Hieroglyphic 2015 by St. Christopher's School

The Hieroglyphic 2015 the literary arts publication of St. Christopherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s School

Head Editor:Ben Moore Co Editors: Richard Hamrick Jack Jiranek

The editors of the Hieroglyphic wish to express our gratitude to Mr. Ron Smith, our faculty advisor, as well as all those students who submitted their work and made this publication possible.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Boston Strong Hunter Reinhart 5 Piankatank Joseph Costello 5 Cardboard Box Joseph Costello 5 Manta Ray Jack Marshalek 6 Starfish Wiggle Austen Wrinkle 6 Giraffe Harry Groome 6 The Sun Sets Cole McCoy 8 The Fire Pit Alex Sadid 8 Treaty Peter Bowles 8 Cool Place Max Wallace 9 The Overlook Nathan Lord 9 Globs of Slobber Chris Thomas 10 Flagstaff Mountain Joseph Costello 11 Violent Joseph Costello 11 We Could Have Won Joseph Costello 12 Jackson Creek Joseph Costello 14 A Day on the Water Joseph Costello 15 Pony Farm Road Joseph Costello 16 A Winter Sail Joseph Costello 17 Lexington Joseph Costello 17 Twenty Dollars a Ticket Joseph Costello 18 Magnolia Joseph Costello 18 One More Mile Ben Moore 19 Greyhounds at the Penn Relays Ben Moore 19 Pillar Ben Moore 21 James Ben Moore 23 Stopping by J-Lot on a Busy Morning Ben Moore & William Maddock 24 Harmony Ben Moore 24 Dressing Code Ben Moore & William Maddock 24 The Encounter Ben Moore 26 The Life of a Modern Student Ben Moore 27 Going Through Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Things Ben Moore 27 Brother Ben Moore 28 Poor Toby Jim Quagliano 29 The Servient Jim Quagliano 30 The Phrase Jim Quagliano 31 Boundless Horizon Jim Quagliano 32 Pool Sharks Jim Quagliano 32 Lily (1945) Jim Quagliano 33 Spring Arbor Jim Quagliano 33 Moo, Baa, La La La! Walker Rise 34 Mobile Suburb Walker Rise 29 The Light Through the Trees Walker Rise 35 Bungee Walker Rise 35

4 Pumpkin Patch Walker Rise 36 Neighbors Alex Shedd 37 Latte Alex Shedd 38 Unspoken Alex Shedd 39 Fall Alex Shedd 39 St. Patrick’s Day Alex Shedd 39 T.S Eliot’s Unfinished Dinosaur Poem Alex Shedd 40 The Human Experience on a Bad Day Alex Shedd 40 The Arrival John Tyson 41 The Lonely Robot Adam Vath 42 Sight Unseen Adam Vath 42 Auditions Adam Vath 43 Theater Adam Vath 43 The Waiting Adam Vath 44 When You’re An Addams Adam Vath 44 Two Days After Thanksgiving Hunter Wigginton 44 “blest be the tie” Hunter Wigginton 45 Peines de Coeur Hunter Wigginton 46 The Autumnal Storm Hunter Wigginton 46 Flowers Hunter Wigginton 47 A Sinful Slaughter Hunter Wigginton 47 From the Blind Hunter Wigginton 48 One More Cast Hunter Wigginton 48 Massey Ferguson Hunter Wigginton 49 “CSX” Hunter Wigginton 50 Freshmen Attend a School Dance Hunter Wigginton 51 A Troubled Gait Hunter Wigginton 51 Numbers Hunter Wigginton 52 Lifting Heavy Metal Hunter Wigginton 52 How To Tie Your Shoes Hunter Wigginton 53 The Weaver Hunter Wigginton 54 Ode to a Snow Day Jack Jiranek 55 The Ember Richard Hamrick 56 Easter Joe Goode 57 The Whiteness of the Whale Jack Jiranek 58 Live Your Dash, Make Every Moment Matter Linda Ellis 30

Boston Strong 5 The B on her chest Symbolized her city’s strength After the bombing

by Hunter Reinhart, XI

Piankatank

The sun beat down on the river, And made a golden path that I followed. A school of menhaden danced across. Their backs turned into a purple mosaic. An osprey circled above, dove. The school vanished. I put my feet in the green water, A chill up my legs. The tide drifted me to Stove Point, Where pines dug into the sand and rock, Harboring the moored boats from open Bay. The navy Hinckley called Trust Fund sailed from Bermuda. I turned the corner of the point, but No water, white bellies. Thousands of croaker floated like trash. by Joseph Costello, XII

Cardboard Box

Skipped next to gray sedan, Seemingly stuck to side of speeding car. Brown box violently dragged on rough road. Baxter broke, realized not a box but Blurred and bloodied face. The man hobbled off into the black.

by Joseph Costello, XII

LOWER SCHOOL

Manta Ray This Sting ray is flapping its I found a shrimp! giant wings and looking for shrimp to eat. by Jack Marshalek, I Starfish Wiggle When you do the starfish wiggle, You wiggle and you giggle. You jump up and down. You fall on the ground. You dig a hole. That’s how you do The starfish wiggle! by Austen Wrinkle,, I Giraffe A giraffe is Very T A L L and it makes weird sounds with its mouth and it has really l L L L L e O O O O g N N N N s G G G G by Harry Groome, I

Brock Brockman, V

MIDDLE SCHOOL

The Sun Sets The gravel crunches underneath the tires of my family’s Suburban. My dog looks out the window and wines and wags her tail wildly ready to get out of the car. I open my door and instantly I smell the salt water surrounding me. The sun scorches my neck until I get into the shade of the porch. The river’s waves crash against my dock and I smile. I’m back. I open the rusted old door into the dark house. The old fridge makes a shuddering sound and the lights flicker when I turn them on. I grab a Gatorade and go out to the porch swing to take a break from the drive. The shadows of the large oak trees engulf the small one story house as the sun sets over the water. A sizzling sound fills my ear I turn and see my cousins and brother running around the yard with sparklers. The water of the river clams and the small woosh of waves makes me drowsy. I fall asleep as soon as the last light of day creeps away.

by Cole McCoy, VII

The Fire Pit The soothing crackle of wood adds to the warmth of the hot stones that surround the flaming pit. While the night continues the glimmer of an ivory colored full moon illuminates our gathering. The red and cerulean flares of the flames grow older as they persistently burn on with little energy. As the night grows older and frigid temperatures persist, my father progresses to put a piece of seasoned white oak to add life to flames. The crack and roar of life comes back to the feeble fire and our conversation continues. Though the fire rages on, our sleepiness sets in and we reside to our beds. By morning, there are only tiny vermillion embers where the mighty fire once laid and the smoky and burnt smell of wood that fans through the air.

by Alex Sadid, VII

Treaty The calm breeze blows layers of my hair in an uncomfortable way, but I don’t care; this is the life. The rough line cuts my hand, and catches me off guard; the struggle is real. After years of hard fighting I have signed a treaty with the river to take this fish. I pull in a slimy beast known as a catfish. It is croaking to the beat of the soft curling waves.

by Peter Bowles, VII

Cool Place I kick the half open door because my arms are numb from my fifty pound backpack that seems like it has bricks in it. The door swings around the corner and just barely bounces off the doorstopper. Almost immediately, I drop the backpack on the floor and stare at my mounted deer named Pick Six. He’s named after Tony Romo’s passes. His expression, his greenish, yellow, faded horns and his warm, fluffy coated brown fur seemed to be giving me a warm welcome. The yells and screams of all my younger siblings playing some game of some sort sounds as if they are being chased by a mass murderer, until I close my door with my back, close my eyes, and relax. I start to walk like a zombie with rotted feet towards my bed, then I throw myself into the air with all my might, and fall like a jet that has just run out of fuel. My eyes close automatically, even though I am trying keep them open. The amazing memory foam of my mattress makes me feel like I am sinking down into the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean. I am five seconds away from falling asleep when my eyes shoot open at the speed of light. I have homework…

by Max Wallace, VI

The Overlook The cracked pavement of the overlook grinds and scratches under my feet, the loose pebbles carving long scars on the rough surface. The vegetation below is unkempt and wild, subject to years of unchecked growth. The slosh and scramble of the James River over the large rocks bubbles and courses beneath me, making a large roaring sound that seems to be the only penetration of the peace of the quiet, gray morning. I silently watch a ladybug contentedly making a path along one of the thorny vines, crawling along the slick wood of the plant. A cool wind blows off from the water, ruffling my hair with a gentle flick of its hand as raindrops begin to fall. Like pennies they splash into the water, erupting on contact, boiling the river’s once calm surface. The gray building to the left of me is riddled with murals but seems to fade away, leaving me alone with my overlook.

by Nathan Lord, VII

Globs of Slobber 10 Globs of slobber cascade down his ruffled face as he gnaws on the worn leather sandal. A whiff of my scent and his head lifts from the torn shoe, the polished eyes examine me. His tail bashes the wooden floorboards, his body jolts with delight. Twisting and skidding across the room, Huckleberry lunges towards me. The steady pant draws near, the fuzzy tumult gallops through the living room.

by Chris Thomas, XII

Ben Moore, XII

UPPER SCHOOL Flagstaff Mountain

My brother wore a pink jacket. I tried to keep up with him, using my poles to push through the calf-deep powder. We passed a green sign with two black diamonds. They stopped me. But my brother continued. A bird chirped and flew from a dark evergreen covered in snow. The trees surrounded us and left a narrow tunnel. I picked up my poles and rode the small hill. I felt every bump and drop in the changing terrain. A black lake and endless, white peaks marked the horizon. I could see my grey breathe but had no fingers. Ahead of me, my brother cut through the powder. He smacked the branches with his poles, sending the light snow into my face. Cold. I ate one chunk. Another piece went down my jacket and sent a chill up my back. The soft evergreens gave way to ashy aspens and the slope steepened. My brother sped further ahead, but he stopped. The fog covered the rest of the run. “Alright let’s go!” “Patrick, wait up!” I inched my way to the edge of the fog. Goggles fogged. Heart pounded. Legs shook.

by Joseph Costello, XII

Violent

Henry kicked open the door. I shivered. My eyes opened into the grey light. Plain brick and concrete buildings. No trees, no bushes, no grass. Two-by-two, arms locked, we followed 70. Heavy breathe and cleats clicking. Car windows read, “Brunch?” Girls in green blow their whistles. Sweet cigar smoke

12 Our strut turned to jog. Over the wooden bridge, over the black track, onto the green turf. Hamrick yelled. Henley shook his head. George head-butted me. We shouted. Coach grabbed my facemask and pulled me close. Black sunglasses and red, shaking face. Spit hit my eye as he screamed, “BE VIOLENT!” He hugged me and pain shot down my back. A boy in white jumped and hollered, “IT’S A MAN’S GAME!” The right side of crowed cheered. Tommy’s face grew ruddier, his roar louder, so I hit him harder Then it all stopped. We took helmets off, pushed hair back, and placed hands on hearts. A girl began to sing. Tears rolled down 55’s pink cheek. A breeze crackled the leaves and cut at my neck. Carlson said, “After this, it’s just babies and memories.”

by Joseph Costello, XII

We Could Have Won I. If I jammed 2. If Wilson didn’t get beat deep. If Spruill stayed in his lane. If Faniel threw it to Fleet. If Cole caught that pass. If Taz blocked 55. If Walker called the pull. If P.T. heard the audible. If Harvard hit the B gap. If Henry played to the whistle. If I jammed 2. II. A blurry mob charged the field.

I13 threw up. Fruit Punch Gatorade and Advil. Swallowed it. Not again. Not again. I breathed heavily but couldn’t get air. 30 seconds left and 3 got around the edge. Again. My throat burned. “Joseph” I limped to Henry. III. Waylon told me “I never could toe the mark, and I never could walk the line.” My bright phone read, 5:30 A.M. August 11, 2014. I hate football. “Costello, get on the frickin ground!” Wet grass, I winced. At least it’s not hot, yet. Coach Barkley’s bloodshot eyes. I ran to the bushes by the Field House, Where I kissed Sally Sue 2 days before, And threw up. Pizza chunks. Blonde hair, tan legs, soft lips. IV. Behind bars, tears streamed down Henry’s red cheeks. He engulfed me in his big arms. I held on to his pads and squeezed. He squeezed back harder. V. Tupac yelled and iron clanked. George yelled. I couldn’t; it was Monday. VI. The boys in red face paint and red ties. She has 9 on her cheek. Nice. “Joey, focus.” “This is it. Make sure you jam 2.”

by Joseph Costello, XII

Jackson Creek

I stepped out of a red kayak, into cool, knee-deep water. A chill up my back That faded under the warming sun. My footsteps threw up a murky cloud, And out of it scurried a small, grey crab. A cut on my ankle, the saltwater. Pines shaded a hungry heron, Who hunted for breakfast in the shallows to my left. Red drum swirled around in the skinny water, Their golden tails flickered in the sun. They snatched critters from the dark sea grass. I chose a lure from my rusted Altoid can, And hastily tried to tie it on. But my wet, shaky hands could not cinch the knot. My face grew hot. I began to sweat as the fish mockingly danced in front of me. Finally, I secured the rubber crab to the end of my clear line. A moldy rope hung loose from the kayak, And rubbed against my calf under the water. I whipped the rod and listened to the line whizzing out of the reel. I felt the rope again. I dragged my lure past the fish, Twitching the rod to animate the lure. The fish refused to take. I pulled back to recast. I felt the rope once again and look down to move it. My heart stopped. Stingray. The ray’s rubbery wing brushed up and down my leg. Its barb swung inches from me. After a second or two, it gracefully glided off into green depths of the mouth.

by Joseph Costello, XII

A Day on the Water

My head hurt from squinting. I should I have brought sunglasses. Stomach rumbled. Hunter drank the last drop of warm, Cool Blue Gatorade. I dreamed of guzzling an icy drink, coating my soar throat in sugar. Face hot. The big sun cooked me. Hunter splashed me with river water. The salt burned my lips. Hunter tied on a hairy, chartreuse fly, sure to change his luck. Head down, neck red, shoulders slouched, he casted. “I got a bite!” “Really?!” “No.” No food, no water, no fish. Sun. “One more cast.” Hunter slung first. Nothing. Bicep sore, I casted to a pair of submerged rocks and twitched the chunk of feather. “Dammit. It’s hung up.” My rod jolted forward and line whizzed out of the reel. Hunter jumped up and down, and rocked the jon boat. “Crack.”

by Joseph Costello, XII

Pony Farm Road

A robotic voice tells me “Bear right, now.” My grip loosens as I leave I-81, And its 18-wheelers. The rocky and narrow road cuts through Green hills and split-rail fences. A crumbling stone chimney alone. No house in sight. Its left side sinks into tall grass. Brown and grey field stones broken in the meadow. No house or even ponies, Only the purple and yellow weeds dotting the field.

by Joseph Costello, XII

by Ben Moore, XII

A Winter Sail

Gulls squawk, dive into the white caps, And harass a school of baitfish. White, weathered beard Guards his red face from the sharp winter wind. A gale cuts through his thin cotton vest, Sending a chill through his worn body. But fills the sail, Pushing the skiff towards the lighthouse, Where black smoke rises from a chimney. He takes a long drag from his wooden pipe, Filling his lungs and warming his chest. He is almost home.

by Joseph Costello, XII

Lexington

A colonnade marched in front of brick buildings. A white, man stood tall on top of a cupola in the center. Bricks cut through the sloped field below. One student lay in the short grass. Others threw an orange Frisbee. And a breeze rattled the crisp leaves. But: Buzzed and fatigued men jogged by. With heads hung, they chanted as they went. The group’s stench hovered for a moment. To my right, faded, yellow buildings, Stuck with medieval turrets. by Joseph Costello, XII

Twenty Dollars a Ticket

We passed Jernigan, He patrols the Farms on weekend nights. Virginia House, stained green. Big, black windows. Hopped the fence. Helped her over. Crept through the ivy and under the Magnolias. Laid my jacket on the dewy hill overlooking the dark river. The train rumbled by. “Let’s dance.” “Let’s go somewhere.” My chest pounded. by Joseph Costello, XII

Magnolia

Mature Magnolia bathes easy in September sun. Dark, green leaves glitter. The brown ones do not. The sun’s rays shoot through the gaps. A boy, in bowtie and boots, lies under it. The burnt grass crunches beneath my bare feet, And my patched overalls itch my neck. “Wut skewel do ya godo?” “PranceEdwud Uhkademy” “Huh” A breeze offers salvation, But cuts through the misshapen Magnolia, Dropping amber leaves, crackling as they fall.

by Joseph Costello, XII

One More Mile

The landscape rears its ugly head before me, Another hill. It’s been on the horizon for some time It looks much bigger up close. The sweat coats my arms and bare chest, The metallic odor stings my nostrils. Suddenly the blisters on my feet announce themselves Their cherry hue climbing up my legs. The back of my throat, once moist, Is now drier than this paved desert. Every breath sends a blast of cold air into my sore throat One more mile The steps blend together again And I fade out Loping into the sky. by Ben Moore, XII

Greyhounds at the Penn Relays

You’ve been training for months, you’re ready for this. The words repeat in my head, over and over And over. I swim through the crowd streaming the opposite direction. Jamaican accents assault my ears from all sides And I am lost in a sea of green and yellow. Finally I see my teammates waiting at the corner. Alright, everyone ready? Let’s do this. The paddock. I’ve never seen anything like this. The officials constantly push us back into line Shout at us, like dogs. Greyhounds, all rounded up and pushed together. I see the fastest teams in the country behind and next to me, All around me. Stand in race order, when the announcer announces your name, Walk straight out onto the track. Too soon we are called, a nobody among these giants. We step through the gate and the vista is revealed. The muffled sound gives way to a full-throated roar. 53,000 people, a sea of green and yellow, in full voice. My heart is in my throat.

20 Front line set, back line set, Set. On your mark There’s the gun And the crowd blurs. My fear is gone.

by Ben Moore, XII

William Boyd, XII

Pillar

I.21 Not even the moon will witness what they do here, Clouds shielding them from its searching light. Mist obscures the banks of the dark river. Quickly and silently, clothes and shoes shucked, Five slick, lithe torsos slip beneath the cool haze Into the icy water. A hiss escapes Clenched teeth. They wade out, over rocks, through mud, Silent but for the slurping of the slush at their naked feet, The lapping water at their slick waists. Across the sodden wasteland, over treacherous Rocks, through squelching silt, past the acute shrubs They keep the bridge to the left of them. They Wager on, until form like from an artist’s brush Emerges slowly from the mist. The obelisk soars, Shattering the velvety plain. The splosh and gurgle Cease at once when the stanchion towers above them. The boy takes one look back, reaching for the moss-covered Rope. As the curtain of rain sweeps toward them, They begin to climb . . .

II. The ascent is treacherous But still, they make no sound. Silent but for the occasional grunt of exertion and the Patter of rain on wet rock. Every now and then the boy halts his climb Hugging his trembling body against the rain-flecked Rocks. Drizzle and sweat blend together on his Fluttering muscles. He rests his forehead against The Pillar. Must keep going. His companions are invisible through the mist beneath him. Only him, encased in this armor of steam. Man against stone. Hand over hand on this frayed cable, he

22 Drags himself on. Bloody hands scrabble against wet rock And fluid rope. The rain thickins, liquid sunshine. Quickly the boy swipes hair from his eyes, sending Rivulets of salt and iron dancing down his face. Finally The boy’s hand grasps at air. With one last pull and grunt He rolls over the cusp of the peak and remains. Spent. Slowly, more join him. Five bodies lay atop the Pillar, motionless. Rain hisses as it strikes hot skin. The eyes of the boy open. With a colossal effort he raises himself to one elbow Rousing the others. Up. There is work still to be done...

III. A pebble drops silently One, two, three, four, fiSplash from far below. Inching his way to the edge, The boy hangs ten Gazing out at the impenetrable mist. Another chunk of rock plummets downwards One, two, three, fourA splitting crack this time. Slowly they fan out along the edge, Dropping rocks and pebbles through the mist Measuring, evaluating. Three more times they listen Waiting to hear the splash or the Crack of rock, no, head, on unforgiving stone. Now they’ve found their spot Tests, more scientific than were ever Conducted at school, confirmed it.

23 A rock is one thing, But a human body? Only one way to find out… It will be only once through the mist when He’ll know. He’ll see the open water beneath him Or the jagged rocks opening their maws. In an instant his mind is made up. Milliseconds of possibilities course through his brain But all deliberation ceases at once. In a leap, undertaken on faith alone, Five bodies arc down, off the Pillar, And through the blanketing mist.

by Ben Moore, XII

James

Too many gallons to count flow over this mossy rock, Half-submerged in the turbid river. A grey film of mist Hovers eerily on the water’s surface. Silence now. Nothing but the gurgling river. The dark water perpetually flowing. He sits there, arms wrapped around his knees, Balancing on the dark rock. His eyes flit from the water to the horizon Water to horizon. Here he remains, immobile, a human gargoyle. Contemplating, puzzling, sobbing, Along the immortal river.

by Ben Moore, XII

Stopping by J-Lot on a Busy Morning Whose cars these are I think I know. Their class’s in the building though; They will not see me parking here To watch their small lot’s traffic flow. My fancy car must think it queer To park with zero spaces near Between the dirt and black concrete The busiest morning of the year. I give my querying horn a blow To ask if there is cause for woe. The only other sound’s the crunch Of gnarled tires in this bleak tableau. The lot is vicious, a dead end, And I have meetings to attend And many juniors to offend, And many juniors to offend.

by Ben Moore, XII & William Maddock, XII

Harmony The bustle of the day slowly fades out The trumpeting of car horns, The bellowing of factories, The ceaseless yapping of voices And ringing of cell phones. Piece by piece The symphony of noises dies As the Sun, conductor of Earth’s Great orchestra, lowers. All remains tacet But for the sighing of the cool breeze Whispering in anticipation. The trees sway, murmuring in excitement. Then, in tempo giusto The conductor rises again And the melody begins anew.

by Ben Moore, XII

Dressing Code Something there is that doesn’t love a shirttail, That sends the sloppy ruffles under it And spills the lower fringes in plain view And makes spots even boys can clearly see. The work of teachers is another thing: They have come after us and made repair Where they have left not one shirt out of place But we would have the shirttail out of hiding, To please the giggling girls. The shirttails I mean, No one has seen them pulled or felt them pulled, But at morning break we find them out. My teacher lets me know from down the hall; And after class we meet to check the Polo And tuck the shirt in once again. We keep the dress code beside us as we go. To each the rules that apply to each. Some shirts are short and some so very long We have to use a belt to make them stay: ‘Stay where you are until her back is turned!’ We wear our fingers rough with tucking in. Oh, just another kind of student-teacher game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There as it is we do not need the code: She is all propriety and I am sloppiness My shirt will never get across And ruin her outfit, I tell her. She only says, ‘Good dress codes make good students.’ Break is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in her head: ‘Why do they make good students? Isn’t it When there are girls? But now there are no girls. Before I tucked it in I’d ask to know Why I was tucking in or pulling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn’t love a shirttail, That wants it out.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to her, But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather She said it for herself. I see her there

26 Wearing a dress held firmly at the hem With both hands, like a tailor, armed. The students move in untidiness as it seems to her~ Not of shirts only, in the shade of sweaters. We will not go behind the teacher’s saying, But she likes having thought of it so well She says again, “Good dress codes make good students.”

by Ben Moore, XII and William Maddock, XII

The Encounter

Running down a dimly lit street, The hooded man howls, raising his disfigured face to the night sky. Terror rushes through me: He’s inside now. I can hear him stomping downstairs, Surely it’s only a matter of time until he finds me. Suffocated by the ammonia odor of mothballs I contort my body as the antique fur coats surround me. My eyes make out nothing but an inky blackness, A darkness that presses down on me with all the pressure of ten atmospheres. He is getting close now. Quieter now He slithers up the steps. The door creaks open, and now he is inside. I cannot breathe now, the horror and the blackness smother me. He glides to the door of the closet. His forked tongue slips in and out of his mouth, Tasting the air. The handle turns and all at once light bursts in on me. The creature grabs me and lifts his face to mine and as the hood falls off his face

by Ben Moore, XII

The Life of a Modern Student

27 In today’s world, kids are asked to do so much. Alarms set for 6:30am, they slog to school, zombies. For a full day they trundle around school, anchored down by 50lb backpacks. For one hour they might be learning college level calculus, The next, asked to write a poem a critic would be proud of about “a dream you had” Maybe half an hour off for lunch, in which half fall asleep anyways, Then it’s back to it. One period they learn about the Gini Constant’s application to Microeconomics, Then they are ridiculed when they have trouble Explaining the 19 terrorist’s motives on 9/11. The final bell rings, merely a false flat. Running over to the locker room, athletic clothes are thrown on, And these sleep deprived zombies slog through two and a half hours of practice. When the coach sees fit to let them leave, the zombies proceed home, Only to have an hour for dinner. Homework, now! Late into the night these students, slave to their material, struggle through proofs and poems, Economics and Environmental. When they can finally lay their heads to rest, the clock says 1am. Five blissful hours. Then it’s back to it. by Ben Moore, XII

Going Through Mother’s Things

Two Days Of course, a picture of her and dad, honeymoon I guess. He can’t look at it now. One of Sam and meThe dress she wore to that Christmas dinner. Still smells like her. Her bible, smudged with her notes in the margins. She always gets mad when I tease her about it. One Year That picture of her and dad from their tenth anniversary, he tells me. Sam and me, standing silly in front of our old house. The fraying silk dress slides through my fingers. What was that from again? A bible, starting to yellow. I had forgotten how bad her handwriting was. Twenty Years Mom and Dad. I miss them now more than ever. I wish Sam was here, he always used to laugh at that old picture of us. Her favorite dress. What did she smell like? That old bible again. Maybe I’ll keep this one.

by Ben Moore, XII

Brother

There’s Mom! And Dad--hanging on the wall! Wow, How young they look. The crystal lake water sparkles Behind them, and something behind the camera Dapples sunlight across their cookie-cutter smiles And rosy cheeks. Dad’s wind-tousled, slightly thinning hair, Mom’s small, contented smile--you can almost hear The laughter, can’t you? Something hides beneath those smiles, What’s in the frame isn’t really the Full picture, is it? How were we supposed to know That the cancer was already eating away at Mom’s brain. That Dad would die of grief shortly after. This halcyon haven, hanging here, can’t tell you That life would change forever for us, Can it, brother?

by Ben Moore, XII

Dalton Baril, XII

Poor Toby

My pathetic Toby, A hound beagle mix Whose eyes are moist with sadness And ears droopy like flowers without water. A puppy, Naïve to what we humans know as fun. An odd lot, a runt? He does not have a strong attraction to anyone. He stands there and tolerates The toddlers as they play and flick his floppy ears, And squeeze his torso like a baby doll’s. I bring treats for the kids to feed Toby Hoping the Milkbones would spark a lasting friendship. The children shuffle away And lay the Milkbones on the ground Forcing Toby to walk towards them for his reward. When all the treats are gone, Toby comes to my side, And whimpers until I take him home.

by Jim Quagliano, XII

The Servient

We marched through the unrelenting desert Over sand dune after sand dune In the seemingly endless sea of yellow. The Sheik, comfortable in his canopied enclosure, Barked out orders during our four day trip to Cairo. Camels were his pack mules, Not for riding. The sun burned through my thin cotton shirt And I covered my head with cloth. My eyes grew weary And my legs wanted to collapse with every additional step in the soft sand. The Sheik called all the shots; We slept at his command, We marched at his command, We cooked at his command. We did not dare say a word When orders came from those sun blackened lips. It was hard to take orders from the man Who didn’t appreciate our military service. At night we pitched his tent for him And I was ordered to bring him his winter jacket Which he didn’t wear. One man put Normison in his morning tea And we all stifled our laughter When he tumbled out of his carriage fast asleep. At night, during our watch, We fired off a few rounds Waking him and the rest of his esteemed travelers. We were formally discharged upon our arrival to Cairo, And felt no honor in serving the Sheik.

by Jim Quagliano, XII

The Phrase Walking along the sidewalk, Mall bustling with shoppers, A man sticks out of the crowd. Thick rimmed glasses, A white undershirt, And black tuxedo pants. His feet were bare and he skipped when he walked. He mumbled something as he passed. Incoherent, but audible. I passed this man again and again. Each time he repeated the same phrase A little louder and clearer than before. Was I supposed to respond? He didn’t stop walking So neither did I. I continued going to the same mall. The man was still there, Living like he had nowhere else to be. I picked up more and more of the phrase. “Top of the mornin’ to ya!” I guess he was finally comfortable seeing me around. I saw the man off in the distance. I decided to walk towards him Hoping he’d walk towards me. “Top of the mornin to ya!” I called out. He stopped, stunned, “Top of the mornin to ya!” He said loudly and clearly And went on his way.

by Jim Quagliano, XII

Boundless Horizon 32

Blacker than a new moon sky. A guard lowered to cover his face, A transparent slit amidst a sea of matte black armor. A handhold forged by the steadiest of hands, Metal with a motion smooth like a dancer’s pirouette. Blinkers signify his superiority And the engine charges the night air. His formidable foe. The uncontested victor over men. The highways of barren Nevada. Fitted with leather for the inevitable joust, The challenger enters the arena. He throttles the engine, Bringing it roaring to life, And takes off towards the elusive adversary.

by Jim Quagliano, XII

Pool Sharks

They grab a pint and set up racks. Sweat glistening on their foreheads With sleeves rolled up to their elbows. They light cigarettes and exhale into the stale air. Reclining in their chairs they drink away the day As I wait on them in my black apron, Subservient to their every whim. Two frequenters play an opening game And I turn as a stool hurls at the stained wall As an enraged drifter leaves to some other hall. The back saloon doors swing violently As he takes his leave. I bring out baskets of wings And pile napkins high For those sharks who like to keep clean Before they kill on the green felt. The solid 3 ball is all that’s left for the veteran Before he has a shot at the glory And sends the guppy home.

by Jim Quagliano, XII

Lilly (1945)

Dancing on the porch, Long dress flowing with every turn, Husband in her arms. She notices the bruises and scars That weren’t there years ago. Tears glisten in her eyes As they turn to the lily he picked for her. Yellow, with wiry stamens. She sits down and is glad it’s all over. She still wears the long dress. Yellow like that flower, But no husband to hold tight. Hairs gray, now white. Weeds around the headstone grow As the years go by since his passing. At home, in every nook, A lily grows, And brings her peace.

by Jim Quagliano, XII

Spring Arbor

My eyes met his. His should have met mine. I didn’t recognize the fixed face That used to be joyful. He didn’t recognize the smiling face He used to call Jimmy. I had forgotten the last time he was cognitive. He had forgotten, Everything. A blurred incident with a checkered cab. All that’s left to remember is Christ. A Reverend, Stuck in Spring Arbor, Lost, with spells of paranoia.

Hymns and Sunday, 34 All that he remembers, And all that gives him joy.

by Jim Quagliano, XII

Moo, Baa, La La La! I. Buckling me into my booster seat, we travel to the Children’s Hospital for our triweekly Visit. Silence in the back seat. My mother experienced many tribulations with my siblings. Apraxia was a new one. I, the third child, approach the age of three Yet no words have resulted from the frantic exercising of my tongue. My mind desires to create sounds, but my stubborn tongue won’t Respond to its commands. The Ice cream Liquefies as Dr. Levine tries to persuade my brain and tongue To form their long overdue friendship. My tongue bounces around my Mouth, desperately hoping to unlock its potential and receive the succulent Treat being waved in front of it. Several trials involving different food, No success is achieved. What about books? I adore The pictures and continue mouthing. I am particularly drawn To Moo, Baa, La La La! Pictures of animals participating In my most desired activity, fill the sixteen cardboard pages. It ends with an oddly appropriate line, “It’s quiet now. What do you say?” II. For over three months continued Silence. One day I crinkle my tongue: “Moo” “Baa” and “La” follow in the later days. A trophy sits above my desk: “Walker Rise: First Word” Out loud of course.

by Walker Rise, XII

Mobile Suburb

A year’s worth of gravel and leaves Cover the floor mats. A jacket lives in the trunk For when it’s cold, along with books and binders. A sports coat hangs Because I was too lazy to return it inside. The center console barely closes, Scratched CDs, Icebreakers, and Old Spice. Nine seats inhabit three rows. The back seat remains the worst. I have moved From the back seat, to the middle, to the driver’s seat. The exterior, coated in dents, scuffs, and scratches From dreaded encounters with two cars, two trees, and my house. A recent tire change disposed of the murder weapon Used against an unlucky possum. Old, dirty, beaten up, perfect. by Walker Rise, XII

The Light Through the Trees

The glass is icy against my face The vapor of my breath Hides the darkness outside. I scribble Some four letter words before temporally Maturing and discarding of the fog with the sleeve Of my blanket with sleeves. I gaze Out into the darkness. The branches of a pine Tree are illuminated by a single light From a neighboring house. The tree’s branches Stretch out. I can only see the tree. It takes Up all the light, ruling its surroundings. A massive collection of needles have returned to The top of the tree. A nest.

36 A Cooper’s hawk with dark stripes on his tail Perches himself on one of only a dozen Visible branches. He and I Make eye contact. He jumps And flies into darkness. by Walker Rise, XII

Bungee

“If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you?” Yes. The mates enlighten me of the fun of it. One in every 500,000 die. I hand 169 purple New Zealand dollars to the woman, Who has two responsibilities: Explaining the risks and selling Dippin’ Dots. I sign and begin to inspect. Beige cliffs covered in dark green moss Surround the turquoise water on all sides. The cool breeze rushes through the recently shaved Sides of my head. Luckily the wooden bridge doesn’t wobble. A giant sign above reads, “No refunds if you chicken out.” Now both my pride and money are on the line. I lie convincingly, “No, I’m excited.” The man in front of us admits, “you’ll have to push me.” The staff member grins, “Sure on the count of three.” She pushes him after two. I restrain the shaking in my legs as the woman bounds my ankles together. Waddling over to the edge with both arms tied around the railing. “Just fall head first like a dive.” I begin to lean. I catch a glimpse of blue, shift back, flailing. I shoot through the air, having no memory of how I left the platform. I want to scream, but fear has rendered me mute. My descent slows and my body is jerked in reverse. Falling again, this time the scream locates an exit. Hanging, I am instructed to grab a metal pole. I fight my spinning and grab hold and am lowered into the bright yellow raft.

47 37meters. I didn’t bungee jump, I bungee fell.

by Walker Rise, XII

Pumpkin Patch The city children went to their berry farm, but we, oh no, we, would go to the Pumpkin Patch-We would ride the hay cart down to the endless fields of brown and orange, perpetually hidden save for that one time of year. Pick only the proudest pumpkins, ripe and burning with holiday potential. Take them by the stem and load them into your arms-Summer’s ghost spoke of life in dead grass. Calling out from the corn maze we wondered, Who would be lost? Not this. Not I. Our thoughts echo still through the labyrinth. Not this. Not I. by Walker Rise, XII

Neighbors Tacky orange and road-worn white, the great U-Haul sits in anticipation upon your driveway. It will devour all your furniture and spit you out into some bright new life. Was it the neighborhood? Was it your family? Was it ours? Doesn’t matter. You’ve crossed the point of no return to be drummed out by the prying eyes of curious strangers from down the block. Never knew you. Never tried. by Alex Shedd, XII

Latte To touch its heated handle and scrape its bitter foam, To drink its careful mixture of milk and espresso. To see the world much clearer if only for an hour, To be the master of the morning and wield the caffeineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s power. by Alex Shedd, XII

Christian Carlow, IX

Unspoken

You 39 spoke to me so softly; silent inflection in your vowels that only I could hear. But I did not recognize your voice although I have heard it in my dreams and on my waking eardrums-Pounding Drifting Sound waves in a strange sea.

by Alex Shedd, XII

Fall The dead winds of August decomposed into water vapor and ceased their invasion of our mercurial southern plane. Leaves crack under jaded heels. You had forgotten what life was like without July’s ignorance and June’s naivete, and how cold seventy feels in September.

by Alex Shedd, XII

St. Patrick’s Day It was a few days after you collapsed. I was not there when the terminal blare of the heart monitor became a smooth symphony, and you were at peace. I never forgot the smell of smoke that haunted your house. In the summer we would open the door and the bugs would come in and stick to the ceiling; a shower of tiny wings waiting for their moment.

by Alex Shedd, XII

T.S. 40 Eliot’s Unfinished Dinosaur Poem Tyrannosaur is the cruelest beast, eating Stegosaur in the Cretaceous, mixing Memory and desire, reaching With small arms toward far goals. There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock.) I will show you fear in a giant carnivorous lizard. “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago, I ate them.” O O O O that prehist-i-oric age, It’s so dangerous So extinct. When Velociraptor’s dinner got away, I said, I didn’t mince my words, I said to him myself, HURRY UP PLEASE THERE’S A METEOR. Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug These are dinosaur noises. Tereu.

by Alex Shedd, XII

The Human Experience on a Bad Day Civilization is failing but at least the mail still comes. You don’t know what you want from life but at least you have friends. You don’t have friends? At least you have lungs. And until those fail you have feeling in your fingertips and you know the smell of pine and home. In God’s image there was red eye and lack of focus. It wasn’t perfect,

framed it anyway. 41 Something Tells Me Something tells me spring is coming, I can smell it in the air. Something told me to read Shakespeare, Whitman, Twain, and Baudelaire. Something tells me practice art, and rhyme the words or free the verse. Something tells me stay the same, and never lose that childhood curse. Something tells me you don’t love me; someone told me it was clear. Something tells me to be pained, but something else says spring is here.

by Alex Shedd, XII

The Arrival

Early is on time, on time is late, late is forgotten. Arrivals in our world kickstart chaos. The arrival of the child. The family elated, the doctors proud. An angel child, to do good upon the world No one can know Planning a party, planning a class, planning a schedule A cake ruined, an abundance of students, arrangements altered. I arrived. January 3, 1985. And I dismiss as well. Today. June 15, 2014. Chaos, I will cause, I know. But could I live on through my cold aging. I would.

by John Tyson, XII

The Lonely Robot A sturdy contraption just peeking out from behind a box. Left abandoned by its teammates, After the unsuccessful season. Covered in loose red and black wires. Students pass without even glancing at it. The arm sits extended as if beckoning For us to come closer. I keep walking. I have no time to stop for this machine.

by Adam Vath, XII

Sight Unseen

An empty room littered with red chairs. I spy a young couple around the center of the crowd As I take the stage. John approaches me. “I’ll give you a place to stay but, no, I won’t forgive you,” I open the dirty refrigerator and hand him some chilled wine, Nearly dropping the glass. “What’s this picture?” I rush onto the stage. “I want things to be the same! I miss the old times!” John rushes towards me and embraces me. “It just can’t be.” The crowd erupts with applause. Neil and I stand center stage and bow. by Adam Vath, XII

Auditions

The stage door squeaks open: The director. Stocky with short grey hair. Carrying himself with great dignity. A girl with red hair Fumbles through dialogue. “It’s a p… pleasure to mmmeet you sir” She sits alone in the front of the house. by Adam Vath, XII

Theater

I approach the stage. Passing one person carrying A large metal pipe, And another carrying A small square platform. I don’t let them disrupt my focus. I need to perform this scene perfectly. I remember the director’s scowl When I messed up my lines in rehearsal. There is no room for mediocrity here. Blank stares fill the room as I start speaking, “I want you to know I am very upset about this.” The line flows from my mouth perfectly. Just like I practiced. I complete the scene with my partner, and get an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction. I feel the warmth of the stage lights. It’s reassuring. Reminding me why I keep performing. Reaffirming my love for Theater

by Adam Vath, XII

The 44 Waiting

I sit in my car, Chewing on my nails with each passing minute. My phone says 9:40. Might as well head in now. I rush through my lines. “Antonio never yet was thief or pirate.” A lady with pointed glasses calls my name. “They’re ready for you.” I feel like throwing up, She shows me the door.

by Adam Vath, XII

When You’re An Addams

The curtain opens. Several actors take the stage with looks of pure resentment. A violin starts off quietly as other instruments join in. The actors’ voices join together, Almost harmonious. I feel as If I already know these characters. The song continues, The graveyard and gray gate. The young boy’s striped shirt. black and white. The song ends with the word “Die.”

by Adam Vath, XII

Two Days After Thanksgiving He always led the blessing, This year was no different Thirty three of us circled up Not including Uncle tony and his crew, And he thanked God for his family, For our health, and we thought the same. We poured gravy on our turkey And talked about the game. His gentle tuft of hair was just visible

Over 45 the tired recliner. I kissed his hand and cheek And he spoke back in Italian. He ate his olives straight from the jar. His eyes were dark and moist, Like the chianti he sipped. Now he lies before me--they say it is. I want to kiss his hand, but its not his.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

“blest be the tie” Simple piano chords pull us to our feet from aged pews, we lock hands through the room; it glows with late-morning sun, warm with beige, bleached walls. I stretch to clasp hands with my neighbors at my side. From each a cracked smile. Ernest’s grip is firm. His chalky hand once dropped bombs from B-29s. And to my right, I cradle the cool bony hand of Ginny Francis smiling and swaying, bandana on head, she sings through her cancer.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

Peines de Coeur

46 In solemn angst, she gazes at the grass. Alone, her sisters’ words a passing breeze; The fields surround as patched together hues. And In the field behind her lays the stacks Of wheat, her labor of the day produced, But now, she sits as though she worked for naught. Oh, girl, what grief has brought you to the ground? I see the lack of love that’s in your eyes, Is this all life has offered you thus far, Some mounds of wheat, loose garments and a rake? Stand up, girl, and take the path before you, Follow it through the valley, past the hills. Take your rake and find the unchaffed grain. Tomorrow’s wheat is still alive today.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

The Autumnal Storm Each autumn brings a kind of storm, Which rains us with its hue. Green gives way to an aged sheen The tea-stained storm clouds brew. November breeze and amber seas Collide to form the storm. A shivering gail of golds unfolds, A Tempest in the trees. Leaves are ripped, the branches stripped Then scattered on the ground Honey dipped, they roll and skip A howling whisper sound.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

Flowers

47 Standing in the soot stained gravel Driveway, he watched the men in suits As they worked. Crunching over burned house: Drywall, china, Legos, shattered windows-They smothered the last few flames. “Those damn cedar shake roofs” Said a distant voice as he kicked A melted toy tractor--”I’m sorry, buddy”. A sweat drenched hand ruffled his hair. He shrugged, Turning from the smoke-soaked Face of “Chief Parker.” Monopoly money and flakes of ash Flickered around the yard. He could get another Toy tractor. At the end of the driveway, He saw where the truck had found The family flowerbed. Daisies, Buried in a fit of urgency. Flames melting the sky, the screaming Engine had gouged the earth. Gone were the foxgloves his mother planted. And her kitchen had always smelled Of rosemary and lavender. He used to watch the geraniums turn pink, Seared by summer heat. He cried for the flowers.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

A Sinful Slaughter Did she feel the hot lead shredding Her into several pieces? A squirrel lay half eaten by her side. She sat in a puddle of stench, Feathers curled by the heavy must of entrails. Not a rubber statue, intestines connected the head and torso, The right wing gone. I pricked a finger with what was left of her talons

Clutching the yellow, leathery legs. I reached into her 48 Belly, creeping into the unknown, hand sliding through The warm network of hawk organs. I squeezed And felt bits of what must have been half-digested squirrel. I lifted them to the sky and cried.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

From the Blind A flock of birds speckles the water. Glazed with silence and an icy shell; The waves freeze over their backs. They dive not once for musk grass, pondweed, or primrose; Slaves to the lead weights. Some stare, others turn away Plastic eyes unmoving, they bob silently Mourning, celebrating? Two feathered heaps From each, seeps a scarlet stain, Slain in an act of steel. by Hunter Wigginton, XII

One More Cast I kept telling myself, and I Hoped the fish Would pity me. I watched the sun An unsavory mass Turning the river Into a blinding surface. Sweat and cramped forearms, I watched the sun. It squatted, then vanished. shade everywhere, The water was an easy blue ink. I, the air, the water came to life.

The 49 grey sky Buzzed, baitfish surfaced. One more cast. I hardly saw the gurgle, Heard the pop, Of my lure, But my forearm told me It was there. I waited, tuned To the sound of“Wham” i whispered An implosion of water The line shot to life, A maelstrom of purples, blues, and greys And the crash of water; Gallons erupted. A sleek beast Broke the water, yet My line went slack. One more cast.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

Massey Ferguson My 1986 F-150 short-bed, grey and blue, Dwarfed by campers and trucks twice it’s size, Squeezed between two eighteen wheelers. Parked, I turned to see the glowing city: Through dust and smoke, A giant wheel glowed red and white and blue. I heard a mechanized roar and a jeering crowd. Boots crunched the gravel by the ticket booth. Ten green ones later, I handed the gatekeeper the red Stub, and stepped into the bright city. Bells buzzed, lights flashed, burgers sizzled, manure-funnel cakes fryed, exhaust fumes and dust wafted through the crowd. A sea of reds, whites, denim, and camo Gathered to watch Vintage chevys and fords snarl To tug a large red sled. Past the contest, rides and games,

Where the dust settled and the light hung low 50 Slept God’s creatures Beside these beasts of burden, rusts a tractor. Patches of once-cherry paint, a palid pink. Carefully machined parts aged, forgotten? White letters on the snout read “Massey Ferguson”. Someone cared about it once. It shaped the fields on which I stand, By which we live, for which our colors fly. America’s machine, a reminder of those glorious days When plow and earth did collide.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

“CSX” In moon rinsed beige Clings to the iron wall. I cut my lights and the image sharpens. A herd of beasts in single file bend out of sight in either direction. I came lurching and sliding down a back gravel road, Blasting music and radio static, Tearing the night with my high beams and engine growl-I heard the howling horn, Saw the lights, a red octagon. I buried the brake pedal, And sniffed the roaring metal. The beasts screamed, Chattering from full gallop To a hissing walk To stillness. Now they loom, clicking and chewing. I exit my heated, suede, Cab and drop to gravel with a crunch. The silence is thick Enough to hear their grazing grunts. I leave my phone in my pocket. The screen may read 11:44 Or twenty four fahrenheit, But the moon’s too bright, My breath, too white.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

Freshmen Attend a School Dance We huddled by the refreshments. Others passed, long, tossed hair, Half clothed, attractive, sweat drenched Whisked to an unseen dance floor by girls, Pretty girls. We huddled by the cookies and lemonade, Three freshman. Our hair still combed (by motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand), Braces and acne covered our round face, Our jacket, still on, bared wrists. Enough of this nonsense! We grabbed a chocolate chip cookie-Oatmeal raisin, not fit to eat it. Debuting on the dance floor We sent the protestful pastry soaring8 Over the partygoers. Miscalculated precision: It hit the lead singer in the right breast, An african american shriek over the speakers Confirmed our achievement. In high fives and pubescent snickers We dissolved, beaming, fulfilled. Three years later, I am that crowd, Twirling with some girl. I wish I could just stand by the refreshments; We would laugh and throw them.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

A Troubled Gait I loaf along, my feet half bare, Wet hair, a wrinkled shirt. My movements slow, without a care I limp, my knees are hurt.

What brought me to this humble state?

Why 52 sport this battered face? Still stricken with my staggered gait, I work to leave this place. Two months until the season’s start; The coaches, they don’t know. We practice hard, and play our part Yet “still have room to grow”. To wrestle is to give one’s soul To a timeless struggle At my car, I quit my stroll And try to forget my trouble.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

Numbers The gym is crowded Weighed, counted, and examined We’re slaves to a scale. 160. All week: Monday I was 16 over Wednesday, 12, Thursday I was 9 over 5 on Friday, but today I am 160. Twenty four hours since my last drop Skin clings like linen wraps to my aching bones. A quarter mile walk has left me winded. The half clothed mummy in the mirror Gazes through dry marbles, But he is 160.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

Lifting Heavy Metal My eardrums swell as heavy metal Shakes the dusty ceiling tiles-Iron Maiden, a thirty pound dumbbell, Metallica. I clap another rusty plate on the bar, Clink and clank between electric guitar. My heart beats time with the music

As 53I step under the iron beam, Burnished in bands by calloused hands. I shoulder the weight and shuffling back I totter the load to the middle of the rack. My muscles swell as heavy metal Now burdens my back. The ferrous rail warps and dips I take one last look at my salt-dripped Nose and I drop, charging My lungs with air, releasing As I press up, vision tinted copper, I taste it too. Racking the rod, My weightless figure floats unfettered On floppy legs. From the end of a spinning tunnel Squeaks the music again, my heart pounds In my head, the beat of the heavy metal.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

How To Tie Your Shoes Write what you know. What if you know nothing, Nothing important? Why put ink to paper, then? You donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know love or death Or medicine. What do you know? Simple, uninteresting things: How to tie your shoes. But everyone knows that. Once laced, anyone can walk-Across German alps, the appalachian trail, the sangre de Christo Hundreds of miles, shoes and blisters on the feet, the burden of a home upon your back. Canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t we all simply walk? --Then run, Until Sharp air bloodies your lungs, Your soul cries for air and mercy,

Quivering on the ground, 54 Your nose drips with vomit and pride. It starts when you cross those laces. If we all know that, why write?

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

The Weaver The snare of an eight legged savage Sways eerily against a silver sky. Its intent is sinister, ready to ravage And pose a sticky death to passing flies. It stretches, ready to cut short the passage Of the victims its maker mummifies, Twisting them into a silky package, With phantasmal grace it twirls and ties. But today, the master artisan Is not home. His handiwork hovers, haunting. The thin threads shiver And shine in the sun, once A chilling chamber of the dead, now An empty display of intricate beauty.

by Hunter Wigginton, XII

Ode to a Snow Day The sickly saccharine sin of procrastination That is brought on by a blanket of white snow The quick vitality of the streets met with a sudden cessation Cars jerking forward on fitful antilock braking systems Carving the alabaster cover, leaving inky gouges in their wake The melting snow tossed behind the twin tires falls to the ground sullied Mixed with the dust and grime which moments before it had covered A bright scrollbar races beneath the news, an inexhaustible series of names My eyes scan the list, my sisters and I sit in expectant silence There is a sharp crackle as the roofâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ice falls to the snow And the early morning sun changes the deluge into a thousand chryselephantine shards A sudden whoop to my left returns my focus to the screen I know before I ever see the words: School has been canceled Immediately this ode turns to a requiem for a snow day that will be too soon departed

by Jack Jiranek, XII

The 56 Ember What happened to you? Where did you go, where are you? Lost in the throes of higher education, of freedom? Morals corrupted Boundaries crossed The wild ecstasy of a repressed and tired soul Finally released from its constrained cage A sea of humanity rages every night, Along the townhouses, the rows, the streets And there you are, amongst the fray Matching others step for step, shot for shot Playing the games society demands of you And yet in the midst of this cruel social construct Your identity has been stripped You have been reduced to a faceless unknown You have lost your soul, your meaning What happened to the person I used to know? Who was smart, outgoing, funny, talented Who didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have a care in the world Or a frown to grace her lips? Replaced by some new being Same face, different eyes The world was your oyster, life a pearl But that has evaporated, vapors in the wind The eyes are the worst, the most painful Those eyes that used to radiate brightness with the brilliance of crystal Full of meaning, purpose, and exuberance Those eyes have been transformed into slits Where only a shadow escapes from the dark irises Obscure, clouded, unsure, murky, black, serpentine What have those eyes seen? I know at least part of you is still locked, Trapped within those opaque panes of the soul Somewhere deep within there is a glowing ember still, A small, miniscule fire of the days of old A reminder of what used to be, of all that has been lost But soon, I fear that ember might be extinguished, For I see it lose strength daily, weakening As you slowly lose who and what you once were.

by Richard Hamrick, XII

PROSE

Easter This Easter I thought about making a cardboard sign to wear around my neck. “No, I don’t have a girlfriend, no, I don’t know where I’m going to college, and yes, I grew a lot since last year. That happens when you get older.” I didn’t go through with it, but it probably would have spared me some conversation and opened up room for more honey ham. “It’s the new urban look,” they’d whisper, glancing at my cardboard necklace over their clinking glasses of whiskey, “you see it a lot in these liberals.” Being the youngest in my entire extended family means two things on Easter. First, the whole affair smells faintly of an interview, a quick check on whether I’m more like Lawton, the military cousin who’s now in law school, or Matt, the college-dropout who’s MIA. It also means that they conduct this while red-faced, roaring drunk. The greatuncletwiceremoved starts speaking in French to the wobbling aunt while I watch the whole thing politely. Maybe that’s why I eat so much on Easter, so I don’t have to talk as much. Not just the ham and the rolls, the usual stuff, but the sticky stuff, the stuff that my mom puts in bowls around the house for decoration. Peeps, Reeses, Hershey’s, I eat so much that my pockets fill with their little balls of tin foil packaging and my stomach fills with their sludge. By 7pm the guests usually stagger out and I stagger to my bed, equally intoxicated by sugar bunnies and chocolate eggs. Except this Easter. After having my conversations about girlfriends, college, and growing, punctuated by candy binges at different bowls around the house, I decided to rally and meet my friend Fleet. He was just as shell-shocked (or should I say egg-shell-shocked) from polite laughs, awkwardly drunk aunts, and a sense of ironic irreverence as I was. When we realized none of our friends were in town and we definitely didn’t want to go back to our houses and socialize with the aunts and uncles and second cousins, who, in the dark, were tougher to tell apart. We parked next to the golf course and leaned back our seats and looked up at the sky. In silence it looked so deep. I was so small, and conversation and candy and sermons and a guy who lived 2,000 years ago were just as small. I forgot the bubbling feeling in my stomach and stopped licking the sweet substance from the corners of my mouth. Leaning back, I felt my Toyota twirling through galaxies and whizzing deeper into the stars that looked like snowflakes rushing towards my face when I looked into a gray February sky. I felt alone. So I went home and hugged that drunk aunt and had a shallow conversation with my cousin. I ate more candy, but this time ate it slowly. I let it squash onto the roof of my mouth and sink into my cheeks. I savored it, because if not, it would melt away onto my tongue and leave me wishing I enjoyed the sweetness while it was still there.

by Joe Goode, XII

The Whiteness of the Whale On the surface Moby Dick appears to be a classic story of adventure on the high seas which Melville grew so adept at writing early in his career. Looking at a plot synopsis alone, it would be difficult to tell what distinguishes Melville’s magnum opus from his less known works, Typee and Omoo; however, a closer analysis of the text reveals that the author intended the book to be read with three messages that change its meaning entirely. These three messages are the pitfalls of the transcendental view of a benevolent world, man’s nature to seek revenge when the situation spirals out of control, and the primordial dangers which lurk beneath the surface of both the human soul and the natural world. These three themes fundamentally change the mood of the book and lead the reader to the realization that the crew of the Pequod are hunting more than the ubiquitous white whale. Melville began his literary career around the same time that the ideas of the Transcendentalist writers Emerson and Thoreau were beginning to gain traction. These Transcendentalists, or Pantheists as Melville preferred to call them, presented the alluring vision of an infinitely beautiful and complex natural world which served as a metaphor for the individuality of the human soul. Melville also looked to nature in order to express these “natural facts”; however, the world Melville expressed in his works was a far cry from Emerson’s benevolent Over-soul. Moby Dick is filled with numerous thinly veiled insults of the transcendental school of thought and examples of how this ideology breaks down in the real situations. For example the closing paragraph of chapter 35 outlines the fate of a philosophical Pantheist who’s communion with nature is interrupted when he slips on the masthead and screaming, falls “through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise forever” (136). This passage shows Melville’s intent to demonstrate the dichotomy that exists between nature’s beauty and its indifference to human suffering. Melville continues his attack on Transcendentalism by comparing it to Platonic philosophy and implying that its adherents risk falling “into Plato’s honey head, and sweetly perish(ing) there” (273). In Melville’s mind the Ohio honey hunter and the Pantheists are each attempting to drown themselves in the sickly sweetness of their respective prizes. The final example of Melville’sreservations about the Pantheistic movement occurs when he questions the wisdom of trying to see God in all of nature warning that “being too fastidious in your curiosity touching this Leviathan” can lead to the inevitable risk of being stove or sunk by him (218). A second theme of the novel’s deeper meaning is that Ahab’s “quenchless feud” is a symbol of humanity’s desire for conflict in the face of a situation that they cannot control. Melville introduces Ahab’s quest to kill the White Whale all the while emphasizing that it is not the whale itself that the captain intends to destroy. Instead Ahab claims that if men truly wish to gain revenge they “will strike, strike through the mask” in order to harm the “inscrutable thing” which lies beyond (140). Ishmael is so moved by the captain’s speech that he, along with the rest of the Pequod’s crew, swears to help fulfill Ahab’s blasphemous vow of revenge. In fact Ishmael cannot state why he feels impelled to destroy Moby Dick and only says that he is motivated to action by “a wild, mystical, sympathetical feeling”

59 which overcomes the more rational side of his character and forces him to empathize with the man who was so cruelly struck by fate (152). These two examples show how Ahab and the members of the Pequod’s crew struggle to seek revenge against an omnipotent force in order to try to restore some measure of human control to the situation. The final focus of the story is the use of elaborate metaphors to hint at the dangers that lie dormant both in humanity and in the surrounding world. Melville makes it clear through the mood expressed in his writing that the narrator, Ishmael, believes that there is something disjointed between the beautiful appearance of nature and its inherent viciousness. Perhaps the most telling example of this mood exists in chapter 42 when Ishmael remarks that nature is a grim harlot “whose allurements cover nothing but the charnelhouse within” (165). Melville expands this idea of the intrinsic savagery within nature and compares it to the delicate state of the human mind. In a reflective metaphor Ishmael asks the reader to imagine that within their soul exists an “insular Tahiti full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half known life” (225). This analogy, when viewed in concert with the author’s characterization of the primeval barbarism of nature which lies beneath a calm surface, provides an interesting perspective on the fragmented nature of the human soul. Like the Transcendentalists Melville believes that humans cannot be separated from nature, but in Melville’s mind this connection is the reason for humanity’s propensity for violence and not a solution to it. The novel Moby Dick is one of the most ambitious literary works of the American Romantic Period. Much of the book’s genius comes from the author’s ability to meld the tale of adventure with a series of philosophical musings which add depth to the story. The secondary meaning of the book includes the themes of the fallibility of the transcendental world-view, man’s innate desire seek vengeance when he feels he has lost control, and the darker part of the human soul which so closely models the “demonism” which exists in the natural world. These three themes add resonance to the tale and the deceptively simple story about a whaling voyage evolves into a battle between men and the presence that exists on the other side of the “pasteboard masks”.

by Jack Jiranek, XII

Live Your Dash, Make Every Moment Matter To many, it is but a hyphen... marking time between the years, but in that little dash, is a lifetime of laughter, love and tears. We each create the legacy our dash will someday represent and decide if the life we’re given is truly lived... or merely spent. by Linda Ellis

The Hieroglyphic Staff would like to dedicate this year’s edition of the publication to the memory of Mr. Andrew Jackson Bolling III, a dedicated teacher, coach, and mentor to the young men of St. Christopher’s School.