forgotten would stay numb And there it stayed for quite a while Stuck and dead to such beguile Seasons passed and time away The rose retreated in dismay And came a miracle as time did tell The darkened soil was fed and well Then a stir, the earth felt light It seemed the root crept through the night

A Litttle Pinch of Pink by Bridget LeBlanc, ‘17 For when the sun would break at morn A grain of charity to adorn For with tender touch of Gardener’s hand The bud would leave from devoured land With hope in sight it knew to try For it truly never said goodbye And with the Gardener tending to lawn The rose emerged to see new dawn Lynne Ann Murphy School Librarian

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Conw’y Castle

By Evan Coletti, ‘16

There is a place where the sky is nearly always a dull gray, and the days are grim. Here, rising out of the mist and trees, was a great hill.

The South of the hill was surrounded by the encroaching forest, and to the North, the hill sloped down to the edge of a cliff, which overlooked Conw’ y River. On the rare days that there is sun, you can see that the grass is very green, but usually the land looks dull, like the sky. ‘Twas here that lives would be changed and lost, where I would learn many things, and where I would meet a friend and a great man.

My name is John, John Ward.

Ever I was born I have worked on a farm. My life had always been boring and I wanted to see new lands and find new work. As fortune had it, a soldier from the local militia came by one day and nailed a scroll to a tree.

Naturally neither I nor my fellow workers could read, but the militiaman proclaimed that any man willing to travel to Wales and help build a new castle and town on the Conw'y River, would be given a stake in the new town that they had helped build.

Nearly all of us Englishmen felt nothing but respect and admiration for our King Edward Long Shanks. We also knew that helping to build a castle in Wales would help in the war that old Long Shanks was fighting and we had been told that the Welsh were savage and barbaric Celts.

So, for King and country and a new life, I set off on my journey to Conw’y River.

37

After being given directions by the militiaman to where I would find the site of the castle, I finished my work on the farm for the day and planned to leave on the morrow. At dawn, I rose and bade my friends and brother farewell—knowing that I might never see them again. I had many fond memories of my friends and family members and had decided that leaving them was the price I would have to pay for a new life.

Carrying a walking stick, I began to travel down a path that would take me to the border of Wales. I would be walking more or less sixty leagues. That day I walked through fields, meadows, and towns, while traveling swiftly. When the sun had set, I was far from any inn and couldn’t afford to stay in one anyway. I would have to camp.

I could find no wood for a fire and felt afraid that night. I prayed no spirits would haunt me as I lay alone in the darkness, and was glad it did not rain. There was no moon and as it was Spring the clouds covered the stars. I could barely see my hand in front my face. I lay there by the road I had travelled down, trying to sleep in the sack I had carried in my pack.

At dawn the next day, the few clouds were like snow and the sky was clear. The dew (which had soaked the sack I had been sleeping in) shined like glass in the golden sun. I awoke, stuffed my sack into my pack and was eager to start walking. As I walked, I thought about what Wales would be like and wondered how it would feel to live under the shadow of a castle.

When the day was over I slept well that night.

On the third day I traveled through a forest. It was not very dense and I could always see the sun from above. At dusk, I was glad that I was in the forest. I was able to find wood and stones and light a fire. I slept well until I was awoken by the crack of thunder. I cursed as rain began to fall

and tried to find shelter. Eventually, I found a great bolder that I could crouch under and shield myself from the rain. Eventually, I somehow lay down and was able to sleep.

The next day, the ground and was soaked and my clothes were damp, but it was raining no more.

I rose and began my journey once again. After several days, I noticed from the terrain and the mountains that I was in Wales. I decided to be careful. I knew that in the enemy’s land, I could be robbed or attacked more easily. I traveled for day or two and came to a very thick forest. It was dark in there, and when night came I foolishly lit a fire that could easily be seen from afar.

As I slept in my sack that night, I was awoken by voices and twigs snapping under feet. I fought to get out of my sack, and tried to make for a place out of the light of my fire.

Before I had gotten up, there was a shout of, "Get ‘im!" and a man ran into the light of my fire and dove at me with a dagger. Thanks be to God that I was able to roll out of the way in time and that the man simply fell onto the ground. I kept on rolling until I was out of the light of the fire and took off the sack I had slept in, which had been tangled about my legs. I straightened up and hid behind a tree.

I saw that my pack was still there for the thieves to take and therefore, I quickly stuck my hand out into the circle of light from my fire and quickly snatched it before running as fast I as could in that darkness and climbing a tree. I hid in the tree all night, as I wasn't sure the thieves had left.

***

From somewhere above the trees, the light of dawn shined in the morning. I had tied myself to the tree with the rope in my pack, lest I fall and tried to sleep up there. I woke up, remembered what had happened, and decided to wait for the thieves to be

on their way in case they had stayed by my fire and camped there after I had run. It was a long time before and I felt it was safe to climb down. I went over stealthily to the area where my camp had been, and spied from behind a tree. The place was abandoned and I heard no one nearby. I picked up the sack that I slept in and once more, stuffed it into my pack and found the road.

I journeyed for a few days and finally came to Conw’y River. I had been told to follow along the East banks of the river until I found a hill with a few makeshift houses. The sun was setting when I finally reached the site that would be my new home.

I had travelled long, and so far, God had been good to me.

Preparations for building stone walls had already been made.

Both castle and town would be built upon a hill and for the town and the town-wall, trees straying from the forest surrounding the hill had been cut away. A ditch had been dug around the hill mark where the town wall would be and a temporary palisade had been built along. A few temporary houses with thatched roofs had been built at the center of the hill for the nobleman who was lord of this castle to be, masons, architects, the garrison, and common workers like me’ self. I could see a great big house that looked like it could belong to the nobleman. What I found amusing was that the bald hill, in the middle of trees somewhat resembled a monk’s head, although it was not nearly as round.

I walked up the hill and told until I came to the village. When said I had come to work was told that work had all but ended and that I had better get some rest for the next day. Under a thatched roof, I lay in a pile of straw with the other laborers. I never could sleep for a long time though. From the dark blanket of trees that surrounded us, wolves howled in the night.

On my first day of work, I was sent dig out a moat at the top of

the hill and in front where the castle would be. The foreman for my party of diggers did no more than what was required of him and never went to any lengths to be kind or cruel to us.

We were given food and water and worked until sunset. The work was no harder than any I had done on the farm where I had lived and every day the moat was a few yards longer and when the day was over I would go to my pile of straw proud of the work I’d done, but every night, the wolves would howl forebodingly.

***

The moat was finished in fifteen days and now was two hundred fifty feet long and twenty feet deep.

My party had now been assigned to digging the foundations for stone walls. Summer had passed on to Fall and we now felt the cool breeze of Autumn upon the sweat of our brows. It was foggy, as I walked to the outskirts of the future town, I could just see the forest looming out of the mist.

Today was the day that the lord were working for was coming to oversee the construction of has castle and I was anxious to catch a glimpse of him. I had been told by a fellow laborer and in my party named Will that the nobleman was Lord Harold Winston and that no one knew anything about him before his father had died or whether or not his claim lordship was legitimate. He had challenged his half-brother’s claim to lordship and killed him in a duel to win his right. After being made Lord, Harold had proven a great warrior and a strong ruler and ever since boyhood it was said he bore the scars of being clawed by some beast upon his cheek.

As I worked, Lord Harold rode in with a party of knights just three yards from where I shoveled. At night as I tried to sleep while wolves were howling I heard Lord Harold talking with sounded like his master builder.

As I lay in the hay listening, I heard

another worker get up from his pile of hay from a few feet away. Through the darkness I saw him walk stealthily to the doorway the building laborers slept and peer outside. He then left the building without a noise.

This all seemed very strange and so I followed the man out curiously. He was silently creeping up to where Lord Harold was and staying the shadows, as was I. He was about a yard from Lord Harold (who was now alone) and twenty feet from me when he drew a small knife. Out of instinct, I ran at the man and shouted look out to Lord Harold. The assassin and Harold both turned around in surprise and I dove on top of the man with the knife only to the knife embedded in into the flesh under my shoulder.

Grasping my wound and gritting my teeth from the pain, I kicked my enemy between his legs, sending us both apart. Unfortunately, the man took knife with him and as I fell to ground from great pain and being forced backwards the rouge was about to finish me off, yet before he had moved, blood and Lord Harold’s sword jolted through his chest. The assassin fell to the ground dead.

“Guards!” shouted Harold. “A man’s been wounded”

I remember no more of what happened for I fell unconscious and awoke days later with a sling around my arm. Lord Harold eventually visited me and said he would make me his personal servant return for the service I had performed. That now, is how I came to know the great Lord Harold Winston.

38

AMERICAN PRIDE Upper Left: Martin Luther King Jr. by Olivia Colombo, ‘18 Upper Right: Untitled

by Kelly O’Donnell, ‘15 Lower Left: War Is...?

by Matt Dunn, ‘17

39

Vote for Pedro By connor Bitterman, ‘18

School can be really fun sometimes. My favorite day in the school year is Election Day. It is in September, the start of the frigid, fall season, my favorite month in the year. It is when the leaves start to fall and the air starts to feel dry. This is the one time in the year when Mango Street looks the cleanest, only because leaves hide the trash beneath them.

One of the boys in my class Pedro, the tall and flimsy boy who keeps to himself, is running for class president. Pedro walked in a weird nerdy way. He scurried down the halls of school in a shuffling motion and avoided everyone. He was made fun of by the other boys, but when he shuffled past me I would always look and smile, he didn’t notice me.

Pedro had dark slicked back hair that was pulled back tightly in a ponytail. He was the only boy that I have seen with such long hair. All of the people in the school are afraid of him because he is so mysterious and so quiet. When I’m in the same room as Pedro I don’t even notice him until he says something or yawns.

Tuesday was Election Day and the halls were full of posters stuck on by thumbtacks that were pierced through almost every wall in the school.

All of them said “Vote for Pedro” in fluorescent pink. I thought this was weird because only girls like pink.

Sally and I were pacing up and down the hall ways for what felt like an hour or two waiting for the

election to begin. The only problem was that no one could find Pedro! We all waited for ten minutes or so and we started to file out of the classroom like pigeons fluttering away from the seashore.

Then at one time, everyone turned around and saw the tall and lengthy boy standing at the front of the desk. We all had to come back into the room and take our seats; I was not pleased.

Pedro was a very shy boy and didn’t like to stand up in front of all of us. Sally and I were trying not to laugh because Pedro had many cracks in his voice. Shy people often have cracking voices when speaking in front of others because they are scared. Shy people also stutter while in front of others because they get nervous and think that they will mess up. Pedro was a shy person.

Pedro, once he had finished his speech ran out of the classroom and went back into the place where he wouldn’t be bothered. I felt bad for Pedro because he didn’t know that we gave him a loud applause, because he left the classroom so quickly. Some boys were making fun of him for his speech,,I thought that was mean.

After school, Sally and I saw Pedro in front of the school and he was sobbing. Sally said to leave him alone but I talked to him. We talked for twenty minutes and I figured out why he was weeping.

Pedro’s father got a job in California and he had to leave the school and leave Mango Street, his real home. He was crying because Pedro for the first time ever won the election, but he couldn’t remain at school. This was the last time I ever saw Pedro.

40

The Last Campaign

He'd been locked in a stubborn back and forth with General Thoreau for nearly half an hour.

Hardly any of the other officials in the dimly lit situation room had said a word since the meeting started. Most of them hadn't wanted to provoke General Thoreau's temper any further.

Others, mostly the ones with higher level offices, were only letting it go on out of respect for the admiral. Admittedly, their patience had worn thin.

Now Admiral Adams was on his feet. He addressed General Thoreau from across the room with increasing frustration."Yes, the colonials have tried to provoke us for a year. That doesn't however mean we have to go in guns blazing to resolve this.�

Thoreau's response was cut short by a third voice from the head of the table. "I think you both have said your piece."

Thoreau closed his mouth grudgingly, clearly wishing he had had the last word.

"I have said all I have to say."Adams persisted as he sat back down. "It's your call sir."

The third speaker, Earth’s commander and chief, and head executive of the entire solar system, leaned forward in his chair. He was a medium build, distinguished looking man in his late sixties.

"The colony," he said to the council, gesturing to the hologram at the center table. It was a scaled projection of the Beta star system, the reason the meeting was taking place.

"It was supposed to be our great

41

achievement," he continued, "the culmination of all the progress we have made over the last century. Communication, interstellar transportation, terraforming, they all came into play.

A concentrated effort of a million scientists, engineers and hard hats.

It's probably the thing that's kept us united for this long." He paused for a breath."But now it all may end in division and another war. Mr. Thoreau, if you have any recollection of what your job entails, you'll forgive me if I don't consider that our best option, but we need to remember who we are dealing with," he said, turning his attention to Admiral Adams.

"Locke is a fanatic. He was a fair leader of his own people, but nonetheless a nationalist who has enjoyed necessary autonomy in governing the second system until recently. He hasn't forgiven us for the mistakes of the previous administration, and he's now building a 10 million man army in preparation for a war of secession. I make a public response to this aggression in the next hour. Still," he said, looking to them all now. "Until then, I want every alternative to war considered one last time."

General Thoreau sat back obviously annoyed. He did, of course consider what had been suggested an entirely futile exercise.

The next to speak was the Secretary of State. "Diplomacy has already been attempted. As you said, sir, Governor Locke is a fanatic and he isn't likely to change his stance."

"Surely not everyone in the colony shares Locke's ideology." The Head Executive interrupted.

"I was getting to that," said the secretary with clear impatience. "Even if we have sympathizers, we have no way of contacting them. We only made two quantum entanglement devices for interstellar communication.

One is in Cern, Switzerland, the other is almost certainly kept under tight security by Locke. We could make a

normal satellite transmission, but that would take ten years to reach the beta system. By that time, your term will have ended, sir."

"We should send negotiators in person." Concluded the chief of staff. "Faster than light drives could transport a ship in half the time."

"If Locke really wants autonomy," Adams countered, "he could easily silence a few liaisons. We need to give them a reason to listen to us."

"What are you suggesting Admiral?" Asked the head executive.

Adams sighed, as if defeated.

"If we send in peacemakers... they come with a full armed task force.

Deploying the military on such a large scale would only be seen as a furtherance of hostility; everyone knew it, but it was quite possibly their only option. For the first time in a long time, the room was quiet. The last war had been almost sixty years ago. Not a single man in the room, save one, had any sort of experience in large scale conflict. Their silence was permeated with that fear of the unknown inherent in all human beings.

The head executive broke the pause. "We're left with only this course of action then," he took a moment to choose his words carefully, "and there's still a good chance that peaceful resolution will fail. However, there's one more option we haven't discussed. Before I ask, I want you to keep in mind that I wouldn't give a damn about the rest of my career, not at this point anyway. So," he concluded, "can we let the colony secede? Sol can manage just fine on its own, and Locke isn't a threat outside of his own system."

"I know that sounds like a noble option, sir," it was Thoreau, "but one day the colony may present an offensive threat. Would you stake the lives of our own citizens on the chance we might get a different result with them then?"

Even if you do choose not to

respond, Sir,� added the press secretary,� such a decision would get you replaced next year, and your choice won't be upheld by your successor."

"I concur," was all Adams had to add.

"Then we go with your plan, Admiral," said the head executive, now looking thoroughly dejected.

"You will, of course carry it out personally, but we will discuss the details after I make my address."

"I know what I have to say now." the head executive mumbled with an air of exhaustion, making his way to the door. He was completely oblivious to the arguments that would resume mere seconds after his departure.

***

Five years later the memories were disconcertingly vivid: the meeting, the executive's speech, and the largest military consolidation in human history. Preparation for a "peaceful" mission that was potentially just a prelude to an entire interstellar war. It was five years of cryogenic hibernation, and ten light years of distance behind him. It was a strange thing to know yesterday as a day five years ago. The day he had his last glimpse of earth in the hanger bay of the flagship. He'd made sure to see it over his shoulder one more time before the doors closed. However, in the real yesterday, he'd been hibernating in a capsule of sub freezing liquid like the day before it, and a thousand days before that. Five years in one, exceptionally long, blink of his eyes.

He was glad to be awake, even though if everything actually went well he'd be taking another five-year sleep in a matter of weeks.

Some things he really wished he had forgotten. The endless debates concerning his eligibility for task force command came to the front of his mind. It was no great surprise to find that for a long time, the politicians of Geneva had considered him no more

than an aged figurehead. To them, it was ludicrous to think the hero of the Europa conflict was fit for another war fifty-five years later. However, in the end, he had been the only viable choice. His age came with experience, something none of the other commanders had at all.

Then there had been the task of assembling the ground forces. It was a massive undertaking to decide the right balance of infantry, artillery, and vehicles, then cramming all 253 of chosen brigades onto their respective carriers. To every crewman in the fleet there were to be almost ten additional army personnel. It would have been a grueling month for any man, let alone one so close to the end of his career.

He may have had a few stripes on his sleeves, but suffice to say, the now Task Force Commander Charles Adams still hated war as much as everyone else.

It didn't help that the room he was currently sitting in bore such great similarity to the one five years ago. There was the same dim lighting, the matte black soundproofing on the walls. He was even about to key up, more or less, the same hologram that had lazily revolved overhead last time.

With a sudden jerk, Adams's brought his head up trying to snap out of his near stupor. He was spending too much time reminiscing. With some effort, the present came into his focus, and the memories eventually faded to the back of his mind.

Finally directing attention to the here and now, he gazed around this conference room. There were ten more men and women seated along the table with him, after all. In a few moments of observation, however, it was clear they were all coming out of their own cryo awakening stupors.

One of them, their ambassador from what he could tell, was slumped so far forward that his head rested on the cold nickel finish of the table. The

man was, again, sleeping.

This was ridiculous. They had only just taken their seats, but ten high-ranking officers were collectively acting like it was the morning after some college party. Adams made a few more commands on the small pad in his hands.

There was a sudden, blinding, flash for several seconds. The entire room was engulfed in a white halo.

Everyone came to their senses in the glare with a great outcry of annoyance. The ambassador catapulted upright. Adams had activated the hologram - ten times brighter than it should have been. Several contemptuous remarks followed, and there was an aching retina or two, but in the absence of a bucket of cold water, the improvised flare had its desired affect.

Adams spoke from head of the table, "Good morning then. Well, good afternoon, actually." He corrected, checking the digital time. Everyone else just blinked profusely and massaged their temples. "First of all," he continued with a bit of extra emphasis, "Mr. Roberts, I'd like to know where exactly we've ended up after 5 years?"

The navigation officer stood, but he didn't speak immediately.

Reports were coming in from the all over the fleet, and he hadn't finished looking over them yet. Adams used this as a chance to reacquaint himself with the people he would be working with.

Several other specialty officers accompanied Roberts. Commanders Martin, Arata, and Shaw, were the senior officers of logistics, communication, and engineering respectively.

Adams had great regard for the those

42

behind the infrastructure of a modern military. The technological experts were almost exclusively Ivy League graduates who never planned on becoming career soldiers.

Without them, though, it would be impossible for men like himself to do their own jobs.

Generals Utkin, Abreu, Dyson and Orwell were also present, speaking of men like him. Their tactical roles in a task force were mostly redundant, except for Orwell. As an officer of mechanized units, Orwell still commanded mostly at his own discretion.

For most of them, anyway, it was instead their primary job to maintain cohesion, and take some of the paperwork off his hands.

Fleet officers were absent of course - they commanded their own ships. However, Colonel Phillips, the senior combat officer in the fighter wings, was an exception to this.

Looking more closely, Adams was startled to realize how young the man was. They were all too young in this army.

Even though Adams hadn't contemplated any of this for longer than a lingering glance Mr. Roberts had already begun; trying to make his report with one eye to the hologram, and the other still reading from his digital eyepiece: "All information suggests the fleet has made a successful faster than light journey," Roberts had said. He manipulated the now moderately fluorescent hologram with a stylus, expanding a section on the systems rim. "From what we can tell our ships have reached the emergence point with 60% accuracy." With a few taps on a keyboard fleet posi-

43

tions emerged on the projected grid of space. Specs of light scattered throughout the area like stars. Each was a vessel with its own corresponding name-tag.

Roberts went on about coordinates and status. In a navigational respect, Everything had gone without incident. "The only immediate concern is a rally point," Roberts concluded. "For that I defer to you Admiral."

"Very well," said Adams. "And its Commanding Admiral as of now.

Rally point..." Three dimensional positioning always took him a moment.

"Make it 50, 50, 75 section 247b."

"Aye sir," responded Roberts, and he left to see the order carried out.

"My men are just coming out of cryo now. No major incidents," reported Dyson.

"Same with all mechanized units." Orwell said, eager to wrap things up.

"Aircrews?"

Neither Abreu nor Phillips had anything to add. "Good, I want a full wave prepped in the launch bays." said Adams. "In fact, I want you all on standby. Hope for the best, plan for the worst." The rest of them nodded in assent.

"Nothing I should know about on the other ships, Mr. Arata?"

"No sir." Replied Arata, sitting a bit straighter.

"Relay the same orders throughout the fleet then." Saying this, Adams reclined, exhaled, and felt considerably relieved. There was just one other matter before they could get out of here.

"We're still out of the colonies sensor range so that leaves just one last order of business for now." the Admiral began to conclude." I know we want to get back to our posts, but its mandatory that we review orders again after cryo." He tapped his pad once more and all eyes turned their

attention to the large body of text that was appearing on their own screens.

The hologram flickered and faded.

Adams made his way through the redundant jargon until he came to the general objectives.

1. Task force arrival at beta system after estimated 5 years of FTL travel, in which crew will undergo cryogenic suspended animation to prevent any negative affects of said prolonged voyage.

2. Successful Commencement of fleet wide deceleration outside of the colony 3. Entrance into system, and enaction of protocol to appease possible populace hysteria.

4. Prompt request of peaceful negotiation with governor Locke or other official advocate with the initial objectives of the following: A. The return of the corresponding particle of the beta systems quantum entanglement device to Interplanetary Solar Government emissaries to allow instant communication from task force back to earth.

B. The avoidance of further hostilities between beta system colonists and ISG C. The creation of an official colonial charter offering all liberties and restrictions given to ISG citizens and provinces.

5. The successful facilitation of all terms stated above.

His eyes paused on the last one. It was all too familiar.

6. Consideration of any hostile military action against ISG forces as a declaration of war. Whereby said forces are authorized to achieve the above terms through armed force.

To be continued....

Ian Coletti, ‘18

FRIENDSHIP There are these two familiars of mine.

We always seem to come to verbal blows.

But at the dusk of day we are just fine.

There is a trust here only they would know.

Harry Potter by Olivia Colombo, ‘18

Man’s Important Virtue To have all things in the world Could be one man’s dream.

But that must mean I'm not a man, For possessions don’t matter to me.

In my mind as I behold Life is a balance beam.

With the gust to hash out your plan, In the end what you hope comes to be.

To be honest and truth be told The way of life is not extreme.

Friends and family are life's true seeds And are all you ever need.

Jack Crowley, ‘18

With varied stances on our own beliefs, Steam exits ears, like you see in cartoons.

But hey man, some like boxers, others briefs, I’d help them if they soiled their pantaloons.

And as the time goes on I seem to find They help support an aura of repose.

These stooges understand my different mind, We are the best of pals, bros to the close.

Alas, the competition never ends Between us three, the oddest group of friends.

Jackson Dunn, ‘15

44

ROLLING A DOUBLE by Teaghan Gokey, ‘18

It was Saturday evening again. The night when I told my parents the white lie that I was strolling with a few of our neighbors.

Neither really cared that I was going and neither actually inquired who would be let out, certainly at this time of night. Papa was still working overtime and mama was far too busy meticulously cleaning the mustard stains out of Kiki's shirt.

6:50 P.M., the sun was just beginning to shovel its way into the dirt, and the air smelt of crisp autumn leaves and damp leftovers from the shower that fell yesterday.

Another twenty or so silent minutes passed until it stood only a few feet in front of me. Castle Lanes, the sign read, dimly glowing with a phosphorescent mix of scarlet and gold. Given its presence on the block for around 30 years or so, from what Sally has told me, the 'l' and 's' letters had long-since blown out.

I wasn't entirely lying about some neighbors be

45

ing around me. Sally usually manages to sneak her way out of a window her father forgot to lock, and it isn't rare that I find Ruthie rolling a few either. Only Sally got to make it that time, but it wasn't so bad.

Every week there's this one kid, maybe a couple years older than I am, stacking some cash together with his pals for a few rounds. By the time we got there, some half-empty Cola cans were slacking off of the unbalanced table and only four torn sandwich wraps curled around its legs. Above them, a block with a red stick lazily slapped onto it read Lane 8. Every week it was always Lane 8. Maybe they felt the pins had just the right amount of weight to them, easier to topple over, or the floor perfect for a smooth landing.

But superstition didn't matter to him now; it was only his ball and the pins. He narrowed his eyes at his opponents, their worn but boastful colors of red and white taunting him to try to take them all. He curled his lean arm, and brought it down with one fluid motion. Strike.

Somehow his victory

over the pins made me feel warm...somehow. He was confident, charismatic, and from what I could tell, sort of funny. He wouldn't talk to me. Not a chance.

The next weekend Sally told me to try him out, see how it goes. I didn't think it would matter anyways, but I had nothing to lose. 8:03 P.M., his friends call him out, wave, and march out the doors, pushing and shoving each other as they went. He stayed though. As if...as if... He sluggishly waded near my seat and asked the guy and the bar for a malt. It was that kind of bowling alley.

They smelled of cold aluminum stained with a hefty waft of laminated leather.

His seat crumpled under him as he turned towards me. You look a little too fine for a place like this, he said. Nathan was American and tended to curse a lot, but I didn't mind. He asked me about my apartment on Mango Street, about the darkhaired girl sitting behind me. Yeah sure, I knew her.

But he didn't care. His emerald eyes were on me. And so they were for the next few weeks.

One day, we had

He flicked his forefinger to the DJ and the music begun. Follow my lead, he whispered as he flung off both of his shined, black shoes. I reluctantly did the same. Wait. This song sounded familiar, like I’d heard on an old, dusty radio in a corner store. It was a teenage wedding and the old folks wished them well. Nathan’s feet slid from side to side on the floor like the drapes hanging from my bedroom, tossing and turning, but in near-perfect sync. I flung my hands from side to side for a moment before the drums and orchestra

merged me into the rhythm. Feeling the heat build in my chest, I looked up into those soft, green eyes. You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle. Piano keys tightly pinged melodically throughout the verse. We swiftly turned into each other’s arms and shared a kiss. And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell. If only those smooth notes could have rang forever, and if only he got to enjoy the next week with me.”C’est la vie”, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell.

New Horizons by Nick Cerrato, ‘16

just finished playing a few rounds, as futile as it may have been, when he said something I had never really thought about before.

This is nice. Y’know what this is goddamn beautiful.

Do you know what it really means to be comfortable with someone? He asked, You can just shut the hell up, sit around, and blissfully enjoy utter silence. I didn’t quite understand exactly what he meant, but I sort of felt the same way.

It felt nice to simply appreciate him for a second.

For a second I feel...special to him.

Another seven days past and this time, we weren’t heading off the alley. Nathan said he knew this diner a couple blocks over that had a funky jazz theme. I’ve never heard that kind of music before, but I was willing to try. We filled ourselves up with a pot pie each, he paid, and were about to leave when he pulled me towards the stage. We can’t miss the dance-off he said with a sly grin. I tried to refuse, tried to tell him a couldn’t dance, that I would just embarrass myself in front of all these people, but he didn’t care. He pulled a microphone from the official and gave both of our names, and everything inside me held its breath.

46

The Depths of Marin

glass goes, cutting up your feet making it harder to walk but then Auntie’s lights go out so the lighter is lit, the radio and streetlights are on and the cars pass by while Marin’s happy little lungs are soaked with nicotine. Her gleaming green eyes could make cars crash and boys dance under the moonlight but at 3am when she comes home with her skin glistening from the air that brushed against it all night, she comes home to all of the broken mirrors that still mock her flaws and twist her body that she is oh so familiar with. Marin hopes that maybe one a.m she will come home to only the voices of true love that won’t make her black and blue and wrinkles on the edges of her lips without a single smudge of lipstick.

Lingering underneath her dark make up and dark nylons remains a dreary soul who fears mirrors but doesn’t fear men. Remember I told you, she isn’t afraid, not a bat of the eye, not Marin. Your eyes and ears might echo to your brain a twinkle of yellow or a glimpse of earth. That is what you see and hear, but my friend, looks are deceiving.

How do I know? Well, she told me! Marin trusts me is what she says. The fine lines that rest atop her eyelashes turn into damp droplets that are soaked within the earth of Chicago because her heart has

Cora Quinlan, ‘18 shattered once too many times. But Marin never passes the chance for someone to change her life and that is why she is not afraid of men. Because one day, she says, one day someone will take me far away and everything will be okay.

These short skirts and short shirts that show her bare, dark skin will take your mind into a world Gazing up at the sparkling, silver of attention, a world of love and freedom that you stars. They gleam brilliantly among dream of in your deepest slumbers but spark a sting the spherical moon. Each one shining of envy and desire like a gracious bumble bee prickgracefully and beautifully, flaunting ing your flesh. Unfortunately we humans judge quickly due to our impulse to conclusions but why its freedom. I lie under them, squintdon’t we leave it a mystery?, if the mystery is too ing to catch a glimpse of the stars faragonizing to leave in serenity, then solve it. thest away, who want to be noticed. I

Unworthy of her own reflection, Marin lets the men tell her how she looks because never do the dream of hopping from one star to the men tell her she is ugly. You can throw a rock at the other, with exploration in my heart. To men and they will catch it and toss it back but when be free is something I’d like to be, so I you throw the rock at the mirror, it will play along with you. Oh no Marin, you are as beautiful as the watch for a shimmering shooting star, galaxies and I am the king while you are the queen and I wish to be like one, and glimmer says the boys. But the mirror, oh that darn mirror, all night long. it lets you throw what ever words your mind will carry until it shatters and down, down, down the

Infinite

Caitlin Sullivan, ‘17

47

Colophon Editing

Carey “My Staff Rocks” Zigouras: Advisor Abby “Lightning Layout” Chapin, ‘18: Copy and Layout Editor Emma “Gradient” Cubellis, ‘17: Copy and Layout Editor Elena “Columns Queen” Murphy, ‘18: Copy and Layout Editor Yanni “Minion Pro” Pappas, ‘17: Copy and Layout Editor Joshua “InDesign Guru” Towner, ‘17: Copy and Layout Editor Melinda “Grammar Girl” White, ‘17: Copy and Layout Editor

Typography

This edition is typed in Comic Sans, Impact, Minion Pro, Times New Roman, and French Script.

Design

This edition was designed using Adobe InDesign CS 5.5.

Printing

Lingua Franca is printed in Plymouth, Massachusetts by Powderhorn Press on a Xerox 6060 digital printer.

Submissions

Artwork and writing may be emailed to advisor Carey Zigouras at czigouras@sacredheartkingston.com.

All submissions are seriously considered for publication. Depending on the works’ originality and rhetorical value, submissions are published in the magazine if they reach the projected deadline. All members of the Lingua Franca staff are part of the editing and layout process, and therefore consider submissions for publication together. Original artwork and writing that fits in with the selected theme are also included. Lingua Franca is published annually.

Special Thanks The editors are grateful for members of the Art, History, Science, World Language, Religion, and English Departments for facilitating submissions, specifically art teacher Ms. Julie Trahon.