The The Lyre Lyre 2018 2018
Dear Readers, The Lyre is happy to present the fruit of a year’s work. Each week a group of artists and writers meets to read through your submissions. Each year we are suprised and humbled by the fantasitc work that comes from our community. This year is no exception. We are incredibly grateful to all of those who submit, and also for those who work hard to keep this decades-long tradition. Thank you for your contributions, and we hope you enjoy these words, brushstrokes, and everything in-between as much as we do. -Letter from the Editors Special Thanks to the Art Department and to our Fearless Captain Christopher Shipman
Cover Art by Olivia Ernst ‘19
Bald Women Grayson Doyle ‘18 The bald woman knows all the tricks In her sundress that tastes like old fashions She puffs slims when she cheats at monopoly And rolls her own after she wins She stands when she plays jazz piano In the pubs in London Her glasses are bright yellow Her eyes a cool grey They welcome friends, but pierce ceramics She lost her hair in a fire It grew back, but she liked it better Gone
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The Fortune Teller of 06’ Lindsey Laforge ‘20
I am five Playing in the sandbox With socks Stealing buckets And flinging dirt Out of the box Crying with sand in my eyes Looking down at bugs With my magnifying glass Seeing them squirm. Die Bubbles that can’t be blown Emptiness throughout the slap(?) My kite never leaving the ground Only my hopes and dreams. Of being a princess I know of the softness of my pillow And that bedtime is 9 o’clock But even when my eyes shut My brain never turns off I know this man He is as nice as thorns He only helps those kids That are my friends No one else knows him Why do we need sleep? We are more cranky when we wake up And not everyone Sleeps the same amount It’s unfair I wonder is santa Gives gifts to all Kids 2
Good or bad Maybe we can all be bad And still be good kids Candy probably isn’t bad for teeth It’s just a myth Us kids are forced to belief I’m gonna figure out How this place works And find a person To answer me
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The Dark Forest Elliot Peyton ‘20 As I walked down the gloomy forest grove, “Half past midnight, it might be,” thought I, Falling deeper still to the farthest throws Of my own brain, yet still staying, and saying: “There must be some beast, some fragment of fear, Coming ever nearer, but never appearing.” A sliver of light, breaking through the brush Lets me warm, busk, but not for long, For that creature crawls ever closer, speedily Within the light. It threatens, knows; that light Does not last, once it is gone IT can move twice As fast. So long do I dwell in the light Moving past, further into the night. It hunts always, and knows where I hide For thru Its eyes I see, and it through Mine.
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Nightbath Elizabeth Kuehne ‘18
It is past eleven I do not know the real time I know that it is dark And that the moon is only a rib of the sky Tonight The wind blows rain into the wet oak hands The water wicks into the street Like storm pearls freed from their line Scattered They will sink into the ground by the time The stars wink shut
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Dying Green By Zachery Day ‘20 Shattered flowers fill the bottom of your shoes They cut your socks Your blood is dripping like quarters on the ground Forming crumbs all over the living room But you kept the thorns Why in that glass jar?
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Solitude Winner of the Upper School Boluwatife Prize By Lillian Doskey ‘18 I wake up in wet grass The morning sun blinding my point of view No one here, just my lost self The whispers of the wind blow out my eardrums Trees tall, looming Fallen leaves screaming for their mothers, but get swept away in the whispers I’ll fall asleep in dry grass The moon will share her cheese Still lost, still alone But the whispers have left me. “Doskey’s ‘Solitude’ pairs seemingly simple, sparse images with a light lyrical touch. The journey of the speaker is both a quest and a surrender, and the way the opening and closing of the poem echo each other gives the poem more heft with each subsequent read.” -Jordan Soyka, Middle School Instructor of English
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Beyond By Katie Kirchner ‘26 Among the starry night, in the sky, across the field of grass, beside the sea, over the highest mountain, against a rocky spot, lay a child underneath a sheet of softness
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I am nine Eleanor Parker, ‘21 looking out just to see you under the grey blanket draped from the sky whispering through creaks and cracks left behind by the past vanishing like a rabbit in a magician’s hat crawling under the feet of the voices from above shattering the jar I kept you in I had no glue looking for you was like looking for a corner in a circular room I knew the corner wasn’t there like it had been times before this time the room took it from me
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Untitled By Myles Kullander ‘20 I laid awake Or at least I think I was awake at this moment I was in my bed and dozed off Suddenly I’m in a peculiar room Walls covered in mirrors, Reflecting images The first of these images A scarecrow It was burning But at closer glance It was submerged in water It was followed By a baby playing Inside what seemed to be a bakery But it was alone And the pastries rotten Then I wake To the thundering noise Of gun fire
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Abigail Beck ‘21
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Preperation for Hell By Khaja Bradley ‘18 Being drafted into the war And partaking in the uproar, I couldn’t believe it was me, I was just out drinking tea, Now I could lay dead by a random tree, But it was reality And I am now a draftee I was now doing training, Which was everything but entertaining, But I questioned myself, What was I actually training for? To be torn into pieces by the war? Then my ashes sit in an urn on a shelf. Now I sit in the trench, And read this poem, Embracing the stench, Awaiting the bombshells, I title this, Preparation for Hell
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On Sunday Night Sophia Warren ‘20 I had been dreaming About the world ending And everyone else was fine Except for me I rode in a car Driven by an officer He pulled over to die And everyone else just kept talking A nurse removed my liver Someone needed it more I thought it killed me But I woke up again My family was waiting for me Well half of them were I was okay with dying As long as I didn’t know about it
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Requiem By Zachery Day ‘20 There’s a train That’s where I’m going It’s going through my breath like a bullet once did The mellifluous sound of the steam and horn drips blood back into my veins The destination is desire incarnate But I’m left with this hiraeth It was ineffable what we shared Connected through whispers and glances Like a dreamful somnambulist twisting his coffee with his ring finger Empty Our breathing was sonorous when alone as it bombinated in our throats It was brief and consistently disappointing Let this oblivion resonate with us like petrichor But I like the sun In the past And in the future
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Own Version: Venus Flytrap Elyse Kann ‘20
I am five, Riding my bike down long Narrow roads With nothing but a story on my mind. Following the cracks In the street with My eyes. If i step on One I know you will hurt. No so bad you Would die. But I still love you I wonder what death tastes like If I fall off of my bike I could feel it But not taste it That’s okay. When I close my eyes. In my dreams I can imagine a field of Tall grass. Butterflies flying past My ear, sending a chill down my spine
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Nature p.o.v. Pearl By Macy Johnson ‘20 “The big tree is dying in different places. Parts of it have turned as white as the old man that spoke to mama one time; that’s funny. Maybe the tree is as old as the old man and changes too. I didn’t think trees could die; they’re so big and strong. Mommy calls me big and strong too and I don’t die. Thats funny. Maybe big and strong things can die too. One leaf just started to dance. It twirled and jumped and then its friend danced back to it. I want to be a leaf so I can dance and twirl with all of my leafy friends and never die and never be afraid.”
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Swim Lessons By Sara Brechtel ‘20 I was dreaming Seven years old Swim lessons with nana Its calm, the water flowing The smell of sunscreen A weight is on my chest I tell nana not to look At the light She doesn’t hear me She looks They take her The vampires They turn her I scream Its pitch black They are surrounding me I close my eyes
A piercing sound Goes off
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The Haunted House By Nathan Ortiz ‘28 They claim the house was haunted, but it looked ok to me. So I decided to see it for myself. I went in and it looked ok, but it was dark. Then I heard a screech in a hallway. So, I walked through the hallway and I saw a shadow. I followed it into this dark room. Then the door closed and locked. Then I noticed the walls were colored and they started to spin. I got dizzy and fell into a trap door into a jail cell. Then I heard a voice. I thought I was just hearing things, but then I knew it was that same fool whose shadow I followed. Then I saw a cat, and he brought me a key. Then I broke free. Then I found a note on the door, and it said … leave if you dare for I never want you im my lair. So I did.
The Haunted House By Morgan Markey ‘28 They claim the house was haunted, but it looked ok to me. So I went in and there were portraits of zombies all over the walls. I heard screeching and howling. Then I got really scared! So I ran to get out of the house, but the doors slammed shuts. Now I couldn’t get out. There were bats hanging from the ceiling and spiders all over the portraits. I saw a secret staircase, so I went upstairs. I went down a hallway and walked into a dark room with zombies surrounding me! I went into another room. In that room, all the windows were cracked and there I saw a talking cat. It told me enter this closed if you dare. He also told me you will find some interesting items in here. At that point, I jumped out of the window. I landed in a pool of slime. Then I climbed out and I was safe.
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The Haunted House By Eliza Morin ‘28 They claim the house was haunted, but it looked ok to me. So I went in. I don’t know why they called it haunted. Why did they? I have not idea so I go in. It doesn’t look scary to me. As I said, I go in. I check it out. I see spiderwebs all over the place. I hate spiderwebs! I scream! There is a skeleton skull on the chair. I see a roach crawling on the bookcase. There is a secret door in one of the shelves. I go in. It is very long. Finally I get to the end. Now it is creepy. But then I see a real ghost. It’s chasing me through the secret door, the skeleton skull, the roach, and the spiderwebs. Finally I reach the doorknob. I open the door and step outside. I also lock the door. I run home where I’m safe. I’m never going to that house again. Now I know why that house is creepy.
The Haunted House
By Mia Zenker ‘28
They claim the house was haunted, but it looked ok to me. So, I went to the man and asked if I could see inside the house. He said yes. So I went in and I saw a bat. I also saw a witch on a broom. But what scared me the most was a ghost. I saw a portrait. It’s eyes were following me. I found the exit and never went back.
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The Movie By Tristan Lopez ‘26 Sitting on the couch watching in fear I closed my eyes and looked away As the movie ended in a gruesome death I open my eyes and look right back right at the screen and quickly fall asleep
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Nightmare By Zoe Ohmes ‘20 We were dreaming Believing we were My body, foreign and cold Was this truly it for us A part of me stripped away Clutching it with my fingernails, bruised Digging deeper Into dirty honey Clouded and faded With grime and filth Torn, taking my nails And flesh A snap in the distance I wasn’t there to hear it numbness , my crude soul drenched In clonazepam Acidic taste Quelling little under my tongue I broke my kneecaps, plates fragile Thin, running to her A sinful obsession Dirty, dirty me
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Tears flowing separately Filthy rivers attempting To interlace As out fingers only wished A hollow pulse in my chest The painful reverb I flounder, helpless, broken A worm left under the sun Sleeping in a tree branch The roots, veins burning and toxic Rose flesh Petals touchy and ripe A sweet inhalation Burnt aspartame I feel Another, neither could she Sometimes the scariest dreams Are our reality
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Belief in Release By Brycen Malbrough ‘20 Cold as the streets of Den Haag, Isolated as the darkness from beyond, Your soul, my soul, All intertwined into me, Held within the despair of a future prison, Longing for the release that never comes
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The Searching Lighthouse Alyssa Garrido ‘20 Chloe Fejka ‘20 Eleanor Parker ‘20 Zachery Day ‘20 The eye of the lighthouse Pierces through the abyss of what was once vivacious O waiting the wishful turning of the noiseless patient spider Burning and flooding the anchor that covers the silent world It stood isolated while the vast surrounding flames scorched it up The branches anchor the spheres connecting the unknown Scorched light drowning in the ocean O may the bridge be formed once more
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March 23rd in December Luke Giordano ‘18 its march 23rd in December and the sun peaks through the curtains it glistens on the metallic snowflakes a chain reaction of glowing specks like stars that fall from the sky with the sole purpose of landing on our musty winter coats that keep us too warm in the spring heat the soldiers march through the piles of snow they shout hut two three for no reason it is march 23rd in December for no reason at all and the birds that contrast the white snow with their bright blue feathers they build little bird huts like we do they are blessed by the same stars that fall upon us its march 24th and no longer December and the snowflakes are all dried up all melted and dried up dried up by the stars they held like the star that holds us i like the stars i like march i like december i like the stars
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When I Have Nothing To Do By Jack McElveen ‘18 Watching these pixelated creature through my dusty screen My eyes trying to break the barrier of subtitles The explosions bleed every feeling of the creator I see myself in every protagonist Because it seems better to be there than here Its my escape from an escape Even though it’s all in japanese I understand it better than I do my surroundings
Panic and Paranoia at Muses Parade By Tanner Sykes ‘20 I hear New Orleans screaming with joy as a series of 26 floats passes by. I see New Orleans teaming with children attempting to grow up faster by doing thing they know they’ll regret later on. I smell New Orleans streets, with the scents of alcohol and grass battling to see which one can smell the worst and percolate the furthest. I feel New Orleans attempting to cause as much damage as they can to public property, on-coming floats, and each others feelings. I have made the strategic decision not to taste New Orleans, as I am aware of the city’s poor sewer system. While I am not alone in the crowd I certainly feel like I’m the only one who senses these things. But then again, I’m just a teenager. Maybe I’ll grow out of it.
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7:14 By Katie Oster ‘20 I am nine, And I can live through the fantasy. Where panthers grow Taller than trees With their paws softly thumping As they follow my car I live inside blankets And locked bathrooms Fake smiles fase In my own little cave Old movies and new books Fuel my imagination Invisible fans clap As I put on my show Real fans clap when I Display my art. Later, I cut through the paper With his words I stand behind walls Of silver and gold And watch my teddy bears dance. I like when paint gets on my jeans But sometimes bright colors sting my eyes Like when red streaks my room And i freeze from my daydreams And my dreams become dreams And what’s real becomes real I am nine. I pick up rocks As I walk Put them in a box Next to notes of love
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I make up rules to games that don’t exist People smile when I change them. I get hugs when I leave or arrive. And laughs when I don’t make jokes I hear monsters outside my house And angels in my nightmares As I dream and dream my real away. My real keeps crawling back
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I Hear America Shouting By Katie Oster ‘20 I hear america shouting, the anger and fear rings out The voices of protester, all shouting for change The shouts of children who grew up too fast The women with a horrible past Each victim of prejudice and fear All shouting in unison against those who wronged them I hear those shouting back Those in anger and frustration and fear of change Their voices sore and faces red The love for tradition and their beliefs Voices reverberating against one another I also hear the silence Those who can change but wont The people who don’t understand why they fight The passionate who won’t say their piece Or those who stand back and wait for piece American voices echo across the world Each side hoping for reconciliation None settling for less than their desires
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Unnamed By Brandon Stokes ‘20 We’d been dreamers Or at least I had About the rings around the lake That sent you places As you went through them A purple dragon bumbled about A he was my guide Through one ring Was a cave of gems Gleaming in the torch light Unseen by man Where the tesseractic flames Grow forth from the earth With their brilliant glow I ran around And bathed in their light A great bird swirled around Looking for an ox To feed its young Then we heard A scream that lit up the dark
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My Dreams When I Was Way Young Elliot Peyton ‘20 I’m in a moderate sized room Glass windows are the walls Pretty high up I think I thought it something different Something distant, that’s far and fading The unfamiliarity only briefly contested By some group I would know The feeling lost as quickly as they leave In its wake a sense of dread, some part anger As my voice goes unheard The sound of nothing falls on absent ears And I am alone, but not for long That sense and aura Dread, fear, anger Becomes a force A physical manifestation which I can only sense. It whispers in my direction inaudible, almost But yet louder as it approaches Till it whispers in my ear Like a gust of wind, then Howling and unintelligible Until I burst open my eyes Shuddering in my bed Looking to a corner in my room And I can still barely hear the whispers Through the night And I barely sleep.
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Disappearing Acts: A Lesson in History Elizabeth Kuehne ‘18
Ancient Greece A new mother would hold her child To the eyes of her husband Asking if the new soul was acceptable Girls were often not Their hands too tiny To be that of an heir’s Too tiny For the weight of an ancestry The face of continents Lack women by the millions They say it was disease Or fate Maybe it was futility But how much can someone accomplish Buried beneath the sands Of a river bank Or before they are even born? Young Girls Can watch the news and see their own Disappear Some people speak of it With the inevitability of a Setting sun But they are kept Hoarded Like chess pieces swept from a board Bargaining chips for your globe face games Live from the Government Girls Secondary School A woman takes second priority Bowl in hand next to a man 32
They are not fed Because we are meant to shrink into beauty Then dust We are taught blood and pain so early And we taught to accept them And not to talk about them But they are not imaginary and they are not friends They are feelings out bodies Fold into fists Tearing at delicate seams They are our backs against A scraping wall Breath against our face Falling away Away Gone The woman is always evaporating It is not a disappearing act There is no hole in the stage Because there is no stage We cannot pull any curtains shut There is just an audience And us At closing time we are swept off For the next act
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Clara Rabe ‘19, Mya Porter ‘21, Nigel Tatum ‘19
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Olivia Ernst ‘19
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Anabella Imbornone ‘19
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Grayson Doyle ‘18
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Eleanor Parker ‘20, Gavin Powell ‘20, Katie Williams ‘20
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Alec Ricci ‘19
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Abby Seamster ‘29
Robin Clotworthy ‘29
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Marley Shepherd ‘28
Morgan Markey ‘28 41
Ava Campo ‘26
Zoya Mohiuddin ‘29 42
Clara Rabe ‘19
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Noemi Garo ‘18
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Grayson Doyle ‘18
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Anabella Imbornone ‘19
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Clara Rabe ‘19
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Grayson Doyle ‘18
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Kolby McWilliams ’19
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Morgot Scott ‘18
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Olivia Ernst ‘19
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Elise LaVie ‘29
Sophia Yatsko ‘29 52
An Untitled Story Winner of the Lower School Boluwatife Prize Christopher Lawler ‘26 I really hate when Flame wakes me up at 4 in the morning. I was really tired from going hunting for food last night. Flame is always trying to train me for the flight of the stars, but he is very obnoxious sometimes. “Let me sleep,” I groaned quietly. “Time for training you lazy dragon!” Flame snapped. He hauled me into the training room using his huge talons as an advantage. “Hey I can walk!” I protested. He obviously couldn’t hear me or didn’t care. “Thunder,” he yelled at me, “You have to fight Frost today, and win for once!” Frost was one of the six dragons that was chosen to come complete the prophecy along with me Thunder, Geo, Blaze, Pria, and Nightbringer. There is supposedly a prophecy about us, but I am pretty sure it is not going to happen. The prophecy says “When the stars take flight, and the wind has blight, heroes will arise to make the light. When the second star breaks, courage it will take, to make a decision no one shall make. When the third star fades, shades walk untroubled through the veins of valor, and taint it with their influence. When the fourth star strays, the force of all life will be in pain. When the fifth star speaks, atop the highest peaks, six stars falling, one by one. When the sixth star falls, peril will arise and rip through lives untouched.” “Thunder I need help I am stuck in the bush again,” Pria called. I ran over and saw that she had, indeed got caught in the only blackberry bush for miles. I cut some thick branches around her body so she could wriggle free. She nervously fidgeted with a blackberry in her hand and accidentally crushed it, squirting juice everywhere. Pria then ran off to the library to read a scroll. Also I have 5 guardians. Flame, Hestu, Skull, Ivy, and Iris. We have five classes battle training, hunting, element training, endurance, and geography. “Thunder,” our endurance teacher, Hestu called, “Time for endurance training.” I slowly walked over to the the entrance of the cave wondering what we were going to do for endurance. Hmm. I wonder if it is hot coals or electric shocks. Endurance is normally some very painful test. I walked into the cave and noticed a bucketful of leeches. Ew I thought I thought leeches just felt weird and didn’t hurt. Are these poisoned? 53
“Thunder you want to be the first to try the suckers?” Asked Hestu. What!? I thought. “Hestu is this some kind of cruel joke!?” I asked. Hestu replied, “Nope this is the next test.” I walked up and stared down at the leeches they looked like a writhing black mass in the water. I was pushed from behind and fell into the tank. The leeches started to untangle and edge toward me. I kicked and thrashed in the water knocking leeches away from my scales. One leech bit me on my talon, and it felt extremely uncomfortable. It felt like a cold kind of suction feeling. I tried to jump out but Hestu pushed me back in saying words that were to muffled for me to understand. The leeches started to suck on me again and it started to sting. I really hoped I would not have any side effects from the leeches venom. Hestu suddenly pulled me out of the tank and said I completed the test. I watched as my friends walked into the room and saw the leeches. “Ew,” Pria said, “why do they have to be freaky?” She suddenly fell in and it looked hilarious. I laughed so hard at her surprised expression when the leech bit her. Frost soon came in and tripped on a rock (probably put there on purpose by Hestu so Frost would fall in.) and fell into the tank. I laughed, too at his surprised expression. Geo walked in and I laughed again but less fruitfully now and then Nightbringer fell in, but he wasn’t funny neither was Blaze. We soon talked about our experiences with the leeches afterward. “That was uncomfortable,” Pria said, “I was scared to death when Hestu pushed me in.” “Me too,” agreed Frost. “Me also,” I chimed in. “Let’s go to element raining,” Pria said. I suddenly heard Ivy calling “Time for elemental training.” Uhhhhhhh. I ran into the corner so she could not blast me with confetti. The others came in too late and had confetti blasted between every scale. “Surprise,” Ivy screamed, “happy 6th birthday Thunder!” Uhmmmm… “O.k you did not have to throw a party for me.” I said. “What is the surprise?” I asked hopefully. “A high voltage massage and electrical cake.” Ivy said excitedly. Okay she knows what my favorite things are. Did I mention that I am a thunderwing? Well I guess not… there are different types of dragons. I am a thunderwing, Frost is a frostwing, Geo is an earthwing, Nightbringer is a nightwing, Pria is a naturwing, and Blaze is a flamewing. We each feel better in our own elements, but the rarer the element the stronger the boost. We all attract our different boosts, like wherever Pria goes something grows because she attracts nature. Geo attracts earth so… let’s just say he gets dirtier than the rest of us. I walked down to the back cave and ate my high voltage cake. I stayed in the back cave for the rest of class watching the others get stuck in carnivorous plants and boulders. After class I thanked Ivy and left. 54
I soon heard Iris calling us for geography. “Class,” Iris called, “geography time.” I walked into the cave. “We will be learning about Peril’s weaknesses and strengths,” Iris said. Peril is supposed to ‘rise’ and supposedly Peril is a being. “Well class peril is a heavily armored scavenger looking thing,” Iris said. Just a armored scavenger? “Iris he is just a scavenger?” I asked. “No he has dark magic heavily, enchanted weapons, armor, is almost impossible to kill, and he will be impossible to kill if the sixth star falls,” Iris replied. Oh. “What does his magic do?” I asked. “We don’t know, but dragons have reported possessed armor, reapers, stalkers, shadows, negative energy bursts, Guardians, Dragon Hunters, and dragons disappearing out of thin air,” She said. Powerful or is he in a pact with a stronger more powerful being… Yes he is in a pact with me, Arogog the prince of all dragons to get revenge on the dragons who did this to me. Did what you you? Turned me into the horror I am now. Horror? A living skeleton. What?! You will get rewarded if you free me. Do you want to be rewarded? No. WHAT!? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! “Thunder?” Iris said pulling me out of my thoughts. “are you o.k?” “Yeah” I replied“just thinking.” “O.k,” Iris said starting to walk away to get a map. “Iris wait,” I called “do you think Peril has a pact with a more powerful being with more dark magic than Peril?” “He would have to be in a pact with someone who knows dark magic but he doesn’t have to be more powerful than Peril,” she said. Hmmmm… could he be weaker than Peril? Weaker than Peril? Ha! The strongest dragon in the world defeated by enchantments he placed? Ridiculous! You placed the enchantments on his armor and weapons? Of course I did. Do you know anyone else who can place an enchantment that makes you almost immortal? Wait if you are the prince of dragons, Arogog, then why have I not heard of you? I am forbidden to walk across the land that will soon be mine. Not that I can’t, just that I would be unwelcome. “Thunder, Pria, Geo, Blaze, Frost, and Nightbringer hunting time,” Skull’s magically enhanced voice called from the left corridor. I ran over to where the sound came from and ended up in the hunting corridor. I looked up and saw Skull grinning down at me from his perch on a stalagmite. “Your here first,” He said throwing me a cow, “so you get first catch.” I quickly ate the cow and asked skull what we were doing today. Skull. “O.k now I need to teach you how to dive bomb your prey and scare it to death,” Skull said. This was Skull’s favorite technique for killing prey. “You have to swoop down and stay above them and slowly glide down and then put on a burst of speed and land in front of them,” Skull said, “Now you try.” I swooped off the ledge and looked around for some 55
prey. I suddenly heard Skull yelling but could not make out what he said as I swooped lower to the ground. I saw a dark object beside me out of the corner of my eye. Then the pain came. A searing pain started creeping up my talons into my body. “Ow!” I yelled, and then plummeted out of the sky. I hit the ground with a thud leaving an impression in the mud. I quickly shook off the mud and looked up to see what knocked me out of the sky. When I looked up I saw a dark mass hovering just above the ground. At first I could not make out what it was because the mass hovering in front of me was so dark it obscured the light of the sun and I was cast in shadows. I could only make out the things huge green eyes staring down at me from above. The eyes looked like they could see inside him his soul and life force seemed to weaken under the creatures gaze. The thing had made shadow bars over all the entrance of the school. The thing seemed to be trying to prevent my escape. I ran and started to fly away when something caught my talons and I was pulled down to the ground. I looked back at what had caught my talons, and saw that a dark rope had slithered up my leg. I struggled against the rope that was bound to my leg, but the rope was to strong for me to break free. I was dragged Down to the ground and was dragged down into the dirt. The mass hovering just behind me seemed to be determined to catch me. I shot a lightning bolt at the things face, and the rope loosened and I was able to run away from the thing chasing me. RUN!!!!! My instincts told me, and I did. I was going in no presific direction, just trying to get away from that thing behind me. After my adrenaline waited I flew south hoping to find Tundra Tower so I could seek refuge in the protecting tower’s walls. The tower rose out of the wind ravaged ground like a towering spire over everything else in sight. I flew toward it and was spotted by the guards. They took me in, and in return I explained to them what had happened during my hunting class. “Kid” The guard on the left said “there has never been such thing as a floating mass of darkness ever recorded in history.” They have not seen a mass of darkness… I wonder why. The tower is the highest building in Tyron. They should be able to see everything. Not me, little one. I walk in the shadows of cloaked darkness. No one can see me unless I want them to. You were the thing that attacked me?! …
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“Christopher Lawler makes magic with words, not because his story is filled with magical creatures, but because the way he uses language casts spells on the reader. It is clear that this young writer is having a great time creating this world, and our experience is all the better for it.� -Christopher Shipman, Upper School Instructor of English
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Walking up a Mountain Aidan Molaison ‘26 Walking, taking short fast breaths Seeing the vibrant green trees passing by Looking down on the lake Smelling the beautiful flowers and grass Touching the rough rock of the mountain Eating a ham sandwich for a lunch picnic Playing tag with my brother and sister Standing on the top of the mountain Then having to go back down But wanting to come back
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Athena’s Wind Sakshi Sadwani ‘20 I am eight, looking out at the shine Dull ocean, Useless people & tv, Going on To the wind Sweaty in the cold. Don’t blow me away Cause I have my Barbie doll High heels. It can hurt if you step on it Like legos. The dreams I had are Gone like Toys R Us & there is nothing Only thing I have is me Alone. is me. I am eight & done.
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2016-2017 Savannah Collins ‘21 The year of staring in the mirror, and sucking in our stomach until we couldn’t breathe. Cheering for surviving our last year of school, throwing away our uniforms, and burning our bibles. Sitting on the roof, laughing, and trying to push each other off, because it would do us a favor. Replacing sleeping and eating with crying or fainting. Wondering why eating breakfast tasted like failure. Convincing ourselves we will never be good enough, thinking it would make us strive to be better, but it only made us worse. Looking at models, cutting them out of magazines and gluing them to an image we wished for. Throwing away our lunches because we only felt beautiful if we were hungry. If you are not surviving you are dying. We fell in love with our mental disorders because they made us different. Our makeup ran down our faces as we cried over boys. We sent our prayers of being acceptable to God, but he never answered us. Begging for a thin frame, carved cheekbones, clear skin, big eyes, nice smiles, a thigh gap, and long hair. Betraying each other because that’s what the pretty girls did. Staying up too late. Ripping up our yearbook pictures. Checking our cell phones for validation. Missed call from BFF: neglect. Instagram notification: you’re beautiful. Tumblr notification: you fit in. Text message: “we need to talk”. 60
Snapchat: not important. Watching TV shows my mom said not to watch. Kissing boys daddy said not to. Crying over report cards. Looking up how many calories are in the air, because we had to reach our goals or be punished by everyone else. Trying to find a how-to guide. Gagging ourselves to escape. Wondering how much of our life it would cost to drop out. We thought life was hard, and didn’t believe it could get any harder. When summer finally came we said goodbye to our teachers and each other with half hearted smiles, and parted ways. We forgot about our year of destruction and creation.
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13 Ways Khaja Bradley ‘18 Just you and the toilet. Just you, the toilet, and the phone. Just you, the toilet, the phone, and music. Just you, the toilet, the phone, the music, and a candle. Just you, the toilet, the phone, the music, a candle, and running water. Just you, the toilet, the phone, the music, a candle, running water, and a magazine. Just you, the toilet, the phone, the music, a candle, running water, a magazine, and some chicken. Just you, the toilet, the phone, the music, a candle, running water, a magazine, some chicken, and a facetime
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Ways In Which I Can Improve Myself As A Writer By Tanner Sykes, PhD ‘20 1. Explaining myself more clearly 2. Providing better context for events in the book 3. Having a more cohesive flow 4. Making better use of my quotes 5. Picking better quotes 6. Word choice 7. It’s vs. its 8. Using brackets on my quotes 9. Being able to be more creative when I’m coming up with things I can work on as a writer. 10. Not writing in WingDings. 11. Getting better at deciphering Mr.Shipman’s handwriting 12. Not using my rough draft to communicate subliminal messages drink more tap water. 13. Not using my English assignments as a whole to communicate subliminal messages lizard people do not control the government. 14. Disguising my subliminal messages better ignore what the non-believers say. 15. Not screaming whenever I see a spider in my house. 16. Not screaming whenever I see a Frasier star Kelsey Grammer in my house. 17. By learning about 4 simple ways alternative lending beats the bank https://snapcap.com/fast-business-loans-v2-1?utm_term=cox-wsbtv&utm_content=4+Simple+Ways+Alternative+Business+Lending+Beat s+the+Bank&utm_campaign=behavior_test&utm_source=taboola&utm_ medium=display&k=tab&st-t=SnapCap-Contextual&targetid=222578&c id=222578 18. Petition the government to make writing easier 19. Having more influence from the Insane Clown Posse in my writing. 20. Start plagiarizing from a someone with more skill as a writer as opposed to the garbage people I have been stealing from.
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21. Increasing my font size from 11 to 96
22. Collude with Russia. 23. Pray harder in my shrine to Princess Diana. 24. Not ending every sentence with “Ya know what I mean�, ya know what I mean? 25. Figure out if Big Foot was REALLY the one responsible for the death of John F. President. 26. Not finishing my senten 27. Avoiding engagement in periods of W.M.B.A.T.T. (Wetting My Bed All The Time). 28. Get down with OPP. 64
Resource Lillian Doskey ‘18
Resource solid, liquid, gas gaseous gas evaporation left behind rain precipitation falls to Earth fresh river streams river systems ground water beneath rocks Earth’s surface level not a level level aquifer aquifier aqua fur? formation porosity and permeability spaces p o r e s ability of rock recharge recharge recharge percolate
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Hanging by a Thread Chloe Fejka ‘20 I am 8 Not knowing what lies ahead The ring of the phone So familiar yet I heard the pain The silence and the stillness of the car I can hear the rapid beat of my dad’s heart I can see the trembling in his walk Mommy and daddy sit me down, Fearing the future I felt the tug of the rope The last breath And yet I’m still breathing the same oxygen She had, one hour before
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An Untitled Story Winner of the Middle School Boluwatife Prize By Zoe Tatum ‘23 My name is Prudence Clarkson ( Ugg sorry! This is my first time! It’s so very awkward for me! Just try to bare with me!) I am fourteen years old. I work for the Roberson family, who are very wealthy farmers. I am one of their many workers; my sister, Phoebe, and I were the only kids who work for the Roberson’s until their kids started to work on the plantation. It used to be quite fun sometimes! When we were younger, we didn’t really do that much working. Sometimes we would work, other times we didn’t do much. On those days Phoebe and I would be free to do anything as long as we didn’t get caught. Phoebe and I made a secret hideout in the old secret garden; we were the only ones who discovered it. We played ‘Pick up Sticks’ with thin little twigs we found on dead trees. Phoebe and I had so much fun until she discovered boys. Now, I am at the age when I start working on the plantation. Every morning, I put on my oversized dress and wrap a scarf around my head. Phoebe would take extra time fixing her dress and hair for the boys. This morning she asked me if I could braid her hair, and I teased her by making kissing noises; I yelled “ Oh Frank Roberson! I love you so much!” Phoebe slapped me on the hand with her hairbrush and told me to be quiet or she’ll really get me with her hairbrush. I giggled and started to braid her hair. Phoebe’s hair was long, curly, and coarse. Coarse hair was the hardest to work with, but I could manage. My hair was way looser than Phoebe’s hair, and it was easier to manage with. When we were done, I went to go check on Momma; momma was pregnant. Papa was looking at a piece of paper with a little smile on his face, and I knew right away that something was not right. Papa is a very serious and strong man who rarely smiles. Mother on the other hand is very kind and bubbly and always smiles. Papa hand the paper to me and said it is so beautiful. It was the picture I drew of Momma and the new baby. I loved to predict what the baby looked like. If it’s a girl, we should name it Elizabeth. If it’s a boy we should name it James. I love drawing so much. Papa said I need to stop drawing and start working harder on the plantation. I never liked liked picking cotton and picking crops. Momma told Papa to stop being 67
so serious and that I am just a kid and need to have fun. Momma understands me but Papa is right. I can’t just become an artist, because I can’t just rely on that I need to have a backup. Phoebe handed me an orange and we headed out of our tiny log cabin before I could finish it. It looked like it was going to rain today so I quickly got a large bucket got to work. Momma and Phoebe picked the crops Papa did one of the hardest jobs like digging and cutting the cane and heavy field work. Papa worked very hard and often worked longer than anyone on the plantation. I was picking the cotton( again…) I hate picking cotton I always get sliced by the hull. Papa says I am just not doing it right. When I usually pick cotton, I shape the little pieces of cotton into little clouds to match the sky. It helps me stop thinking of the pain on my hands. The Roberson’s children helped on the plantation too. Frank was the oldest Roberson, and he was sixteen years old. He did the hefty work with papa. If Robert were a plant on the farm, he would be sugar cane, because he is very tough. Of course, he’s Phoebe’s favorite Roberson! Then comes Grace “the average rich girl”. She hates getting her hands dirty and ruining her dress. (Oh don’t get me started on the dresses!) Phoebe and Grace used to be best friends, but now they hate each other. I don’t know why. If Grace were a plant on the plantation, she would be the cotton, because she is very frustrating and annoying. Then there are the triplets: Liam, Noah, and Fiona. Liam and Noah are 14 years old, look up to Frank , and compete against each other to see who will be the “Next Frank Roberson.” If Liam and Noah were a plant on the plantation, they would be the fruits, because they are full of energy. Fiona on the other hand is very mysterious. I don’t know what plant she. She never really talked to me before. She usually just does whatever jobs she is told to do, and goes on with her day. Anyways, I just shaped my little clouds for 5 hours. I started to see lots of little red stains on the cotton, because of my hands. I took a piece of cloth and wrapped up my hands quickly before I get into trouble. I’m not supposed to take any breaks. Annet ,another worker in the plantation, told me I have been bleeding all over pieces of cotton. I need to be more careful or people will be wearing my blood! When I got back to work, I noticed that the sky became clearer. That’s when the heat hit me. For the next 7 hours, I felt like a baked chicken with sore hands! Annet offered me a drink of water, and I gulped it down so fast. My hands were aching but Papa always told me to be strong, so I tried to keep in the pain. When the kids were done, I looked at my purple and red hands. There were cuts all over the tips of my fingers, and deep cuts on my palms. Fiona saw me whimper and she told me she 68
had something to help it. Why would she help me? She grabbed my wrist brought me into her house. I’ve been in there before for training to be a servant. I saw pretty big and a beautiful family painting on the wall. I hope someday someone will hang my painting in their house. She brought me upstairs, and I’m not allowed to go upstairs. I was too fascinated by all the paintings they had that I couldn’t pay attention to where I was going. She brought me to her room. Her bed was pretty big, and she had tall shelves full of all types of books; thin books, thick book, and medium books. She sat me down in a chair and took off the cloth on my hands. She held a jar of honey in her hands at old me to give her my hand. Even though the Roberson’s are good people, I didn’t trust Fiona. I pulled back my hand, and she held up a book to me that is called Medicine in the 1790s: A Very Brief Introduction. Phoebe taught me how to read. Grace used to secretly show her. She showed me a paragraph that said honey helps out wounds; She said she wouldn’t hurt me. I gave her back, and she poured a generous amount of honey on my hands, and spread it around my cuts. It was extremely soothing. She got a piece of new cloth with floral prints, and tied it around my hands. I thanked her for taking care of my wound. Later that night I layed in my bed looking at the floral print cloth around my hands. Pheobe came walked hopped in the bed with me with Mama’s old pajamas on. Mama came in behind her and kissed us goodnight. I couldn’t stop thinking about Fiona. Why would she help me? I’m just a worker. All I know for now is that Fiona is kind and smart. I wonder what plant she could be. “Zoe has made excellent use of voice and characterization--her story is creative and inventive. I particularly enjoyed her flower metaphor for the character. Zoe is a “budding” writer with an impressive style and great potential.” -Megan King, Upper School Instructor of English
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Mya Porter ‘21
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My Trip to Hell: Authorized by God Chloe Bartholomew ‘18 Halfway through the 2017-2018 school year1, I awoke to find myself in a Barnes and Noble2 bookstore. Blinking blearily, I felt my heartbeat quicken as I registered the sounds of a storm raging outside the building. Man, Edward Bulwer-Lytton3 would have loved this, I thought grimly, trying (in vain) to remember how I’d ended up here several hours past my bedtime. As I stumbled to my feet and lurched toward what I assumed was the front of the building, my eye caught a sign announcing the aisle I was in: YOUNG ADULT FICTION4. I wrinkled my nose, refusing to be lured in by the beautiful covers. I knew from experience that every good young adult novel contained some sort of tragic moment bound to make me start bawling. No, I would have to go another route. However, as I rounded the corner, I came face-to-face with an almost equally appalling category: TEEN ROMANCE. Lo and behold, there was Hush Hush5 peeking out at me from the middle of a shelf. Yeah, right, I mentally sneered. I’m not buying into your scheme! I had never read a teen romance novel that didn’t feature a female main character wholly dependent on the creepy and possessive men in her life. Again, I spun around and resolved to find my way to the front via another route. I had nearly made my escape from the bookshelves—one more turn and I would be free to leave Barnes and Noble. However, at that precise moment, yet another genre seemed to jump out at me like a wild beast barring my exit: PUBLISHED FAN-FICTION. 1.This epic begins in media res. 2. A bookstore chain wildly popular in the author’s time. However, contemporaries agreed that it was no substitute for more intimate community bookstores 3. An English novelist who coined the phrase “It was a dark and stormy night” in his novel Paul Clifford. 4. This genre represents the worst category of sinners: authors who make their readers cry. Teen Romance represents books that are not what they pretend to be, and Published Fan-fiction represents the hardest of sins to overcome: bad, cheesy writing. 5. Chloe the Writer was quite vociferous in announcing her hatred for this particular novel in which the main character pretends to be a strong female role model, but in reality depends on her homicidal boyfriend to think for her and save her every time she gets into trouble.
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This time, I could barely contain my repulsion. Memories of atrocious grammar, glaring plot holes, and cringe-worthy writing surfaced in my mind as I dropped to my knees in despair. I was about to give up all hope of ever finding a way to the front door when I noticed a dark-haired, almost-middle-aged woman advancing toward me. Her badge identified her as a Barnes and Noble customer service employee by the name of Jane6. In my relief, I hardly paid attention to the fact that her skin was unusually pale, almost transparent. “Oh, please help me!” I cried out to her. “I can’t escape this maze of monstrous genres! Everywhere I turn, I see books that block my way with their alarming content!” Jane rolled her eyes at me. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she demanded. “It’s a truth universally acknowledged that every author in possession of a fanbase must be in want of a character to kill off7. Those bookshelves aren’t going to just go away. The only way to make it out of here is to follow me.” “What?” I exclaimed. “But my mom said never to walk off with strangers!” “I’m hardly a stranger,” Jane sniffed. “Don’t you know who I am?” I gave her a blank stare until she sighed impatiently and pulled out her iPhone 78. She tapped out some words and then held a Google images9 portrait up to her face. “Jane? Jane Austen?” I gaped. The likeness was undeniable; I was talking to a dead woman. Well, at least that explained her pallor. Jane smugly strode past me, and, still shell-shocked, I followed her to a door ominously marked Employees Only - Enter at Your Own Risk10. I tried to peer inside, but it was so dark that I could only make out a set of stairs. “Ready for a trip to Authors’ Hell?” she grinned devilishly. 6. It is soon revealed that this woman is the esteemed writer Jane Austen. Although Austen does not tend to cause her readers true grief, her novels still occasionally evoke great anxiety (such as when Elizabeth turns down Darcy). 7. A parody of the famous first line of Austen’s novel Pride and Prejudice. 8. A form of a now-antiquated gadget that consumed the lives of most people in the 21st century. 9. A search service used during the author’s time to look up images online. 10. A modern and slightly altered translation of the inscription above the Gate of Hell in Dante’s Inferno.
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“Hell?” Suddenly I regretted stealing my brother’s Cheerios that morning. “Can’t you just show me to the front door?” Jane raised her eyebrows imperiously, informing me, “God has authorized11 me to take you on this journey!” I shook my head. “I don’t get it. Why is there a circle specifically for authors? Does God hate writers or something?” “Of course not. There’s really only one Hell, but every major type of profession is partitioned off into its own area, with seven circles per profession,” Jane explained. “Okay, but…but how can I journey to Hell? I’m not Aeneas—or Paul. In fact, I’m not even a man!”12 “Stop fishing for compliments, Chloe.” Therefore, with one last forlorn glance at the glaring exit sign behind me, I descended down the stairs with Jane. And now, oh authors past, I beseech you to help me tell the rest of my tale.13 *** Seven hours later14, Jane and I emerged from the sixth circle of Authors’ Hell. “Whew!” Jane said, leading me out of the circle and holding her nose. “That was definitely the worst-smelling one. Now for the seventh and final circle, where the worst of authors are punished: those who kill off beloved characters.” She led me to the embankment of a river. I tried to look into the distance to see what new horrors awaited, but a nefarious mist enshrouded the body of water and blocked my view. I could, however, faintly make out the silhouette of a figure racing toward us, an oar splashing into the water quick as the wingbeat of a hummingbird. As the person neared, I recognized none other than Mrs. Klebba15 furiously rowing a skiff through the waves. 11. A pun. Chloe the Writer probably thought she was clever in coming up with this joke 12. In the Inferno, Dante the Pilgrim protests that he cannot journey to Hell because he is not as great as his predecessors Aeneas and Paul. In protesting, Dante the Poet was just trying to make himself look good (he was quite egotistical). 13. An invocation, one of the conventions of an epic. 14. A significant number in literature; this usage and the fact that there are seven circles of Authors’ Hell is probably a reference to the seven deadly sins. 15. One of the author’s high school English teachers.
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“Mrs. Klebba?” I exclaimed as I took in her neatly pressed clothing and the Green Beast16 tucked under her arm. “You’re in Hell? But I just saw you yesterday!” “English teacher by day, boat-woman by night,” Mrs. Klebba replied nonchalantly. “Now, normally I’m not supposed to let the living into my boat, but I’ll make an exception for you. Ms. King, Mr. Shipman, and Mr. Tritico17 already told me you would be coming.” “Are they here, too?” I inquired. “No, of course not. They’re waiting to bring you to Paradise. Moving right along…”18 I stepped gingerly into the rickety boat, which was composed of some sort of paper material. After Jane and I had situated ourselves, Mrs. Klebba pushed off from the bank, explaining, “This boat was constructed from pages of novels in which beloved characters were killed off. Right now we’re crossing the River Cocytus19, so named because its waters are really the tears of grieving readers. In here are the spirits of authors who killed off beloved characters.” I glanced down and speculated as to how many of my own tears had ended up here. However, I was jerked out of my reverie by the sound of Mrs. Klebba whacking her oar against the water. “Charles!”20 she growled. “What have I told you? Stay down!” The spirit ignored Mrs. Klebba, avoiding her oar with shocking alacrity. Finally, Mrs. Klebba slammed her copy of the Green Beast over the spirit’s head, and he fell back down into the water. “That man killed a lot of people,” Jane confided in me. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Klebba wouldn’t knock him out for no reason.” “Great,” I murmured weakly, still stunned at the sight of my eleventh grade English teacher hitting the ghost of Charles Dickens. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 16. A now-outdated Elements of Literature textbook that weighs approximately 23 pounds. 17. Also three of the author’s high school English teachers. Because these teachers were Chloe the Writer’s “patrons” in helping her refine her writing, she decided to pay homage to them in her great St. Martin’s epic. 18. A phrase often spoken by Mrs. Klebba in real life, especially when students spoke foolishly in her presence. 19. The mythological River of Lamentation 20. As we will later find out, this spirit is Charles Dickens, a well-known writer who was not afraid to kill off an egregious number of characters in his novels.
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When we reached the other side of the Cocytus, Mrs. Klebba dug her oar into the sand at the bottom of the river and waved us off. “See you tomorrow!” she called to me as I scrambled up the bank after Jane. At the top of the embankment, I surveyed my surroundings. Behind us was the Cocytus. To my left loomed the seventh circle’s only source of light: an imposing edifice reminiscent of Hogwarts Castle. “I told you so, John!” a female-sounding voice screamed from a window of the castle. “Now we’re both in Hell because you just had to kill off Gus!” “You’re my agent, not my mom!” a spirit from the river yelled back. “I don’t have to listen to you. At least you get to be in the castle—I have to swim around in this freezing river!” Jane cleared her threat, tearing my gaze away from the argument. She pointed to my right, and my eyes followed her finger to a white promontory. I squinted—were those papers covering the bluff? My gaze traveled upward. On top of the cliff stood none other than Lord Voldemort. His sickly purplish skin stretched tightly across the bones of his face, and his deep-set eyes sparked with the fire of hatred. The dark, loose robes covering his body seemed to float around him as though propelled by a wind. A poisonous black viper amid a sea of garden snakes, nothing could compare to that horrible monster at the top of the cliff. A shiver ran through me at the mere sight. Struggling up the cliff was another spirit. When she reached the summit, Voldemort stared her down and then calmly began to read from the piece of paper clutched in his hand:
21. The castle in which the students of the Harry Potter series live and attend school. 22. John Green, a young-adult writer famous for murdering his characters. 23. Green’s agent Julie Strauss-Gabel, well-known for harshly critiquing her clients’ work. 24. A beloved main character in The Fault in Our Stars. 25. The villain in the Harry Potter series who murders countless innocent, beloved characters and who is conspicuously missing a nose due to dabbling in dark magic.
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“Dear Veronica Roth,”26 he recited, “thanks a lot for killing off all my favorite characters in your latest novel. Because of you, I’ll probably never read again. Signed, your not-so-adoring fan.” When Voldemort finished reading, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Ooh, burn.27 Or should I say freeze?” Then he grabbed the copy of Divergent at his feet and smacked the spirit with it so hard that she flew off the cliff and back into the Cocytus. “Next!” Voldemort called. Flying creatures, human in appearance and sporting Tumblr28 t-shirts, immediately swarmed the river and dragged out the spirit of Charles Dickens. They yanked him toward the bottom of the hill, and Mr. Dickens mechanically began the upward climb to Voldemort. Like an ant up a knoll, the spirit labored as though propelled by nature alone. Although only deadly fare awaited at the top, the spirit did not quit, and just as a nest-mate whose turn it is to collect food for the colony, this spirit toiled with the single-minded determination of the ant that knows there is no room for failure. “Now you see the punishment these authors must endure for their crimes,” Jane said wisely. “Because they were cold-hearted in life and killed off beloved book characters, now these sinners must swim in a freezing river of the tears they caused readers to shed. Then they must climb up Mount Illustration to get to Voldemort, and in doing so they must literally face up to the atrocities they committed in life; for the mountain is made up of illustrations of the characters they killed off in their books. During the climb, the authors experience the prolonged horror and tension they forced their readers to endure during the build-up to a beloved character’s death. Then Voldemort reads hate mail to the authors. Finally, because these writers delivered emotional blows to their readers by murdering characters, Voldemort deals each of them a physical blow with their own novels.” I silently absorbed this information, my heart burning with pity for the writers. Seeing the questions still written on my face, Jane whistled shrilly and beckoned three of the Tumblr girls over. “Yes, Ms. Austen?” one of them asked sweetly, eyeing me with distaste. I stuck my tongue out at her. 26. The author of the Divergent series, which culminates in the death of the main character. 27. A phrase used to denote a particularly good insult from which the insulted cannot recover. 28. A social networking tool popular amongst nerds and fangirls (another word for bookworms)
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“Please fetch one of the spirits to answer this pilgrim’s questions,” Jane implored her. “Certainly, miss,” replied the girl, quickly flying back toward the river with her companions close on her heels. She soon returned, dragging an unamused spirit with her. I immediately recognized the ghost. “J.K. Rowling?”29 I gasped. “Is it you?” “Yes,” J.K. replied in her English accent, “it’s me. Honestly, are you really surprised that I’d end up here?” I scratched my head. “Uh…no, not really. But what other authors are here?” “Too many to count,” sighed the writer sadly. “You’ve seen Mr. Dickens, Ms. Roth, and Mr. Green, of course. Virgil is here as well—he’s quite the conversationalist, although he really only speaks in Latin. And Sir Author Conan Doyle, George R. R. Martin, and Nicholas Sparks30 just had their turns climbing up the mountain, so I’m afraid you won’t get a chance to speak to—” “Why did you do it, J.K.?” I interrupted angrily, unable to restrain myself any longer. “Was Fred31 really necessary? Did he have to die? I have a twin, you know!” I ended with a sob. Jane patted me on the back consolingly. “I apologized for him on Twitter!”32 J.K. defended herself. Just then, though, the Tumblr fangirls returned to carry her off to the base of the mountain. “I’m sorry. And remember,” she called, “light can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light!”33 And with that, she was gone. I peered back down into the Cocytus. “Hey!” I cried out. “Is that Marcus Zusak34?” I could barely contain my rage at seeing that familiar face. I sprinted back to the edge of the river; the spirit eyed me warily as I approached. “I cried for, like, two hours after I finished your book!” I told him crossly. Zusak shrugged. “Okay. I don’t really care.” I sighed. “Well, will you be here forever? Is there no chance of redemption for you?” 29. The author of the Harry Potter series herself. It should come as no surprise that Chloe the Writer places her in the seventh circle, as she killed off many wellloved characters. 30. Authors who had nasty tendencies to kill off characters to whom their readers were attached. 31. One of the twins in J.K. Rowling’s series. 32. J.K. Rowling had a tradition of annually apologizing for the death of one character on a social media network called Twitter. 33. A quote from one of J.K. Rowling’s books. 34. The author of The Book Thief, a novel ending in the deaths of the main character’s best friend and adoptive parents.
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“Don’t worry, child,” Zusak responded. “God is all-forgiving; He will one day permit even me to leave Hell and enter Heaven. Until then, I must remain here and pay for my sins.” Jane touched my shoulder. “Sorry to break up the party, but it’s time for us to go. In a couple of hours, it will be time for you to go back to school, so we must hurry.” We turned away from the sinner, leaving him to wallow in the Cocytus. As we neared Mount Illustration, the sounds of Voldemort screaming at yet another sinner permeated my ears. At the same moment, I caught sight of a photograph of a snowy white owl. The photograph clung to the side of the mountain like sand to wet skin, and as we passed by I couldn’t help but begin to cry again. “Stop that crying!” Jane hushed me. “You’re almost as bad as Dante. It’s simply not right to cry for these sinners—they’ve already made you cry so much!” “I’m not crying out of pity,” I wailed, “I’m crying because I just saw Hedwig’s35 photo on the mountain! Oh, I promise to never become such a horrible sinner as any of these wretched writers.” “Oh, good,” Jane sighed in relief. “I was hoping you’d say that. Now, in order to leave we must get past Lord Voldemort; but he refuses to let anyone around the mountain.” My guide handed me a copy of The Order of the Phoenix36. “Would you like to do the honors, Chloe, since Voldemort killed so many of your favorite Harry Potter characters?” “Say no more,” I sniffled, wiping my eyes dry. Lifting the tome from Jane’s hands, I hurled it with all my might at the guard of the seventh circle. The book hit Voldemort squarely where his nose should have been, knocking him out cold37. “Great work, Chloe!” I heard Mrs. Klebba call enthusiastically behind us. Without further ado, I followed Jane around the side of Mount Illustration and up a dusty road. We walked for many miles, only stopping once we emerged from the darkness to see the stars. 35. The pet of Harry Potter, who dies protecting her owner. 36. The fifth installment of the Harry Potter series, an extremely long and therefore very heavy novel. 37. An imitation of Mrs. Klebba’s earlier action of knocking out the spirit of Dickens with the Green Beast, this action also fulfills the epic characteristic of the hero’s performing feats requiring great strength
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Index Chloe Bartholomew: 71 Abigail Beck: 11 Khaja Bradley: 12, 62 Sara Brechtel: 17 Ava Campo: 42 Robin Clotworthy: 40 Savannah Collins: 60 Zachery Day: 6, 14, 24 Lillian Doskey: 7, 65 Grayson Doyle: 1, 37, 45, 48 Olivia Ernst: 35, 51 Lindsey Laforge: 2 Chloe Fejka: 24, 66 Noemi Garo: 44 Alyssa Garrido: 24 Luke Giordano: 25 Anabella Imbornone: 36, 46 Macy Johnson: 16 Elyse Kann: 15 Katie Kirchner: 8 Myles Kullander: 10 Elizabeth Kuehne: 5, 32 Elise LaVie: 52 Christopher Lawler: 53 Tristan Lopez: 20 Brycen Malbrough: 23 Morgan Markey: 18, 41 Jack McElveen: 26 Kolby McWilliams: 49 Zoya Mohiuddin: 42 Aidan Molaison: 58 Eliza Morin: 19 Zoe Ohmes: 21 Nathan Ortiz: 18
Katie Oster: 27, 29 Eleanor Parker: 9, 24, 38 Elliot Peyton: 4, 31 Mya Porter: 34, 70 Gavin Powell: 38 Clara Rabe: 34, 43, 47 Alec Ricci: 39 Sakshi Sadwani: 59 Margot Scott: 50 Abby Seamster: 40 Marley Shepherd: 41 Brandon Stokes: 30 Tanner Sykes: 26, 63 Zoe Tatum: 67 Sophia Warren: 13 Katie Williams: 38 Sophia Yatsko: 52 Mia Zenker: 19
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Lyre Staff Co-Editors in Chief: Elizabeth Kuehne Alec Ricci Editors: Grayson Doyle Nic Lobrano Anabeth Talbot Clara Rabe Erica Ricci Ava Richard Tanner Sykes Katie Williams
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