Pendulum 2012 by St. Luke's School

The Pendulum Volume Twenty St. Lukeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s School 377 North Wilton Road New Canaan, Connecticut 06840 Telephone: (203) 966-5612 Fax: (203) 972-3450 slspendulum@gmail.com

Editor ’s Statement a·poc·a·lypse 1. The complete and final destruction of the world. 2. An event involving destruction or damage on an awesome or catastrophic scale. Apocalypse, as a concept, is pretty topical (and potentially clichéd) in this year 2012. I won’t lie, the theme was inspired by the ludicrous projections of the Mayan calendar (sorry to the believers, but I’m under the impression that a stone calendar is pretty limiting). Fire and brimstone also makes for a great color scheme. But I think we tend to look at the concept of apocalypse one-dimensionally. The threat of apocalypse in the literal sense is terrifying – people all over the world have prepared for its impending arrival with food stockpiles, bunkers, and even services to take care of those that are left behind when the chosen ones ascend into Heaven. On the other side, perhaps the metaphorical mass destruction is scarier (and possibly more real), as alluded to in the latter definition. As we slowly and inevitably evolve into robots, will poetry be generated by computers and written in binary? “Shall I compare thee to a 1001101?” Will the humanities eventually be made obsolete, works of T.S. Eliot and historical documents being wiped out completely? Perhaps. There is always, however, the possibility of rebirth. Like a phoenix from the ashes, the written word as an art for m will rise again. Maybe someday, our future overlords will find a copy of this edition of T he Pendulum among the rubble. A message to them: hey, buddies. Dust this off. Read it. There is hope in words. Emily Bergmann, Editor-in-Chief

TABLE OF POETRY Method, Means, Manner, Mode, Etc.-Maria Juran

Chemistry-Lizzy McLaughlin

Pardon Me, Princess-Christian Langalis

Undecided-Caroline Hopkins

Launching Time-Allie Ferguson

Keep Us-Patrick Quinn

Untitled- Charlotte Seiler

Faces at a Wedding-Emily Coleman

Murder on the Shore-Emily Bergmann

DoorKnobs-Collin Hill

American Healthcare-Jim Chadwick

Fashion Faux Pas-Lauren Pendo

Things Are Exactly as They Seem-Collin Hill

Ants-Kevin Jahns

The Sorrow of the King-Sebastian Bates

Tibetan Release-Nicole Bennett-Fite

Black Disease-Lexi Zargar

In the Old Oak Tree and the Red Stable-Tommy Champion 52

CONTENTS Richard Har monâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Alar m Clock-Ben Klein

Simone-Emily Bergmann

Patrimony-Melanie Bow

Date Night #97-Emily Bergmann The Road-Anonymous

59 62

Les Vaniteux-Tommy Champion

NONFIC TION Under the Bed-Ann Abbott Freeman Halloween Postponed-Caroline Hopkins

Beware the Fail-Shakes-Britt Viergever

FIC TION Happy Halloween-Charlotte Seiler

Land for Sand-Mac Zech

Something White, Something Red, Something Frightened, Something Dead-Lauren LaBanca

Wilhelmshaven, 1926-Alex Robertson

ART Aero Head-Ron Holland

Untitled-Andrew Kager

A Guy with Some Light-Ana Graczyk

Single Brown Bag-Evan Kenagy

Brownie Flash-Andrew Kager

Tomato Study-Gabi Horowitz

Eye of the Ostrich-Gabi Horowtiz

Untitled-Andrew Kager

Headline Poem-Emily Bur naman

Fish Bottle-Sarah Donovan Finch Glow-Christian Walsh

24 28 30-31

Man-Gabi Horowitz Daisy Graffiti-Ben Klein

32 33

Glass Bottles-Evan Kenagy

Bellagio Lobby-Christian Walsh

Grasp-Allie Ferguson

Fishing-Blake Overlander

Cast Away-Allie Ferguson

Heat Wave-Peter Baritz

Ger many Street-Maggie Sullivan

Headline Poem-Danny Serrano

Daisy in B&W-Ben Klein

Headline Poem-Cam Sargent

Still Life with Orange Cloth Flower-Sarah Donovan

Israeli Fireman-Ben Klein

Ice Layers-Ron Holland

Front Cover: Apocalypse-Sam Posner (digital photograph manipulation) Title page: Pen Tape-Andrew Kager (digital photograph manipulation) Back cover: Reflection-Blake Overlander (digital photograph)

Method, Means, Manner, Mode, Etc. Maria Juran

Sometimes I wonder if poetry is my right medium. What I want to convey feels too harsh and heavy for these minute lines, feeble, creaking shelves sagging under the weight of tome after tome of baggage; slim reeds bent in a heavy wind, bowed and scraping the ground for forgiveness.

Aero Head Ron Holland

Digital photograph

Untitled Andrew Kager

Digital photograph

Under the Bed Ann Abbott Freeman

After an extremely unseasonable and rather destructive snowstor m in October, the power went out, and damaged telephone wires led to the demise of cable and the Inter net. Though our house is blessed with a generator, its magical powers could not restore cable or the Inter net. With no for m of electronic entertainment, I set out to organize my room. I chose to take on the monsters under the bed first. Mountains and mountains of “stuff ” were uncovered and here is what I found: boxes of jour nals, that ranged in aromas from apple juice to tequila (consistent with what I had had spilled that got me through the specific tragedies in the stages of my life); posters of superstars (all teen moms and/or drug addicts now); Disney World parapher nalia, baskets of old hobbies and unfinished projects; half knitted hats, partially bedazzled clothing, gadgets that seemed so important at the time: the newest camera, portable picture printers. Then emerged the old textbooks that I have kept in case I ever forget the quadratic formula or how to saw “cow” in Spanish in an Inter net-less post-apocalyptic world; neon jeans that I had to have, but never got around to wearing; shoes that will never fit, but have been saved just in case a miracle happens; a collection of china dolls, scratched and smudged with age; stuffed animals that got their owner through the toughest nights; hundreds of DVDs of Be witched and I Love Lucy, my all time favorite shows, still watched; scrapbooks of the best actors and actresses of real Hollywood, from the 20s to the 60s; and unsent rants to boys who had broken my heart, starting with Jack Cooper in first grade who broke his promise never to talk to another girl in our class, all the way up to Greg Lennox in eighth grade who asked me to join in a threesome with his old girlfriend while we were together. And with each new discovery of my past life, I would either laugh out loud, or cry hysterically. For I never appreciated the CD player my grandfather bought for me nearly a decade ago, when he could go shopping, when his handwriting on the card with it didn’t lean so far that it nearly fell off the page, as it does now. I never even tore off the plastic wrapping. For this, and the many other neglected toys and books and tacky jewelry from relatives, I wept. Then I found other things, a note declaring my love for my best friend’s devastatingly handsome older brother, and couldn’t help but double over in laughter. I ended up not throwing anything away.

Happy Halloween Charlotte Seiler

She put on her fishnet stockings. Donned a bright red wig and went to the closet for the rest of her costume. She fastened the black cat mask and hooked herself into her leotard. Before heading out the door, she grabbed her big and overstuffed parka. She walked out to her bicycle and slowly pedaled her way down the dimly lit street. Other girls and boys were standing in front of houses, waiting to be given the sweet confections all homes supplied on that night. She wished for just one Reeseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Peanut Butter Cup but knew that she would be late. She worked her way to the club, walked onto the stage, and began her nightly routine. Just another night. The same wor n costume. The breaking childhood faĂ§ade.

A Guy with Some Light Ana Graczyk

Digital photograph

Single Brown Bag Evan Kenagy

Pencil drawing

Halloween Postponed Caroline Hopkins

I’m sitting in the Wilton Public Library. On the floor to my left, four teenage boys are fighting over an outlet for their laptop chargers. A woman to my right yells into her cell phone, and her charger is plugged into an outlet behind my back. It juts into my spine uncomfortably. “Halloween is on Saturday, November fifth,” she repeats insistently. “No, I am not pulling your chain, you’re taking the kids trick-or-treating on Saturday... so cancel them!...The kids will be devastated if they don’t get a Halloween! Why can’t you take them tonight? Because it’s not Halloween anymore, that’s why! Yes, I realize it’s October thirty-first, but I just told you, HALLOWEEN IS CANCELED!” The woman hangs up her cell phone with an aggravated grunt. Since when do towns have the authority to cancel a holiday? I tur n back toward the outlet to my left, which has been deserted, left only with a single laptop charger plugged in, presumably belonging to one of the aforementioned boys. I glance around twice before hastily removing the plug and inserting my own cell phone charger. Halloween has been canceled. My entire world is thrown to shambles.

Chemistry

Lizzy McLaughlin They’re huddled ‘round their periodic lunch tables, square and socially pyramidal, and I’m at the bottom. But they’re just fluorine factions, bullies at heart trying to steal my e-lectricity with their negativity. Because I’m light, Ultra-violet violence to the eyes, Magnesium bur ning. Anti-matter meets matter. And that catalytic, cataclysmic energy is attractive. And they see me. They see, see, see, But I’ve got too many Cs on this side of my false, metallic personality. I’d better balance myself. Classic ionic, ironic idiocracy. I’ve bonded with you, just compounding the issues ‘Cause you’re a complete acetate without a solution: now all I’ve got are problems. Dot Diagrams are dotted lines separating you from me, because over the years what was a bond became a partially negative charge against me. I was your oxygen, and you were carbon -ated, bubbly and explosive, We would Combust. But now all’s left but to see, oh, two of your new girlfriends flanking your sides, ‘cause we’ve decomposed, split, gone off to better things. Monatomic monotones lace my speech, and I’m pining for something to complete this emp-d shell

that is myself. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Cause I miss what we had. We had chemistry.

Brownie Flash Andrew Kager

Digital photograph

Beware the Fail-Shakes Britt Viergever

There is little that I find more suspicious than a poor handshake. I like my handshakes the way I like my sports—fast, fir m, and friendly. Anything less is a failed handshake (a fail-shake) and leaves me confused and questioning the genuineness of whomever I have just met, not to mention a tad suspicious of them. There are several variations of the fail-shake that leave me suspicious, such as the Glue. The Glue is when you start to pull away from the handshake and the shaker hangs on past the appropriate departure time.This handshake unfortunately makes you the bad guy when you have to awkwardly pull your hand away and leave the other person wondering what they did wrong. Poor sap just doesn’t know how to shake a hand properly. Next, the Taffy, possibly the most awkward of the fail-shakes, is when you go to pull away from the handshake and the shaker moves with your hand. A combination of the Glue and another layer of awkward, the Taffy seems like it’s a funny little game for the other person. Said Taffy-er often holds your hand, moving it up and down like a wave, or back and forth like a saw. A Taffy-er is like a street mine who silently plays a prank on you and is oblivious to the lack of amusement. Thirdly, while I certainly endorse a fir m handshake, I’m not a supporter of the Hand Hug. The Hand Hug occurs when the shaker seems to embrace your entire hand and smothers it like Paper in Rock-Paper-Scissors. This fail-shake is also fiercely fir m, and you walk away subtly stretching and massaging your broken hand to regain feeling in your fingers. Lastly, the infamous Dead Fish. Of all the fail-shakes, the Dead Fish leaves me the most suspicious of the shaker. This pathetic shake does more than make the recipient feel uncomfortable with its loose grip and quick departure; it makes the recipient feel unimportant. There have been too many times when I’ve been left half-shaken, with my hand hanging in the space between the person and me. The Dead Fish seems to say “I don’t really care to talk to you. Here’s a terrible hand-shake. Goodbye.” The frosting on many of the fail-shake cakes is a lack of eye contact. As my mom used to say, “give ‘em seven.” Five fingers and two eyes. Even with the sloppiest of handshakes, if I get eye contact, I at least feel that some genuine thought went into it. What leaves me most wary and suspicious about the sneaky fail-shakers out there is that you just can’t anticipate who might have a poor handshake by appearance. A large, burly man can have a Dead Fish shake and a little old lady could be a Hand Hugger. The sur prise of the lack of etiquette is what really gets me to question a person.

So to those with a fail-shake: it’s never too late to lear n the proper technique. A good handshake is crucial to making a solid first impression. Sure, you could be well qualified for a job, but does your interview handshake say “I’m clingy” or “my hands are quite strong, let me show you?” If so, you should probably YouTube a tutorial on How to Handshake.

Tomato Study Gabi Horowitz

Watercolor

Pardon Me, Princess Christian Langalis I have headbutted you That is to say, You assaulted me with affection I only retreated behind my walls in self-defense But maybe it was wrong To dance with you Only to raise the drawbridge And throw alligators in the moat. Still, you catapulted kisses More than my knighthoodâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s honor would allow Or my castleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s keep withstand That is to say my lips

Eye of the Ostrich Gabi Horowitz

Watercolor

Undecided

Caroline Hopkins “Please discuss your future plans,” A three-inch taunting box awaits empty for its fill Demanding me to specify, to choose, to force, to lie Deter mining a single path so early on in life How am I to place a label upon the unforeseen? To do so would be to limit opportunity, to restrict a vast expanse, to confine a coast of sand into a single hourglass, draw up a fence around a boundless sky, drain oceans into a vial If uncertainty deter mines youth, as so very well it ought, I face a thief, a robbing inquisition, A ravenous flashing cursor in thirsty pursuit of youth Will it be mine he abducts? Or will I shield myself in self-condemning ar mor, Declaring the undeclared, Opting to protect my youth, admitting “undecided” Yet in the act restricting my otherwise unbounded future through the simple choice to do the reverse. Why must I decide what path my future holds with not yet a quarter of my years underway, so many of which have been lost upon an infant mind, clouded with the warranted naivety that childhood entails? No, I, caught deep in adolescence, will not attempt to deter mine my “future plans” As future is a fluctuating, fleeting, amor phous variable, Shaped by experiences not yet experienced, knowledge not yet known, wisdom not yet acquired Please do not judge me, cruel and empty box, As I am undecided.

Land for Sand Mac Zech

Although the Middle East has long been a volatile zone, it has recently convalesced into an absolute powder keg, where ethnic and religious groups are never far from all out warfare with each other. To make matters worse, America’s continued involvement in the Middle East has arguably brought only hardship and ruin to many countries in the Middle East. Many say that our involvement in the region has led to an anti-American outcry. The specifics of the many conflicts we Americans have started would take years to explain, and I’m sure Americans don’t have the time to lear n it all. The fact is, many Americans don’t know anything about the Middle East and many Middle Easter ners don’t know much about America. Therefore, instead of coming up with solutions that take into account the will of Middle-Easter ners, I humbly propose that America start what I like to call a “land for sand” exchange with the entire Middle East in order to facilitate understanding and empathy between our peoples. The Land for Sand Exchange would be a show of friendship between America and the Middle East, wherein America would literally take its land and trade it to the Middle East for sand. While naysayers would argue that no Arab would care for this exchange, polls show that there is a large demand for forests and mountains in many parts of the Middle East. My acquaintances in Kuwait have infor med me that while there is an overabundance of sand and desert in their lands, they sadly lack both towering mountains and fast flowing rivers. It pains me to no end to see the poor Kuwaitis struggle to get by without a single mountain or large river. Thus, I have already invested millions of dollars in the relocation of the Shenandoah River, moving it from Virginia to right outside Kuwait City. There is no need to worry, however, as I have taken the liberty of filling in the empty land that used to house the Shenandoah with many tons of Kuwait’s finest sand. Now many Virginians can enjoy an Arabian Night just by walking outside their front doors while many Kuwaitis are finally able to practice their newly imported banjos as they enjoy a quiet day down by the river. While there may be some drawbacks to this plan (for example, hauling Long Island across the Atlantic would take a substantial amount of time and effort) the Land for Sand Program would not only educate the Middle East on the ways of the West, but also give Americans a unique opportunity to lear n about Middle Easter n culture and history through their shared sand. Just think, if this program is a success then in 20 years there may no longer be an America for the Middle Easter ners to hate and there may no longer be a Middle East for Americans to exploit!

Untitled Andrew Kager

Digital photograph

Emily Burnaman

Headline poem

Launching Time Allie Ferguson

In bright silence Tongues sucked the ear nest disposition While numbers danced and twinkled and laughed while She sat and stared and dreamed. The tassels of a blue scarf pirouette green And he cocked his head and watched his money tur n green And somewhere just past the eye and far from the ear and crackling -silence danced. Dumb-struck is such a funny phrase. Dumbness does not strike, it resurfaces When the mind cannot accept What reality is presenting Nor numb its presence. But it does not strike. Blank intellect is not a predator Lack of control over the mind is not an affliction, no But a state of being That sits dor mant. Somewhere there is an illustrious artillery A piqued, shining, sitting, set of weaponry But theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not for us. It smells like bur ning oil in Travelsburg. It smells like lost maps And newly purchased magnets for the fridge at home And of guileless escape. Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s go to Paris like Hemmingway Write about glittering green absinthe and Agnes Wear those New Yorker intellectual God-awful framed glasses.

Choke on glitter, Just a little, And accidentally, just possibly toss the passport out the loft window to an unsuspecting Vespa rider bellow. I said tur n up the volume And receive some good reviews. It’s the age of Simile, isn’t it? Putter-pitter-pitty-pat Wouldn’t you like a girl like that? And snitty-snicker-smitten-smack Better watch out for boys like that. Didn’t the teacher teach you? Toads lurk under mud and precious metals alike. Under-grow and over-reach Sit in the car prepare a speech About how you’re fit and fitter and best How you’re meant to ace their test. Why your face is meant for their campus, Why you’re the biggest the bestest and the fastest. Why they need you and don’t they know your impeccable GPA? Won’t they see you’re just what anyone dreams up to be some day? And no you can’t rhyme And you weren’t that impressive on Varsity Anything And well, actually, you’re not entirely sure that you’re the best thing since sliced bread And shouldn’t their cafeteria be constructed of unadulterated gold for this type of tuition? Big trappers Like to sit still under their fur caps Until they’re invisible A part of the trees and the dirt and the sunlight -and decaying leavesThen they shoot the big ones. (Quite frankly:) It has always worked this way.

I could drink a quart and a half of water And run the Merritt And jump to the moon and bring you back cheese If I just had the time to stretch. “Crash!” “Impossible, essentially.” “No rhyme or reason?” “I’d bet on it.” “Common...” “Quite so, Actually.” “Crash!” “It used to be easier.” Funny how you say so. Because you did it then, didn’t you? And you’ll smile wryly and try to say something self-deprecating to make me feel big How insulting. Deferred. Bigger is better. How caveman-esque. Could we be any more blind? If it were up to me I’d craze Then require a value check. Surely, surely age And constants and consciousness and living culture and consequently identity are abstract? But without a for m of measurement Art is without Value. Critics and colloquialism abound. Fancy words spill fancy ideas Little left for bureaucracy or oblivion or language of agreement Numbers are un-gilded, after all. Between sea-levels There is pungency Also neoteric Newfangled Beaming Inventors.

Fish Bottle Sarah Donovan Page 30-31: Finch Glow, Christian Walsh (digital photograph)

Pastel

Keep Us Patrick Quinn Keep us waiting with the voices That sing of deadly dirt, Keep us waiting with the bare ones Who’ve sunk beneath the Earth. Imprisoned within this lightless pit We waste away our breath, Forebodingly the air recedes Until we welcome Death. But in the haze on Charon’s dock The weepers see our souls, For they do seek to pull us back Up through their burrowed holes. My weepers reach to vivify My spirit’s blackened core, They lead me back to my remains And thus I am restored. A scene beheld by my new eyes Awakes long-dor mant sense, Forsaken souls reject rebirth, Their lies they do dispense. The weepers wilt beside the shore And grieve for those they’ve lost, Through murky view they stare possessed At who’ve o’er river crossed. Anguish chokes the air like smog As shrieks of sorrow sound, But I am forced to stalk away To reach above the ground. My weepers pull me through the hole They dug above my grave; We look above the sepulcher: Only I was saved.

Untitled

Charlotte Seiler This is my redemption. My legacy. I will be famous. No one will ever discredit me. Because I hold the power. I am growing strong. They’ll see. They’ll all see.

This is my redemption. My legacy. I will be infamous. No one will ever discredit me. I will have the love I seek. Because I demand. They’ll see. They’ll all see.

I can break through the stereotypes. I can find strength In my words, My education, My desire to truly live, And let live.

Never forget they will say. Remember the power of words. Anyone, Everyone, Can change the path of someone’s life Like they did for me.

I feel war m. Clear. As if I have finally discovered my path. The door is open, I just need to have the will To walk through it.

I feel cold. Calm. As if this machine in my hand is a ticket. A black key that will open the door, That will set me free.

I will find love after all. Joy, Peace. They’ll see. They’ll all see.

I didn’t deserve this hatred. The scor n, the ridicule. I will find revenge. They’ll see. They’ll all see.

Then he opened fire on the school. He got his revenge. I hope she found peace.

Daisy Graffiti Ben Klein

Digital photograph

Faces at a Wedding Emily Coleman

In the ancient stone building There was a nervous hush Until the organ startled us Katia walked slowly Her face concealed Max appeared with a grin at the altar The somber music flooded the quiet air While my eyes drifted over each face Partial light revealing The content The bored The faces brimming with anticipation The dancing The laughing The tears And the Russians who drank And drank And drank Man Gabi Horowitz

Charcoal drawing

Murder on the Shore Emily Bergmann

How shall I murder him, Iago? It is war m in Cyprus now The stars do not dictate That a sudden cold should fall But if I woke to a strange Mediterranean snowstor m... Ice is nice. The slim sliver jabbed into the belly of my pet peeve Would leave nothing much As I looked out to sea

DoorKnobs Collin Hill

Oh, I forgot to mention I have stolen all of the Doorknobs from your house I know you were probably Saving them for e-tur nal use Tur ning them about Round and round So please forgive me They were shiny and inviting And some doors are just not Meant to be opened

With respect to William Carlos Williams

Glass Bottles Evan Kenagy

Charcoal drawing

American Healthcare Jim Chadwick

I took all the tongue depressors Straight out of your glass jar. Stole your SpongeBob Band-Aids And all your cherry flavored lollipops I played with the blood pressure cuff And tried on your rubber gloves Forgive me, for I got bored And took all the cotton balls, too.

Fashion Faux Pas Lauren Pendo Lanvin flats, or Chloé boots? Which is more stylish, sophisticated, chic? What outfit will tomorrow bring? And the next? Until the timeline of my life is nothing more than outfits, one after the other The different styles blowing through the air of time Changing its course, coming back again. Cyclical in motion, but empty in meaning. Why do these gar ments matter? These outfits? They are nothing more than thread, sewn together to create artificial happiness But at the same time works of art, an expression of self Minimalism mimicking the moder nist mood of Picasso F lowing flowery vestments of impressionist artistry But art is enduring, it transcends mortality Clothing is the ephemeral accessory, barred from the afterlife. Decomposing along with the memory of my being O, if only heaven were a haven for fashionistas The golden gates opening to the Shoe Salon at Saks The clouds of blown glass, the pristine white décor The perfect background for a mecca of style. Jimmy Choo, Manolo, Louboutin all for the taking But alas, Louboutins line the way to hell Their red soles the mark of the devil. Enticing, alluring, deceptive The signature status shoe, nothing more than a mind ploy Yet why do I measure the success of my life by the clothes I wear, the outfits I create Life should be measured by my relationships, emotions, achievements, and failures. Not the show-stopping dress that does nothing more than sit in a closet Waiting for its moment that never comes. Am I too scared to wear it? Or am I just convincing myself that the time is not right? But there isn’t enough time. Styles change, and at the end of the day, I’m left with nothing.

Bellagio Lobby Christian Walsh

Digital photograph

Grasp Allie Ferguson

Charcoal

Things Are Exactly as They Seem Collin Hill Things are exactly as they seem perhaps only at first glance… …so neither you nor I such insights we present adding to the abundance of Truth and Fact what bright Cerebral people we are! knowing Everything that stands before us not judging, Knowing. its rightful place in our hierarchy-that which we didn’t create did our forgotten? White Black Yellow Grey Tall Short Fat Skinny Beauteous Who decides what fits? What is right and what is not? These men and women, always on a mission. Never thinking to stop and look around. Quite scary really. Sorrow is something I feel for their monotony. But they don’t. Unless they lose their monotony, that is. They take a deep breath of fresh air, which happens to not be perfectly acclimatized at 72º, something they previously demanded. Refreshing, isn’t it? The façade of the world is astounding. How many false identities can a person possess? In attempt to please their clients, friends, family? conceivably an infinite amount.

Some are oblivious, most are not. Like two soldiers secretly plotting against the other, but appearing as best friends, brothers even. A first day at a new school can be scary, but he handled it well. He was smart, witty, and devoted. The characteristics of few. The Massachusetts boarding school had strict rules, dress code, and expectations. gleaming silverware exquisite lawn and castle style buildings made everything feel almost too perfect. Not to him. The boy paid no attention. He was used to this style of living, and every other style above it as well. His father became very wealthy from his business, which dealt with black gold, he was the one hundred and sixty seventh richest man in the world to be exact, and he always was. Not wanting to deal with the boy’s hor monal adolescent years, they sent him away. Of course, he was not aware. They said it was for a better education. He believed them. Oh, the benefits of naïve children Fragile Unsuspecting, able to manipulate So immensely sur prising that the most fragile of things will shatter. Isn’t it? Ahmad was the best in his class. Private tutors for the first half of his life, practically since birth that was. For the next seven years private school in his homeland was his father’s decision. This year, and a new land and a new school. He made few friends, aside from his desk and textbooks. Besides, without knowledge we are nothing, no?

He thought so---or perhaps he was taught. The first semester passed. Ahmad was satisfied with his flawless grade point average. Understandably, the other students were not happy that he made them look like fools. Frustration and anger were two things he very seldom felt. His parents loved him, so he thought, school was easy, and his fourth piano sonata seemed to have been wholeheartedly renowned by the global community. However, piano was not his forte, so his parents decided he would stop playing seriously. Days passed. A few went into town today. Ahmad did not usually participate, but he wanted to interact with the student body a bit more, so he went. He did not enjoy walking, or any physical activity for that matter. He enjoyed knowledge. He enjoyed books. A gust of wind defor med his Imamah. He did his best to fix it without attracting attention to himself or revealing his hair. Ahmad did not mind attention, especially that of strangers. Coupled with his intellectual aptitude, he felt comfortable in public, which according to him, seemed not to be the nor m of geniuses. He wandered around for a while, stopped, and pondered. Looking through the windows of some stores, he wondered why people would ever try to sell pins for a living. He decided not to start a for mal debate with himself over this topic. Ahmad noticed a father and daughter walking towards him. They looked happy. The little girl had an ice cream cone in her hand, which she unsur prisingly managed to get all over her face; it made him smile. This simple occurrence almost made it worthwhile for him to have walked here. Then, in the distance, he faintly heard the young child say

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Daddy is with the people who killed mommy in tower?â&#x20AC;?

Despite hearing it from 40 feet away, the little child screamed it in his ear. He felt like laughing. What? Ahmad did not believe what he had just heard. He melted like wet snow thrown into a roaring fire...his entire essence had just been ripped out of him in an instant. He felt like vomiting, but the very fabric that made him who he was, disappeared. This was no longer his being. Ahmad tried to maintain his composure, for this was only a foolish remark that a little girl had said. But it was so much more.

Labeled, grouped, categorized, and shipped 2nd day air to his final destination. Nowhere. He wanted to question something. But he could think of no questions. Only memory of the childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice. Killed mommy in the building? Ahmad tried to think of a logical way to rationally approach the situation. Impossible. His negative emotion was one thing he could not study nor master. Two things that previously seemed foreign to him had just risen from the chilling murky depths to become Oh so clear. Anger, frustration Ahmad looked around him, and realized what had been written on his forehead for his whole life. He was not like the rest. Not like the rest? This question would have seemed irrelevant to him in any other instance. Ahmad thought, Have I been dealt a poor fate? A genius, son of the one hundred and sixty seventh richest man in the world? He tried to swallow. Ahmad thought to himself. Difference, while claimed to be so widely accepted, is the most denounced, and unforgiving part of our world. Why And so he was presented with the unanswerable question. The unsolvable math problem. An unhearable sound. An undoable challenge. A riddle which bears no solution.

And there, in that very moment, he felt that everyone, everywhere, did not care about him. Their sole pur pose was to spread the false infor mation that would never hurt them. That would never cause them pain. Just words to them, just words. But words can kill. And they have before. But they donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know, they didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even remember what they just said. An unscathed immunity. Spreading the tyranny and stereotypes with such ease. What a sur prise that our world gets its facts wrong, What a sur prise Oh, the marvel of what what television can do to facts. Countries can do to facts Leaders can do to facts media can do to facts rumors can do to facts peers can do to facts friends can do to facts parents can do to facts what we can do to facts oh, the unintentional mind-blowing brutal honesty of children. can change people for the rest of their existence. Power, my child, power The center of all conflict To rewrite the sands of the past The Power to decide what is fact and what is not But in whose hands does this power rightfully lay? Yours.

Fishing Blake Overlander

Digital photograph

Ants Kevin Jahns Worker ants among the mounds of soil Racing everywhere and nowhere These creatures think, but do they feel? Their energy wasted, do they care? A tree of dirt they grow Planted by drudgery, watered in sweat So they can glance down upon the ants below And think how high theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve managed to get To the top they are drawn Trampling comrades beneath their feet Though each and every one is an expendable pawn None are willing to accept defeat But one disgruntled ant escapes the race The shackles of the mind no more He sees the world around him full of grace A whole new planet to explore He wanders through the tide of green Blades of grass wet with dew His budding years are free to blossom Pilot of his fate, onward he flies

The Sorrow of the King Sebastian Bates I am Hrothgar, King, shield, and ring-giver among the Danes, son of Halfdane, himself of Beow bor n, and so to Shield Sheafson, scourge of many tribes, terror of those beyond the whale-road. I am heir indeed of that mighty prince, who by God’s grace built a realm rich in thralls and home to thanes, warriors, and hearty womenfolk. So rich that I, Hrothgar, did decide one day to demand the attendance of all the Danes, so that we might build Heorota mead-hall of conquerors; and for that pur pose I gathered my most loyal retainers, proud warriors all. and bade them set aside time to build a hall for our gold-gilt throne. Above them all I placed the earl Unferth, son of Ecglaf, scion of a high-bor n familysprung from Aethelwulf, of Burgred’s blood, Shield Sheafson’s own swordsman, his liegeman of life and limb, who lived and died with that noble man. Under his watchful eye, it was complete, in but a score of months, and dedicated to the All-Highest Lord that very Sunday, then, took I my throne in that towering hall, and sat among its high gables there to dispense my most royal favor upon the Danes. O! our revels were wild, the mead ran freely, joy echoed in that blessed hall. And then horror of horrors! Travesty! Tragedy! For down from the mountains came that bloody beast, bor n of CainGrim, grimy, gory, God-cursed Grendel, who came galloping from his aerie, descended on Heorot, and wrought destruction and death upon us Danes.

We woke, we fought, A score-and-ten of us seeking to drive the beast to the sleep of the sword, but none could slay him, for that foul creature bore the mark of his forefather, Cain, and no blade could work its edge upon his flesh. He left us, weighted down with bodies, a meal fit for that devil-spawned depravity. And, as the sun rose over the snow, and the stench of the slaughter-dew came to my nose, I saw my kingdom, broken: fit only for crows. In repsonse to the Old English epic Beowulf

Cast Away Allie Ferguson

Charcoal

Tibetan Release Nicole Bennett-Fite

The place was at a crossroads Quite literally you see, It lay at a cross, of roads And down those roads came men galumphing, naturally, of course. You sat. Watching them galumph. For some time. and were told, unequivocally, this was a processional of sorts but when, quite naively, You asked what it meant, (this unique roman triumph) you were answered only with silence And a single neon sign, which, blinking rapidly, read simply, “THIS WAY — >” You crinkled your brows. this way was unsettling. But the galumphers continued nonetheless. -galumphing, -galumphing, -galumphing lemming-like. to a place you could not follow Conflicted, naturally, of course You were left with the withered impression That wisdom and time are cooperative But couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps Truth Discriminates You wanted more, Though somehow you doubted There was anything at all left to want Besides, naturally, of course, the pursuit of a Tibetan Release.

Heat Wave Peter Baritz

Digital photograph

Something White, Something Red, Some thing Frightened, Something Dead Lauren LaBanca

Three people sit on a log next to a stream in total silence as the air around them cools with the falling sun. The man on the left fiddles with his tie and stares at the ground, while the child sandwiched in the middle rocks back and forth ever so slightly. The woman is the first to stand, brushing dirt from her red dress, disturbing the car pet of newly fallen, crunchy leaves on the forest floor with her stilettos. “Well, someone needs to go get it,” she declares, her tone making it very clear that she is not volunteering herself. She glances behind the two on the log as the sounds of the party rise over the noise of the stream. The open bar is beginning to take its toll on the minds and bodies of the guests, just through the trees. A squeal of excitement pierces through the clearing followed by high pitched giggles and what sounds like the collective cheering of the entire group. It seems like no one is missing from the wedding. The man’s hands begin to shake, but he makes no other move to volunteer his services. The woman crouches by the child, grabs him by the chin, and forces him to look up into her eyes. “Sweetie, you know how sometimes in fairy tales, the prince doesn’t always save the princess before the wicked queen kills her?” He hesitates, not quite sure if they’ve ever read a story where there isn’t a happy ending. He nods anyways, afraid of the death grip the woman has on his ar ms. Satisfied, she continues. “So let’s just pretend this was another story, okay?” He nods once more, his eyes big as they take in the red stains on his mother’s hands. She releases him and begins to walk downstream picking up the blood-stained shreds of white satin and the tor n veil as she goes.

Black Disease Lexi Zargar From the day we met, you were hard to please, Yet I swore Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d love thee, strange addiction; You distressed my mind like a black disease. My fondness was acute, deep as dark seas; Though your temper enforced my strict caution. From the day we met, you were hard to please. Our brawls were unceasing, made my heart freeze As my pain caused you great satisfaction; You distressed my mind like a black disease. My looks, and my theories, made you ill at ease, So I drowned myself in your suggestion. From the day we met, you were hard to please. I walk to the river, past the bogs and breeze To fulfill your desire: my expiration. You distressed my mind like a black disease. And finally, at my death, my mind frees Itself of your malicious ambition. From the day we met, you were hard to please. You distressed my mind like a black disease.

In the Old Oak Tree and the Red Stable Tommy Champion

His ar ms are so little, each day The dawn beams bright as it moves on its way To when the sun drizzles war m Through its calming golden rays… Men are laughing, smoking cigars As they talk about golf and new sport cars And he feels your smile As it kisses him sweetly mild He shakes off his fluttering butterflies “It’s okay to be nervous for a little while” So they ran to that old Oak Tree With its leaves radiant and yellow bumblebees So he felt happy and blissfully ignorant She says, “Please, don’t go home in the dark without me…” The women sip their pink cocktails Wondering when their Prince Char mings will come to begin their own fairy tales And the dew dropped onto their cheeks They giggled and basked in its splendor for weeks Within their own secret and special meadow Through their innocent gaze was how they would speak And they slept in the Red Stable, And chattered about the Youthful fables, Where he knew he had a friend So he put his heart on her mahogany table… The couples get ready to take their dances With grown distaste, and all of those uncomfortable stances So he grew long and thin And combed, counted, and caressed the hairs on his chin But left that Oak Tree and that Red Stable And his early love; so how does he begin?...

The orchestra commences their long decrescendo Eerily reminiscent of what was lost long ago To talk of investments, lawsuits, and Broadway shows Oh, the riveting plot line of Anything Goes And to say “wasn’t that splendid darling?” But he doesn’t have to say it, she already knows… Complaints while out to dinner about the Johnsons’ ostentatious fling Oh damn, we forgot to feed the dog, why’d you ever buy that thing? With his socks, shirt, suit, and his drink, Let them all grow merrier as the Night ages so he will per petually sink And he will never ever have to remember That war m Oak Tree and the Red Stable, only to the Night he shall think… The man and woman get undressed and trepidaciously fall into bed Magnetically tur ned away from one another; nothing is said

Ger many Street Maggie Sullivan

Digital photograph

Richard Harmon’s Alarm Clock Ben Klein

Richard Har mon had grown quite accustomed to his alar m clock. Throughout the years, the old SONY brand clock had stuck by him, stayed in his camp even when everything else had fallen apart. TVs had been upgraded, VHS players had been thrown away, DVD players installed, refrigerators moved, couches replaced, but his clock had remained something of a fixture in his ever-changing world. The summers Richard had spent working at the lumber yard, his clock had woken him up, its shrill tones piercing the early-mor ning tranquility of the Nebraska suburb where grew up. In these moments, Richard resented his SONY clock, often dreaming of its destruction. In this case, Richard was both the jury and the judge and his verdict for the clock would be severe: “death by hammer-strike.” Richard’s time working at Best Buy, a “temporary” state which lasted four and half years, started each and every mor ning with the clock’s incessant ring. His employer, a brutish Ar menian man by the name of Zar mayr (Ar menian for “amazing man”) resented nearly everything about Richard. However, he could not discredit Richard’s punctuality. For this, Richard thanked his SONY. After quitting his job, moving to New York, and making a name for himself in the cutthroat world of Public Relations Campaigns, things began to change for Richard. Suddenly, his apartment wasn’t so messy. His bed no longer empty. His head filled with facts and figures instead of daydreams and useless movie quotes. Still, even when his new bed arrived, new tables, new television, new paintings to hang on the wall, Richard desperately clung to his SONY alar m clock that had been in his possession for so many years. Until, one mor ning, it ceased to work.

Danny Serrano

Headline poem

Daisy Black and W hite Ben Klein

Film photograph

Wilhelmshaven, 1926 Alex Robertson

I am standing in a seventh-floor hotel room in Wilhelmshaven, Ger many, waiting for a ship. The ship will arrive in seven hours, at 8 oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; clock in the mor ning, and I am standing to the right side of the bed in the hotel room, staring out through a large window at the sea below. The night has an air of preciseness about it--the sky is a unifor mly dark blue without changes in shading or texture and the sea remains unusually still. The world is inertial; it is not moving as it should; the night seems to have set everything into a state of complete motionlessness. The vague, penetrating awareness of Wilhelmshavenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s other citizens and their night-time movements has disappeared completely, replaced by moon- and star-light, placidly casting a floating beam of white light-amor phous, seemingly tangible--onto the bed behind me. The bed, as viewed through a reflection in the window, seems to be pierced through with this light, its structure now cloudlike, only a mist of threads and sheets and quilts that come together to convincingly resemble a bed. I start to resolutely believe that, were I to tur n around and lay my hand on the surface of the bed, it would pass right through, as it would through a liquid. This is the strongest of the feelings and thoughts that this unrelentingly still night

has given to me--that my bed is no more than a façade of a bed, and that it would fail any given Bed Test that I could administer, and that it is an artifice in an almost sinister way, given this artificial nature by the thoroughly un-sinister (almost anti-sinister, in its utter calmness) night but then detaching itself from that night, existing in its own distorted plane of non-reality. I do not tur n around to test whether or not the bed is real because I, like the bed, am pierced through by the night’s light, which now seems fir mly established in the space between my bed and the window. I feel as if my limbs are thoroughly frozen by this light. In seven hours the ship will arrive, and even before that, probably, the motionlessness of everything that surrounds me will be broken and the world will start again. Perhaps a woman will walk her dog early in the deepness of the mor ning, and the bed will suddenly be concrete again, given for m by this seemingly meaningless event. A woman will walk her dog, and the bed will solidify, and I will be able to move again. I will be able to tur n around and lie on the bed, or go downstairs and talk to the hotel manager and tell him how beautiful the view from my room is, and how much I love being able to see almost all of Wilhelmshaven (he will smile here, feeling a certain alliance with the town and its people; feeling the sort of quaint significance of his role as the affable hotel manager in town) and ask him for a good place to get breakfast before I board my ship. The woman who will walk her dog has not yet arrived. I am waiting for her to do so now; the waiting for the woman and her dog has now superseded the anticipation of the ship’s arrival. I, in my motionless, now nearly somnambulant state, am dependent on this hypothetical woman and her dog--now I need not just any event to break the tense quiescence of the night but I need her, specifically, and her dog, and the two of them walking together in view of my hotel window. I am not entirely sure whether or not, if I saw it arriving in front of my hotel, I would get up and board the ship which I was just a few minutes ago so deeply anticipating. I begin to think that I desperately need implicit per mission to start moving from this woman and her dog. I believe that I am wholly locked into place by the woman and her dog--or rather, by their absence-and that if and only if they appear and I can see them and they (both the woman and the dog) are clearly there in front of me, walking together, the white light will finally loosen its grasp of my ar ms and legs and I will be set free. I tur n around, suddenly and without thinking, absentmindedly breaking the rules of this game which I was subconsciously playing. I know I will be somehow punished for moving. Perhaps the act of playing this game, of not being able to move until an almost certainly illusory goal is reached, is punishment enough. My sudden movement, however, is not a lashing out against the unfair ness of such a system or even a conscious action on my part at all, really; I simply move. I tur n around and the room suddenly for ms itself in front of me. It had slowly disappeared while I was facing the window and it just now reappears before my eyes. The door is covered in shadows. The desk, upon which a note from the hotel cleaner lays, seems sturdier and darker and more ominous than it was when I had last seen it. The painting over the bed, of a café in Paris at noon, paints itself quickly. The bed, drenched in white light, floats.

Simone Emily Bergmann The most beautiful woman he ever saw was a flight attendant on the way to scenic Tulsa, Oklahoma. He’d seen pretty ones before but her unknowingly come-hither “please keep your tray-tables in the upright and locked position” was enough to make him sweat. She wore back-seamed stockings, which he saw when she was helping the woman in front of him with her in-flight screening of an Adam Sandler movie. “Amateur,” he thought. He watched something artistic on the off-chance that she would look at his screen and see his brooding soul. He liked the way her eyes crinkled, genuinely when she laughed at bad jokes told by every passenger. She made a bet with another flight attendant to see if she could keep her high heels on for the whole flight. She won. As her co-worker shelled out a twenty, her laughter echoed through the plane all the way to first class. He asked her for help with his overhead baggage just to feel his Savior of Coach Seating close to him. She had a little lipstick on her teeth. It didn’t matter. “Simone, Five Years of Service” glinted, engraved in her nametag. He thought about the light shining on her face just so, Simone, while in his upholstered room at the Hyatt Regency.

Patrimony

Melanie Bow

It was hollow now, The halls echoed with voices from the past And filled with the conversations of long forgotten matters Spoken by familiar faces that smiled Then faded into phantoms. My heart was racing, My hands fidgeted; nervously I adjusted the waistline of my Tahari dress. It was beige, which washed me out, And made me feel exposed, empty, and transparent. I was never hard to read but now I lay idle like a manuscript, With pages spread out on a marble table, waiting to be analyzed, By a group of acclaimed editors, Eager to find my every flaw. I had forgotten the little things The people waving routinely, like mannequins, every mor ning, The countless colossal cups of caffeinated coffee, And the C on a chemistry final. The vain lyrics of songs I listened to but never liked, The parties I asked to be invited to and the lucky few With well-finished basements, who, for that moment Became the ringmasters of the social circus. And Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d forgotten the tenuous friendships I held on to Like a thin and tattered raft In small hopes it would somehow save me from the stor m. And now after ages of amnesia, Seeing you, I remember everything. Still you stand the same, Surveying your surroundings, analyzing who is next to you What do they look like? Where do they live? Where do they work? I remember now, why I chose to forget. With time, my acuity altered, But you remained unchanged. You are a pawn on a handcrafted oak chessboard, A brick on the vast faĂ§ade of an inherited house And a gear in a Cartier watch, Strapped on the spotted wrist of a banker Who has just missed his train, And his suit is now splattered with mud.

Cam Sargent

Headline poem

Still Life with Orange Cloth flower Sarah Donovan

Pastel

Date Night #97 Emily Bergmann I’ve been writing our story on the olive pits That I’ve extracted for you At the fourth best restaurant in the fifth best city, Engraving with an unbent staple My loving captain’s logs. The fruits of peaceful branches That I hate, and that you eat like candy Placing them on your fingertips, Stripped from their centers. The olives (and their pits), An appetizer to the poisonous fish That you also love to eat, testing me, Holding a knife up to your own throat. You’re a thrill seeker. I see you on that rollercoaster when you close your eyes, So I blow wind in your face to enforce your fantasies. But don’t risk too much, don’t let it end yet. I’m clutching your ar m at the top of the incline, And I don’t plan on going down. You may seek thrills but you thrill me, the meeker of the two When you tur n while walking down stairs, searching for my face When your hair blows on the subway platfor m When you eat olives That I’ve given to you Minus the pits With the etchings In haikus: Avoid the poison For I cannot imagine Love, without you here -I have loved you since I realized that you are not Perfect: mine, instead

The Road Anonymous

I really need to tell you about getting pulled over by the police for going too fast on my road to school even after you told me to drive carefully. But how important could that be, when your dog has cancer and your grandpa is in the hospital, with the end of their road approaching fast. And if you want to see desperation, look into a hospital room, where an old man wheezes, and look into the eyes of his family around him. And if you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to see desperation, Well, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been in your shoes. And I wish I had seen the cop on the side of the road, instead of racing to meet him.

Israeli Fireman Ben Klein

Digital photograph

Les Vaniteux Tommy Champion Stay silent and sweet, sleeping lady As the war mth consumes you wholly While I remain idly restless and contentious, My head in hands; God he is pretentious! The Night continues to endure Black sky over the sea and quiet lawn; Lipless love had come to pass Hours earlier as the evening climaxed; But Alas! I’m young and invincible and magnificent Fascinating and devastatingly sophisticated! I will be good enough for this room; good enough for them Better than that; (Where’s the Gin?) And if I halt or falter (Would I? Is perhaps a more appropriate question) I will resume; I will resume Yet… My Reflection - grievous and gaunt - echoed in the mirror What had come to pass? What had I presumed? And what had she thought? And where were her skeletons? She wore them like medals of honor Shallow men and women walk through the twisted streets As the smoke from their cigarettes consumes their faces And they wear long pea coats And have long hair like the expressions On their tired faces So exhausted and invincible and once magnificent Like mine, and the one I am looking at Bitter, boisterous, and awake Through my stare I have seen all your years Full of ‘back thens’ and tiresome days and ways and stays And eter nal Nights of ephemeral love Where you tell yourself it feels like something from above! So stay frozen young lady As you slowly melt under the blanket No need to feel the weight of your worries You will be okay, you let them slip away, and there is no hurry

So stay there, as your drunken dreams tur n malevolent And you find yourself the undeniable Villain Within your own tempestuous tor por You cackle and cough and jeer And then freeze; And soon after decidedly melt Like water dripping and falling Onto the visages of faceless men; Look at your faulty wings Poorly assembled and tempting fate And then cry and pray And weep and weep Let it bleed and drag on Like a limping dog with a lame leg Let it drag on! And beyond and beyond Your tardy exposure, Feel something and run And climb through the halls of your head Stay straight and strong It will be okay I assume Yet I always presume… But please Madame Realize what you’ve seen Eventually, I slowly crash into the bed Constricted with loud and encumbering thoughts And I feel I’m falling just like she is falling; Have I only simply been stalling?

Ice Layers Ron Holland

Digital photograph

Aftermath Editorial Staf f Editor-in-Chief: Emily Bergmann The job of the editor-in-chief is to be the leader of the staff and to oversee all activity in the group. She initiates discussion among the quorum while reviewing pieces, and has the final word on the acceptance status of all submissions. She also encourages the school community to submit their pieces, whether it be on an individual level or at a Town Meeting during the school day. The editor-in-chief, with the editorial staff, also helps with the final order of pieces and appearance of the publication. She meets with the printers of the magazine and helps to deter mine the specifications. Toward the end of the year, she, with the agreement of the faculty advisor, picks the students best suited to manage the publication the following year, and helps them lear n the ropes. Ar t Editor and Layout Designer: Paige Har t The art editor is in charge of the entire artistic component of the magazine, in ter ms of submissions and the aesthetics and layout. She works closely with the Art Department at St. Lukeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, speaking with art students and faculty, and having pieces archived and photographed. She also works closely with the editor-in-chief, reviewing the works and placing them carefully in the magazine, ensuring that the artistic vision of T he Pendulum comes to life on the page. Assistant Editor: Tommy Champion The assistant editor is the right hand man of the editor-in-chief during the process of review. He collects pieces to be read at meeting time, encourages people to submit their work, and welcomes newcomers to the group. He also works with the editor-in-chief on making decisions about the final order of the magazine. The assistant editor also conducts business when the editor-in-chief is away. Proofreader: Patrick Quinn The proofreader closely edits every article of prose and poetry in the magazine and also every text based facet of the magazine. He has impeccable spelling and grammar, which he imparts on everything he edits. Faculty Advisor: Stephen Flachsbar t The job of the faculty advisor is to generate enthusiasm for creative writing and to establish a sense of what is good literature and what constitutes a good publication. He also helps set a bar for literary and publication quality, and fosters a positive environment with room for constructive criticism. He brings the extra plates back to the cafeteria and carefully guards the random salt shaker enshrined in his classroom.

Staf f Sebastian Bates Nicole Bennett-Fite Amanda Benoliel Melanie Bow Liza Epprecht Allie Ferguson Caroline Hopkins Ben Klein Christian Langalis Lizzy McLaughlin Alex Robertson Britt Viergever Lexi Zargar Mac Zech The staff of T he Pendulum meets during the lunch period on every third and seventh day of the eight day schedule rotation at St. Lukeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. It is a voluntary club activity. If five or more staff members are present, a quorum is declared, and works that have been submitted are reviewed. Submissions consist of literature (poetry and prose) and artwork in various mediums. They are collected in one of two ways. The author or artist submits it to the editorial staff by giving it to the editor or faculty advisor, in person or electronically. The other way in which works are brought in for review is by English or art teachers. If they hold an in class assignment, they will sometimes pick the ones that they think are worthy of submission and give it to the staff. If reviewed and accepted, the staff will ask per mission from the authors before publishing the work. On certain days, the staff will carry out creative writing prompts as well, which are sometimes reviewed for the publication. The editorial staff (the editor-in-chief, the art editor, the assistant editor, and the faculty advisor) will meet on certain occasions, more frequently towards the end of the school year, to collect all accepted submissions and to put together the final publication. The fonts used in this volume of T he Pendulum are Linux Libertine (for headers), Imperator (for titles), and Baskerville (for the body). Linux Libertine was designed by the Libertine Open Fonts Project, and is best known as the font in the Wikipedia logo. It is a proportional serif typeface with inspiration drawn from nineteenth century book type. Linux Libertine was released in September of 2003.

Imperator is a serif font designed by Paul Lloyd. Baskerville, a transitional serif typeface, was designed by John Baskerville in 1757. It is usually classified as being a transitionary typeface between the older styles of Caslon and the more moder n styles of Bodoni and Didot. Baskerville is marked from other similar fonts by its distinctive tail on the uppercase Q. The 2012 edition of T he Pendulum was printed with a Kodak NexPress 2500 Digital Production Color Press, at Impression Point Printing by Robert LaBanca. It uses Enhanced Dry Ink which produces a consistently high image quality, providing vibrant colors, consistent spot color matching, smooth flat field and gradients, and the unique ability to match the ink gloss level to the substrate being printed. The paper used is Galerie Art XP, #80 silk cover and text. It is FSC-certified and contains 10% PCW.

FAQs The Staff of The Pendulum What if I fell into an alter nate dimension and forgot to pack my toothbrush? I’m a narcissist and don’t believe in helping others – is there a self-indulgence day coming up soon? Is there an end of the world potato? Who is Meg and why do I always dream about her? Why can’t I pluck out my eyeballs and throw them to see things far away? What is this green ooze coming out of my body and how do I stop it? What if you forget your name and no one will tell you what it is? What if my religious views prevent me from doing math? How do I if can’t remember what or where the beginnings of the sentences in the bar nyard that I start? What if I got an invisible tattoo? Is this really about love and how it never works out? Where is the FAQ section?