LINGUA
FRANCA 2015-2016
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
Horizons… the division between heaven and earth, the unifying line that wraps around the globe, binding everyone to a singular yet unique vision. This year Lingua Franca selected the theme of horizons for the magazine. A symbol of hope for the unattainable, horizons express the ambition of the human race. We believe each person has his or her own horizons, his or her own goals, his or her own dreams – a vision of the future that we reach for but may never attain. Everyone can always look to a horizon no matter where they are. This seemingly insignificant line is a merging aspect of the world. In the same way, art and writing binds us all to universal themes, and surrounds us in our daily lives. Creativity is the horizon of human intellect and emotion. The works of art borne from human ingenuity symbolize the risk in that reach. All artists take risks by inking their feelings on a page. No artist knows how his or her work will be perceived, if people will understand, or harshly critique his or her vulnerabilities. Though this fear is always present in sending art into the world, the artist does it because of their passion. His or her desire to reach that horizon is greater than the fear of judgement, of rejection. The purpose of distributing the magazine is to inspire writers and artists to take new risks. We hope that Lingua France will encourage all creators to find their own horizons and sail into them without being held back by fear. Front Cover: “One Minute After” by Ana Arredondo Santos, ‘16
Sincerely, Inspired by the photograph “Hassalien” by Hani Amir The Editors
Back Cover: “Clouds Over Harbor” by Nathan Porelle, ‘17
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Table of Contents
Artwork
Literature
Title Author Page Isolated Paradise
Luke Carey
P. 1
Paper Airplane
Emma Keane
P. 2
Wealth
Julia Abraham
P. 3
Chained Freedon
James O’Brian
P. 4
Origins of Veveera Annero
Zoe Volney
P. 5
Baby Bridget
Charles Mara
P. 6
The Last Campaign
Ian Colletti
P. 7
The Things That Still Beat
Emma Cubellis
P. 9
paper crane
Julia Abraham and Emma Keane P. 11
The Lighthouse
Thomas Mortimer
P. 11
The Ballad of Shadow
Emma Keane
P. 12
Love is a Rainbow
Nikolas Cerrato
P. 13
a gift
Emma Keane
P. 14
The Place of My Love
Rose Klein
P. 15
Saved by Grace
Thomas Mortimer
P. 16
Leaving a Legacy
Emma Keane
P. 17
Fish Who Can’t Swim
Luke Carey
P. 18
Gu Yi
Yiyun Zhang
P. 19
My Teacher
Dehua Chen
P. 20
The Leeches
Melissa Linsdell
P. 21
Holder of My Husband
Zoe Volney
P. 22
The War to End All Wars?
Evan Coletti
P. 23
Trance
Patrick Allen
P. 25
Forest
Charles Mara
P. 26
Red Handed
Thomas Mortimer
P. 27
No Speed Limits
Luke Carey
P. 28
One Sided Regret
Zoe Volney
P. 30
Patiience is a Virtue
Trent Garzoni
P. 31
2015-2016
Title
Untitled Looking Down Teenage Wasteland Origins of Veveera Anerro Untitled Lone Survivor Make-Up Bloom Light by the Way Untitled Look Out Your Window Coffee Lake on Fire Untitled Leap to Heaven The Deep Sapphire Symbiosis Treeline Morning Call Net WT 0.5 More Chances, More Dances The Duel Life is a Highway Oceans Hot Coals Canada Deer One Sided Regret Patience is a Virtue
Artist
Joe Masi Reagan Cavanaugh Jillian Blake Zoe Volney Brendan MacNeil Ryan Larsen Ana Arredondo Santos Brendan MacNeil David Jennings Cullen Dickhaut Jacklyn Rouse Michael Haskell Ian Fillion Jacklyn Rouse Ana Arredondo Santos Julia Fratus Chros Wang Olivia Colombo Scott Hokanson Julia Fratus Erin Carberry Ian Coletti Ana Arredondo Rachel Brown Charlie Mara Matt Johnson Olivia Colombo Zoe Volney Trent Garzoni
Page P. 1 P. 2 P. 3 P. 5 P. 6 P. 8 P. 10 P. 11 P. 11 P. 12 P. 13 P. 14 P. 15 P. 16 P. 17 P. 18 P. 19 P. 20 P. 20 P. 21 P. 22 P. 24 P. 25 P. 26 P. 27 P. 28 P. 29 P. 30 P. 31
Write-A-Polooza Competition Winners are recognized throughout the magazine.
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Isolated Paradise Wind sweeps the sand, I watch the trees sway, Isolated away from all land. Sitting on my lofty island, Wishing I could be here everyday, Wind sweeps the sand. I'll dispel all stress and sit like I pray, Enjoying the peace of the bay, Isolated away from all land. I feel at peace when the salt water touches my hand, Watching seagulls stray, Wind sweeps the sand. In my paradise, stress is banned, I promised the rule that I say. Isolated away from all land. A peaceful tune in my head, my own little band, Enjoying life, as I lay. Wind sweeps the sand, Isolated away from all land. Luke Carey, ‘18
Joe Masi, Staff
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e n a irpl
A r e p Pa
picked from a stack i'm not like all the rest made by your hands you're soft touch folding me crease after crease I start to take shape “Looking Down” by Reagan Cavanaugh, ‘18 but nothing is done without a layer of paint i dry and I wait Winner of Most Interesting Perspective you finally return picking me up out of my place i’m lifted high into the air a glimpse of freedom feel like an escapee released, I soar through the room feeling free, but for a moment until I crash onto the floor you search and search but cannot find me i’m lost from your childhood memories once free now trapped with me, myself, and I i long for the days when I flew through the air when I waited and dried for my first layer of paint crease after crease with your delicate hands folding me. being picked from the stack feels like yesterday. Emma Keane, ‘19
2015-2016
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“Teenage Wasteland” by Jillian Blake, ‘18
Wealth
a treasure chest of coins is different for you than it is for me. mine contains varied items, like nature, friends, and family. nature is coal—it is taken advantage of, destroyed, wasted instead of preserved. nobody will see its value until it's gone. true friends are gold—they are as hard to come by as they are to replace. if you truly love them, you will keep them with you for generations. family is a diamond—it may have its imperfections, but it always holds its value. it is often more beautiful when you look at it as a whole. and money is just money—wealth is just wealth, it can be whatever you choose. just make sure you take care of it, make sure it isn't abused. Julia Abraham, ‘18
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CHAINED FREEDOM Most Creative Use of Theme Winner
it's been so long it’s hard to remember. As we walked I started to feel sick; it musta been a bad cigarette because I've got this cold feeling in my stomach and a chill running up my back. The officer walked me to another
I was lying in my cell staring at the
door and again talked into his walkie-talkie
white ceiling, the same ceiling that I had
"Open door B12." The loud buzzer went off
looked at since I was stuck in this place. I've
again, and I could hear the door click. He
always had the feeling that if I looked at it
opened it and pushed me through. In front
long enough it would show me something.
of me was the exit gate. I turned around and
Then I looked over to the wall and stared
looked at him. I could see the fear in his eyes.
at that for a minute counting every single
Any other day I would have punched him
streak that was imbedded into it. "5,10,15," I
out, but why waste some more time of my
whispered to myself. I thought for a minute,
life? I kept walking up to the guard at the
still looking at the wall, and took a glance at
glass window to 'check out.' I grabbed my
my cracked mirror. I reached under my mat,
belongings as the guard read them to me.
feeling around and felt the pack of cigarettes.
"Wallet with 2 dollars." He handed it to me.
Not what I was looking for, but when else
"Clean pair of shoes," he handed those to
will I have one? So I put a butt in my mouth
me as well. As he went to hand me the rest
and continued searching. "There you are,"
of my clothes, I said "No." I was just gonna
my fingers wrapped around the tattered tape
take the uniform. I knew there was no way of
and pulled out the long piece of glass I made
me fitting into those clothes after ten years. I
for myself as a teenager. I stood up, walked
was 27 now, and I needed some new clothes
over to the wall and placed the tip of the
so I let them keep 'em. The guard proceeded
glass shank against the white paint. I used it
me to the door where I could see the yard
to scrape off one more line of that white dust
through the fence that I've wanted to pass
just for the hell of it. I knew it didn't really
through for so long. They walked me down
count as a full day, but I felt it was needed. I
the path around the yard to the big two
sat back in my bed and lit my cigarette with
door fence. I looked up at the barbed wire
an old match I still had. I always thought that
remembering when AJ got stuck in it trying
this day was supposed to be great. I thought
to escape. It took himan hour to get him out
I would be more excited, but I did what
of it. The two doors slid apart till there was
what most convicts do and carved my name
nothing stopping me from leaving. I made
in the wall, hoping I would never be back.
eye contact with the guard who just looked,
"Arthur" I shot my head over to the bars,
he turned and started to walk back without
“is it time?,” no response. He just looked at
saying anything. I proceeded to walk out the
me. I stood up and took one more haul, then
prison. The bus pulled up and opened the
threw my cigarette in the toilet and walked
door. "Time to figure out my life," I said, as I
over to the cell door. The guard put his head
picked up my belongings and proceeded to
down into his walkie-talkie, "Open cell 9b."
the bus. I picked a seat and sat down, plac-
A loud buzz went off and the door slid open
ing my belongings next to me. I closed my
like every other day, but today was different.
eyes and I can remember what a friend told
They walked me down the corridor past all
me shortly before he died back in Walpole,
the cells. All the men were up against their
"It's not how you look when you’re buried,
bars looking at me. If you asked me, I could
but how you're remembered." On that note I
probably recite all their names I've been with
hoped to stay a free man.
them so long. The walk felt a lot longer than when I walked to my cell the first time, but
2015-2016
James O’Brien, ‘17
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The Origins of Veveera Annero Interlogue
“The Origins of Veveera Annero” by Zoe Volney, ‘18
It had been days after the reoccurrence of his "death." I had made sure to use his disappearance greatly to our advantage. His sister, worried to death at the time, cried heavily with confusion, fear, surprise, happiness... Why wouldn't she? Abandoned at a young age, most cried, but I knew better than to waste my last tears on myself. I was limited unlike others, well, not for the time being, but soon after when a piece of my eye sight would be stripped from me. It was injured, my eye, sampled for another unwillingly. When my eye was replaced, I had gained a near duplicate, allowing me to see, but I was unable to cry. Something had gone wrong, or not right, since my vision was recovered, but whenever the time came that I cried, my right eye would shed tears of red or none at all. That was far later than then, however. We were all taken by force, people to work as slaves from sunrise to sunset. I was one of the fortunate, however, even though experiments were highly centered on me. I was young compared to many who were taken at childhood and thought to be dead Outside. They were a lost hope, and lived and died Inside. I shouldn't complain. Even for many of the victims who hadn't been experimented on, only taken for their labor, I shed my few tears for them. For those who came before me. For my dear friend who replaced my first. I even shed my last tear for those who weren't taken at all. They'd suffer the aftermath, all of us to suffer the evil newly released to the world. I don't weep for me. Even though today I cry through my left eye, my right's tears remind me of the blood of those who suffered of the project and those who will. Closer to the beginning I realized how foolish I used to be, crying, mourning for nothing. My pain and sorrow is a disgrace to all those around me. I don't cry anymore because of the project, why would I? Cry for the lost souls of the innocent? Cry for the torment of the sane? There would be no sentiment towards my tears. I'm the one who caused all of it Zoe Volney, ‘18
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Baby Bridget
Charles Mara, ‘16
2015-2016
“Untitled” by Brendan MacNeil, ‘16
From the outside, the building was a drab, worn, old structure. It had been built by German POWs during WWII, and now had chunks of its facade missing. Its wooden window shutters were ornately decorated, and had an intricate iron pattern on their interior. The birch trees that lined the roads and walkways leading to this property were painted white halfway up the trunks, to protect them from gnawing little caterpillars that would devour its goldfinch colored leaves. The separate kitchen facility off to the left as one entered the grounds was painted lime green, with a chalky, Pepto-Bismol consistency. The mixed scent of cooking beef, onions, potatoes, and cabbage wafted over my patents with a strong gust of wind. There was an eerie feeling of loneliness about the place. Neither the sound of an adult nor the cries of a baby were heard throughout the grounds. The next tumultuous gust of the caustic, cold zephyr caused the swing-sets in the empty playground to rock gently, like a baby's cradle. Once inside the main structure, the rank odor of urine and ammonia suddenly penetrated the senses. Still not a sound was heard. Soon the old wooden door creaked open and in came a women wearing a shawl. In her arms was a small girl whose eyes were filled with fear and wonder. She could neither walk nor speak at this point. The girl probably had no idea what they were doing there and she began to cry. She cried again the next day when she saw my parents, but on day three, the ice had been broken, and Bridget started to play ball with them. An old glass soda bottle was brought in to feed the child; it contained a sickly grey liquid with minuscule "floaties" drifting around inside. A worn rubber nipple which slightly resembled a rooster's comb was affixed atop this canister. Some time had passed and the child grew hungry. So did the lonely Musca domestica trapped in the room. Detecting a possible food source, the famished beast hovered over to the bottle in all its gruesome glory. It found a perch on the top of the nipple and extended its proboscis to taste the object. With one quick slurp from the bottle and a twitch of his filthy little body, the detested demon gave up the ghost and fell to the tabletop. Whatever was in that container was enough to kill a hardy house fly, one could only imagine about what the contents could do to a child… My parents brought the child outside, where she heard a dog barking. Her head snapped around; it was probably the first thing she heard outside the orphanage. It certainly wouldn't be the last.
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Most Impactful Winner THE LAST CAMPAIGN Chapter 2 At 1500 C Company, and the ship as a whole, was still waking up when the message came through the compartment speakers. Amidst the groggy shuffle to register and report after cryo, the cold voice, reverberating off walls and in eardrums, was entirely unwelcome. Most had been hoping, in vain as it seemed, to catch a brief respite. Nevertheless, the order of full combat standby was carried out dutifully, if grudgingly. Captain Michelle Winters had made sure of that. The regimental armory was the size of a small warehouse, and contained a rather impressive complement of weaponry. Still, it couldn’t hold 170 soldiers with a complete degree of comfort as they equipped. Winters herself made her way down a crowded isle until she came to a rack of combat uniforms, the helmets clearly marked with officer insignias. She dressed hastily in the reinforced fatigues, but the solid segments were far too cumbersome to manage on her own. “Trooper?” she called out to a private taking clips of ammo. The Man looked up, and hurried over obligingly; she did wish she knew his name. When the task force was being assembled back at Sol thousands, hundreds of thousands of professional soldiers had tried anything to escape the cut. Too many people in the ISG military were high school slackers or college dropouts who just wanted to have a gun and feel like they were important. Some faked insanity, others had gone a-wall, subjected themselves to debilitating injuries, or all of the above. Her original unit and many others had broken down completely. Her unit and this entire
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task force were as foreign with each other as they were with the battlefield. The only thing that was certain about these soldiers was that they were either the bravest, most dutiful, or most idiotic the ISG had to offer. Modern ballistic protection weighed so much it required a semi powered skeletal brace interwoven into the fatigues to support it all. Even with an extra hand a full minute was required to don the chest plating, and it took another to attach the leg, forearm, and shoulder segments. Winters straightened as the brace came on with a slight metallic clicking. She made a brief self inspection as she strapped on the remaining belts and harnesses of gear. She was as prepared as she would ever be. Captain Michelle Winters had few outstanding distinctions. Perhaps she had always been a calm one at West Point, despite any stereotypes attributed to red hair, which she kept in a short ponytail, subsequent blue eyes, and fair skin. Her face usually had expression of composure, it might make one think of some placid pond on a pleasant, windless day. It was more than a little useful at the poker table too, but really nothing particularly memorable. She did, however, have a remarkably concise Alto, good for shouting over crowds, as it did now. “Platoons, form up and file out,” she barked over the sea of heads. “D company’s waiting behind us.” She snatched up an AR36 from a row of rifles as she passed down the isles. Behind her she could hear the sergeants organizing each of their platoons with their practiced “motivational” skills. She watched her men pass by and through the exit. Boots clanged audibly on the deck floor - each step had well over 100 kilos behind it. C Company was quite literally
the heaviest infantry there was. A killer app of any army. Being their commanding officer was more preferable than most positions. The company was also notable for being part of regiment 506, which had one of the most honored backgrounds in military history, having earned notable honors in major conflicts, even before the united earth. Their service on Europa, however, was nothing short of legendary. After loading on and off an elevator large enough to hold several main battle tanks, C Company stood with the rest of the brigade. Over them arced a vast, braced ceiling hanging relatively low in a hanger that, otherwise, would have fit an entire sports stadium. Conservation of space, Winters supposed. Her and the thousands of others lay the ordered rows of drop ships, large enough to carry 50 men each within their fuselage. Vaguely predatory, they somewhat resembled stubby sharks with large, swept back fins. All of them had lowered hatches, and vertically rotated thrusters. They were ready to take off and deploy their passengers at a moments notice, and into god knows what. In all likelihood, though, it would be a long wait. Adams rechecked status updates on the screen attached to his chair. He’d been thinking about Europa. How long ago had that been? It was already in history books. How old was he now himself? Adams tried to recall, somewhere around 91, but thanks to preservation in cryosleep, and modern medicine, it had been decided he still had enough years left before mandatory retirement. What exactly would those years hold, though? War? Peace? Victory? Defeat? Adams quickly dismissed that trail of thought. He knew that what would come, would come.
Lingua Franca
From what he was reading of the reports, apparently it would come in about two hours. The first hour had been merely going through the motions before the fleet entered colony sensor range. The personnel was alerted, the ambassador was prepped and would be first to contact whatever response forces the colony chose to send. Also, there was the simple yet crucial matter of broadcasting the initial message of intent, a fifteen minute speech recorded by the head executive. A rather unconventional initial gesture of peace, but as it was, the administrative body here wasn’t trusted to be truthful to the populace themselves. “To all colonial citizens, by now a large ISG fleet has entered the Beta system. It’s purpose is not to incite war or...” Adams left the bridge before he heard the rest. For the moment, now, he was watching the ambassador sit anxiously in front of a black screen. The Communication and Sensor Regulatory Center was a purely utilitarian room. It’s wires power conduits and half installed terminals were there for all to see. It was an awkward place to conduct the first formal negotiations, if the colonials decided to do it visually. Of course, all the camera would show was the ambassador, his desk, and the fake ochre wall propped up behind him. Adams was purposefully right outside the shot, leaning against a large electrical pipe. The second hour began with an update from Arata. Speaking to him from the bridge through an ear mic, the commander informed him of a large body of ships one AU away. It was likely a large scale patrol, tasked specifically to intercept ISG forces if and when they arrived. And they definitely were aware of the task force by
2015-2016
then. Had they been waiting all this Adams had endured Europa, and time? been shot, stabbed, and hit with “Stay on course to central planet.” shrapnel in a dozen places, but in a Adams reaffirmed as he signed off. little while, he knew, there would Contact would occur right on cue. begin something worse than a A tedious wait ensued; not prodozen Europa’s. He might as well longed by any sense of dread—the have taken another bullet. minutes were just heavy with a “Locke is Hell bent at war,” the sense of inevitability. There would ambassador said bitterly, putting be resolution, peaceful or not, and his own pad down. He sat back at in defense of peace, all there was his desk, looking shocked and pale, was one man in front of a camera. and more tired than he had been In the end an hour or so it was so coming out of cryo. “Let’s hope we insignificant in the face of what can win this.” would come after, it was just... use- Adams was already halfway to the less time. However every minute exit. could only tick away second by second. Adams just watched the clock. To be continued.... He watched the second hour end. Arata’s voice came again through Ian Coletti, ‘18 the link in his ear. “We have identified the ships as a colonial battle fleet. They’ve taken up blockade positions, but we are now at signaling range. “You know your orders Mr. Arata.” said Adams, his voice betraying no hint of his apprehension. “Find the flagship, establish a link with this room. They shall hear the ambassador first.” “Opening a frequency in thirty seconds,” shouted a technician a moment later. Adams took a breath, and turned his eyes to the screen. Thirty seconds later, it was still blank. The colonials sent only one transmission, an old school data packet, a text file. Adams opened it on his pad. It was unambiguously entitled “Terms of Colonial Secession.” Adams already knew what he was about to see, but he read all of it. The colonists left little ambiguity in their wording. If the fleet stayed, Adams would be fired upon. Consideration of any hostile military action against ISG forces as a dec- “Lone Survivor” by Ryan Larsen, ‘19 laration of war, echoed in Adams’s mind. He knew he had failed.
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The Things That Still Beat
She always left her hand linger on my back. Her body would dissipate but her fingers would trace over my shoulder blade and come around to my chest where they’d drop off just before my neck. All this time she’d be walking away, her arm trailing behind her. She’d be smiling at someone else but a piece of her would still be on me. All this time she’d have her attention on someone else while all my attention was on her. That’s what she did to me. She tricked me in that way, giving me something, enough to grasp, but never enough to hold. It was always, somehow, enough for me though, and it kept me groveling. She’d put her hand on my arm and pick up a little fabric with her fingers when she laughed. She’d breathe down my neck—warm and sticky—when she hugged me. She’d run her eyes across me, leisurely, when she thought I wasn’t looking and then when I’d turn she’d blink real slow and pivot her head in the opposite direction. Then she’d always end her wordless interactions with a little smile, because she knew. And I knew too. It was all residual effects. Residual effects are the things that you can’t help yourself from doing; the things that happen on accident, engendered by muscle memory, an instinct—I guess—from the leftover parts of something past, the things that still beat. Neither of us wanted to admit that whatever string attached the two of us was still there. I knew that we both constantly wished it would break, but the more we tried to cut it the stronger it got. So we were forced to leave it alone, and accept it. That was hardest part, not fussing with it. She learned how to ignore it much quicker than I did. It took training for me though. I had to force myself not to call her. I used to leave my phone on the kitchen countertop, take a walk to the convenience store, and sit on the stairs smoking until the grey clouded my mind enough to ebb away the thought of her. I smoked less and less as the years passed, but still every once in a while I’d find myself on those convenience store steps wondering where she was and if the things that still beat inside me beat inside the same parts of her. It was a Tuesday two years since I had heard or seen her when she crawled back into the deep cavities of my mind. I dialed her number three times but never pressed call. I typed out four messages but never pressed send. I got on my black coat, with the broken zipper, and dropped my phone so hard on the counter that it shattered. I left my apartment then and made the ten-minute trek to the convenience store in the burning cold that beat through my breezy white shirt and licked at my too exposed chest. The store wasn’t much warmer inside and the people within seemed to be even colder. They threw sharp glances around
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their shoulders, and no one spoke a word, not even those who were paired. I wasted no time. I slammed the bill on the counter, snatched the pack, and fled out of the shrinking store. The concrete absorbed all the cold making my homey spot feel foreign. I had never been there in such cold, or not that I could remember; though once I left the steps I could hardly ever remember the moments I had spent on them. I dug my hand into my shallow pocket and found that I had picked up the wrong coat. It lacked the lighter, as well as it did a zipper. I pressed and slid my two fingers across my eyebrows and up my temple. Without a lighter there was no smoke and without smoke I couldn’t veil the thoughts of her. I hung my head down into my knees, let out a guttural sigh that materialized into white air, then heaved my head back up—with my eyes closed—to rest against the supporting column behind me. From the outside, a brightness that speckled the black of my eyelid appeared and a fleck of heat flitted over my cheek and nose. With a marked degree of hesitation I lifted one of my eyelids and saw the outline of a hand and a flame. I started and shot both my eyes wide open. “Need a light?” she asked, there above me, flicking the lighter on and off, projecting that metal on metal sound, and smiling a little smile because she knew. And I knew too. Emma Cubellis, ‘17
“Make-Up” By Ana Arredondo Santos, ‘16
2015-2016
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paper crane
a tiny paper crane lives in my head, I know it's there because that's what I'm told. when I die it will awake with wings spread, it starts to grow weaker as I grow old. it tries and tries to work functionally, although it can't seem to fully evolve. it gets torn up to shreds, ultimately, a problem I only wish I could solve. my mind is like a palace ruled by fear, a man, who has the crane trapped in a cage. it tries to escape, jump into full-gear, it tries, but it is weakened as I age. this man is a hunter, he pursues peace, because this man is fear, he'll never cease. Julia Abraham, ‘19 & Emma Keane, ‘19 “Light the Way” by David Jennings, ‘16
“Bloom” by Brendan MacNeil, ‘16
The Lighthouse It stands straight and tall, looking out upon the forbidding sea. It does not shutter or shrink in fear, but is a stonewall. Weathering years of anger, Decades of storm and gale, Torrential rain and snow, Crashing waves and breakers, But steadfast as ever; Penetrating the thickest fog, With a bright beacon of hope, Ready to guide you home. Thomas Mortimer, ‘19
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The Ballad of Shadow I am pushed through streets I hide because they follow I dart left and they can't find me Safe, feels like I'm hollow
I've been running for far too long Ever since December I was driving fast, late at night I will forever remember My car was sliding on the ice Her car was barely seen I was blinded by the headlights Drove away from the scene Red and blue now in the distance Silhouettes hurry by I lurk and hide to no avail I sit and mutter, "Why?" Years have passed and I have moved on My scar will never heal I settle down from place to place Nothing like a warm meal Maybe one day I can return I miss my family How long has it been? "I don't know." Question my sanity A knock at my door startles me I get up to see who I knew I never could escape I try hard to break through I've been locked up for quite a while They organize a spree I never do participate A shadow can't be free Emma Keane, ‘19
2015-2016
“Untitled” by Cullen Dickhaut, ‘17
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Love is a Rainbow My life before you came was merely pale, All muted, no vibrant spectrum to see, But then, color so bright it would not fail, Love is a rainbow you have shared with me. I had never seen beach grass look so green, I had never seen the ocean so blue, The sun, golden as the crown of a queen, My whole world was vivid, because of you. But then black clouds rolled in, and you were gone, You left with the rainbow you shared with me. Gone were the colors I was counting on, Once more, pale are the grass and sky I see. Although my world is muted once again, I must remember, rainbows follow rain. Nikolas Cerrato, ‘16
“Look Out Your Window” by Jacklyn Rouse, ‘17
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a gift when i look at this i can’t help to think of you so small and simple wish i knew you more i hear stories about you it’s smooth like your touch in pictures you are but it’s not real, i miss you. this. is. all. i have you gave it to me some 14 years ago, but with the wind, you’re gone engraved is my name on silver exterior it’s my piece of you fill it up with memories you, in your glory never let go of my cup Emma Keane, ‘19
“Coffee” by Michael Haskell, ‘16
2015-2016
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“Lake on Fire” by Ian Fillion, ‘16
The Place of My Love My love ~ my love goes out along the sea Stretching out ~ beyond what my eyes can reach And now I wait ~ while I wail out and preach To you, my love ~ my everlasting plea Now that I wail and plea I can be ~ free As I walk ~ timidly down the long beach I can feel your arms around me ~ outreach I can't go now ~ you have encompassed me Your breeze across my face ~ a soothing sound But now it is ~ the other way around You are so far away ~ a nameless face A mere drop in the sea ~ forgotten place Now ~ I can't even remember your name So sad ~ I can't remember my old flame Rose Klein, ‘16
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Saved by Grace First of September, fourteen seventy three Nothing but white rolling waves to be seen. Then a low rumbling shook the salty sea Although a storm was near it seemed serene. Then heaven threw it’s merciless rage Our sturdy ship faltered in the fierce storm. My men were dragged down in that wooden cage I found a wood plank within the waves swarm. Then my loyal first mate James crawled aboard As the forlorn weeks passed I dreamed of food. So then I killed dear James with my steel sword I greedily ripped his warm flesh and chewed. But then a ship came so I let out a roar Saved by grace but not a man anymore. Thomas Mortimer, ‘19
2015-2016
“Untitled” by Jacklyn Rouse, ‘17
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Objects in mirror are closer than they appear Day after day, it feels like I’m moving in slow motion. But letting the world pass you by is nothing to fear I put up a facade, but my people know I’m insincere I’m stuck in a yellow taxi where, the driver is my emotion. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear Earth keeps on changing year after year I won’t be remembered, not even a single notion. But letting the world pass you by is nothing to fear
“Leap to Heaven” by Ana Arredondo, ‘16
Leaving A Legacy
I don’t mind being just another face and disappear Hide behind a mask and keep my heart frozen. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear I can’t help but to be in a shadow, and feel only mere To everyone who has talents, but I lack devotion. But letting the world pass you by is nothing to fear Some have a destined path, one that is true and clear My path is clouded and crowded and full of commotion Because objects in mirror are closer than they appear Don’t let the world pass you by, it’s my biggest fear Emma Keane, ‘19
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Lingua Franca
Fish Who Can’t Swim The dreams that will be fulfilled one day. I’ll stop lying by the shore. The hopes of swimming through the bay. My gills will work; there is a way. I’ll swim from the sea’s surface to its floor. The dreams that will be fulfilled one day. I flop here like bait, as seagulls’ prey. All I want to do is swim and soar.
The hopes of swimming through the bay. I’m pathetic, is what the clams say. I’m the only broken fish, there’s no more. The dreams that will be fulfilled one day. I want to swim and play. I’m what the other fish ignore. The hopes of swimming through the bay. Luke Carey, ‘19
“The Deep Sapphire “by Julia Fratus, ‘17
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Gu Yi
Across the sea you dwell, my lady Yi. I have always pursued you as my love, But you only saw me as company. I send my missing by a mourning dove. I don't know if the dove ever got over. You never reply with passion as I. How long will it take me to discover That my care has never been in your eye? I anguish on this side of the ocean. You indulge with the rich on the other. You have never noticed my devotion. You said you have seen me as your brother. What sister pays her brother no concern? Your carelessness is something I will learn.
“Symbiosis” by Chros Wang, ‘17
Yiyun Zhang, ‘16
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Lingua Franca
My Teacher If we are the flowers in protection, You are the gardener who gives us care. O teacher, you give us inspiration, You are the mentor no one can compare. If we are the seedlings that grow on meadow, “Morning Call” by Scott Hokanson, ‘20 You are the rain that gives us nutrition. O teacher, you irrigate us to grow, Without asking for appreciation. If we are the empty part in the page, You are the pen that fills knowledge in the blank. O teacher, you impart us to be sage, Make us become more profound and more frank. I am thankful for all that you have done, I admire you and you are number one.
“Treeline” by Olivia Columbo, ‘18
Dehua Chen, ‘16
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Where is the courage when you need it? Why fight when nothing changes? Why can’t you stand up to it? Because you are afraid of being hurt. Not physically hurt, for bruises fade. Internally hurt, for words do not wane. They reside in your mind, and they cannot be erased. They hold onto you like leeches. The tears stream down your face. The words suck away your self-esteem, Your hopes, Your dreams. Where is courage when you need it? You ask “Why me, what does all of this mean?” Why does adversity overcome the strongest? Because you have been chosen to be a warrior of life Because someone has to endure the pain, To fight this fight, To be deluged in this rain. Endure the pain to set a path for others. The pain will try drag you down, but Courage is always there, you just have to dig deep, Deeper than you have ever imagined, Because the pain will only make you stronger. You just have to look for the courage You have to look for the strength You just have to fight the leeches Because they will change your life for the better. Melissa Linsdell, ‘19
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Net WT 0.5 by Julia Fratus, ‘17
The Leeches
Lingua Franca
Holder of My Husband by Zoe Volney ‘18
At the clifftop of the shore, I stand there with a thought, To end my life to nothing more, My life will be to naught. Waves, they’re crashing; tears, they fall; My insides, they now rot, I only wish above them all My life will be to naught. The sea has claimed my lover’s life, The man whose heart I bought, And as his wife, to end this strife, My life will be to naught. For the seas, they taunt my pain, His body, not I to gain, By my husband is what is sought, My life will be to naught. My life will end by this cruel trade; My wish will have been caught; My body next to his, I’ve paid My life to have been naught. Image: “Take More Chances, More Dances,” Erin Carberry ‘17 2015-2016
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The War to End All Wars? Evan Coletti ‘16
Best Surprise Ending Winner
The fact that the young man was no longer a boy was terrifying enough, but what he spoke of might have brought tears to any other man’s face, had his grief been stronger than his horror. No—he cried his tears away lifetimes ago. Such a display would simply not do. “I want to join The Free People’s Army,” repeated the young man. “I want to avenge our nation, and!—” “The Free Army, The Slave Army, Royal Army, The Holy Army—The Devil’s Army!” interrupted Mercain. “What in the Maker’s name is the bloody difference? The Holy Army is the Devil’s Army, mind. You will never find any army more infernal than those wretched, self-righteously pious, genocidal, plundering swines in all corners of the known world! “But Uncle, we are not like them. Our cause is—” “Just, is it not? Isn’t every army’s cause just? Your head is more cracked than your teeth will be if you do not cease this nonsense.” The youth paused for a moment then spoke in a much softer and reserved tone, “You would think that one with the courage to go to war would have the courage to withstand the scolding of a bitter old man…old man. I don’t care how many legends they tell of you—you, the great warrior. You are tired, but I am going.” He was right, Mercain thought. There was no point frightening him. He was too old for that, and more importantly he was serious. “Wait,” said Mercain as his nephew was turning to the stable. His voice was also gentler. “Why?” responded Samuel, while nevertheless turning back to face him. “Shut up, you ungrateful little cur, and do the man who raised you the courtesy of hearing him out!” sputtered Mercain, his tone having regained its harshness with a vengeance. “Haven’t you always wanted to know how your father died, boy?” he continued bitterly. Samuel’s eyes grew wide with intensity. “Well…After all these years, I shall finally know? It’s about time!” Mercain shook his head, smiling sadly and sighed, “Since when did I teach you to be so insolent, dear boy? The only way to tell this is from the very beginning.” “Both your grandparents, as you know” he began, “were believed to have been massacred in a great temple in the middle of the weekly communion. Imagine here, at a Northern Vandalvanian congregation, brutes in armor burst in, bearing swords in one hand, and torches in the
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other. The place is torched and the only survivors are the slaves they take. Naturally the woman great with child is the first to be slaughtered, not being fit for any work, but the men make one mistake. You see, my boy, the woman had gone into labor right before the end and the monk who had remained in the library, hidden beneath the floorboards resurfaced to see movement from one of the corpses. Yes, my boy, that legend is true if you were wondering. I was birthed by the dead.” He laughed bitterly. “The knights’ mistake was to leave the then unborn child alive. It did not begin well. It was a sickly thing, and it cried often, but I’m told that even then it was very stubborn. By some miracle the monk nursed the hopelessly premature infant to health, I assumed out of survivor’s guilt. “Meanwhile, the whole region of Northern Vandalvania was in quite a stir. The Norvand nobles ignored the desecration of the temple because their people were the ones who did it, while the peasants, descendants of the old, original Olgna and Naxon clans, cursed their Norvand conquerors and feared a final annihilation by their hands. As for the Church, it obviously cried like a baby that its faith was under attack, even though the temple had as much to do with the victims, as the King has to do with my foot, even though it would probably suit him to kiss it, but no matter. Although great in prestige, this was an OlgnaNaxon Temple, and perhaps it is simply me, but when a knight kicks a door open and shouts, ‘Kill all the OlgnaNaxon scum!’ I think he wants to kill the Olgna-Naxon scum. He’s fighting an ethnic war, and is uninterested in which God they worship. The Church however can’t chastise their Norvand patrons any more than a dog can catch its tail.” “Are you sure?” interrupted the nephew absentmindedly. “I think I’ve seen some hound catch its tail. I remember it was—”. “Shut up! You seemed gravely serious about this matter a moment ago. Now you’re worrying about this. All you need to worry about is whether or not your young, unblemished face can catch my fist. Interrupt my story again, and see what happens!” “Sorry, Uncle. I meant no disrespect.” “Oh, don’t mention it,” Mercain replied cackling. “You have lived your life in the shadow of one the most… terrible old men.” “It was just that,” the nephew began, before his uncle grasped his ear and tugged it till the young man was on his knees. “That’s it! Do not mistake me, lad. I did not say you
Lingua Franca
could continue to interrupt me. I’ll pull that thing you call an ear off, if you fail to use it. If you still want to go to war, you’ll need to know how to focus. Indeed,” Mercain continued in an almost pleasant, matter-of-fact tone, having released the ear, “I’ve seen many charming, carefree men get their charming, carefree heads knocked off because they weren’t paying attention... “Now where was I? As for the newborn that survived the massacre, it was lucky it chose to cling to life, ironically with the grip of a dead man, and years later as a boy, no one would dare call it weak or sickly. When the monks raising me conceded that my fiery soul would never allow me to be a servant of God, they decided I should be a soldier for God. I was trained in preparation for the “The Duel” by Ian Coletti, ‘18 next Holy War, but having learned how my family died foolish enough to stand in my way. Leaving him bleeding by then, I dreamed of nothing but vengeance. I learned that my family’s killers joined Holy Army and amassed a in the hall of the palace, I turned to find the old warlord fortune sacking cities in the Desert Kingdoms. They now cackling. ‘The boy was not my son, you wretch.’ he taunted, lived like kings in the palaces they had stolen, continuing ‘but the son of a Vandalvanian man taken as a slave from a temple. Sound familiar?” Apparently as I would learn, the the tradition of the slave trade held by the original slain owners. I can just imagine the delight of those slaves see- boy’s mother had been some Uslimmian slave, waiting to ing their cruel masters conquered, but then realizing they be hanged for disobedience. She had conceived a child by a fellow slave, chancing to be my father, in order to postpone were to be replaced by worse. death, and the good warlord, feeling charitable, as he put it, “So by the time I was 17, the Church had sent another army out to the Desert Kingdoms on a supposedly had let the child live. I suppose that shows remarkable charsacred and divine mission to keep the Holy Peace. Hon- ity for people like him. And so, nine months later, a poor, estly, it’s a bad joke. When the Church talks about peace, it wretched woman was hanged the moment her babe had left means it wants to start a war, plain and simple. I suppose her womb. Never being able to have a child of his own, it had amused the warlord to raise him, in a manner of speakthere will be peace when everyone’s dead. I joined their ing. It was named Abelus and he had become a lieutenant of ranks and made my way South. sorts to his master, eventually being given a wife, lands, and “I became a knight simply by my skill for killing being mistaken for valor and heroism. I gained a reputa- gold, but now the warlord was still amused to see that boy’s tion as a mercenary who had his own band of rogues. At blood on my sword. “I killed the pig in mid-sentence, once I’d heard last I was able to slaughter every one of the men who had left me an orphan—well… there was that one man I didn’t enough. I then turned to boy, still dying, and begged his get. Apparently he got so fat living in that palace, some say forgiveness. I had slain my own kin. His last words were, by eating flesh of his own slaves, that he slipped off a wall ‘Down the corridor, to left. He’s yours, now.’ I found a child and fell several yards to his death, in which his stuffed gut wrapped in cloth shrieking, most likely from the violence literally burst open. Now I have heard of the first Norvand outside, and saw what must have been… well, me. It had my eyes, but also it also had its father’s darker skin.” conqueror’s gut bursting after being placed into a cofMercain looked up with tears he never thought fin, but not before, and certainly not before its owner was dead. Even then, I couldn’t have cared. I didn’t feel cheated would come again, and said brokenly, “Don’t you see? There of revenge like some men would. The man’s fate seemed far is no…resolution or…foreclosure. You’ll carry on the cycle worse than any I could bring upon him. At the time I said of death just like your father and I did.” He looked at his feet and wiped his nose, pausing, and then continued slowly, to myself, “Why, God’s must be doing my work for me. “Every man thinks…that his battle—his war—is the war to “That statement seems so arrogant to me now. end all wars.” He paused again. “Only the dead, with bellies The last of the tyrants I killed was the most powerful. full of maggots—only they have peace!” Some boy of barely 16, who I assumed the warlord had had with one of the slaves due to his mixed looks, was
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Trance
I stumble home in a sleep deprived trance My mind focused on a sole directive The sleep temptation offers me a chance My day is led by sleeps sweet incentive While toiling at school I think of thee Though sometimes you visit me whilst learning I wish you wouldn’t cause my thoughts to flee And burden me with exhaustion most yearning Why do you evade me so long at night? And come round calling halfway through the day? My mid-class slumber’s not a sublime sight As snoring often harkens disarray. Why must we part when school bells start the day? And then convene with math I must assay. Patrick Allen ‘16
“Life is a Highway” by Anna Arredondo Santos ‘16
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Lingua Franca
Forest
Winner of Best Writing Submission
“Oceans” by Rachel Brown ‘15
O, Forest how you sing your hollow tune. In the new-born day, your will-o-wisps Float through the tired trees. If your moon Could sing that song for me, I’d have wing tips. How beautiful the weather is in May, I dream of lying under trees all year. You’re home away from home, I’d love to stay, But the beasts won’t like me living here. My only wish is to cease now this pain, of ticks and snakes and all this bitey jest. But if I could feel your soft gentle rain, I know you’d keep me safe from all distress. O Forest, while I lay beneath your cloak, You play your hollow tune under the oaks. Charles Mara ‘16
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Red Handed There was a boy who robbed a store But was caught on the scene. He begged and wept for leniency For he was only but a teen. As he stood before the old judge The boy asked for charity. But the harsh old judge gave ten years For he had no clarity. When the boy saw his prison cell He fell to the ground and cried. For when he saw his tiny cell It was but three feet wide.
When he looked out the barred window He asked why he did the crime. The lonesome years were long and bleak He would wake to a cold meal. Then he stared at his gray dark wall For his pain would never heal. At last freedom was close at hand When leaving jail he ran. For he was no longer a boy, He was now a full grown man. Thomas Mortimer ‘19
As the long days crawled slowly by The boy lost hope and time.
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“Hot Coals” by Charlie Mara ‘16 Lingua Franca
No Speed Limits you speed on the highway, beyond the limit, you accelerate fast, can’t stop for a minute. you leave trails of smoke behind, you have your thoughts racing, can’t clear your mind. you drive past the red light, that blinds your eyes, you hit pedestrians, as your car flies. you don’t stop for gas, you stick to the main road, you step on the pedal, now in a faster mode. you accelerate fast, gaining more speed, you pass important friends, and people in need. you were supposed to pick them up, but now you forget, you go so fast, you miss the sunset. and as your car flips, and gets in a crash, your life fades before you, all in a flash.
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“Canada” by Matt Johnson, ‘16
Luke Carey, ‘19
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“Deer” by Olivia Columbo, ‘18 Winner of Best Art Submission
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Lingua Franca
One Sided Regret Photo and Poem by Zoe Volney, ‘19 winner of best Combo of Art and Writing
A mind with doubt is better without For the acid it holds is harm-full. The vessel that carries has gone long enough, Broken by something once charm-full. It closes the mind, the heart is confined, The thoughts of a Rose is inclined, To bristle itself not in thorns, to invite, And thus the eyes are turned blind. Worry, worry, the future is near, The coin that you tossed will be shown, Time will be known, your feelings've been thrown, You've been playing this game all alone. For doubt forewarns misfortune, The Rose is forced to believe, Denial. Denial. Suppress this idea, And maybe this pain you'll relieve. Denial has opened my heart, Denial has not made me smart, Denial. Denial. The best thing there is To think you won't tear apart.
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The bud of my Rose shows no beauty, My thorns are sure to beware, Denial. Denial. I did not realize Those thorns were for me to scare. With the blood of the soul, the life of the body, I peeled back my own shriveled leaf, I hoped to see the Picker pick me This was the Rose's belief. For the red petals of a rose attracts all, But the red petals of a rose within me Refused to blossom, naturally, So I forced my red petals to be free. The Rose grew not on acid, no doubt, For the acid that holds is harm-full, Instead, instead, the potion of love, It glistens and gleams, so charm-full. The Rose and the Picker, both with a plan, The Rose bent at greater cost, With its thorns clipped, its stem now picked,
Its greatest advantage is lost. One petal. Another. A third one is gone, Held by a woman, such grief, The Picker's picked prize, all before eyes, Held by a new lover, that thief. Doubt. Doubt. The sixth petal gone, A heart once thorned broke in three, This Rose, This flower, whose potion made sour, By the Picker, the woman, and me. Love. Love. The tale of misfortune, This potion corrupts all in its debt, How should I forget, this tale to me yet? I've fallen for One Sided Regret. A heart with love is better without Before the potion has soured. The vessel that carries has gone long enough, Before its own heart is devoured.
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Patience is a Virtue
One saying that I've heard thrown around countless times throughout my short time in life is "patience is a virtue." However, it has taken me several years to have a thorough understanding of this adage. One of the worst sicknesses that people suffer from is gambling addiction. According to the famous psychologist B.F. Skinner, I too suffer from a form of gamblers' addiction. Instead of being dealt a hand of cards, I stand on the edge of the water tying a knot around a small piece of metal fashioned in the shape of a hook. Instead of pulling a small lever, and watching a box light up hoping for matching numbers, I pull back the bail, cast my line and hope to get a hit from a largemouth bass or even a perch. It's all about the process of repeating a monotonous action, until reward (a fish) is reached. Since the age of five, I have spent almost every free moment of my time fishing. It started off as a hobby, a way of bonding with my uncle. As I grew, I began going to the local ponds by myself, giving myself plenty of time to sit back and think, while waiting and waiting, and then waiting some more. During the free time I allotted myself, I was able to think about my day, future plans, family members and even my problems. Through hours and hours of casting my line with no return other than sticks and weeds, I taught myself to be patient. Not to be lazy, but to sit back and take part in the task at hand, but also to give myself time to think. Fishing is all about patience, I realized the more patient I was, the more fish I would catch. The love I have for fishing and my understanding of the importance of patience slowly evolved when I became a commercial fisherman. Commercial fishing is the process of dropping a large net into the ocean and towing it across the bottom while it collects fish for harvest. The patience I had managed to develop while sports fishing didn't prepare me for commercial fishing. On the commercial vessel, I work extremely hard for short periods of time and then I go back to waiting. I let the several-ton net out, and then I sit back and wait the three or so hours before I can bring the full net back onto the boat. I normally lay on top of an empty fish tote and listen to the soothing sound of the waves crashing against the bow, or the deep hum of the diesel engine. I look around at the clouds and when I look for land, it's nowhere in sight. Commercial fishing extended my patience to lengths I never knew existed. The saying "Patience is a Virtue" has affected me more than I thought it would. Fishing has given me the patience that I use while working, while playing sports, in my studies, driving, and even dealing with problems. When people say "Patience is a Virtue", I am more than willing to vouch for them. Story and Photo by Trent Garzoni, 17
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Lingua Franca
Colophon Editing
Carey “My Staff Rocks” Zigouras: Advisor 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 Jake “Mischeivous Badget” Tibbetts ‘17: Copy and Layout Editor Joy “Artist Extradoirdinare” Moriarty ‘17: Copy and Layout Editor Stephanie “Simplistic” Rouse ‘17: Copy and Layout Editor Jackie “Loquacious” Rouse ‘17: Copy and Layout Editor Julia “Photo Splitter” Fratus ‘17: Copy and Layout Editor Joe “I Don’t Understand” Pasquale ‘17: Writing Editor Matt “Done” Dunn ‘17: Writing Editor
Typography
This edition is typed in Palatino Lintotype, Angecy FB, 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.
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