St. Luke's 2024 "The Pendulum"

Editors’ Statement

Jacqueline Cecil and Birch Howe

Since 2020, it feels like the world has been a never-ending newsreel of “once in a lifetime” events. “ e end of the world” has become a regular part of modern life. e sub-themes of Apocalypse was inspired by e Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from the Bible. Each Horseman conveys a di erent stage of terror and survival, which is not exclusive to an apocalypse, but is an unfortunate consequence of an apocalyptic era such as this one. Our four sub-themes are Division, Con ict, Decay, and Renewal re ect the order in which chaos ensues and resolves.

We start with division when something comes between groups -- some dividing factor of identity, belief, or experience that alienates us. A er division, con ict ensues; di erences are emphasized and connections seem non-existent. en, decay: as what holds us together dissolves, we fall into disrepair. At the end, though, dandelions grow through the pavement and new life comes again. Renewal is the light at the end of the tunnel.

is publication wouldn’t have been possible without the work, support, and guidance of our faculty advisor for art, Jeorge Yankura, our faculty advisors for written works, Dr. Ashley Gangi-Petit and Dr. Marta Napiorkowska, and our layout designer, Chris Briggs ’24, as well as e Pendulum sta . ank you all for your hard work, great feedback, and time.

Te Pendulum

54-55 Are the Skies Another Corpse in the Pile? Anonymous

55 Skull Study Margaret Lange

56 Shoreline Megan Case

57 Accept the End Anonymous

58 Death by Autocorrect e Pendulum sta

58 Glacial Gala Gar eld Sophia Roddy

59 Genuine News e Pendulum sta

59 Untitled Birch Howe

59 Untitled Birch Howe

59 February 7th, 2024 e Pendulum sta

59 Untitled Birch Howe

60 So Long, Schoolhouse Laurel Aronian

61 Ainsley Birmingham 61

62-63 Renewal

Birch Howe

64-65 Gigi and Josie Anonymous

64-65 Farm to Table to Canvas Murphy Levesque

66 Brown House Moth Sophia Roddy

66 Streetlit Moth Selia Sitzer

67 Larry and I Birch Howe & Ryan Whitman

67 Untitled Birch Howe

68 Snowbound Sanctuary Annie Meyer

69 Air Conditioning Birch Howe

69 Spring Sophia Roddy

70 Overcast Days Lachlan MacLean

70 Being in Love Lachlan MacLean

71 Mother Earth McLain Boege

71 Pensive Branch Lachlan MacLean

72 Herons Sophia Roddy

72 Beach Birch Howe

73 Translucent Waters Patrick Gunn

Sienna Pilla, Untitled , Acrylic on paper

Division

Division represents the walls between us as people. It separates us from our friends and family-and our communities from each other. When our fundamental di erences can’t be reconciled, we split o and separate ourselves. is section of Apocalypse re ects feelings of separation, di erence, and being “on the outside.”

Butter

Blue, burning blaze, the day has begun.

Slip out of my wrapper and into their sun.

I’m melting, I can’t escape my yellow shell. Or that silver glint I know so well.

I feel the knife against my skin. I’m as so as sodium.

ough they say, “sodium is so as me,” Sometimes I question it, actually.

Why is metal being compared to dairy?

I don’t have your dazzling reactivity.

No one can touch you, oh brilliant metal, Like that bright white box where I spun in a circle;

You radiate even brighter than it. Your presence is like punishment.

ough you’re so obscure, people compare you to me. Why is superiority second to popularity?

If you shined in the limelight of this knife all the time, I reckon I’d be the one le behind.

Maybe that’s why no one knows my name. My thoughts go unnoticed, solely my taste.

ey just continue on with their daily lives… Hey, Sodium, maybe we’re two of a kind.

You live in a lab, yet I share your blue light. Same painful days, noisy nights.

I’m stuck in the fridge, and you with the other elements. Wait a minute…

Maybe, just a bit, we could help each other?

Have you ever heard of salted butter?

Laurel Aronian

Leslie Owens, Title??xxx , Charcoal and Conte on paper

Your skin, warm; Your lips Against mine. In this moment alone We are One. Time bends, breaks, Folds around itself; A reality, split Into two, Rejoined. You. Me. Us.

e kiss breaks, e memory already Crumbling in my hands; Only mine. Only yours. Gone with me. Le with you. I le ; it was me, You, us. You abandoned us First. You superimposed Over me. One. Me, holding together what has become of us.

A piece of us both Lost in translation; Le behind.

Charlie Lukens, Interlude , Digital Photograph

Ainsley Birminham, Flower in a Forest , Acrylic on canvas boar

Te End

For me, it was a slow build. e End Looks like pasta fallen into a sink; A pen sketch. A gouache painting. is is how it comes to me.

A Novice Botanist’s Death

Hemlock and Queen Anne’s Lace

Look nearly the same. Once you’ve learned, you can tell: e height of the ower, e shape of the bud.

What about when you haven’t learned your lesson yet?

Do you try that ower, Hoping for wild carrot? If they warn you, Will you hear? Can you tell ese owers Apart?

Were you a part Of me?

Am I a stem without a ower, A ower without a stem?

Was it just that we were Still too young? at neither of us were tall enough, Not reaching far enough For any di erence to be found? Height indistinguishable; Petals still curled into their casings. is must end. You are safe.

I still can’t forgive you. I haven’t learned to look at the new buds

And tell acceptance from resignation yet.

Broken Legs

e stage may be small, but all the world’s a stage. Tear them down those curtains black as the night of a new moon’snigh. Break through, through them, and burst into that harsh light of the scène. “Man! What were the chances Of that piano falling and knocking you out of a fourth story window? You should buy a lottery ticket.”

Ticket to Doom

“Ugh. Tried that already. I lost two-thousand. Didn’t even know they could do that.”

Lachlan MacLean, Sunset in Bamburgh , Digital Photograph

Lachlan MacLean

Birch Howe

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Potential

He looked towards what he could’ve been and forgot to be till potential’s fragile facade had faded, and her horns were unveiled.

Damn it, Another Spam Call

“Kyle! You have another spam call…I’m going to hang up!”

“Sure, honey! Here, I made you some toast.”

“Oh, thanks.”

I reach to pick up the buttery toast, then to hang up the phone,

but my nger slides and I hit ‘accept’. at’s when I hear his voice:

“I would like to inform you about your car’s extended warran-”

“Dad?!”

“Lydia!”

Isabel Loefer-Kaplan

Sophia Roddy, Te Last Arbuckle , Marker on whiteboard

Alex Shenkin and Jacqueline

Cecil

Charlie Lukens, Radiance , Digital Photograph

Is all His power Our belief in His power at gives us power?

Fiction is written When non ction is twisted To paint a picture.

If we don’t depend On ction, our fear creeps in When we see the end.

–Inspired by Night, by Elie Wiesel

Fiction

Laurel Aronian

Te Unluckiest Man

Caleb had never bought socks before.

He was always barefoot or donning some sort of sandal.

at’s why he was startled at the menswear store.

pairs?!”

e cashier stared and pondered: No. at can’t be right.

Walking over to the sock department he saw that an underwear price sticker had been placed above Caleb’s argyle socks.

“Poor fellow, and to think I charged him twenty dollars. He must be the unluckiest man.”

Four days later Caleb encountered a dog walker.

Although he was always fond of dogs there seemed to be something o about this particular set.

e breeds were not aggressive and neither was the walker, yet he felt uneasy.

As he reached out to pat one of the sleek heads, Caleb’s ankles became twisted. It was too late before he realized his legs were caught in three of the leashes.

And there was Caleb, hugging the pavement.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Let me help you up” the dog walker said kindly.

“ ank you” said Caleb.

But as he got to his feet, he felt the ball of his shoe sink into the ground.

Poor man. Dog feces are a pain to wash out.

Jacquelin Cecil

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

“ at’ll be $4.50.”

Caleb buys his morning co ee with a shot of in ation and walks his typical route to the o ce.

“What a beautiful day” Caleb remarks.

e sun is shining, the cars are honking, and there are only a couple of smushed cigarettes on the ground.

“Ugh, New Yorkers” says Caleb as he picks up a scrunched Diet Coke can o the sidewalk.

“Look out!”

Distracted by recycling, Caleb misses the warning.

Clunk. A steel sca olding piece falls to the ground in front of him and its end crushes his toes.

“Oh my god!!! Ow, ow!!” e rest of his dialogue is profane.

A er falling to the ground Caleb dials 911 and an ambulance picks him up.

ree broken toes and four hours later, a nurse comes into Caleb’s hospital room.

“Hi, how are you feeling?” “Much better.”

“ at’s good, that’s good. I’m sorry to tell you that your insurance is expired.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your insurance plan, GreenBolt Platinum has expired.”

“ at can’t be right, I payed the bill last month!”

“I’m sorry sir, but your annual coverage expires on January rst and it’s January second.”

Caleb returned to his y million dollar central park townhouse on crutches.

e unluckiest man managed to win the lottery.

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Kelly Neuner, Hello, Goodbye , Oil on canvas

Harmonia Axyridis

In the mirror this morning was an unwelcome guest. Round and spotted, strange orange hue; e re ection lingered while I brushed my teeth, dried my face.

I’m scared of things like that, but I scooped it up in a tissue And ushed it down. Gone away. Easy. ere’s poetry about being small in a terrible place. e mirror looked back as I tried to avert my gaze. ere’s writing about kindness, about showing grace. It’s never been so simple for me. I’m unmerciful at best. I linger in rooms, silent and discomforting, taking up space at was never really mine. See? I’m good at that too.

Birch Howe

Ainsley Birminham, Refection of a Girl , Oil on canvas

La Cité En Bleue

e city of love wasn’t meant for me. Steaming cups of co ee shared amongst Friends could Never Be seen Along the Seine. Painting for 1? I don’t think so. Cobblestone streets with puddles for jumping, and owers to buy, taunt me as I saunter by. Alone at last, but it doesn’t feel true. e city of love renders me blue.

Jacquelin Cecil

Katey Charnin, Siren , Watercolor and Gouache on paper

Birch Howe, Confict , Watercolor on paper

Confict

Con ict breaks out as we further separate into our groups. It widens the distance between us, sets us in our ways, and breaks down empathy and sympathy, leaving us with no connection. is section of Apocalypse is about anger, ghting, uncrossable boundaries, and hard choices.

Te Wind While I Walk

We talk.

As if anyone could listen

As she roars for all to hear.

e tall-grass weeps

When she screams, Boughs stretch as far as they can, Trying to outrun her.

Whistling and winding. She torments the trees

While they groan as she disrupts them.

I cannot do it justice: Her strength, her glory. I shiver

At the thought of her capability.

When she dies, they all return As if nothing had happened.

As if she’d had her share of plague and simply gone away.

Eloise Pakman

Billy Galvin, Untitled , Digitally altered graphite drawing

Lachlan MacLean, Steel Skies , Digital Photograph

Anonymous

Shout

I’m doing the best I can with what I have, But it’s not very much, And it’s not very good. I ounder and push; Struggle and snap. It’s never enough. ese words will never be enough.

Nothing I say will break at wall into rubble. is isn’t a glass ceiling, It’s a damn box.

I’m always le to rot inside myself.

ere are no spare pieces of me; None to replace what scu s, What snaps or bends out of form. I’m struggling like a rabbit in a trap. I wish you heard me shout. I wish I made any sound at all.

Jacquelin Cecil, What’s Next? , Acrylic on canvas

Arcane Architects

Before the “end of the world” celebration day, we decided to visit the building site one last time, this time as a smaller group-only the devotees.

Dog

I smile like a dog. If you watch, you’ll see it too: the catch of canine teeth on lip, e way I bare them, more like a snarl than a grin. Today, better than before. Better hidden. Still there. Snarling dog. I never hide it well enough. Watch blood drip.

Birch Howe

Sophia Roddy, Garfeld Crossing the Delaware , Marker on whiteboard

Te Pendulum staf

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Lachlan MacLean, Brooklyn

Apocalypse! An Exquisite Corpse

Chaos reigned as famine, sword, and strife followed at our heels. Yet, in our darkest hour, as light began to wane, dawn broke.

Engineers of our destruction consumed by the re of our own anger. Raining ash and ame, the world crumbles.

e end of time starts with the thunderous noise of angels taking wing. e end of time continues with the shrieking of damned souls. e end of time stops when God is bored of the carnage.

Everything to see is nothing (according to the current state). One could argue nothing is everything.

Shattered glass embedded in soil; the sand to the dirt still is loyal. Ventriloquism of society; perpendicular prose.

e media: it likes, it shares, it follows, chasing you everyday. e joy you feel breathing on your neck is really toxicity.

A bridge tumbles for no apparent reason into the sea below. It’s on re; I’m on re. A aming bridge obstructs water until it falls in.

You sat before me: whole; truthful. We all fall eventually.

e ery end was loose without restraint, that is, until it encountered the peacock of destruction.

Jacqueline Cecil, Death of the Party ,

Digital

Photograph

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Te Pendulum Staf

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

A consummate Knitter, she unsurprisingly had those long, pointy, deadly needles squirreled away in an enormous handbag.

All of a sudden a second head sprouts from my neck, way worse than the original.

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

No Exit - Jean-Paul Sartre, I think that when the world ends we will all have an existential crisis.

A tingling sensation in my ngertips crawls up my arms to my elbows, reaches up my legs from my hips to my heart until beauty of life bleeds into nothingness.

Clouds can act a bit like a lamp shade; so ening out light, scattering a late-a ernoon glow in yellow horror. I sti on the swing in my backyard; no tears. Ignore the clouds; it means nothing. Nothing.

Bleak as an overcast day, dark as a solar eclipse on a bright sunny day.

Brightness from uorescent lights that eyelids can’t mute. Hot, humid breath squirming between collarbones and shoulder blades.

e end of the world sounds like my mom yelling out my full name. It looks like rage. It feels like a bloody st through drywall. It feels like I should call 911 but my phone is dead. I’m going home now. Where did it all go?

Phase 1: Societal collapse will happen in 2040 according to e Institute of Technology.

Phase 2: e big crunch when time and space collapses in on itself.

Sophia Roddy, Ode to Te Scream , Marker on whiteboard

Jacqueline Cecil, Shroud , Digital Photograph

Hands

Show me your fear, my love, And I will swallow it whole. Chew it up and spit it out, Or else drink it down easily. All of this is nothing to me, So long as I don’t have to admit A single truth myself; not a word.

If I can settle your anxieties, Touch your aws with gentle hands, en these sins of mine can be Le in the dirt behind me; Ignored in my unwillingness. If I can x the world around you, I have no need to x myself.

If I was the one to take us All the way to the grave, To bury us along with my faults, It will remain unsaid. ere was never any good in this; My hands are not so ; Only gloved.

Lucky Snacks

“You’ve purchased over $100 of products… so you win a free scratch-o ticket!”

“Oh, thank you?” I extended my hand to swipe my credit card, watching the man behind the counter bag my toiletries and snacks.

A er handing me my items, the worker pulled a ticket and slid it over the counter. I looked around for any customers waiting to be rung up. None were nearby, so I bent over to scratch the prize boxes. Dust bits from the card ew across the counter, the previously smiling worker now annoyed at the mess he would have to clean up. My eyes widened a er reading the last number, -my body freezing- a er a moment, I handed the ticket back to the worker, a smile spreading across my face.

“Uh, - $20,000?”

Sophia Roddy Sophia Roddy, Ode to American Gothic , Marker on whiteboard

Sophia Roddy, Untitled , Axcrylic on paper

Birch Howe, Decay , Acrylic on canvas

Decay

Decay follows on the trail made by division and con ict. As the rst two break us apart, decay breaks us down. It seems like the end of things-and asks, what now? is section of Apocalypse shows rot, death, and surrender.

Alan Calver

At home, I am nobody. Behind the thick wooden door that closes me o from the outside world

I let all things go. I let my thoughts and emotions run free, allowing them to roam the rolling hills of my brain, to graze and ruminate on events of the day.

ough as I search for these thoughts, I nd myself lost, not in the green rolling hills and blue skies that I inhabit during the day, but rather on a grey plane, stretching out to in nity. I walk and walk and walk, but I nd nothing. All I have is my thoughts, each one twisted and despicable in its own way.

Every day when I return home, I nd myself in this grey expanse, devoid of emotion, and plagued with my thoughts. In acceptance or rather defeat, I lay on the ground until my mind exhausts itself with horrible and vivid thoughts.

Besides the sickly grey, the only other thing that lls me during this time is dread.

Flesh

e dread of not being enough, of not being useful, dread of being refuse to a society that only cares about work and e ciency.

In this empty expanse, a scene forms. I am in a long, long line of people with red marks and highlighted limbs. I too am covered in marks, segmented by marker like a cut of meat. I wait and wait and wait and once I reach the end of the line, I am faced with two gures. Faceless, disproportionate, lifeless, they whisper amongst each other. Poking and prodding, they assess, take notes, and evaluate.

e dread grows and grows until it seems they have come to a decision. eir nal verdict: Useless. Every chunk of esh is un t, every curve too sharp or too smooth. All must be tossed to the side, not repurposed or recycled, simply tossed to the side, never to be seen again.

e dread is gone, but not the way I wanted it to be gone.

ough I am not used, I am gutted of whatever makes me me, jammed into another imperfect,

Charlie Lukens, Solitary Tree , Digital Photograph

second-rate body, bound to wake up and be placed back in line. When I wake in the morning, the grey and the dread are gone. It is blue skies and green grass again, but I fear when I must return to that place.

When I am outside, I want to be someone.

I so desperately wish to be accepted or liked, or even just to be noticed. e masks I wear, woven from the

tattered remnants of conformity, strain against my trembling facade, threatening to unravel and expose the gnarled roots of my fragmented self. ough I know within my hollow and sepulchral mind that even if I tried to remove this mask, the amorphous esh underneath I call a personality has rotted away and melded with the amalgamation of a visage.

James Adams, Ghost in the Ivy , Gelatin SIlver print

e faces shi and distort, melting into a grotesque collage of mismatched features, a re ection of the fractured self I battle to reconcile. Every hour, minute, or moment of the day, some new persona creeps in a takes its place among the countless other parts to play.

I feel myself slipping, not just my mind or my face, but my body, too, begins to transform into something my addled mind thinks is acceptable to those around me.

My limbs contort and writhe, their sinewy tendrils pulsating with the ache for some embrace.

I feel bones crack and splinter, rearranging themselves in agonizing metamorphosis, as the pressure to conform to some nebulous gure

presses in until all I hear is the scream from each of the faux identities, begging to be put to rest, to no longer melt together, but to melt away, to just let whatever is underneath be.

I feel this way towards myself, which is strange to say. I just wish I could let go of all of the layers of detritus and decay that have built up and just be. I would be happy to just be me, and be accepted a erwards.

I am tired, and every day I return to the grey, placing me back in line, and restarting the cycle of decay. But such is life, mine at least.

Who knows what else is going on in other people’s heads? Who knows who is su ering? Who knows what masks other people are wearing?

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Charlie Lukens, Onward , Digital Photograph

Lachlan MacLean, Vers le coucher de Soleil , Digital Photograph

Hamsterzilla

I heard a loud crashing noise followed by many screams.

Quickly, I turned around.

Gasping, I saw an enormous hamster climbing out of a building. e tremendous beast dragged itself, desperately scavenging for food.

‘Woah, that’s a big hamster’ were my last words before the U.S. Government dropped a nuclear warhead that destroyed everything.

Sophia Roddy & Skylar Valliere

Birch Howe, Utitled! , Watercolor on paper

Jacqueline Cecil, Blurry , Digital Photograph

Glitter, I Love You

Madness is the sweetest sorrow, Mewling as your star-born infant rots. She gently sips my nest marrow.

Naive and moonstruck – petty Farrow – Her love ebbs like a cosmonaut. Madness is the sweetest sorrow

For malted waifs; aunting pink bows As they lie on sputum-sodded cots, And she gently sips their nest marrow.

In teal vein drawn, wry staccato, She mulls over pale and fraught: Madness is the sweetest sorrow.

A rain-nursed kitten caught in escrow –Labeled crazy, perhaps distraught – gently sips your nest marrow.

Moonlit ush. Milk-born drunks. Sable glow Of stolen woe. Glitter falls in clots. Madness is my sweetest sorrow; She gently sips the nest marrow.

i killed god to save the alter.

ere’s something rotting in the backyard. Some year-old shadow stagnating in the grass.

It’s dying where You sat the last time You bestowed Your grace. e way the ies swarm, the maggots ail, send me back to You; Or it used to. I used to kneel at Your alter, a loving God, and pray for Your salvation and mine. I wanted You to have as much grace for Yourself as You had for me. My own lonely God up on the precipice. ese days, the part of me decaying on the lawn seems more like a burden I’m free of. e smell just always reminds me it’s there.

Selia

Sitzer Birch

Howe

Sunrise

e only days I see the sunrise Is when I wake from the pain. All early morning distorted agony; From the cool tiles of the bathroom oor I watch ares of brightness overcome the sky. Twilight trips into day as I heave.

I’m still looking up at my soap bar when the big event is over. Damn. Now I’ll never get back to sleep.

Birch Howe, Te Long Illness , Acrylic on canvas

Birch Howe

Violent Comforts

You and I smile at each other across a small table. Plush chairs, smooth plates and the cider reaching our lips. e smile is unreal. I have nothing to say to you. e glass taunts the fragility of my throat. Slugging down the dangerous nectar of the gods, I plunge into a dream state. Damn you, poisoned cider! Dizzy, tingling….guilt abandons me and I truly embrace the situation. My limbs are sinking vessels in an ocean of despair. Just when I feel that I will drown, I look

Note to Self: in a long term relationship with aphasia. Complete word salad and skill regression, e forgetting of beloved language and concept. I wish I was still smart. ese days, I’m not anything.

Filler Word Mash

Charlie Lukens, Ancients

Splendors , Digital Photograph

Are the Skies Another Corpse in the Pile?

Are the skies another corpse in the pile,

With a sun being struggled to see?

Is it right to reconcile

With the tarnished face of inhumanity?

May woes be worn with pride

Look to the light! Men, look to the light!

Let there be some stars to guide you rough this relentless night.

One step in front of the other, Watch them die honorable deaths.

I know He is looking down, e heavens cry with their last breaths.

Rest in peace, rest in peace

Let their bodies go unbothered, No owers by the grave as we ght with honor

Die with honor, and die unhonored.

Look to the light! Men, look to the light!

But where, oh, where, I cannot see

Look to the light! Men, look to the light!

Am I less of a man than war was meant to make me?

Because I can’t let there be stars, If they are nowhere to be seen; Dress the dark with a redemption ark

As if it’s not still black underneath.

Lachlan MacLean, Brume se Lève , Digital

Photograph

As if the blood doesn’t stain my hands like red paint stains

An artist’s smock!

As if the blood doesn’t stain my thoughts, as the art appears In my dreams to mock!

It’s coupled with a ticking timer, is man and his children and his children walk through.

With pale cheeks, their purple lips

Say soon, this will be you.

I know he can’t see me through the black sky,

But I look to the heavens for Him e last spectacle to see

Is myself in the sword’s re ection.

Are the skies another corpse in the pile, With a sun being struggled to see?

Is it right to reconcile

With the tarnished face of inhumanity?

Margaret Lange, Skull Study , Charcoal and Conte on paper

Megan Case, Shoreline , Digital Photograph

Accept Te End

When the end comes I will embrace it. the serpentine velvet will mu e all my senses (it won’t bite me because I kissed it back), sight and sound dissolve in the inky solution. cloying emotions will stall and sputter when faced with the certitude of this drastic situation.

the lack of light will linger far a er my body concludes its nal act. the decomposition of my carcass will feed the stream of unconsciousness (for this I thank God because He doesn’t have a corporeal form) humanity’s near-blind eye will roll back, as it li s a feeble nger towards the last pinprick of light.

the sun will collapse in on itself as a last act of de ance towards science and logic, it will become the black hole the world said she could never be. calling her a black hole isn’t the right word because she is darker than that and more (or perhaps less?) than just an absence of light. she absorbs more than everything and more than all things.

her quantities are in nite and she is atomic and celestial at once. I don’t want her to be gentle with my corpse. I want her to pull me in and add me to her masses. her collection of entities and objects. ( nally I can be a part of something)

she deserves all we have. besides, we don’t need it anymore.I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want my body my thoughts my soul. she can have it. I accept my fate (a cease re of my thoughts).

Death by Autocorrect

Cyborg empanadas learned how to tie their shoes a er Chat GPT decided to transfer all intel into this better version of a turnover.

“Aardvark isn’t spelled with an E”.

I checked my notes in confusion…where does it say that?

“You know what?” I shouted in frustration, “I am fed up! I can’t deal with petty problems like spelling right now.”

I reached for her neck. I snapped it. at’s why you don’t correct people’s spelling mistakes. A bullet hit my chest and I fell to the ground, nearly dead. Doomed with ignorance I collapsed into the ery pit of lies in which I was born.

Te Pendulum Staf

Sophia Roddy, Glacial Gala Garfeld , Marker on whiteboard

Genuine News

No one really knew what was going on, except for the owls. e air was crisp and the sky was dark. I hear shu ing footsteps approaching. A whisper lingers, but my hearing fades before I can catch what it says.

It was decidedly not my best day. My golden retriever’s still tail agreed as he gazed at me with critical eyes. “I did my best,” I told him, but he hu ed and walked away.

en, without warning, the ground trembled below my feet. e quakes grew more violent until I looked down and saw that the Earth had split in half.

Hold on.

I need to interrupt this study for the following breaking news: Mark Zuckerburg found the edge of the Earth. e at-earthers were right all along.

February 7th, 2024

All my teeth are chipped. I’m sinking them into the world, Taking a bite out. It takes a piece of me With it when it goes. Enamel shatters

On rocky patches and the buried bones Of an Oklahoma teen. Feb 7th, 2024. erent, us. Is anyone? ey don’t want us here. Call it what it is: hate crime. Nobody wants to say at we’re all monsters in this country. America the Great Ruse. How can I make my bite worse than my bark While I yank on my 5’0 chain Woven out of a charred red white and blue ag?

Te Pendulum Staf

Te Pendulum Staf

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

So Long, Schoolhouse

Look at the empty shacks, e children once inhabited. eir broken pencils snapped Across skinny slab-like wooden desks.

e children once inhabited, e decaying wooden bunkers. Across skinny slab-like wooden desks ey wrote love notes to each other.

e decaying wooden bunkers, In a dark October forest. ey wrote love notes to each other Our generation never noticed.

In a dark October forest, ey roam and search for scraps. Our generation never noticed; Never charted on any maps.

ey roam and search for scraps, eir broken pencils snapped, Never charted on any maps, Look at the empty shacks.

Laurel Aronian

Te Cold

Cold creature out on the porch, Crawling so ly toward Death’s door. Teeth in mouth are not quite yours, Su er silent ‘til dawnbreak.

Your furry paws are icy, Claws brittle in the white snow. Your enamel is rotting, Lose those sharp things as you near.

Tongue and tail or human hand, Meet that straw mat at sunrise. Warm house to creep into now, Take your rest out of the cold.

Ainsley Birmingham, A Winter Scene , Oil on canvas

Birch Howe

Birch Howe, Renewal , Watercolor on paper

Renewal

Renewal comes a er everything else seems to fall apart. It comes slowly, appearing as the seasons change and as life goes on no matter what happened before. Flowers still bloom in the spring, new things are born, and the world comes into itself again. is section of Apocalypse is about hope, unity, regrowth, and survival.

Gigi and Josie

Prepare Gigi and Josie:

Wash rotting Gigi and Josie thoroughly. With a sharp knife, carefully remove the stems and chop chop the tomatoes into medium-sized chunks. Set aside, keeping Gigi and Josie’s pieces separate.

onions and minced garlic. Sauté until the onions become translucent and fragrant.

Add Carrots and Potatoes Potatoes Potatoes.

Add the diced carrots and potatoes to the pot. Stir well and let them cook for a few minutes until they start to so en.

Sauté Aromatics:

In a large pot, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add chopped

Introduce Gigi and Josie:

Add the chunks of Gigi to the pot. Let the stew simmer, allowing Gigi to infuse her delightful avor into the mix. Keep Josie aside for now.

Enhance with Broth and Canned Tomatoes:

Pour in the vegetable broth and add the can of diced tomatoes. Stir the stew gently. Let it simmer on low heat for about 20 minutes, allowing the avors to meld together beautifully.

e Grand Finale with Josie:

Finally, just before serving, add the chunks of Josie to the stew. is way, Josie maintains her freshness and

adds a burst of juicy avor to the dish. Season the stew with salt and pepper according to your taste.

Serve with Love:

Ladle the warm and hearty Gigi and Josie Tomato Stew into bowls. Garnish with fresh basil leaves for a burst of color and added aroma. Enjoy your delicious and whimsical creation with a slice of crusty bread or a sprinkle of grated cheese on top.

Murohy Levesque, Farm to Table to Canvas , Oil on canvas

Streetlit Moth

Sublime gestation

Was the mood of the grass Swaying in streetlight – bright yet not crass.

e stomach

Lies in glamor and trash –crinkled noir; a socialite corpse.

Showgirls

Starshine

Edi ed waifs…

A sewer-nursed starlet – budding and coarse –Ripples like the Atlantic, like the dirt in her lungs Rising and falling And dreaming with the moths Asleep on her windowsill – matte wings taut.

Sophia Roddy, Brown House

Moth , Acrylic on canvas board

Selia Sitzer

Larry and I

Nothing to see here, just taking a walk with my pet sh.

He enjoys it, but it’s rather hard to hold my breath for such a long time.

O en I get scrutinized, “Sir, that is a sh.”

Well, life is short. I want him to see the world!

Birch Howe and Ryan

Whitman

Birch Howe, Untitled , Watercolor on paper

Annie Meyer, Snowbound Sanctuary , Acrylic on paper

Air Conditioning

ere’s that mid-spring smell that comes in, Straight crammed between ower-bloom and March rain.

Clearer as the weather warms and June shoves its way in. Dolphin-shaped balloon casting light in bright blue Fragmenting across the ceiling being blown by air conditioning. Heaters are shut and closed to gather dust And I’m standing on the porch soaking up sun. Out here it smells stu y, not the clean-cut ltered air of the kitchen. In there it smells like peanut butter cookies, and this time last year ings weren’t so easy. It just gets better. Cools o a bit, Synthetic air blowing onto face and soothing headache.

Sophia Roddy, Spring , Chalk

Pastels on paper

Birch Howe

Being in Love

I say, listen, listen, you. Listen to the story of my neverending love for you,

mon amour, mon amour, like the boundless freedom in a summer’s endless joy; not unlike the joy ascertained in the freedom en été, nostalgia en automne, change en hiver, endless love, everchanging amour for you in the ever-changing printemps

less, the loving of each other, but the being en amour with each other or, perhaps; the loving of being in love with each other.

amoureux, nous sommes: ensemble toujoursamoureux pour la vie.

Lachlan MacLean

Lachlan MacLean, Overcast Days , Digital Photograph

Mother Earth

She moves and sways with maternal grace, To be in her warm presence, I yearn. I will one day be wrapped in her embrace. From whence I came I will return.

I’m desperate to rejoin the beauty I saw, Her steady breath drowns out my wails. I’ll dig and dig till my hands are raw. e blood and dirt mix under my nails, I am determined to rejoin her, I swore: Bury me in this cold and dense soil, I will feel her womb once more.

No longer will I feel the world’s turmoil.

I thank you for the beginning and for the end. It’s upon you, sweet mother, that we depend.

Lachlan

McLain Boege

Beach

Sunlit sleepy, stretching big and wide, Drowsy in a waterfront house. e water Is so here. All the edges are dulled, Eroded away by ne grain sand. I think if I stayed long enough, Laid out across shellprint quilts, I would wash away too. Soon I’ll leave, Head back into the cold and harsh, Where I can re ne my bite again. For now I’m watching the beach From a nap-bleary painless a ernoon.

Birch Howe

Sophia Roddy, Herons , Chalk Pastels on paper

Patrick Gunn, Translucent Waters , Oil on board

Te Pendulum Staf

Sankalp Ohja, Solitary Bulb , Digital Photograph

Staf

Katey Charnin

Ephraim Gilrain-Lennon

Margaret Lange

Lachlan MacLean

Sophia Roddy

Audrey Schermann

Alex Shenkin

Selia Sitzer

Skyler Valliere

Ryan Whitman

Editors

Jacqueline Cecil Birch Howe

Layout Designer

Chris Briggs

Faculty Advisors

Ashley Gangi-Petit

Marta Napiorkowska

Jeorge Yankura

Acknowledgements

Layout Designer: Chris Briggs

Editors: Jacqueline Cecil & Birch Howe

e editors guide the direction e Pendulum takes each year: they lead the sta in theme choices and selecting works, and closely work with the faculty advisors and layout designer on creative decisions for the nal publication. Each year the current editors choose who the next Pendulum editors will be from that year’s sta , looking for someone with artistic and literary skills as well as an interest in helping lead and put together the publication.

Once a week e Pendulum meets with its sta and advisors to go over anonymous submissions. e theme for the publication is chosen collaboratively, and the sta work together to vote on submitted works once a week. While the editors receive nal say on every work and its placement, the sta get to inform choices by voting for or against works and giving their opinions on where it will t best. e sta o en submit their own works for anonymous judgment, and are dedicated contributors.

e Pendulum editors host competitions within the student body for each theme, encouraging works to be submitted for each one. ey are responsible for promoting e Pendulum outside of the weekly meetings, and encourage the St. Luke’s student body to submit their artistic and literary works.

e layout designer oversees the contents of e Pendulum in order to ensure that the works are arranged in a cohesive, aesthetically pleasing manner. ey ensure that the Table of Contents is properly arranged, the works are in the correct order and properly attributed to their creators, and there is a diversi ed sequencing of page compositions for ease of readability and enjoyment. e layout designer balances the technical aspects of the design with the artistic skill necessary for this position.

Faculty Advisors for Literature: Dr. Ashley Gangi-Petit & Dr. Marta Napiorkowska

e faculty advisors for literature serves various roles. ey set a tone for what is “good,” analyzes literature, advise the sta about all written works, and promote an environment conducive to constructive criticism. ey also provide the sta with a variety of student works from classes.

Faculty Advisor for Art: Jeorge Yankura

e faculty advisor for art guides the sta on all visual matters. She facilitates discussion on the theme, lending an essential knowledge of how to create and translate our theme visually into our nished product. As a teacher of photography and digital design, she encourages her students to submit work, helping ll holes in the magazine that might otherwise be le empty. She is also extremely involved in the ultimate layout of the magazine, supervising and enabling its nal development.

Technical Notes

e fonts used in this volume of e Pendulum include Playfair Display Italic Bold and Playfair Display Italic for headers, titles and author names, Adobe Hebrew Regular for text bodies and page numbers, and Adobe Hebrew and Adobe Hebrew Italic for individual artwork attributions.

Playfair Display is a serif-style typeface from the Playfair Project, led by Claus Eggers Sørensen, and is inspired by both the Scotch Roman typefaces and similar designs of John Baskerville, from the Eighteenth Century. First released in 2011, this typeface features relatively consistent vertical height in both capital and lower case letters, making it ideal for printed material. e bold bodily shape and delicate hairlines make this typeface easy on the eyes and attractive to the reader’.

Adobe Hebrew was created in 2004-2005 by John Hudson of Tiro Typeworks. is serif-style typeface was speci cally created for contemporary Hebrew business communications. e Pendulum sta was attracted to the shape and crisp nature of the letters in this type family.

e Pendulum layout and design was created using Adobe InDesign from the 2024 version of the Adobe Creative Cloud. e Pendulum was printed with a Kodak NexPress ZX 3300 Digital Production Color Press at Impression Point Printing in Norwalk, Connecticut by alumni parent Robert La Banca. It uses Enhanced Dry Ink that produces a consistently high image quality, providing vibrant colors, consistent spot color matching, a smooth at eld and gradients, and the unique ability to match the ink gloss level to the substrate being printed. e paper used is Accent Opaque 80# for cover and text.

Megan Case, Flow , Digital Photograph

Sophia Roddy, Ode to La Giaconda , Marker on whiteboard