Atelier 2015 by St. Catherine's School

• Dedicated to Derek Kannemeyer •

Atelier 2015

ATELIER • 2015 •

6001 Grove Avenue â&#x20AC;˘ Richmond, Virginia 23226

DEREK KANNEMEYER, Thank You For 34 YEARS of Laughs, Poems, and Stories

I took my first creative writing class in the spring of 1994. It was a coed, night class, full of boarders. You were the teacher, and I arrived eager to learn the secrets of writing. My sister Susan, Class of 1990, already had made you a household name. She loved to tell how the rain caught in your beard during a Minimester trip to Quebec, and how the droplets transformed into tiny icicles, making you look even more like a frozen Walt Whitman. In your class as a second semester senior, I saw what it meant to teach what you love. Your critique fueled our work, and your signature, outrageous laugh showed everyone your passion for words. For many, those nighttime sessions ignited a lifetime passion for writing. For me, that was the beginning. When I look back, I see you at the desk, pointing and explaining. Now, I find myself following you. It reminds me of “Digging” by Seamus Heaney except that we both have pens in our hands. I never dreamed that you and I would work on The Atelier together, or that you would be a continued inspiration. Thank you for teaching me how to write. Thank you for teaching all of us. Because of you, stories have been born.

John Morgan

Derek Kannemeyer started his career at St. Catherine’s in 1981. Since then, he has taught history, French, and creative writing. In addition, he has written and directed many one-act plays for Ampersand where he has also showed his talent as a thespbian. Furthermore, he has been a faculty advisor for Amnesty International, The Atelier, and chaperoned countless groups of students throughout France, Martinique and Canada. When Mr. Kannemeyer isn’t busying himself making St. Catherine’s a better place, he often can be found relaxing near the river with his wife Sally. Mr. Kanneymeyer, for your extraordinary passion for language, life, and teaching, we dedicate the 2015 Atelier to you. We love you dearly. Your presence and legacy will forever be embedded in each nook of our beautiful school and each page of The Atelier. For everything that you have given us, many, many thanks. We wish you the very best in your adventures still yet to come. The Atelier Staff

TEACHER WORKSONG With our red pens at the ready, we are gathered in the faculty workroom With our red pens, and our faintly disappointed little clucks With our red pens, and our stack of papers, and a few bags dog-sprawled at our feet, wide-mouthed with perhaps a textbook lolling out With our red pens and our stack of papers, our flock of cardinals, our lawns of boot-tracked snow With our fuss of cardinals, who swoop and flutter and are come to peck With our silences and with our punctuating grunts, with this flutter trail of blood that runs across the lines into the margins With our noise of coffee, with our sips and chitchat jocularities, with our erudite asides With our handwriting like spider scribble, like creature splat, like doctor screed, with our footnote diagnosis With our flock of leeches, disposed just so to bleed the error from youWith our lecterns and our whiteboards and our scented markers, with our great gesticulations and our little jokes With our rules and our exceptions, with our little fiefdoms of agendas With our helpfulness and with our smiling patience, for you who blur before us, in this same array of seats With our faith in you, who know so little and have come-again!-to learn For really, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been trying to get the nuances of this surely quite straightforward material through your skulls for years now, for half our clucking lifeWith our red pens we are gathered With our red pens are our patience, our faith and our agendas, with our little sighs, our clucks

Mr. Derek Kannemeyer-Faculty

The Kannemeyeria Dinosaur was one of the first large herbivores of the Triassic Period, but we are more familiar with this Dinosaurâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s likeness to Mr. Kannemeyer.

THE STAFF X Riley Alvis Sarah Blackburn Kat Collin Catie Nolan Isabela Sims

MJ Apostle Izabela Clarke Spencer Dewey Caroline Gaenzle Eliza Hollerith Sarah Stuart Horsley Liza Martin Olivia Ruffin Joanna Yan

XII

Kristina Dickey Colleen Gregory Zoe Huling Keeilah Mosely Sunni Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien

THE EDITORS

Abby Villanueva, Zoe Alexander, Madison Wilkinson

Faculty Advisor John Morgan

Homes 1. It was a long time agoIn a place that seems alien now. It was white, And I only recall one room in it-

Julia Tripodi, X

Which has doubtlessly been changed by now. 2. This one was gray, And surrounded by identical buildings just like it. There was a statue not far from it; I could climb to the top and jump off-

Broken Love

And feel that

A long lost love

one

Found in a grain of sand

Exhilarating moment of fear,

Among the beach that took their heart

Before feeling my father catch me.

Poisoned by the distance, an empty hand

A dark love, possessed by time

Built in the 1930s,

The devil lurks in his weary eyes

(a decade no one seems to talk about),

A time bomb love with only seconds to die

This is a house of small kitchens, floral wallpaper,

A small ring becomes one with the tides

And an attic with boxes of things that arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mine. My parents changed itUpdated it.

Kathryn LeBey, XI

Ashly Adkins, XII

Staples: That was Easy When I go off to college, my father will give me the Staples button. Every shopping trip ever made to Staples always ended with the pressing of the red button repeating “that was easy”. Every month, we drive down Broad Street to Staples to update and restore our sticky notes, pens, highlighters, and pencils. Staples is my candy store. I get just as excited walking through those sliding doors and down the aisles as a 5 year filling up an empty plastic bag with sour patch kids and jawbreakers. Looking at the rows of colorful better binders, stacks of felt tip pens and Sharpie highlighters all gives us chills. We love organization: folders, filing, color coding, and writing down every little detail of our lives. Some people may label us as OCD. We like our pictures straight, planners perfect, closets organized, beds made, handwriting neat, and papers unwrinkled, so I guess that’s the correct label. I like it because it helps me stay stress free, so I can always say after completing anything, “that was easy”.

Bentley Logue, XII

Virginia Jesselson, XI

Sestina #2 An adventure swells up a bond continues to grow a circle that is life, encompasses its people urging, running and chanting the sound of a bell rings in the distance Chanting voices level up the size of their compassion package their people and allow them to grow shouting into the distance and empty road on the horizon fires away at their lives the more she grows the more she questions her people her fear swells up, wondering about the details of life. the future is just a concept, in the distance summoning you by voice of chanting the quiet seizes the chants echoing off the walls, in the distance. the voices predict her life and monitor the potential growth until the people rise up From one life to another life the anxiety grows questioning the sanity of its people and the bottom of the ocean, all the way up the transparency remains unaffected by the distance the waves continue to chant The hunger rumbles and takes another life while the glooming fear grows the tolls shoot up, separating people from each other and their voices chant dependent on that distance. For another life another person awaits the inevitable growth.

Sarah Blackburn, X

Olivia Ruffin, XI Untitled The window to her life was finally opening. Freedom brushed across her cheeks and through her hair like a cool summer breeze. She could now run to the horizon she had always gazed at longingly, Even pass it. And while she was not unafraid, She knew. She knew in the pit of her soul That this was her time: To run To feel the sun on her cheeks, To live and to be alive The window was open, her time was now.

Taylor Gurley, XII

Sarah Blackburn, X

I. i sit in the dark the lights are asleep and the sun is off. my alarm clock glows, though. 4:17 a.m. 4:29 a.m. i wonder why* the silence pulses i drown in it. i can hear the sound of my heartbeat when I lay my head —on the carpet—

Zoe Huling, XII

goodbye. *an afterthought the definition of why: for what reason or purpose

Shala Munn, X Open Windows

Open the windows and hear the birds’ tunes: Fling wide the door and run through the meadows; Dip your toes in the water of cool lakes, And break the glass. Spend the time wisely and think not of fall, Embrace the breeze and join in its play: So open the windows and fling wide the door, And wake to the day.

Eleanor Robb, VII

Red Robin My mother shouted to me, yelling something about her bathroom window. And so I ran to her, As one would do. My mother was in the bathroom, as I expected, staring at her window. And so I looked as well, As one would do. My mother told me there was a robin outside her window. And so I asked her what the robin had done, As one would do. My mother kept silent, just gesturing to her window. And so I walked closer, As one would do. My mother said the incident was horrific. She said it slammed its head into her window-It slammed its head into the window? It slammed its head into my window. My mother had watched the whole thing happen. And she said it did it five times-Five times? Five times. My mother had counted; she counted it up to five. And so I stared at the blood drying on the windowpane, confused of course. Confused? Confused.

Yueming Chen, XI

My mother said the noise was frightening. And so I asked her if she was all right. All right? All right. My mother was worried for the bird. And so I walked outside to find it for her, but it was dead of course. Dead? Dead. I shouldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve known. My mother told me to bury it under her window. And so I got the shovel, As one would do.

Zoe Alexander, XI

Taylor Allen, XI Untitled IX A dinosaur in the bathroom Sits on my sink I watch it grow old it fossilizes in the winter heat. I leave it be

Insomnia Sound tapped glass and wormed into my bedroom. Sound drifted, white slant. Tip-toeing to my pillow.

Touching everywhere but where its been laid

Anddetonating with

to rest I feel the need to clean

a brilliant hush

The urge pressing me,

millions of fanned Tendrils

claiming me

Caught between lashes.

I resistâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; leave it be toothpaste.

Shala Munn, X

Madison Wilkinson, XI

Reincarnation It was night time, probably around eight-thirty The road next to us reverberated with the sounds of cars passing by As we lay down side by side in the damp grass, smelling of wood smoke and hot chocolate I continued talking about my theories about the universe and the vast puzzle that we call space I hope I didn’t sound ostentatious, that wasn’t my intention “Is it possible that maybe our ‘spirit animals’ were the creatures we were in past lives?” I ask you “Possibly, that’s a really intriguing idea” If I’m going to be candid I can’t remember the specific details of our conversation I just remember feeling like an open book in front of you We shared secrets that contained serious content but with the enthusiasm of adolescent girls They weren’t secrets to laugh at, but more like food that needed to be digested I felt strangely calm after getting up off the ground and back into the car I don’t know why, but I had a feeling this could work

Sunni O’Brien, XII

Taylor Allen, XI

Jump I think about the jump, how I’ll place my feet. Should I latch my knees tight or staggered, sorta slumped? Which would he prefer if speed be reason? or is arrival the only thought, afterI’ll do it wrong somehow, I know it. He’ll turn me out before next dawn.

Madison Wilkinson, XI

la ironía there are two-hundred-and-sixty-one words that i must memorize for spanish by tomorrow and avasallador (overwhelming) is one of them

Sunni O’Brien, XII

Abby Villanueva, XI

another traveler the images reflect in my eyes as I gaze. I absorb it through my pores from the pages Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve touched. hands to lips, I drink it in. I swallow. I taste it. its energy courses through my veins, energizes my soul. curious. ready. it embedded itself within me. not it, which dutifully fills the word itinerary. this is far from that. no. not a list of grim and grimy, less than attractive attractions. long-desired and hard earned, this ticket is mine. no overpriced roller-coaster photo for me. the suitcase bulges while the zipper grits its teeth, afraid to let its contents go. it is too full. the folded adventure inside waiting to unfurl. it latched itself onto me. it stamped its own name where mine should be scribbled on my luggage tag. it tears open the sleeping mind, jolts me awake; perspiration and aspiration stuck to my blank face. a matted sea of ash color hair, a confused hue, the only witness. born in my Moleskin, flair smeared on the line. clear, but not. three thousand dollar tea, scones, and jam. cheap dreams. death by orange juice post 8pm trip to Target. as I drown in the elixir of morningsandroutines, the red cover alerts me, but the elastic binds, guarding the contents within. a permanent home for my thoughts and me; for the seething, wandering â&#x20AC;&#x153;itâ&#x20AC;?.

Kate Oelkers, X

Jinkies Last time I checked Your name wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t slim, So why you gotta be so shady?

Colleen Gregory and Keeilah Moseley, XII

Chandler Steinbrugge XI

8-word story I wonder if you think of me too.

Keeilah Moseley, XII

Suha Minai IX

Obscurity Little children revel in the burning yellow sun with high-pitched laughs and genuine smiles that show the dimples on their cheeks. Pairs of crinkled eyes sparkle with natural bliss, carrying effervescence to an eternal abyss. Their echoes soar into the sky together and meet the chirping birds with a melody so sweet and distant. In a wooden cabin under the icy stars and moon, a girl peeks out of her window. Her pale fingertips shake as she draws the curtain because she sees her bittersweet memories locked outside of the door. She understands again this is her eternal home, and she does not long to leave it anymore. The laughter slides into her room, drifting on a gray cloud through her door, changing into the cacophony of mocking laughs, then to the sound of a fragile teardrop falling to the floor, more following its path, the silence in the room soon interrupted by the tapping of rain pulled out of her eyes. She knows she was one of those children not too long ago. She is not lost, she just canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be found because sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s incognito. Her somber eyes are filled with glass and remembrances of the life that never lasts. Her mind is permanently shattered, like the glass on the window separating her from the lifted spirits outside. She knows there is no going back to trusting anyone or dreaming anything. The clock hanging on her wall is ticking hastily, but time doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter at all because the lights have faded in her numb heart, and she has already died in the dark the rest of her story is an untold blur.

Emma Caps, IX

Fit in, Stand Out Fit in with peers, but stand out to get into college. Learn new things, but retain all the old knowledge. Have fun, but work hard. Be friendly, but stay on guard. Follow the rules, but use your imagination. Be relaxed, but have complete concentration. Be yourself, but stay in dress code. Take harder classes, but donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have a leaden load. Attend all the school dances, but always bring a date. Get tons of sleep, but donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be late.

Molly Sherrill, IX

Emma Philips, XI

Jessie Smith, XI

Abstract Expressions I cried to my dad on the phone last night because my brain hasn’t shut up about you since late August, when the summer sun couldn’t scorch as deeply as your smart-aleck smirk. And just yesterday when we escaped the April rain to stand underneath that Rothko I’ve always hated, (partly because of its ambiguity and partly because it reminds me of my grandfather) I had this inkling that I finally understood abstract expressionism through the way your breath hitched when you took in its composition, and in that almost imperceptible upward twitch of your lips when I went off on another tangent about Turner. Or maybe it was in the way my heart lurched at the shadow the light cast off your face when you were reading by the statue garden. But, I’m so worried you’ll figure me out, demythologize the mythologized and cast me into the silent seas, that I held my tongue and just intertwined my hand in yours as we moved on towards futurism..

Colleen Gregory, XII

Seeds

In my Redwings I smiled at the Coleman heater and found some truth in the green, canvas tarp. Aurora cooked up the fat and the steel-cut oats. There was no such thing as SPF, so we were frogs in the water, and begonias in the weeds.

New York City knew about us and our handmade wool socks, but our sidewalks stopped caring for shoes and Levis long before bedtime or downtime or whatever they called it in Pt. Townsend. Instead, we slept in the embers and tossed rocks over the muddy bog. There were bobcats and billy goats just over the hills. Everyone needed to talk, but someone kept whispering about diamonds and the sharks in the water.

When the horse doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t run, when the joke hurts your belly, find the light by the window.

Sing into the cracked glass. Yodel home about the wrong wrench.

There may be broken bricks on the patio and wires that need twisting, but doors never slam and running is okay in the basement.

Mr. John Morgan, Faculty

Izabela Clarke, XI

bay of smoke iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m on a plane that has brushed the edge of iceland. Reykjavik waved hello and goodbye through my dinner plate window, 4 inches thick. a baby was crying as we took off and my friends shuffled their seats. eight hours later no baby is crying and Maddie is behind me singing a song about eggs. the hum of air recycling machines is flirting with the high bâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s of the girl behind me.

Zoe Huling, XII

Enough I know you want your life to spawn greatness To create offspring of literary might Which will move even the strongest roots, and give old Fitzgerald a run for his money. To have your name reverberate through the hills of Nepal all the way to the boondocks of the Old South (where I first became infatuated with your smart-ass smirk and cow-licked hair) To bring even my mother’s father to tears, and show him the beauty in diversity To live in a tall tower in New York, away from small towns and their even smaller people To consider Hemingway and Rembrandt personal friends, And to climb the highest mountains and scale the deepest caverns. But, Isn’t it enough just to feel my cool palm create goosebumps along your cheek? To hear your name roll off my tongue like a prayer, when you know I haven’t touched a rosary since the day my brother put a gun against his head. Is it not enough to hike The Appalachian Trail and recite your verses to me as I fall asleep to the soft lull of heroes waging their courageous battles against evil? Is it not enough to curl up together in our old house as rain spanks the tin roof ? I know you want greatness, but I am greedy.

Colleen Gregory, XII

“An Apology to all the Books I’ve Half-Read” It’s not you, it’s me. I wish I could have loved you right, equally as deserved. Devoting an hour to your form, an eternity to your words. But dog-eared corners, crumpled up pages, and crackled spines spell out the truth: I’ve abused you all. Left you high and dry, never looking back to see if the sun really does rise, or if all the “phonies” got their judgment day . I wish I could chalk it up to “I don’t have time for a serious commitment right now” and “we just weren’t the right fit,” but the truth is, at the end of the day I’ve only ever loved the chase. When the sun goes down and the light fades across the aisles, a nervous jolt of excitement shoots goosebumps down my arm, never ceasing until my thumb slides across your pages and I breathe in that familiar scent. But everything seems to go wrong when you open yourself up to me. Or maybe I have that backwards? Maybe everything goes wrong when I try to open myself up to you.

Colleen Gregory, XII

Riley Alvis, X

21st century We are the generation of immediately Patience died some time ago Instant Instant Instant The glow of our screens is all encompassing Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a crutch Human interaction is now an art The art of knowing your own kind We are losing our humanity, one click at a time Clicking ourselves into isolation We are lost. Make the choice to actually experience your life Release yourself from this unbearable need to stay connected. Disconnect. Run your fingers through your hair And with the sun beating down on your cheeks, Hope for a less immediate tomorrow.

Izabela Clarke, XI

Taylor Gurley, XII

Yueming Chen, XI

Roller coaster “These seats are surprisingly comfortable” Exclaims a voice from behind With everything secure it goes dark Beep boop boop bop “In case of an emergency, please proceed to the nearest exit” There’s a toenail moon sitting next to a fuchsia nebula Dramatic music blasts while our hands reach towards the ceiling trying not to make too much noise so as not to disturb the others Every twist and turn memorized Counting the pops that come in time with seven in all Another plunge downwards The ride is over and now the real action begins

Sunni O’Brien, XII

Chandler Steingbrugge, XI

Learned to Love learned to love by someone far away the same day a broken — keeping a plant alive isn’t easy when all the water seeps with fluoride the price we pay for winning g r i n s (unless the chosen: a succulent, then water = optional) listen: the noise an empty shower makes. push down the plug. water spilt on flooding water , tepid, foggy bathwater. a journal filled with black inked sketches and i long to watercolor them, only if i do the ink turns everything grey S.A.D. (n.): a disease in the wintertime. prescription: cure by sunlamps (signed) although, better than (for curing disease) the beep beep beep of a microwave warming pizza someone’s

Sasha Savenko, XI

towards home i’m sitting in the back of my father’s car crying silently into a backlit love story full of boxing führers and men with twigs for hair. i think of my mother and what words meant to her.

Emma Phillips, XI

Zoe Huling, XII

Madison Wilkinson, XI

canon i wish I could write a poem with photos. because words are contextual and emotional and hard when pictures have a science and a formula. rule of thirds aperture focus contrast and even though biology and chemistry smile when my ears turn red in frustration, the easiest math problems are with color and light and small alleyways.

Zoe Huling, XII

Tumble tumble the water rumbles i sink lower

You’re Doing Too Much but It’s Not Enough Getting good grades is the most important thing. But also spend time with family. Family is forever.

lower my body is weight less the water has lost sonic i am still. so is the earth or so it seems we tumble both of us together state = harmonic river rushing, gushing. over my head: i am sleeping, nearly.

Shala Munn, X

Oh and your friends, too. You’ve only got a couple more months with them before you never speak again. And don’t forget to get those college applications in! How about you apply to just one more, maybe an Ivy? Come on, what’s one more? Did you remember to load the dishwasher? And walk the dog? And visit your grandparents? God, you look dreadful! Go out and run a quick mile, get some fresh air. Did you shower tonight? Always remember to wash be hind your ears! But don’t run up the water bill. Got any hot dates at the moment? Any boyfriends we should know about? Stop tapping your fingers on the table, it’s distracting. Wow, you look exhausted! Why don’t you get more sleep??

Tina Dickey, XII

Boys We’ll be sitting there that August I can see it now the summer before college. You want so many things from college, and I’ll tell you That I hope you find what you’re looking for. I hope you find your Matt Healy or your Grant Brinner. I hope you find those cold days in December And those bright nights in May Where you’ll never catch a wink of sleep because you’ve found a new man, And he is much better than the last. But, I really hope that new man is better than the last, because you deserve the best. You don’t deserve the Silent treatment the Missing texts and phone calls, the I’ve been Forgotten feelings, the Am I just not good enough for him? Never. You will always be better then any man that thinks he is better then you. He will never be better than the beautiful girl with auburn hair that feels the music and hears the movement, he will never be better than the smile with a gapped tooth front tooth, That will always be in style. He will never be better than you. I hope you find a man that tells you, “you deserve the best”, The man that tells you “Run! Leap! Go! Touch the stars, reach, go grab the moon, I know you can do anything,” Because nothing is better then someone who believes in you. I hope he cherishes every moment your hand meets his, Every time your gaze meets his eyes he gets butterflies in his stomach and a knot in his throat. I hope you find the man that does not treat you like a princess but one That treats you as an individual, an intellectual one that treats you with high respect. I hope he engages you in conversations that last for hours talking about your favorite things; music, 80s movies, writing poems, Britain, concerts, guitar, skateboards, and rainbow cupcakes. I hope he dances with you at two in the morning around your room while singing songs by the Arctic Monkeys and kisses you and holds you and never lets you go. I hope he is stubborn, and gets you to classes on time and tells you you’re going to do great on your exams. I hope he knows the meaning of yes and no. And knows when you say your fine, your really depleted inside and what you need is a John Cusack movie, ice cream, and a big spoon. I hope he tells you that you look amazing in whatever you wear, but never rushes you when you get ready because he knows that it is important to you and when something is important to you it should be important to him too. I hope he glances at you in the morning and brushes your hair out of your face, And at night he holds your phone up high to take pictures at the concerts you two go to. I hope he smiles at you and hugs you and twirls you on the sidewalks of New York City. I hope he gives you as much time and space when you need to think about things on your own, And he doesn’t get mad when you lie about how much you spent at your favorite store. I hope he loves you and I hope he adores you, I hope he cares about you with every ounce of his wit, but mostly, I hope that he tries, And I hope you try too Because someone like that, I know, they can be so easy to lose.

Sarah Stuart Horsley, XI

Turning Seasons I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wait, I have been though. In this state, Falling like snow,

I once knew a sailor like you I once knew a sailor like you

Give me a reason, To stay by your side, Spring is a free season, Yet I am still tied,

He was charming smile white as pearls He played with dolphins in sunlight and sang with sirens beneath the stars

Why is love, Controlled by fate, All from above, But never hate, Like a joke to make life hard, All you need is to play the right card Aiza Chaudry, IX

He sat under palms and told stories of treasure sea and shore in his eyes. He called himself Neptune Me - Artemis Athena and Aphrodite He saved me when water filled my lungs and at last I could breathe he pulled me back to shore, reminded me I had something to live for We sailed into the storm laughing into the thunder and rain then lightning struck I woke up on the sand he slept in the sea. I once knew a sailor like you I lost him in a hurricane.

Jeannie DeWire, XI

Blair Cavanaugh, XI

Stingray It was the final days of summer The course, Rough sand was baking under the sun The stormy blue-grey surf, Was freezing in comparison We leapt from the van, Onto the beach and down to the water The waves leapt to our faces as we hauled our boogie-boards behind us Our legs scraped against the sand and shells, As we rode the waves toward shore. My parents, Sitting on the beach, Enjoying the last fleeting moments of vacation. Then, It happened The barb tore through her shoe, The white knuckles holding on to my arm The thrashing, The screaming, And salt water in my mouth Helping her to shore, Felt like eternity The drive to the hospital took years. When a diagnosis was reached, It was determined that the culprit, Was a stingray.

Lindsay White, IX

Kristina Dickey, XII Snow Is... Absolutely freezing Breathtakingly dazzling Connivingly innocent Daringly ferocious Extremely riveting Fascinatingly protean Greatly invigorating Hardly subdued! Ingeniously crafted Joyously descending Keenly observant Leniently compassionate Majestically captivating Nearly perfect Outstandingly winsome Positively stunning Queerly intelligent Rarely scarce Surprisingly inclusive Tirelessly playful Understandably passionate Very temperamental Wonderfully engaging Snow is xylophonic, Snow is youthful, Snow is zealous. Suha Minai, IX

Kristina Dickey, XII His Laugh At soaring birds, at the glowing television set. At slurping spaghetti, at learning to walk, at tumbling off the swing.

At witty co-workers, at last night’s “Wheel of Fortune”. At intoxicated parents, at drab parties, at piling paperwork.

At smiling babies, at good new foods. At his friend’s funny picture, at racing home in new shoes, at his own mistakes.

At hearing her pounding heartbeat, at buying tiny bibs. At navigating the girl’s clothing aisle, at finally finding two socks that match, at seeing her laugh.

At the one with the slobbery lisp, at his younger brother’s childish backpack. At out-of-style jackets, at unsocial strangers, at the new kid’s combed hair. At sloppy roommates, at the dishes piling in the sink. At stains and bruises and dents, at an impossible final, at feeling accompanied.

At birds. Spaghetti, sometimes some television. At stains, paperwork, at walking. Quiet.

Lily Rhee, IX

Letters Dear Ziggy, First off, I want to say that I’m so appreciative for your love. No matter what the situation is, that’s all you ever give, and all you ever hope to receive. I’m sorry that the number of times you sit in the house exceeds the number of times you run laps around the backyard. I’m sorry that I don’t brush you everyday, and I’m sorry about the times that I left you for what I thought were better offers at the time. I’m sorry that I can’t let you chase all the squirrels and birds you were bred to go after. Sometimes I wish we hunted just so I could watch you do what you were born to do. I’m sorry I don’t always let you jump around in the piles of leaves that line the street in our neighborhood. I’m sorry that you had to wear that cone on your head for two weeks after you were neutered. I’m sorry that I kick you out of my room when I get tired of you trying to eat my shoes. Thank you for always accompanying me on three mile runs, even when I didn’t feel like exercising. Thanks for always wanting to play with me. Thank you for getting excited to see me no matter what I come home. Thanks for always being there for me when I needed a good listener, and a great companion. Sincerely, Maya Dear Younger Self, Let’s say I’m writing this to you five years ago. That would make you twelve and in the seventh grade. Yikes. It feels like that was so long ago. Well anyway, hey! I want to tell you first and flat out that it gets better. Whatever boy issues and Pre-Algebra problems you’re trekking through now, you’ll get through it. I know you are having a blast running track. Don’t stop running. You have a great reward waiting for you this spring in Outdoor (It starts with a V, ends with -arsity letter). I’d stay away from liking two-hundred pages on Facebook, that’ll definitely get annoying in a year or so. No matter how much you don’t like the teacher or the class, always do the work. Especially in math. I want you to try as hard as you can in math, because when you get to high school you’ll regret slacking off. As annoying and confusing as math seems now, it’ll be ten times worse after when you need what you’re learning now as a base for problems in the future. In terms of friends and relationships, I know there are two people who aren’t being super kind to you right now. It’d be best if you just stopped hanging out with them for awhile. Being excluded sucks, but knowing you’re being excluded and still trying to be involved sucks more. With regard to boys, you’re twelve. I know you think you’ve got the world of love and feelings figured out, but you REALLY don’t need a boyfriend. Like, really don’t. Middle school “relationships” don’t mean anything, and it may seem like the people who have boyfriends in seventh grade are cool, but you will look back and literally laugh out loud at how pointless and premature they were. Last but not least, your parents really do mean well. It may seem like they’re nagging just to nag (especially Dad), but they are trying to find you at the same time that you’re trying to find yourself. One last piece of advice: every problem that you will have seems so much worse in the moment. Looking back on all the things that I got in trouble for or were heartbroken over seem like minor hiccups in my life. The only regret I have is choosing to make them a much bigger deal than they were. Remember, it gets better. :) See ya soon, Maya Maya Jackson, XII

St. Catherine’s Freshmen They walk through the senior doors they die Every other day someone cries Peer pressure: just one of their fears Waiting to get here for about 10 years “How do I look?” “What should I say?” Questions they ask almost every day

Virginia Jesselson, XI It Leaves All Deceased Lighting breezes in from the East Shattering the sky with its blinding gleam It leaves all deceased The people are struck with words from the priest As they watch the night sky Lighting breezes in from the East They know how to follow stars at least And do so well until It leaves all deceased Yet they know not of the feast That makes them shiver Lighting breezes in from the East They are safe before the beast Comes to claim their lives It leaves all deceased But they are in control of their own soul at the very least And pray that nature gives them courage Lighting breezes in from the East It leaves all deceased Jennifer Shulman, XI

Upperclassmen walking down the hall All they think is “hopefully I won’t fall” Long lunches never seem to come With a blink of an eye they’re already done All they want is a few more minutes to eat Maybe even a Tuesday treat Classes with boys are all new Girls sticking to their sides like super glue Chapel they’re stuck in the back of the pews Announcements are for the older few Walking down the green seems far away But before we know it we will be there in a few days Cara Menges, IX

Where I am From I am from piano keys, from the Lego blocks and Apple gismos. I am from the warm and aromatic food smells. I am from the five-pedaled jasmine, to the marigold, bursting like the sun. I am from a matriarchal, charismatic and talkative family. From Sarala and Sonali and from the Shettys. I am from the builders and the healers. From Figure it Out! and Dream Big! I am from Hinduism. From Om, Sanskrit and the One who plays the flute. I’m from the Land of the Ancients, samosas, dhal and rice. I am from journeys. From the Land of the Rising Sun, to the City of Lights. From the Eternal City, and a speck in the Caribbean, to the Crossroads of Europe and Asia. I am from surfing the waves, walking on glaciers, to hot air ballooning. From tall genes and dark hair to world travelers and food samplers. I am from scrapbooks and photo albums spilling with many delightful memories. All those moments, happy and sad, in pages and pages never to be forgotten. Kaavya Shetty, IX

Jennifer Shulman, XI El Otoño Las hojas rojas, amarillos, y marrones, Las puestas del sol tempranas, Y el clima es un poco frío como el invierno. Por eso me encanta el otoño. Las tazas de chocolate caliente, tibio como un fuego, Mi madre hace unas tortas de calabaza, Y todos comemos con nuestras familias. Por eso me encanta el otoño. La luna en Octubre es una calabaza grande en el cielo, Los niños van al Carter’s Mountain para recoger las manzanas, Y las familias viajan a los juegos de fútbol. Por eso me encanta el otoño.

Sarah Blackburn, X

Halloween es un día cuando los niños se visten como otra cosa, Ellos reciben los dulces de sus vecinos, Y sus sonrisas se extienden como una mariposa. Por eso me encanta el otoño. Blair Cavanaugh, XI

Chair with One Leg Missing Chair with three legs wobbles over the linoleum floor one crooked peg hovering making a deep purple shadow Chair with three legs beaten overthrown by a big man much too large for this petty thing how could such a chair be broken maybe from the baby chewing on its legs or the cat scratching scratching scratching or perhaps the hefty housewife who stands to reach the gravy flour from the upper cabinet the peg finally comes loose like a child’s wiggly tooth and falls upon the floor like the owner of the chair who has fallen into something much deeper

Carter Vaughn, X

Life As a Freshman Isolated Innocence, Cheering fans, Slight ignorance, Short skirt bans, SENIORITY, Don’t walk through the doors, MAJORITY, Care about their scores. FRIENDS sometimes remain, TOO young but too old, Stress causes strain, Do as you are told. TEACHERS, Say they know it all, Act as preachers, Always hoping we will fall, Just one girl in a sea of many, Trying to survive just as any.

Janie Stillwell, IX Thoughts of April Sunlight gleams through verdant windows her laughter floats through the wind and I’m drunk on the sound They say “don’t do it” They say “what are you thinking?” I think Persephone found Hades She’s the flowers in April and I’m the wolf in December

Jeannie DeWire, XI

Spencer Dewey, XI

Yueming Chen, XI Go Help Mrs. Rosepal “I plan on planting pansies along the walkway in the spring” I wonder if Mrs. Rosepal notices that her porch is rotted Paint chipping, termites working “And I think a nice little fountain over here,” she says, as she points past the cracked pots and a lawn mower that is lost under ivy and kudzu “I’m sorry about Mr. Rosepal,” I try but she’s already in the garage stepping on coupon cutouts from 1999 past a sewing machine I know she used to hem his trousers “Be a dear and help me with these damned things. You can keep them if you’d like, give them to your dad.” I take the box, knowing these decayed tools are of no use to my father, But it’s easier this way. Tina Dickey, XII

I wonder about the days I have ahead There’s no telling where I’ll go I work hours ‘til my eyes burn red But none of this is known

It sits; boldly. Colors changing daily. The images never returning. Light radiates in beams Through the near nonexistence Of the glass. A barrier that grants access to the world While keeping the negativity contained. The ticking of the clock nearby Mirrors the shifting sky and wind. Noise is implied But not heard. This graceful divider Is simpler that most But displays more Than anything before it And anything after it.

I wonder if others have predicted The road I’ll take in life And while I always feel conflicted The chance is worth the strife Work all day and try to sleep at night The hours have decreased these days Heads hang low and the cold wind bites I only glance when I’m supposed to gaze I face opportunities every single hour More than I’d ever think And although stressful situations still tower I’ll miss chances if I blink

Ann Tarry, IX

The people around never fail to thrive It is inspiration, not a threat I must remember to take that dive So that I won’t miss chances; I won’t regret Ann Tarry, IX

Emma Phillips, XI

Evergreen

Winter has always been my favorite season, But, to many, Summer seems to bring smiles to their faces. The hot sun tans their skin, and they sit by the pool wearing brightly colored swimsuits. Laughing at everything and caring about nothing. But winter is a necessity, because roses must wilt, and the cold must seep into our bones. Before the grey skies and snowfalls become routine, I will raise my hands up against the wind and breathe in the crisp smell of fall. This, is where I find a body to cling to, because, Decay. is. beautiful… Maybe that’s why I find so much inspiration from people that leave me, Its not that they’re dead, but I don’t know them any more, And to me it kills me inside, For a while, And every fall I restart, I recharge, I revive the light In the winter instead of being bare like the trees outside, I am an evergreen. In the spring I am thrown away, and the summer no one seems to care. I am reverse, towards the seasons, Anonymous And in the Fall I follow you around because An Alice-like Nature my friends are unsatisfying And I’d want you to kiss me It’s in her nature because I think it would fix me, She dream of schemes and it does for a while. And those who lay their head near her: But never for forever. Are in danger. Only for just sometimes it keeps me alive In the winter. She set a trap But as soon as Spring comes I know you’ll throw me out. On those I love Just like everyone else, they’ve taken a knife to my heart like most a saw to a branch. It confuses us. They’ve undecorated me and left me by the curb; like a FraFalling into an Alice shaped whole ser Fur after every Christmas. of lies and of cries I’ve said “not this year,” to many times before How can you accuse a crying girl? And I ask my self, “Will I care as much now that I’m older?” but they should know better Of course I will, every time, it makes me die. when it comes to— But like clockwork, Yes, they’re in danger Summer will end, And the danger is me. And fall will begin again, Winter will bring forth the evergreens. Shala Munn, X Sarah Stuart Horsely, XI

Fighting chance Eyes, eyes, bright as stars Dulling slowly into the night The want for victory conquers them all Time passes while we spar The darkness falls upon them in dismay Eyes, eyes bright as stars Looking, praying, willing for that scar For that one weakness to keep them at bay The want for victory conquers them all The consequence of failure will be tremendous by far If you win what will you pay Eyes, eyes, bright as stars Will you question what you are For some simple people of the fray The want for victory conquers them all With one last final spur We make our last display Eyes, eyes, bright as stars The want for victory conquers them all

Mary Jane Apostle, XI

Yueming Chen, XI

The Table The table where everyone had to sit Five chairs circling around Waiting every evening for the family Plates roasting Cups always half full Conversions buzzing Loud and ringing Never ending Until it ended He had gone Four chairs circling around A fifth chair in the corner No longer waiting every evening for its friend Plates no longer so warm Cups always half empty Conversations in whispers Quiet and weak It was never ending

Sunset As the sun slowly falls downward Time speeds forward Soon all thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s left Is the color-streaked sky Painted with red, blue, and orange

Mary Jane Apostle, XI

Anna Hubbard, IX

Mary Jane Apostle, XI

Where I am From I am from forks, from iPhones and umbrellas. I am from the black granite counter tops. I am from the holly bush, the dandelion. I am from trips to the beach and stubbornness, from Donald and Cornelia and Usher. I am from the list-makers and the procrastinators. From put your plate in the dishwasher and pick up your clothes. I am from give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses. I am from Richmond and Edinburgh, black coffee and French toast. From the time my brother unplugged the refrigerator, floating in the basement flood, and my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s burnt pancakes. I am from the scattered drawers, computer files, cameras and scrapbooks full of documents and photographs filled with faces and places in our lives. Caroline Irwin, IX Standing on the Line

Kat Collin, X

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m standing on the line Between light and dark I see a shadow to my left, Pulling my soul in. I see the light to my right, Painting my face with shining rays. I like the sun; I like the shade They both comfort me. I know I should be in the sun, For that is where the angels live. But the demons live in the shade And they tempt my curiosity. Let me always walk in the light of God, And always avoid the shade Where the devils will pull me in. Carter Vaughn, X

A Bird That Will Soon Take Flight The sun’s rays engulf my soul with light And surrounds me with warmth I feel like a bird that will soon take flight I wish to stay away from the darkness of night Where the sky is black and cold The sun’s rays engulf my soul with light The sun is brilliant and bright It takes me to a place of happiness I feel like a bird that will soon take flight When the sun is out, I never have a fright I know that it reveals truth The sun’s rays engulf my soul with light At peace with nature, I feel alright I can pause to enjoy the smell of the air I feel like a bird that will soon take flight I am waiting for my knight To take me somewhere the sun always shines At peace with nature, I feel alright I feel like a bird that will soon take flight Jennifer Shulman, XI

Olivia Ruffin, XI Thinking of Another Person I agree with this saying from Lao Tzu, “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength while loving someone deeply gives you courage.” Its meaning has a booming relationship to many important events that have occurred in my short lifetime. For example, when my grandmother died, a subtle whisper echoed in my mind, urging me to carry on and try to learn from this experience. I wouldn’t listen. Day after day, I stayed in my house, rain and sun. My parents tried to convince me to not stay stuck like a rock in the river of life. Their only accomplishment, though, was getting me to do simple things like putting away laundry. But those simple things betrayed me. Every time I washed the dishes, I kept thinking of the tears that my grandfather had shed at the funeral. This memory created a flood of salty tears from my life’s river. Its water overwhelmed my eyes, and I became parched from the salt content. This flood felt like pollution, and I was drowning in it. I sank to the very bottom. A sudden thought struck me, though. Is this what my grandmother would have wanted? For me to spend everyday locked up in my home? No! Certainly not. I realized that I deeply loved my grandmother and would do anything to make her as happy as she made me. So I drained my river of polluted tears and decided to carry on. I learned a very important lesson then: When someone loves you, you feel their strength. But when one loves someone deeply, such as I loved my grandmother, their strength can carry you. Neely McDowell, V

A A List List of of unappreciated unappreciated things things that that need need recognition: recognition:

1. 1. Frozen Frozen Fruit Fruit 2. Postcards 2. Postcards 3. 3. Pretzel Pretzel bagels bagels from from Einstiens Einstiens 4. 4. @Tunameltsmyheart @Tunameltsmyheart 5. 5. L’Oréal L’Oréal double double extend extend mascara mascara 6. 6. Alexa Alexa Chung’s Chung’s book book “IT” “IT” 7. Vsco filters (P5; HB2) 7. Vsco filters (P5; HB2) 8. 8. Faux Faux fur fur 9. Anklets 9. Anklets 10. 10. Sonic Sonic blue blue rasp. rasp. slushee slushee with with nerds nerds

11. 11. Manrepeller.com Manrepeller.com 12. 12. Disposable Disposable cameras cameras 13. Mozzie (Mozzerella) sticks 13. Mozzie (Mozzarella) sticks 14. 14. Prevana Prevana hair hair care care 15. 15. Frida Frida Khalo Kahlo 16. 16. Montana Montana 17. 17. Glitter Glitter glue glue 18. Mood 18. Mood rings rings 19. 19. Pinatas Pinatas

Eliza Hollerith Hollerith,XI XI

Izabela Clarke Clarke,XI XI

Hope Camp Latvia After sleepless days of travel, I arrived at Hope Camp, Where I would work as a counselor At a two-week summer camp for children In Silmači, Latvia. The stories from past counselors Said that the weeks ahead Would be a whirlwind of emotions And that I would be the most exhausted I could ever imagine. Standing in the humble, dusty loft Of an A-frame cabin After climbing a narrow ladder With my bag, a mattress, and camp supplies, My enthusiasm was gone. I pulled back the threadbare curtain To open the window And saw a once-in-a-lifetime view. The brightest green grass; lush, dark cypress trees; Wildflowers underneath. My tiredness melted away As soft cumulus clouds Were reflected by a crystal lake As clear as a mirror. I was overwhelmed; I couldn’t think, only stare. It would be impossible to Forget that Silmači lake. Celestial, breathtaking pale blue lake Like a sheet of sky was laid on the ground. Requiring observation. When I think of my first day of Hope Camp, I am standing In that dusty loft, leaning over The windowsill to smell wildflowers That come with a July breeze. M.E. Williams, X

Izabela Clarke, XI

Appreciating a Christmas Box: The Desire for Creating Order and Perfection From the age of two years old, I had an exact idea of perfect, which I created in my head. Since that age, my main goal was to create that perfection I so desired. I don’t know where the origins of this strikingly fatal craving come from, but I do know that ever since I could talk I loved perfection. I know it seems strange, as it did to my parents at the time, that a girl of such a young age was so picky. I had to have everything go the way I created it in my mind, which was very frustrating for me, but rather funny to any outside viewer. As a kindergartener, I was at my best friend’s house, joining her at the table with a cool glass of milk. As a naturally-born clumsy person, I sloshed my milk all over my shirt. Most people would say “oh no!” or “wow that’s not good,” or “oops,” but for me, it was a world-crumbling catastrophe. My friend’s father came to my aid, and while he turned around to grab a paper towel, I stripped down to my bare-bottom. My family teases me for that incident until this day. However, even at a young age, a little spill was the end of the world to me. There were an infinite number of things that I liked to create order with. I was especially picky about my clothes, as you already know… but any tag, seam, or thread out of place would just about drive me insane. I was a quirky kid, so of course I had to walk up steps for my parents to attend, or walk up the steps just-so, and I had a lot of time on my hands to create order as the only child. Things changed when my first sibling was born in 2003. Charlotte, as tame as an old cat, was the “perfect child,” as I often felt, and she also easily did everything I wanted. My mom would always say Charlotte was the easiest pregnancy and birth, the quietest, the best sleeper, walker, and much more. This, as I look back on it today, was a major turning point in my life. I didn’t realize that Charlotte’s adorable little chunky baby legs were undermining my perfection. I had something new to fix. This time, rather than my toys and parents being subject to my strange craving, it was my sister. I remember putting ballet shoes on her, before she could walk, and teaching her how to dance all while she jumped up and down in her Johnny-jump-up seat. We would also play mommy and baby, and of course I was always the mother. I could tell her when to take a nap, put on a new outfit, and when to eat. We were both having fun, but the fun for me was creating the order and perfection I had imagined all along. I grew into an older girl and entered middle school. I still had a desire for creating order, and it was growing stronger each day. However, I learned how to channel it into something productive by putting all my attention on my schoolwork. This brought me extreme success in school, because a person like me never lets go before her idea of perfect is completed. But no matter how much I tried, I was always unhappy with anything short of flawless. As you can imagine, this addiction started to taunt me with stress and unhappiness. I think my life got better when my brother was born. It was Charlotte’s childhood all over again, but this time I was more grown-up. I served as Charlie’s “little mommy,” as he called me, and was so happy to take on such a wonderful role. However, I was still unhappy with the way my life was going, and I couldn’t find the missing piece I needed.

perfecAfter so many years, I started to change. I’m not sure what brought upon my decision that pertion isn’t everything, butbut it probably hadhad something to do with growing up.up. I think it’sit’s kind of of funny fection isn’t everything, it probably something to do with growing I think kind how most are scatter-brained and unfocused, while many are serious and put togethfunny howchildren most children are scatter-brained and unfocused, while adults many adults are serious and put er- which which is the exact of what to me.toSo when say this change occurred when I togetheris the opposite exact opposite of happened what happened me. So Iwhen I say this change occurred “grewIup” is hardly My change of viewpoint really occurred when I when un-grew up. when “grew up” is accurate. hardly accurate. My change of viewpoint really occurred I un-grew up it is hardly accurate. As Charles Dickens says in A Christmas Carol, “Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of Christmas, our childhood recall to thetoold the pleasures of his youth, andCharles transport “Happy, happy that days, can win us back theman delusions of our childhood days.” the traveler to hisideaown let fireside quietback home!” Dickens idealet us be Dickens hadback the right us beand carried to ourCharles childhood days had and the try right to forget about carried back to ourinto childhood daysLet andustry forget about turning the worldLet intousperfection. turning the world perfection. gotoback to our childhood firesides. learn how Let to us go back to ourtochildhood firesides, let to dispel thechildish desire to create perfection. dispel the desire create perfection. Letususlearn learnhow to listen to our instincts, which say, Let us learn to listen to our childish instincts,Let’s which say, about “The world “The world is great without perfection. forget it!” is great without perfection. Let’s forget about it!” My momma always says, life is like a box of… well... not perfection. In fact, life is like a recycled My momma always life ishas liketorn a box of… well... not stuck perfection. In fact, lifeis isnothing like a recycled Christmas box, aftersays, my sister through the tape to its sides. Life like a box christmas box, perfect after my sister has tornshining through tape stuckglory. to its sides. is nothing like a box of chocolatesand clean-cut, in the all its sugary Life is Life messy like the Christmas of chocolatesperfect and clean-cut, shining in stuck all its all sugary Life isthe messy like where the christmas boxthere are rips, cracks, and all sorts of tape over glory. it mending patches someone box-it. there rips, cracks, and of tapepaper, stuck stains all over it mending patches where through, someone tore Theare box dons shreds of all oldsorts wrapping from Sharpie the markers bleeding tore ribbon it. Thefuzz. box dons shredsit’soffar oldfrom wrapping paper, sharpie markers through, and Although perfect, it’s a stains sourcefrom of happiness. I think bleeding that this was the and ribbon fuzz.toAlthough it’s far from perfect, it’s a source of happiness. I think that this was the lesson I needed learn all along. lesson I needed to learn all along. Now I have accepted that life is a Christmas box, and there’s nothing I can do to create ultimate Now I have The accepted life isgoing a christmas to create ultimate perfection. box isthat always to have box, tears,and andthere’s those nothing annoyingI can littledo triangles that fold perfection. without The boxtissue is always going to havewhat tears, and little scars triangles inwards paper no matter you do,those and annoying those horrible thatthat peelfold the inwards color without off tissue no matter whatall you do,Iand those horrible scars that peel the color off straight thepaper cardboard. Despite that, challenge you to accept the Christmas box,straight like I have, the cardboard. Despitethat all that, I challenge accept the Christmas I have, and let go of anything was holding you you backtofrom enjoying what thebox, box like could bringand you.letBego ofthe anything thatfor wasit holding back from enjoying could bring Behold the hold ratty box, yields soyou many precious gifts; youwhat just the havebox to overcome itsyou. imperfections. ratty box, for it yields so many precious gifts; you just have to overcome its imperfections. Carter Vaughn, X

Carter Vaughn, X

Izabela Clarke, XI

A Black Girl’s Testimony Hi my name is Maris and today I’ll be sharing my experiences with you. I’m a sophomore and also a black girl in America. Not surprised, I turn on the tv and hear about one of my black brothers or sisters being killed, shot to death, hung, beat to death, insert violent action here—all because of the pigment of their skin or because they quote on quote looked like a demon. I see our race begin to divide itself based on the shade of our skin, but don’t we all have the same past? Where are the black Barbie dolls? Where are the all black movies that aren’t about segregation? Where are the commercials about black hair products? When I look into my history and see my people being oppressed similarly to as they are now in cities like Fergusson, Montgomery or really anywhere. Rest In Peace to over 70 of my brothers and sisters killed this past year, and more to come this year, I’m a black girl in America. I’m a black girl in my community. My mom tells me to be extra careful, to never wear my hood into a store, because people might get the wrong idea. I tell myself that’s just pathetic. Strangers tell me that I’m well spoken for a black girl. Is this supposed to be a compliment or are you just telling me to my face that my race isn’t “well-spoken”. I walk near cars in a pretty “well-off ” side of town and sometimes strangers may lock their doors. I drive past confederate flags on my way home and a chill goes down my spine, I’m a black girl in my community. I’m a black girl that goes to St. Catherine’s, where you could count the minorities. I get called an oreo by my peers… I’m clearly black on the outside but how can I be white in the inside? Oh, by “white” you mean I act like a white girl? But how does a white girl act? Stereotypes flourish as I walk through the halls. Yes, I’m excited we have fried chicken for lunch today but it’s not because I’m black. Yes, I know how to dance but there are plenty black people that have no rhythm believe it or not, my mom included. My hair is a different texture but do you really have to touch it? I feel discomfort at certain times because I’m a black girl that goes to St. Catherine’s. But the definition of being black doesn’t correlate with all of this. Being black isn’t about talking or acting a certain way. It isn’t about dressing a certain style, what music you listen to or even about which side of town you live in. The truth is, being black means being comfortable in your own skin and being proud of everything we’ve conquered as a race. Black is not only beautiful, but flawless. I’m black but I’m a human. You’re white but you’re human. You’re Asian but you’re human. You’re gay but you’re human. Bisexual, atheist, transgender, Hispanic, short, tall—WHO CARES? If you peeled off any of our skin I guarantee you will see the same bones and the same heart that beats to care for one another. We’re all humans that deserve respect, so when is this world going to start acting on it? It starts with us, let’s continue Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream of equality…. One more thing, a few years ago a 5th grader ran home screaming that she wished she were white. Today, she couldn’t be more proud of who she is. Thank you.

Maris Crump, X

Cattlegate The ticketmaster waved for my attention. While rolling down the windows the stench of manure engulfed my senses. He handed me a bucket overloaded with feed then pointed to the entrance. I drove over the cattlegate and entered the safari park. A buffalo, twice the size of my car sauntered over to my open window. He lowered his snout to my face and sneezed. I wiped the buffalo mucus from my smiling face and handed him some food. The buffalo’s tongue glided across my hand leaving a trace of drool. His position was quickly taken by a slender emu with attitude. The emu angled it’s head into my car and took a chunk from the steering wheel. Astonished, my grandmother reached across me and smacked the emu with her brochure. With a quick flip of it’s neck, the emu dived into the bucket of food in my lap sending feed everywhere. I accelerated, with the emu’s head in my car to the side of the road. A park ranger came over to detach the emu. “Be more careful” he said, as if I had asked the emu to eat my steering wheel…

Virginia Hamilton, XII 48

February 10, 2015 Excitement overcomes me As I stroll to the commons â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Til I look ahead and see My doughnut box had fallen Twas a painful sight indeed The tears flowing to my eyes Someone defeated by greed Had stolen my valued prize After waking up early Driving way out to Dixie I thought through chapel surely No one would take them swiftly But sadly, to my dismay A stranger took my food so I was left hungry that day This theft I will never let go

Chandler Steinbrugge, XI

Virginia Jesselson, XI 49

Slouch

with real fruit

slouch grey down soft cold i have a million things to do and have yet

freedom tastes like blueberry pop-tarts and a rolled down window and there are days when the ache in my stomach is not the hunger i am used to. itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s for hair with no split ends, for an attic where plywood walls meet plastic and laughter, for opening the door to see a car, idling, for you.

Sasha Savenko, XI

Zoe Huling, XII

Black White Tan I enter. See vivid greens And a white sky, Empty of color. Because all the color Sank here to This garden today. I was thinking in Black and white before. See color before me For the first time. I grab my sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand And we explore. See the bright peonies And deep red roses. We go home to sleep In black and white Once more. When I return It is in an altered state, No longer vivid, But dripping with brown And tan. Curtains of yellow seeping out of What used to be contrasted. I collapse And weep for what Used to be. Because I loved the colors, And am afraid to think In black and white Once more.

Carter Vaughn, X

Marina Smith, XI

Ha-Ha Hahahahahahaha. “Lily, shut up.” This is the response I hear frequently. I often get this short phrase after I giggle. I laugh way too much. When people describe me, the first thought that comes to their mind is “she’s always laughing… never stops laughing.” That’s a good thing, right? I’ve always heard that laughing makes you live longer. The worst part is that I laugh at probably the most inconvenient times. I am one of those kids who starts laughing when someone falls down the stairs or gets hit by a field hockey ball. But trust me, I’m not laughing because I think it’s funny that someone gets hurt, I just laugh because it blurts out of me. It’s kind of like a tick that won’t stop. I don’t know why but I can’t help it. A lot, to me, is funny. I honestly think I inherited my overly laughing trait from my dad. As a child, Dad was totally that kid that would laugh in class and make the teacher upset. One time in class, he and a classmate were laughing so hard at who knows what and of course it made the teacher mad. So, out of anger and annoyance, the teacher lightly chucked his chalkboard eraser at my dad and his friend, hoping to scare them and possibly quiet them down. Well, I guess the teacher didn’t have the best aim because he smacked that eraser right into the face of an innocent girl sitting in front of my dad. Ha ha. This made my dad laugh even harder. Laughing runs in the Damgard family. At Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years, I love watching my dad laugh hysterically with his sister and his dad about old stories. “Remember Teddy, when Natalie and I blew the leaf blower hahaha on you hahaha when you were asleep hahaha.” I know the story is good when my aunt Julie is laughing so hard she can’t even speak. Laughing serves as a connecting point between my family. Since we don’t really get to see my dad’s side of the family that often except for holidays, laughing over stories helps make up lost time. You’d think I would have a cute, girlish laugh, right? Wrong. My monotone giggle resembles the obnoxious cackle of SpongeBob Squarepants. I sound like a broken record. Like a song, my laugh stays on repeat. People always call me out on this. “Lily, just listen to your laugh. It never stops.” Wait until you hear my natural laugh, though. To find one’s natural laugh, you cross your hands across your chest and get someone to press down on you while you are laughing. Ta-da, there’s your natural laugh. Mine sounds evil. People often tell me it reminds them of a witch from Hocus Pocus mixed with a psycho chipmunk. Great. I can’t help it. I absolutely love to laugh. Laughing is like looking at someone’s fingerprints. Not one is exactly alike. No two people have the same exact laugh. Hearing someone’s laugh helps people hear a little of their personality or character. Seriously, listening to a hearty chuckle versus a squeaky giggle tells you a lot about a person. Most people forget how laughing describes a person. While height, hair color, favorite food, or even favorite celebrity crush tells something about someone, a simple giggle tells people that you are happy. I laugh because I am happy. It’s that simple. So next time when someone tells me to stop laughing, I’ll just look at them and say “Ha ha.” Lily Damgard, XII

Total Total Eclipse Eclipse of of the the Heart Heart “How “How much much longer?” longer?” My My sister, sister, Janie, Janie, whines whines from from the the backseat. backseat. “2.5 “2.5 hours.” hours.” My My Mom Mom responds. responds. Janie Janie groans groans and and my my brother, brother, Conner, Conner, turns turns up up the the music music to to drown drown out out her her complaints. complaints. We’re We’re about about six six hours hours into into our our annual annual road road trip trip to to Hilton Hilton Head Head Island Island in in South South Carolina. Carolina. We We pulled pulled out out of of our our driveway driveway at at 7:30 7:30 this this morning morning in in our our black black 2002 2002 Suburban Suburban in in order order to to be be to to the the beach beach roughly roughly by by 44 pm. pm. Squeezed Squeezed into into the the backseat backseat were were Conner Conner and and his his girlfriend, girlfriend, Maddie, Maddie, while while Janie Janie and and II were were shoved shoved in in the the third third seat. seat. We We began began the the road road trip trip as as we we began began every every road road trip. trip. My My entire entire family family attempts attempts to to lose lose our our voices voices singing singing Total Total Eclipse Eclipse of of the the Heart Heart by by Bonnie Bonnie Tyler. Tyler. Five Five sore sore throats throats later later we we all all put put our our headphones headphones in in and and the the car car isis quiet quiet until until about about 45 45 minutes minutes in. in. A A member member of of the the family, family, notably notably my my sister, sister, yells yells up up to to my my dad, dad, “We “We need need to to pull pull over over within within the the next next three three minutes minutes or or I’m I’m going going to to burst.” burst.” To To avoid avoid Janie’s Janie’s bladder bladder “bursting” “bursting” my my dad dad looks looks for for the the nearest nearest exit. exit. We We pass pass aa rest rest area area but but my my mom mom says, says, “absolutely “absolutely not” not” when when my my dad dad suggests suggests we we stop stop there. there. She She has has an an unreasonable unreasonable fear fear of of rest rest areas areas so so we we keep keep looking looking until until we we find find aa suitable, suitable, yet yet typically typically inconvenient, inconvenient, gas gas station station about about three three miles miles off off the the path. path. Thirty Thirty minutes minutes later later we’re we’re finally finally back back on on the the route route and and Janie Janie and and II argue argue over over which which movie movie to to watch. watch. II win win the the fight fight and and so so we we start start watching watching one one of of my my favorfavorite ite movies, movies, 17 17 Again. Again. Halfway Halfway through through the the movie movie II fall fall asleep. asleep. II wake wake up up just just as as we we are are crossing crossing the the bridge bridge onto onto the the island, island, which which has has always always been been one one of of my my favorite favorite parts parts of of our our annual annual beach beach trip trip because because II know know we we have have finally finally arrived arrived to to my my favorite favorite place. place. Katherine Custer, XII

Zoe Huling, XII

Taylor Allen, XI Untitled i vowed to remember the way i laid on my backlooking up at the clusters of stars. i swear to this day i saw a comet shoot, fizzling sparks! i could never forget how it lit them aflame -Â the other glowstars on my ceiling.

Sasha Savenko, XI Olivia Ruffin, XI

Liza Martin, XI

Fourth of July

Our Fourth of July party was my favorite thing I loved the gifts the neighbors would bring The gifts of laughter, joy, and company The children and I would stare at the cake hungrily Awaiting for the moment we all loved This was a time where my belly-laughter was beloved Before the days of my mistakes and insecurities Without any knowledge and only filled with childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s purity The kind of kid filled with nothing but happiness There was no sign of hapless anything My younger sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chubbiness we embraced Especially when she made a funny face My older sister just started her love of ballet Which would often make her mind go astray My father was still a runner, not a swimmer And he made it to every dinner My mother was taller than me And always let me climb the maple tree Except now that tree is gone. Upon the memories my family fawns Wishing we were younger When things werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t so cumber With the family together Thus making the memories more of a treasure Caroline Gaenzle, XI

Swinging I swing with my eyes closed, my hands clenching the deep blue chains. I feel the yellow sunlight against my eyelids. When I go up, the wind I have created makes my hair fly straight back. When I go back, my hair clouds around my laughing face. And when I open my eyes, the world isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t as colorful as before I swung.

Abby Armstrong, IV

Zoe Huling, XII

Connecting to Place My fingers hum as I walk. Electricity oozing with each step, leaving a florescent trail in my wake, like a bright red thread tracing a journey between pushpins. Attached to my heels, this thread of mine has weaved around dozens of pins, creating a detailed track of all the places that elicit electricity in my being and I had just added another pin to my map. Over the course of my sixteen years of existence, I have found myself seeking out places where I envisioned no one or maybe only a few individuals had ever touched. When I was around thirteen years old, I went on a sailing trip with my father down the coast of Croatia. We stopped at a tiny island scattered with sheep and mountains. Upon pulling into port, my eyes scanned the horizon and caught on a white speck atop the tallest mountain. I reported this to my Dad and our only logical response was to hike up the hill and see for ourselves what it was. And so we did. We spent the better part of the next day trekking up the mountainside and when we reached the top, we discovered the white speck was a one room, white church with the most incredible 360 degree view of the deep blue spread out before us. I vividly remember placing my palm on a boulder beside the church and thinking to myself, “No one else has ever touched this stone.” After that I became infatuated with finding “untouched” palm sized surfaces. I would place my palm on trees and stones buried deep in the woods, the undersides of tables at nice restaurants, and churches on mountains in the middle of oceans. Odd I know but in those moments I felt a zap of energy rush through me. A zap so profound that I have committed all the times I’ve felt it to memory. A mental map, plastered with pushpins connected by red thread, cataloging all the places I felt the most connected to the zapping energy residing in this land beneath our feet. I hold these places in my soul and use their energy as fuel for the road ahead. These unscarred places intrigue and effect me so acutely because the swirling cloud of human noise just subsides for a palm sized moment and I feel connected from a place within myself to a place within the planet. I felt that same zap today. It had been a while since I stumbled across something so magnetically untouched. But today on our hike from Slide Lake to Deckers Lake, my group traversed off trail and we happened on the most beautiful meadow, shimmering silently in the belly of the Sawatch Range. The sun was high in the sky and the wind sent pulsing waves through the golden reeds as we turned in circles looking at the towering ridge we had just descended and then forward towards the one we still had left to climb. Our Instructor, Margi, turned to us and said “We are of a few dozen people on this earth that will ever walk in this exact clearing.” I smiled then and couldn’t really seem to stop. My head cleared and I felt suddenly whole. When we stopped for water, I reached down to a small stone and was greeted with a quick zap. Short, but long enough for me to imprint its significance onto my palm. Any place can be meaningful so long as you feel a zap that pinches you out of the noise and leaves you feeling at peace with the space you inhabit. In my view, it does matter to have a place or multiple places where one can experience this. If we all could find a space once in a while where all they could hear was the earth and all they could feel was the crackling power within the land, we would take more care to protect this magical place.

Madison Wilkinson, XI

Untitled

Taylor Allen, XI

Naive Chocolate Buyer, Romantic Man of Dolphins and Ideals, Forevers and Nevers,

Tenses Tomorrow is forgotten; Yesterday will be confused... Today means a change of heart.

Eleanor Robb, VII

Singer of Soporific Serenades, Healer of the Sickened, Glossary of Constellations and Clusters, Cool Mind, Hot Heart, Medium Roast Always with Cream, Effect of my Attempts, Cause of my Alterations, Bane of my Logic, Fuel to my Wisdom,

Nighttime Shaky Shaky Spooked Threechopt Back way Cops Pigs Help, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m okay actually

Sarah Stuart Horsley, XI

Fox to my Restraints.

Haley Robb, X

Taylor Allen, XI

Open Windows

Open the windows and hear the birdsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; tunes: Fling wide the door and run through the meadows; Dip your toes in the water of cool lakes, And break the glass. Spend the time wisely and think not of fall, Embrace the breeze and join in its play: So open the windows and fling wide the door, And wake to the day.

Eleanor Robb, VII

Shower Thoughts “Go to bed, you’ll feel better in the morning” is the human version of “Did you turn it off and turn it back on again?” The numbers on the toaster are minutes, not the degree of toastyness If you spell “socks” out loud, you’re saying “it is what it is” in Spanish and that’s pretty tight If you go to hell for sinning, why wouldn’t Satan reward you for it? Cakes and muffins are literally just flavored bread Of all the things that taste like chicken, eggs are not one of them Nobody’s really ever happy to find out that they’ve stayed up too late anymore. It used to be a cool achievement, but now it’s like “dang it, not again” What are snails even trying to do

Joanna Yan, XI

Pie Ahh. I love the smell of tulips in the summer. Mom’s garden never withers, no matter what. Even in the winter. She has a special touch that keeps our pink tulips blooming all year. But it’s only tulips. With any other plants, Mom’s like a newborn trying to plant a garden. “Delle! Delle, come on! The bus’s almost here! Mam has your lunch!”, my younger sister, Purle called to me from the door of our white, shingled, little cottage on the edge of Annacura, Ireland. I ran through the rows of tulips. I had been smelling them and marveling at all the colors. Maroon, pink, purple, pinky purple, and more, many more. I ran inside, and grabbed my lunch. I could see Purle at the bus stop, and Dawson, my brother, running towards the direction of school. I kissed Nelley, my mam, goodbye and ran out the door. My feet pounded on the pavement to a beat. Don’t miss the bus, don’t miss the bus, they sang. I got there just in time. Reen, our bus driver, opened the door with an audible swoosh. I slid into the seat with my best friend, Merrielle. We’re only allowed to whisper on the bus, so Merrielle and I whispered about how annoying siblings were the whole way to school. When we got there, Purle hopped off the bus first and ran inside the brown box that was Ellson Elementary. The rest of the bus poured in after her. I was in math with Mrs. JoAner when I heard the BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP of the fire alarm. “Everybody out!!!” she cried, her usually pale face turning red. It was hot in here. Was it a real fire? We’d never had one of those. The whole school emptied out onto the crabgrass in front of the school. Purle ran out of the building last. “Delle! I accidentally set off the fire alarm! Again!” she whispered. Yes, again. Abby Armstrong, IV

Emma Phillips, XI on a sunny day in april

A week in early August

to tell you the truth, i donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember how it started the nuclear heat creeping in all directions

The bottoms of my feet have accumulated calluses, spots of dirt, and splinters large and small. My heels and toes are decorated with numerous shiny blisters. On Sunday, I will reluctantly remove the splinters and bandage the blisters. But until then, I will take pride in the fact that my ornately scabrous feet slightly resemble a diseased reptile Because they remind me of the ground upon which I walk.

sitting in the damp grass i can think of only two things: there are days i forget to remember, and you would have liked this (i think)

Abby Villanueva, XI

Liza Martin, XI

The Time That Something Broke 1136 West Avenue, Richmond, Virginia. This was the only address I knew in Virginia as a kid. My grandparents have owned this house for as long as I can remember, even when my mother was my age. Although, since I didn’t live in Virginia until I was in fourth grade and didn’t come to visit often, I only knew this house and the area around it within a 1-mile radius. The street has always had cute townhouses that are closely knit together with children in the street playing soccer, football, or sharing the scooters and chalk. This street has also constantly drawn in families with children because of its character, kind spirit, and its essence of safety. It was always nice to be able to walk down the street with my grandfather and his dogs in our pajamas without having to care what people thought because we knew some of the others kids would join us. My grandparents got lucky with their house. It was the house that was right in the middle of all the action. There are millions of picnics, block parties, and even times when Santa Claus gifts the neighborhood children right out front each year. It’s also the house where neighbors walk in with enthusiastic hellos on a Sunday morning just to come by and see how their week has been. Inside of the house, it feels elegant but comfortable. When you walk in, you automatically feel at home. Especially with the large grandfather clock, and the blue couch that is soft, squishy, and very welcoming. Sometimes I never want to leave it. But in the next room over, there’s a series of shelves that have been filled with Frank Sinatra CD’s, old dusty records, and classic American literature that they’ve collected over the years. There’s also a dresser with a glass chess set and a small blown glass bowl that has been filled with tiny fake glass candies. Except, this small glass blown bowl hasn’t always been right next to the chess set. It used to be a snow-globe. My grandparents used to have a Christmas party every single year on Christmas Eve. Each room was always filled to its capacity with loud, sociable, and enjoyable people. They would spend weeks, maybe even a month preparing for this party. From making my grandpa’s famous chocolate mousse, to putting the ornaments on the tree in specific places, there was always something that needed to be done. It was a time of stress, and as a child, I sometimes got in the way. But let’s be real, it was most of the time. One year, as my grandparents as well as my own parents were helping out with the cooking, I wandered off, not wanting to be in the way, nor wanting to listen to any banter of who was doing what wrong. I ended up in the room with the glass chess set and the bookshelves. I had always been a curious child so I began poking around the room. I picked up the glass chess set pieces and played with them. Then I would moved on to the magnifying glass that sat on the coffee table. I soon got bored and started to look around for something else to entertain myself. That’s when I decided to take a look at the snow globe. It was so pretty and simple. There was a single girl right in the middle wearing a red cloak with a muff. I turned it upside down and the white “snow” floated down all around her. I took the snow-globe down from the dresser and sat on the couch with it. I just stared at it. I guess I had squeezed it too hard because the next thing I know, my pants were covered in water with small white specks, and the base as well as the glass had been scattered on the floor all around me. Not knowing exactly how it had happened and being a little scared, I began to cry. My mother and grandmother came running in. I was then picked up, put in the kitchen and was quickly crowded with questions. Not knowing what to say, I continued crying. With tears streaming down my face, I was taken home to calm down. I felt so bad about the accident, but I was terrified as to what my grandmother would say. After a while, I built up the courage to go and apologize for it. She didn’t yell at me, cry, or disown me as a grandchild. But I knew she was upset and from seeing it in her eyes, I began to cry again.

Caroline Gaenzle, XI

Yueming Chen, XI Grandma I remember when I first went to visit my grandmother. I was flying alone. Alone. This was a pretty big deal. There was no one I loved more. With her yellow tousled hair, and Chanel pants suits. I was nothing but ecstatic to visit my cool grandma in the snippy south. She spoiled me when I was little, from tricking her into buying me Build-a-Bears to Golden Grams, the cereal I was never allowed to eat at home. She’s always nicer in Texas. I’ve visited her many times since then, but it’s been ten years since I first visited. I grew up and she grew out of it. She comes here to Richmond sour and mean. Taking offence to everything and falling asleep everywhere. She’s in fine shape honestly, but she’s changed since I was young. Everything she says makes me want to roll my eyes:, she’s nasty. But then I think about her, I think about the washer dryer set tucked into the closet in her kitchen. I think about that table in the back corner of her living room piled high with taxes and overdue notices, making me worried for her financial health. I remember her Tempurpedic bed and how she let me stay up until one and sleep in until ten. I remember going to the Nasher sculpture garden and it never getting old. Or Audrey’s gnocchi, we’d always share. I think about what her life was like in the 70s as a single mom smoking endless packs of cigarettes and dealing with troubled children. How mod she must have been then, and how modest she is now. She whistles and sings every second she can, and it annoys our brains until they melt, but I bet she was such a beautiful singer in her hay-day. She grew up in a time of parcel post. A time where you didn’t have to Instagram, tweet, post, like, reblog, or share anything. Drinking in the dorms with her girls, gossiping about Suzie Q and What’s-his-name. She’d go in and out of flings herself being a total heartbreaker I’m sure. And now, she can hardly send an email without attaching some spam link or accidentally sending it to all of her contacts. She still uses a Rolodex and curls her hair like a teen queen. But her spirits have changed, and her insults are ruthless. Why did she grow old this way? Will we all lose our minds and drive everyone around us crazy? Olivia Ruffin, XI

Teddy Bear Long Lost Friend When will she come back? How long has she been gone? Why doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t she play anymore? Will the sun ever shine again? She has grown up Now the teddy bear just sits in a dark closet Cooped up in a box With all her other forgotten friends All of them waiting for her return The teddy bear cute and fluffy Used to tag along on all of her adventures But now just sits in a bin listening to his own thoughts And the rhythmic tick tock tick tock of her clock Everyday he thinks to himself Will he ever escape this box? Will he ever be played with again? Is he just an old, boring teddy bear? Why is he forgotten?

Jessie Smith, XI

Competition

Ava Moslow, IX

Digits Tingling, heart Racing, pistol Roaring, water Splashing, adrenaline Pumping, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Flying, hair Drifting, world Spinning, pulse Sprinting, cries Invigorating, thrill Exhilarating, fingers Grasping, cheers Deafening, smiles Shining, ranks Blazing, triumph Amazing.

Suha Minai, IX

Blair Cavanaugh, XI

Evolution of a Mother when I drop her off she clings to my knees and cries “no do not go” I hold her hand as we walk home she rambles on about her day already she needs me less she runs ahead to the bus stop I lag behind Yet still she is happy to be with me the days seem to pass by faster she is slowly getting older no longer she needs me at the bus stop instead I stay home drinking coffee, wondering when I got so old one day I realize now she too drinks coffee I do not know when then one day she screams “I hate you!” and slams the door shut and I cry “no do not go” soon she is off to her last dance she twirls around her room in that pretty blue dress and that boy breaks her heart with just a moment’s start there are different boys, lots of boys cycling through her never ending revolving door of love she has so much love one day she finds a single love and has her own daughter to take to the bus stop I am not sure if the twinge in my heart is a bittersweet recollection or pain from the aching of my bones then one day the light fades and darkness suffocates my eyes and I cry “no do not go” Shala Munn, X

Sarah Stuart Horsley, XI

Privilege In this country, if you work hard and are an honest person, you can succeed in life. However, some people carry more of a burden than others. And a lot of the time, the burden they carry has to do with who they are as a person. Today, I’m here to talk to you about privilege. Whether we know it or not, privilege affects the lives of each and every one of us. White privilege, socioeconomic privilege, able-bodied privilege: all these give us significant legs up in society. An important thing to realize before I start, however is that having privilege does not mean that everything’s been handed to you. It does not mean you’re rich. It does not mean that you’ve had an easy life. Privilege just means that there are experiences that you haven’t been exposed to and never will be because of who you are. The topic of privilege can be very uncomfortable for a lot of people, including myself in the past. A few years ago, if someone had even suggested the idea that I was privileged because of the color of my skin, I would’ve shut them down right away. My thought process then was that racism didn’t exist in normal, day-to-day life and that in order to rid ourselves of racism and other social issues, we should stop talking about it. It took a lot of growth and learning for me to realize that simply dismissing these conversations because they weren’t issues for myself directly was in no way a solution to the problem. I’ve learned that it’s important to educate myself on social issues and how my own privilege affects the way I live. I have socio-economic privilege. I come from a family that provides me with what I need, as well as a lot of things I want. I’ve been given the means to explore other cultures as well as the ability to be exposed to the arts growing up. I go to an amazing school that provides me with an extensive education, the ability to explore my passions through extracurriculars, and a top-notch college counseling team that guides me on my path of exploring my options and achieving a higher education. I have able-bodied privilege. I don’t have to listen to ignorant statements regarding my disabilities and quality of life. I don’t have to worry about stares and prejudices from people who don’t know me as a person. I don’t have to listen to people telling me that I’m worthless because I can’t work in the same way they can. I have cis-gender privilege, meaning I identify as the gender I was assigned to at birth. I don’t have to worry about being in one of the 32 states where I can be legally fired from my job solely based on my gender identity. I don’t have to worry about how my chance of being assaulted and/or murdered goes up by 1000 percent. I don’t have to worry about rejection from my family and peers simply for who I am. I have white privilege. I don’t have to worry about being generalized in a serious way about my character due to the color of my skin. I don’t have to worry about being persecuted, followed around, or attacked because of my race. I see overwhelming representation for my race in media and the beauty industry. ---I didn’t say all this to make others with similar privileges or myself feel guilty, but rather to encourage all of you to learn about your own privilege and turn it into something positive. Learning about privilege gives us the opportunity to validate what underprivileged people go through every day and allows us to use our privilege to help others and make good in the world. Since Martin Luther King, Jr. was alive, our country has made so much progress. However, it’s a new time in our history. Now is the time to understand at how far we’ve come, and see how far we can go. How far everyone on this earth deserves, and achieve it. That’s what Martin Luther King, Jr. was all about. Not settling for “good enough,” not whining about the problem, but constantly being an advocate for change. Learn about your privilege or lack thereof and involve yourself in discussions of social issues. Raise up the voices of those oppressed rather than knocking them down. Take your privilege, and make something beautiful out of it.

Kat Collin, X

Feathers

Frances Tyler, XI

Feathers. So many feathers. Tail, semiplums, downy, ostrich…the list went on. “What was the difference” I thought? They all looked the same to me. “What was even the distinction between black and charcoal?” This was one of the many errands I was sent on during my summer internship before junior year. I had the most fortunate opportunity to intern for a fashion designer in New York City: Naeem Khan. As a young, southern girl, I was terrified to embark on a journey to the Big Apple. “I would never fit in!” I thought. I only had terrible visions of Devil Wears Prada in my head; I would be the naïve girl who would just be bossed around. However, I somehow pushed those fears aside and walked right up to doorbell on the 10th floor of 260 W. 36th Street and waited.

I walked through the big, black doors of Naeem Khan’s office that first day to discover the most picturesque seen in front me. It was exactly how I had imagined it to be. There were gorgeous clothes hanging on racks around every corner, beautiful décor, Indian music blasting the halls, and of course, a crystal-tiled bathroom. I couldn’t have asked for anything better. It was a palace of fashion- a place of complete elegance and exquisite charm. I immediately began work by running errands. I quickly learned that running errands would primarily be my job. The PRs, the salesmen, the textile workers, and of course, the designers had to stay in the office while I was sent on various adventures throughout the city. Whether it was picking up a long list of Starbucks orders, or going to the Louboutin headquarters and bringing back sample shoes for the models, I had some exciting, yet embarrassing memories. When my boss sent me on a mission to find dark colored feathers, I thought the task would be easy. He showed me which colors to look for and told me to bring back as many samples as I could. I approached the run-down door only to find a collection of political bumper stickers and anarchy signs…this was much different than the elegant and inviting doors that I had imagined. Yep, welcome to the Garment District. After buzzing in, I walked into the narrow hallway and rode the old, rickety elevator to the 6th floor to the feather store. It was like feather heaven. There was every kind of feather anyone could imagine! I didn’t even know some feathers existed. “This is ridiculous!” I thought. So I took my samples, put them into a manila envelope, and headed back down the elevator. As it stopped at the 4th floor, I was expecting a stranger to hop on with me, but nothing. It had gotten stuck. “Just my luck” I thought. “What if I die?!”. “What if these feathers never get back to my boss? What if I ruin the design? What if fashion week is a fail because of me!” After 10 minutes of banging helplessly on the door, a nice man finally came to the rescue and released me from the claustrophobic space. He said “Sorry ma’am, the elevator usually doesn’t work past the 4th floor.” “Well thank you for informing me” I wanted to say…but at least I had successfully gotten the job done, and that’s all that mattered. The more streets I crossed, the more people I encountered, and the more challenges I faced, the more confidence I gained. Although I made mistakes along the way, I jumped in head first. The obstacles that were set in front of me would have once bothered my innocent self, but now as a New Yorker, I brushed away my struggles and walked down the street with music in my ears and feathers in my hand. Emma Williams, XII

Sarah Stuart Horsley, XI Alexandra Romanov

Prodded,

It does not come.

She wants to see her children.

She trudges down a dusty staircase,

When the men act,

The air here is bad for them,

Followed by her husband,

Her husband hits the floor.

And it is cold.

(who talks too much),

She tries to sign a cross for him,

Amazingly,

And the children,

But she does not finish.

Her requests are not ignored.

Last of all.

Here they are:

They wait.

Standing glassy-eyed and drowsy in There is a truck coming for them, the hall, A man says, Men with guns behind them. And they must wait for it. The reunion is silent.

Kathryn Lebey, XI

Untitled Being Distance Distance is not a being. You canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go visit distance By catching the four oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock train To stop by his house. Rather, distance feels like a being, Looming inside of your body. You can feel his ominous presence Cover up your already glassy eyes. Distance makes your vision blurry, Your perspective twisted. Your mind is warped Distraught from the weight Distance burdens you with. If they were truly opened They could see your luminous destiny Shining in front of your face. But distance makes it seem Too far away To even try.

Carter Vaugh, X

Taylor Allen, XI

Yeuming Chen, XI Secrets They don’t know; They won’t know; They can’t know; What I’ve kept from them; What I’ve taken from them; What I’ve given to them; What I said; What I hadn’t said; What I wish I’d said; What is true; What isn’t true; What I want to be true; They don’t know; They won’t know; They can’t know; My secrets.w

Yeuming Chen, XI

Eleanor Robb, VII

Nerves they told me to be Calm as though this didn’t matter as though nothing mattered —it seemed and so I tried with uncooperative heels pounding pounding pounding against that lovely plush floor never would i be successful in my attempt to stop the shake or those chattering—now nearly chipped—teeth pecking softly—now scratching—my cheek they told me to eat a banana as though that would clear my mind as though that was the best—the only—solution —it seemed we were out of that particular panacea so strawberries i chewed slowly crunching crunching crunching with nervous, yet steadily planned bites with an unappreciative tongue with a growing churn in my stomach barely could i finish yet i unwillingly swallowed dryly and end that ill-favored feast i threw green crowns down the sink and forced them down the drain with a flick of a switch i listened to the satisfying singing of metal crunching a small bit of something from my chest released then i realized if they were right; if nothing mattered then this must matter the least

Zoe Alexander, XI

Yeuming Chen, XI

Yeuming Chen, XI I Saw You as a Ripple in the Sea I saw you as a ripple in the sea, As one would see a meadow with soft grass, So frail and feeble, yet somehow serene; You sparkled in the sun’s sweet light like glass. A wave rolled into you while you were blind; Its fingers curled to push you to its crest. The wave lifted you before you declined; On top of fame, you showed such graceful zest. My eyes met yours, and you gave me a wave; Your foam dove to damp sand with deep desire, Against the seashore, you bubbled and laved, Not able to resist the crash with ire. The bobbing current made you seem strong; Like Icarus, your sharp fall proved me wrong.

Emma Capps, IX

A Continuation of unappreciated things that need recognition:

20. No BS Brass Band 21. Pimento cheese 22. www.rookiemag.com 23. Birthdays 24. Half Birthdays 25. Cocoa Butter Kisses/Chance the Rapper 26. The Royal Tenenbaums 27. St. Catâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Varsity Squash team 28. Kroger gas prices 29. Goochland drive in theatre 30. Pomegranate 31. Illuminated neon signs 32. Me Talk Pretty One Day/David Sedaris 33. Steams 34. Fried brie bites 35. www.hotsox.com 36. Nerds candy 37. Free swim day 38. Rainbow makers

Izabela Clarke and Eliza Hollerith, XI Bentley Logue, XII When the sun, So bold, So brilliantly Gold, Loosens its Grip, And begins To slip, The light dims Down, While in darkness We drown. The shadows Hold true, Unwilling for brightness Anew, To seep forth through the cracks in the Sky, But at the break of Dawn, All shadows Must die, Or retreat to corners dark And deep, And wait for the sun to fall back Asleep.

Eleanor Robb, VII

Izabela Clarke, XI

Bentley Logue, XII

Izabela Clarke, XI

Dear Little Black Girl Dear Little Black Girl, you too are beautiful. While other girls have hair as straight as their bloodlines, your hair reaches in all directions with curls as intertwined and strong as our ancient kinships Little Black Girl, you too are beautiful. Never worry about being pasty pale or getting a tan Mother Africa kissed your skin and infused it with melanin So dance with the sun Little Black Girl, you too are beautiful. Your body flows like rain water off spring flower petals You can always find the rhythm It matches the drum beat of your heart Little Black Girl, you too are beautiful. Even though most designers never factor in your full circumference Your curves are nothing to be ashamed of Own your body so that no one else thinks they can Little Black Girl, you too are beautiful.

Elise Fuller, XII

Untitled The world grows cold As we turn gold. A gentle breeze Lifts and frees. The sun in the field Of the bright blue sky

Jessie Smith, XI

Turns our colors like fire, And our veins run with burning embers. I twirl and dance, And give a glance At the timeless earth Growing ever closer. When my journey ends, We swirl in the wind, And land among kin. The world has grown cold, While we have turned gold, And completed our journey To the surface of the earth. I rejoin my friends.

Emma Phillips, XI

Eleanor Robb, VII

Untitled Every morning for six years, driving to school in the passenger seat of my dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s white Prius, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d pass a boy waiting for his bus to arrive. He had dark brown hair and had one blue and black striped shirt that I remember. His backpack was brown, and when it was cold outside he wore a brown jacket to match. Of course I never knew his name or where he went to school, but I always tried to imagine his story. I wonder if he recognized our car. Did he ever think about us? Did he ever wonder about our stories? I imagine he was either a senior, or went to a new high school because when I was a freshman, I never saw him again.

Olivia Ruffin, XI

Emma Phillips, XI

Madeleine Dugan, IX

Common App Essay Listening to the deafening shrieks of the train track, breathing in the distinct smells of the city, and getting lost in a sea full of strangers, I know this is my place to be: the metro. I used to wince at the idea of being crammed into a small train with complete strangers, sitting on a smelly seat, or if I was unlucky, standing in the hot space for fifteen minutes, but suddenly I found it quite intriguing. En route to the Paris College of Art, my art history class unexpectedly came to life at the Saint Germain des Près station at 9:30 in the morning. The previously ordinary scene in front of me in the metro morphed into an impressionist painting. I can see now why the impressionists left their studios to capture a new reality of life. A sea full of eclectic people, each with a unique story, each representing a single brush stroke necessary to create a perfect, abstract masterpiece. Generally looking at things through an artistic lens, I value each person’s unique contribution to a bigger whole. Just the way each brush stroke matters to an artist, each person matters to me. There is the ballerina who has her hair tightly coiled up on top of her head. Clutching the train poll, she points her foot, probably stretching out her muscles before a long day of dance practice. I immediately see her as the ballerina in Degas’ “The Star”. Then there is the little boy, maybe eleven, selling a box of Welch gummy snacks, trying to make cash for an infinite number of possibilities, many of which I could formulate in my head. Here in front of me was Camille Roulin, the little boy Van Gogh made famous in his Paintings of Children series. As the little boy leaves a mark of mystery on the train, so does Van Gogh on his canvas. I enjoy the way Impressionism prides itself with its ambiguous meanings. Next comes an old woman with her Sudoku book, eagerly ready to dive into another puzzle. I saw Renoir’s “The Reader” come alive in this woman focused on her book. Then it hit me. The metro opens a door for complete imagination and unexpected curiosity. Where would the artist paint me in the picture? Clearly, I could fit into a number of scenes; but the most fitting would be Renoir’s “Girls at the Piano.” My twin sister and I are right there at the piano: my sister is at the keyboard; I am singing. Music has significantly transformed me into the artist that I am today, whether in vocal or instrumental pieces. Music has bolstered my self-confidence, as well. My journey on the metro became a place of comfort knowing that I was at that moment, in my mind, a part of that masterpiece. Then the train jerked to a stop. It was time to walk out of the painting and head to class. Emma Williams, XII

Live Freely Life is not to be captured in a bottle To be filled in the lenses of our cameras The memories are not to be done boondoggle To wake up the soul, to feel amorous Complications only slow the thoughts in our day The meaning of life is to live in the moment, to want to remain And sometimes we want to run away Wanting love so bad it drives us insane The way you look into my eyes, gives my soul life Can we live each day like itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s our last? No matter how painful the world will be armed with a knife Live in this moment, just kiss me forever, is all I ask I used to wish for the future, getting lost in my walls Now you make it so easy to get lost in the moment I knew you would catch me and that was my greatest fall My heart began to beat and I was frozen The world may be so cold Knowing you will be there to warm me when I freeze I have stopped worrying about the future that stays untold Now I remain locked in this moment the smell of ocean breeze Home is where the heart remains hidden only for one to unlock Can we live each day like itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s our last? I give you my key, my heart, my love; I am no longer blocked Live in this moment, just kiss me forever, is all I ask

Ashly Adkins, XII

Virginia Jesselson, XI

Runnin’ Down a Dream I desperately tried to cover my watering eyes as the dust from the narrow road clouded around our rusty, green Jeep Wrangler. My hair, sprinkled with dirt, whipped across my forehead as we bounded past the vast grasslands. The dry, red glare from the last light of the day warned us that the time to finish our mission was coming to a close once again as it poured over the umbrella trees. My family and I had been camping out for days and driving on day-long road trips as we searched for exotic animals across the Savanna. We had seen vibrant birds racing high above our car, ferocious cheetahs and lions prowling through grass, and herds of prancing gazelles that imitated the waves of a stormy ocean. These small adventures with my family were like no other trip we had experienced before. Not once did I play music, for the plains of Africa flooded my ears with a heart beat of drums and melodies within itself. Just looking over the steering wheel brought a rush of happiness into the palms of my hands, through to my fluttering chest. We had been out for hours that day. It was our last chance to find them before we flew back across the Atlantic. My parents knew how much it meant to me to see my favorite animal; my room back home was filled with figurines, plush toys, and paintings of this captivating creature. Just as we were about to turn around and rush back to camp, we rolled over a towering hill and my heart palpitated with excitement. My eyes beheld the largest, most beautiful elephants I had ever seen in my life, and in that moment I felt complete. Kitty Lambrechts, XII

Artwork by the Class of 2024 (made when they were in First Grade) The Power of Collaboration First graders eager to create Excited, unsure, confused Who decides? How to begin? Sixteen first graders plan Six and seven year old letting ideas flow through their paintbrushes Sharing, choosing, laughing Forms take shape Colors explode A garden emerges

Poison Poison is a woman’s plaything you sink into her lips subject to her every whim and desire Entranced by her beauty you forget you’re burning from the inside out But when she falls in love her venom does not sting and her fire does not singe but ignites your skin in mutual sparks. But when you are nothing to her? When you stare into eyes that glitter like gems and see indifference staring back you wish for the quick venom of her lips over the agony of longing. Jeannie DeWire, XI

Prized possession A masterpiece that shines sparkles Flowers telling the story of little hands forming them The centerpiece of my room First grade art piece for the Head of School’s office

Terrie Hale Scheckelhoff, Ph.D., Head of School

The Time I Cried When my mom and dad were at the hospital getting ready for the birth of my brother, my mom asked my grandma to babysit me. Spending time with grandma is similar to leaving milk out of a fridge for a month. That is how she would spoil me. She would let me stay up late watching all the princess movies a little girl could want. Plus, she even let me eat all the barbeque chips I wanted. Talk about crunch, crunch, and crunch all through the day! Three years ago my grandma’s behavior became similar to a five year old’s. She didn’t remember anything. She didn’t know the date, the difference between up and down, or even what the different colors were. Every day her behavior was changing. One day she needed to go to the hospital because of how sick she was, although it was not her fault. I understood that. It made my brain explode just listening to some people saying it was her fault that she could not remember things. I would visit her every chance I got. I tried to tell my grandma how my day was, but like a lost cat, she did not know what I was talking about. Then early Saturday morning in November, I went to visit my grandma. We did our same routine. I shared how my day went and what I did at school. After that I just stared at her vital signs on the screen, like a canvas with a little tiny line painted on it. The line was so low and small. It was a little hill making the noise da,da…then down, do,do. Not a tall, strong mountain going up and down making the noise, da,da,da,da then down do,do,do,do. All of a sudden, right when I was staring at the line, it slowly made its way down until the line was flat as a pancake. I cried my heart out. She was the best, most wonderful thing that ever happened to me and now she was gone. My family and I traveled to Seattle. We found the perfect spot near the skyline to throw her ashes out to sea. It was like the spot was calling to us—whoosh, whoosh the sound of those beautiful waves. The spot was beautiful, wonderful, and glorious just like my grandma. So whenever my family and I go to that perfect spot, we will always know she is in the sea waving, “Hi”. I know God planned my grandma’s death, and I know it happened for a reason. Some days I think about how that affected my life. Maybe if she were still alive, I would not have to be as responsible because she would be spoiling me and doing everything for me. I would still be her little girl. I really do miss my grandma more than anything. I pray every day that I could just have one day, one hour, one minute, or even one second with her. Just to say goodbye, and to say these three words, “I love you.” The time we spent together was priceless. Nothing in the world will ever be better than my grandma. Kylie Semo, V

Mary Jane Apostle, XI

Start and End Frightened to death of the day soon to come The mean girls spiteful tones Ring in your ears like payphones Their makeup caked on Weighing more than a ton Dreading the sight of dawn From that alarm clock set upon Stomach churning like a storm All the kids come in a swarm With the anticipation to feel norm The next four years will transform Everyone in this hectic swarm This will only get better If you keep your mind open To all near and clever Please do not give up whenever Things seem tough Remember to always stay rough

Izabela Clarke, XI

Grace Williams, IX

this is just to say I have stolen your laptop that was in your backpack and which you were probably saving for school forgive me it was expensive so shiny and so new

Abby Villanueva, XI Tina Dickey, XII

The Boys of Fall I grew up on football. I live in a household of boys. I have two younger brothers who play football and a father who loves the Washington Redskins more than he loves Christmas. So let’s just say football is a huge part of my life. The funny thing is that I don’t play and won’t ever set foot on a field. But I know that a team starts to freak out if they’re on their 4th down or that a Hail Mary has nothing to do with the Biblical one. When you live in a house of boys, this is what happens. Even when I was little, football was everything. For my first Christmas, my Dad bought me a Redskins cheerleading outfit and every Sunday, Monday, or Thursday, I sported my new look. “Hail to the Redskins” was the first song I ever learned; I knew that before “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” I knew who Art Monk, Darrell Green, and Joe Thiesmann were before I even knew who George Washington was. I vividly remember going out on afternoons during halftime of the Sunday NFL game and trying to throw around with John and Teddy. They would yell weird phrases such as “Omaha,” “Quarterback Sneak, ” or, my personal favorite, “Down, Set, Hike.” They then would expect me to know exactly what to do and where to go. If I didn’t, I often found the back of my head being pelted by the Wilson football. Whoops. Those are my brothers for you. Thank God I never got tackled. Football is everywhere. It’s on TV, commercials, street posters, restaurants, and even clothing. It’s just the American way of life. Football helps bring people together, but at the same time can bring people apart. If you meet someone who is a Cowboys fan, and you love the Redskins, good luck getting along. But in a way that is what is so unique about the football culture. Rivalries make up the excitement of the game. Maybe that’s why I love it so much. Football is the only sport or instance where I can root for a team and at the same time hate the guts out of the other. Today, my football days consist of going to St. Chris Saturday games. My friends and I greatly look forward to dressing up in red and gray on Saturday morning and getting to paint our faces with the players’ numbers on our cheeks. Occasionally, one lucky girl will get to wear the practice jersey of one of the players. But this perfectly describes football. The excitement of the game lies within the preparation and the fans that get just excited for the team. As I am in the process of applying to colleges, I’m going to be honest that something I am really looking forward to is attending the football games. I want to go to a school that is proud of their football team. Hey, it’s what I’ve been taught all of my life. I have learned to appreciate and love the game of football. Wherever I end up, I cannot wait to sport the team colors (hopefully Carolina blue) and sing the chant song each time my team scores a touchdown. So maybe I should thank my Dad for drilling constant football facts into my brain before I even knew my ABC’s. Football, in all, has helped give me the competition and love for a game that will always remain in me. Lily Damgard, XII

Red Support Passion Fault BAM Mystery flavor Volatile Detached 65 degrees ME Williams Haram Edge Reputation Overwhelm Citrus Snowman nose Olive Wannabe Passion mainstream apple patriots b(read) Sleeping light

Noor Samee, X

Mary Jane Apostle, XI

Izabela Clarke, XI

A Letter to Guys Dear Guys, Why can’t you be perfect? Why can’t you be like Four in Divergent, Peeta in The Hunger Games, or Duke Orsino in She’s the Man? I want to find the romantic guy of my dreams. Where is he?! I watch hundreds of romantic comedies. “Rom Coms,” as they’re called, are my favorite genre. Whenever I choose a new show or movie, it usually involves love. It allows me to believe that a flawless guy exists. It also makes me think that there is a guy out there who is caring, loves to talk, has an intellectual personality, enjoys learning, and of course, loves golf. Plus, he has perfect hair, a charming smile, and nice abs. But it’s all false. You see, Prince Charming doesn’t exist. Even if I try to forget about people’s mistakes, I still can’t find him. I know I’m young. I know people say that eventually I’ll find him. But why do I have to wait? Why doesn’t he go to my small private school in Richmond, Virginia? Where is my Wesley from Princess Bride? I’ve had to learn that we’re all imperfect. I’ve had to realize that striving for perfection is impossible. I’ve had to accept my flaws. But it’s still not easy. I feel like I’m waiting and hoping, but what if my duke doesn’t come along? What if I’m too picky about every guy’s actions? What if I end up being the dreaded “cat lady” with fifteen cats, living alone, and always wearing holiday sweaters? It might seem silly to worry about all this, but I dream about my wedding all the time. There was one phase in my life where I wanted to be a wedding designer, and I continually watched TLC’s “Four Weddings” and “Say Yes to the Dress.” Recently, I even went to my first wedding, and I was blown away. It was beautiful and exciting. It gave me the chills and made me dream of my own. I want to be married in the spring with blue and green hydrangeas at a church with beautiful stain glass windows. My sister will be my Maid of Honor, and my brother a Groomsman. I will wear an off-white, elegant and flowy dress with straps. It will be simple but elegant. At the wedding the Zac Brown Band will perform, and we’ll have lots of food because who doesn’t love eating? Don’t worry there won’t be any lines, and you can start eating whenever you like. We’ll have crispy potatoes, perfectly cooked tenderloin, a well-seasoned spring squash mix, and Pearl’s cake that’s chocolate with vanilla icing, lots of it, enough for seconds and thirds, and other cupcakes including carrot cake for my dad, red velvet, and s’mores. Plus, a gluten free option for my sister. As you can see, I have part of my life planned out, but I’m missing the most important piece: a guy. Some say its crazy that I think about my wedding. Even my dad leaves the room when I bring it up, but I’m a planner. I like to organize. I like to know what’s going to happen. That’s why I’m waiting for my Four to come along and sweep me away. I’m waiting for my Rom Com to come to life. I’m waiting to be Katniss or any of those fictional characters. I know my Wesley is out there. I believe he is, but for now I will wait and wonder. Sincerely, Libbie Libbie Warner, XII

Zoe Huling, XII My Grandparents Basement: An Antique Abyss A thin layer of dust coats the piano keys, yellowing beaver teeth, like sawdust, the remains of trees once destructed. Most keys are inaudible, vocalists with lost voices, yet those that speak creak and sputter, struggling to produce a single crisp note. On rare occasion, when the tone is found, all turn and silence busy mouths, respecting the musical aura and sole vibration. Photographs of smiling children and well-loved cars sit comfortably atop an elegant wooden bureau, tucked against a wall directly across from the piano. Their stories, though pixelated, are visible to all who witness them, untarnished tales of the ages. Down a shy, shadowy, corridor a washing machine murmurs,”Hmmmm”, a mechanism lost in contemplation. The television, a lone symbol of modern life, is a buzzing rectangle of entertainment and high definition relaxation, the heart of this antique human of a cellar. Placed in the the rear of the room in a conspicuous central position, it somehow seems more essential than a heart: for it is a soul. The room in its entirety is perfumed with the scent of freshly baked gingerbread men, and clothing lying, stagnant, unused, and forgotten in the depths of an unnoticed closet. Synthetic soldiers boots once clickclacked rhythmically, marching atop a wooden table of a battlefield. Grubby hands have plucked sergeants from battle, but they don’t seem to mind, for they are wise and patient, the outcome of many years at battle. The bar, lounging casually in the room’s right hand corner, is a reminder of good times yet to come and good times past. Children’s hands continue to grab at the Lilliputian warriors while a pale, rusted light illuminates the euphoria from up above.

Peyton Hudson, V

Yueming Chen, XI

Forever Is Too Long! Last Night the full moon was smiling down at us through the window, making my hair look like dewy blades of grass. My sister, an annoying pest, was humming a loud tune just to annoy me! La la la la la la! Uggg. Suddenly she asked me, “Mayher, if you had any one wish what would it be?” I answered, “That’s easy. I wish that I could live forever. Now go to sleep.” Little did I notice the shooting star outside my window, winking at me and shining as brightly as the sun. The sun was my alarm clock. It was almost ringing at me that bright, sunny morning. A glass of water sat patiently on my bedside table, and as I pulled the bright green covers of my bed back I saw the beautiful design painted on the ceramic. It was as black as night, with golden shooting stars painted as if they were falling to earth. It was as if the cup was pulling me towards it, begging me to take just one tiny sip, and I couldn’t resist it. I gave into the pull, and took a gulp of water. It was sweet and cold, and felt wonderful as it ran down my parched throat, leaving me with a warm feeling, a blanket embracing me in its warm arms. Then the cup disappeared, and in its place a note, the words of danger, appeared. It said… Dear Reader, Your wish has been granted. You will be pause in time from this day forward, and live forever, never dying, until the universe ends, in which case you will be in parallel. Not live, but not yet dead… but I digress… Nothing can hurt you or kill you now, and there is no going back. Good luck and happy forever. Sincerely, Star I was stunned. A ton of bricks hit me right then and there! My wish… a reality? I didn’t have to worry about anything! I would be about as stressed, worried, and scared as a piece of paper. I would get to see everything in the world, and I would have forever to discover all its wonders. Forever is as long as a spool of yarn… you can never seem to unreal it to the end! Forever is long enough. In that moment it felt as if the whole room was smiling down at me. Slowly a smile crept up my face too. I was so overjoyed that I cried out, “Yippee!” (cont. on next page)

Then the problems to my situation arose in my mind. I thought, “How long is forever? Am I going to keep living, living, never ending, even after my family is dead? My life will have no purpose! I will be as bored as a rock! All of my friends will pass me in the grades, and I will be left alone, in middle school forever, in a cone of isolation.” No, forever isn’t long enough, it’s too long. FOREVER IS TOO LONG! At this point, the room seemed to take on a new form. Now it was cold, staring at me as if I had just done something terrible. The sun had been covered with oncoming clouds, angry ones, and the storm began. Why had I done this to myself ? I don’t want to live forever! Time has paused for me, like how you pause a T.V. show on a remote control. When can I press play? Never? A look of worry and anxiety crossed my face, leaving me looking like I was constipated! I spent the rest of the day worried and agitated, and the storm outside just wouldn’t let up. The clouds weren’t angry anymore. They seemed like they were waiting for something, but I didn’t know what. That night I lay in bed, and I let moonlight from my window wash over me like a warm blanket. I sat up, and looked with rapt attention and concentration outside my window. Then I saw it! As the shooting star fell towards earth, I made my wish quickly, “I wish that none of this had ever happened!” I will never know what happened next because sleep devoured me. When I woke up nothing seemed different, except for the fact that the storm had cleared, and the sun was shining brightly once again. “It’s o.k.”, I told myself, “I didn’t expect it to work anyway.” I was just about to except my predicament when I noticed the little slip of paper on my bedside table! All it said was… Good Choice -Star Now that all of this is over, I’m glad that I made the decision I did, but I will always be one day younger than I used to be.

Mayher Suri, V

Izabela Clarke, XI Chandler Steinbrugge, XI

Heron

Judgment

The girl with scabby knees watches by the bank. She’s familiar with the curve. Each time she sits her knees are farther from her ankles. But I remember her eyes and hers, mine

Red-face organs stand in slant, all lined up necks towards Iris.

The man on the porch walks with three slices he shuffles like I No sound, No mark He’s familiar with the curve. each time he sits his skin groans louder. But I remember his eyes And his, mine.

A shifting inside, the dreaded ceremony drums a crack in skin.

The house sold after his eyes rolled black. And the girl left, cold. Her knees all healed up.

Madison Wilkinson, XI

Knees shacking, numb. Hands knotting, damp.

They send the hounds called for dissection looking for knots open in the web. If flat, free If tangled – howling Steel voices invade andGuns between eyelids

Madison Wilkinson, XI

Danielle Armstrong , Faculty

In the Philadelphia Museum

From this small room to the mind’s bright Boulevards: its Sunday crowds seeking after light Circling now in Renoir’s gentle brush; then drawn By Matisse’s broad black thumb down broad embankments. From this small room to the mind’s clean Jungles: the tidy lunatics of wild Rousseau: His vicious cats watchful; their human eyes obscene. Polite apes pose in perfect groves of oranges. From this small room to the mind’s tiered Ploughlands: its star-bright waters of hay and heather: See Van Gogh’s cosmos in a country postman’s beard – Milkmaids’ dreams and crows a-weather in a small room.

Seth Martin, Faculty

Madison Wilkinson, XI

A Favorite Place: My Dreams Immersed in endless excitement like an infinite rollercoaster, The illusions of my mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye mold the cold, harsh reality of the world into a place of childhood memories, I submerge into the world of undefined limits, As dreams are but bubbles-they are of fragile substance, In a realm of their own, They are meant to float by in sub-consciousness, Giving the misconception of a reality that could be, One of daylight but also of dark nights, All trapped in a transparent false existence Hush, The emptiness of a silence that is strangely satisfying, And such are whispers of the crudely formed thoughts that scurry past, The scope of your thoughts, feelings, desires compiled in a single universe neednâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be succinct for some, They already left behind the ability to feel without feeling and see without seeing, They dwell in an unforgiving reality that steals their power to imagine the impossible, Dreams are the refuge from Father Time and the unraveling thread that is holding up the Earth, Tragic is the fate of dreamers, who fail to open their eyes, But even more so is that of the livers who never close their eyes to dream.

Aiza Chaudry, IX

You told me you were leaving, And the oceans filled my eyes. That was this morning, Now theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re dry. My only reminders That you leave in mere weeks Are the patterns of tears On my salt-stained cheeks.

Your Descision New-fledged birds flying unsteady through trees, Singing their songs in their own special keys. Falling to earth brushing dust off their knees, Giving up hope until one of them sees

Eleanor Robb, VII

Anonymous

Chandler Steinbrugge, XI

Izabela Clarke, XI

Emma Phillips, XI

6001 Grove Avenue â&#x20AC;˘ Richmond, Virginia 23226

• Dedicated to Derek Kannemeyer •

Atelier 2015

ATELIER • 2015 •